Rose was justifiably trepidatious about the detention that afternoon. Malfoy seemed to delight in the Jekyll/Hyde act, and Rose's whiplash was almost manifesting physically—the feeling was that violent.
Civility between them was still unchartered territory, as though there were something foreign and strange about ending a conversation with smiles as opposed to scowls—a new dialectic that was ill-formed and mispronounced on their tongues.
Light-hearted ribbing, with laughter and comfort were something she took for granted with others, but had never previously been an option with Malfoy. But now she'd had a taste—she could see the potential of the true depth their relationship could reach, as though she stood on the precipice of what they could become.
But for now, snapping was muscle memory, and Rose would rather stick with her ingrained habits, than to engage the unfamiliar evil.
She could've pretended the night between them hadn't happened, if it weren't for the dirt crusted between her toes when she woke up, or the mussy-haired Albus blinking dazedly in the unfamiliar brightness of the Gryffindor tower.
So Rose was nervous walking into the Potions classroom later that day, but not for the usual reasons.
"Afternoon." Scorpius nodded briefly, as usual, arriving and partially setting himself up before Rose.
"'Lo." She returned, terrified to meet his eyes, but too cautious to avoid them. She settled for a point somewhere past his shoulders, counting the old Potion bottles and knickknacks that lined the walls of Slughorn's classroom. Rose was almost grateful that their professor was such a collector, his opposition to minimalism gave Rose's eyes excuses to wander.
They worked in their familiar silence, the only words shared were on the topic of their task at hand, nothing more than absolutely necessary. Rose reminded herself that it was a two-way street—he was as cool as she—but something like guilt was still stirred every time her eyes missed his, even as his gaze tried to hold hers, asking a question she didn't understand.
Their fumbling was only in the emotional boundary sense, as the hours they'd spent together had made them reluctantly synchronized. Each tackled their individual tasks, with a faint awareness of working together and adding to their potion.
"Has Albus told you about the Yule party we're throwing tomorrow night?"
It was the first sound in fifteen minutes, and Rose was a little startled, "'We'?"
"Slytherin." Scorpius explained quickly, "Did he?"
Rose shook her head, counting stirs with less concentration than she should've been.
"Well, we are. You should come."
Rose felt her face threaten to flush, which was a mottled colour under her freckles, when Scorpius quickly followed it up with,
"I mean," he corrected, almost sounding angry at himself, "that you and your friends should come, because we want lots of people there. It's on the second floor in the old Divination classroom. We got a crate of Firewhiskey, so free booze."
Rose counted thirteen, before wiping the stirring rod clean on a piece of cloth,
"I'm sure Georgette and Magda will be keen." Rose deliberately tried to exclude herself in the equation, because it felt too personal for reasons she couldn't explain.
"How about the one with the, uh…" he paused, "hair?"
She hadn't realized he'd kept the close of an eye on her friends and the people she surrounded herself with, and the thought surprised her. Everyone had a reasonable idea of who was who in their year, and Scorpius had most likely had a class with Tessie, but the idea of him watching her—noticing who she sat with at meals, who walked her from class to class—caused a strange quiver in Rose's belly, one that hadn't fully settled since last night.
"Tessie." Rose looked up, catching his eyes—undoing a detention's worth of work. It was a moment of instant regret, as going cold turkey on Scorpius all lesson just made her single glimpse all the more overpowering. And he looked exactly the same; his flyaway blonde strands, frustratingly broad shoulders stretching the seams of his school jumper, jaw tight—and his stupid, stupidly pretty face, which Rose could almost still feel on her tongue, like she'd printed it on him somehow.
"Yeah, Tessie. She'll come?"
"Yes." Rose snapped, teeth grinding as her gaze dropped to the worn stone floor. Because Malfoy's shoulders weren't just his anymore—they belonged to her memories of last night, the same form she could barely see under the moonlight, the same hands that had attempted to grapple the Quaffle from her, the same hair that had caught the wind, and it made Rose's heart race like it had on the broomstick but this time she was on solid ground and it was almost like it wasn't the adrenaline of flying but the adrenaline of him and Rose felt—
"Rose?"
He'd been saying something, "Hm?"
"I said, could you pass me that beaker?"
She grabbed it absent-mindedly, most of her concentration on trying not to inhale his scent, as though these thoughts of him were contagious through extended exposure.
But then he was too close—as though Rose's nerves were surprised he had to approach them in order to pass the beaker, close enough to see the tiny baby hairs sprinkled along his hair line, close enough to feel his body heat. And then she realized that the chance of fingers brushing was high, and Rose felt allergic to the idea of skin on skin with Scorpius, however slight.
He reached out—why did it seem slowed down?—and Rose's heartbeat was thumping 'D-A-N-G-E-R' in Morse. The beaker slipped with her concentration, before Malfoy had had the opportunity to secure it. The sound of glass colliding with the stone floor seemed to bring Rose back to herself, her face flaming with the ridiculousness of the situation; Malfoy's presence rendering her incapable of even handling a piece of bloody Potions equipment.
She quickly dropped into a crouch, fussing over the glass as to let her hair form a curtain, hiding her flushed cheeks and blown-out pupils from Malfoy's prying gaze.
"Oh, Roza." The boy in question sighed—half-exasperation, half-pity—before dropping as well, not pointing out how much easier it would be to vanish the glass, as though he recognized Rose's need for a minute of reprieve.
They worked in silence, arranging the glass into an unnecessary pile, before Scorpius rose to retrieve a dustpan.
Rose was, again, silently grateful for his offer to stand, as their proximity had Rose's knees shaky and hollow feeling, and she questioned their ability to support her in that moment.
But she managed to stand, and she and Malfoy, plunged into silence once again, finished their steps in the potion for that hour. Rose felt like she could breathe again when they parted ways, Rose heading in the opposite direction up the hallway.
Normally, Rose would've asked herself what the hell was wrong with her, but this time, she knew she wouldn't like the answer.
Friday 16th December
"I don't know what to do with it. There's so much of it." Rose complained, trying and failing to run a comb through her hair, wincing as she caught a knot, "maybe I should shave it off."
"No, no! Don't do that!" Tessie interjected quickly, alarmed by Rose's morose voice, "Here, I'll help. We can do some plaits; would you like that?"
Tessie set her lipstick down, quickly rushing to Rose's aid, and Rose let her.
Magda, who was plucking her eyebrows on the other side of their dorm, hovering the mirror precariously, paused with her tweezing charm, "I think if you shaved your head, Tessie would collect the locks and glue them to her own head."
"I wouldn't!" Tessie cried indignantly, as she performed a detangling charm Rose hadn't got the hang of (she'd never mastered beauty charms), "I would fashion them into a wig, which I would then wear. Not—" Tessie said to Rose, "that you should shave it off. Many girls, including myself, would kill for your hair. You've been growing it out, for like, ever—"
"Since I was ten." Rose supplied, her scalp tender as Tessie tugged and twisted the locks into something resembling a deliberate style, "I'm getting bloody sick of it."
"But, it's so quintessentially…" Tessie struggled for a word, "'Rose'!"
"She's right." Magda agreed, pulling a strange expression as she continued to pull invisible hairs from her brow.
"'Rose' is a thing now? What else is 'Rose', pray tell?"
"Sneaking out of the dorm at night to play on the Quidditch pitch." Magda pointed out from across the room, who'd now gone from shrinking her brows by tweezing to filling them in with a pencil.
"Engaging fists before thought." Tessie added, and Rose turned to glare at the girl, before a sharp twinge of her scalp discouraged her.
"Being far too worried about what other people think." Magda continued.
"Getting a little deep there, doc." Rose snorted, "are you gonna charge me for that analysis?"
"For you, honey, it's free." Magda blew her a kiss from across the room.
Tessie laughed when Rose grabbed the kiss in mid-air, pretending to throw it in the direction of their dorm wastebasket.
It didn't take long for them to get ready, but Georgette had spent a whole half hour in the shower, so the party was in full swing by the time they arrived. But thanks to a few—very strong—silencing charms, it was impossible to notice until the door to the classroom was opened, and the girls were ushered inside.
The only source of light in the room were flashing lights in a variety of colours, pulsing and moving in time to music to loud it was impossible to decipher, pounding from an unseen source.
"Right!" Magda yelled over the noise, gathering their makeshift group together, "let's go find the bloody booze!" The girl had been rightfully elected as their unofficial leader, having had the most partying experience between them. Though Magda didn't boast about it much, she'd been creeping into Muggle clubs since she was fifteen, wielding a very convincing fake ID of her own creation.
Magda grabbed Rose's hand, who in turn grabbed Tessie's, who in turn reluctantly grabbed Georgette's hand, but pulled a face while doing it. Then Magda was pulling them through the crowd, a long train of connecting arms awkwardly negotiating clusters of people.
But it seemed like Magda had a nose for free alcohol, as she tugged them to the right place with little preamble. The table was, as Scorpius had promised, heavy with bottles of Firewhiskey, some empty, some unopened and glinting in the disco lights, flaunting the amber liquid inside them.
Magda grabbed one of the empty bottles, transfiguring it into four neat glass tumblers.
"Neat trick." Tessie nodded, and Magda shrugged, passing them out,
"You didn't think I was going to make you drink straight from the bottle, did you? Classless!"
Rose could barely hear the conversation, instead attempting to rely on lip-reading, and what she could see of her friends faces in the ill-lit room.
Magda cracked the cork on the full bottle she'd retrieved, pouring a neat nip into each glass, before holding her own up,
"A toast to Christmas! And Rose, for her familial ties to Slytherin, ensuring we got invited!"
Rose blushed—remembering her little lie about the source of their invitation to the party. She may have insinuated to her friends that Al had insisted they attend, not a certain blonde-haired detention companion who Rose was trying very hard not to think about. Rose was especially trying not to think about how he was in this room right now, probably only a few feet away, maybe a little tipsy, close enough to drag onto the dancefloor and—
Rose decided that a strong dose of Firewhiskey was the perfect chaser for those kind of thoughts, so she tipped her glass back, finishing the contents with a sizeable gulp. The burning sensation down her throat was a temporary reprieve from the other signs of anxiety her body was exhibiting, the rhythm-less tap of her heel on the floor, the spare hand that kept flying to pat her updo, the gaze that kept darting out whenever she caught a glimpse of silver in her peripheral vision.
It was probably why it took her half a second to feel the eyes on her, and she turned to find herself under three concerned gazes,
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" it came out harsher than she'd intended, feeling antsy at the feeling of anticipation, guilty for something she couldn't pinpoint.
"You alright there, Rose?" Tessie was asking, her voice the perfect mix of concern and suspicion to put Rose on the defensive.
"Fine. Why?" Rose snapped, barely able to hear herself over the thudding of the bass, vibrating the soles of her shoes.
"I mean… you did just down half a glass of straight Firewhiskey—" Tessie was saying, Rose only caught most of it by lip-reading,
"Isn't that what people do at parties?" Rose thought she saw a glimpse of platinum hair, but by the time she'd focussed in properly, it was gone.
"People, sure, but not you—"
Rose's teeth were grinding in agitation she couldn't explain, "You and Magda seem awfully keen to tell me who I am, and who I am not," she reached forward, grabbing the bottle from Magda's hands, who was so shocked she relinquished her grip, "and I think you should leave me alone!"
Her nerves were walking the dangerous precipice between anxiety and anger, building and boiling without outlet. She could feel it turning, unnecessarily, on her friends, whose concern on any other day wouldn't have bothered her. But the nasty voice within her twisted their words, painting it was though they were pointing out her weakness, belittling her. And she already felt two inches tall as it was, her incorrect interpretation affirming the feeling.
"Rose, we didn't—" Magda was saying, but Rose was already embarrassed for what she'd said, and turned on her heel, fighting through groups of people to get away from her guilt.
She'd regretted the words as soon as they'd come out, but she could hardly grab the words out of the air and stuff them back into her mouth—the look on Magda and Tessie's faces had been enough. Even Georgette had seemed mildly perturbed, for once, and that was how Rose knew she'd really fucked up.
In all the drama she'd lost her glass, but she still had the open bottle, much to her embarrassment. Sipping from it would only look sadder, and even though Rose had a decent hit of alcohol racing through her system—and enough guilt to fill ten bottles—she wasn't quite at the stage of desperation to drink straight from it.
Hands grabbed her forearm, not a particularly rough grip, but Rose was surprised enough that she jumped, liquid sloshing from the bottle and narrowing avoiding her clothing. Her imagination ran with the few seconds before recognition, projecting grey eyes and a leather hair tie before Rose caught the voice, facing her assailant,
"You made it!"
"Albus!" Rose's heart both sunk and lifted, in both relief and disappointment, creating a hopping skip feeling in her chest.
"I was worried you wouldn't come, seeing as I forgot to bloody invite you!" Albus was leaning into Rose's ear, trying to make himself heard over the music, hands still on Rose's arm, "I'm such an idiot, I got so caught up in this stuff with Taki—"
"It's fine! Scorpius invited me—of all the bloody people. Where is he, by the way?" she tried to come off as casual, but Albus probably couldn't hear much over the music.
"He snuck off with Lauren, the prick!" Albus' eyes were twinkling, and Rose would've thought Albus drunk if she'd not known any better.
"Oh." Rose felt herself make the noise, but it was swallowed up by the room. At least at that news Rose's anxiety was stripped away—all her finger tipping and gut-twisting sinking into something just under her navel, like a mini blackhole had bloomed there, and was sucking her insides into one feral knot.
Rose needed something to root her to the spot, remind her off where she stood in the moment, and tipping the bottle up felt light for some reason—Firewhiskey blazing a neat trail down her oesophagus, loosening the knot a little.
"We should dance." Rose grabbed Al's hand, pulling him toward the cluster of writhing bodies, an awkward attempt at a dancefloor, "Come on."
She could feel Al's hesitation in his slight resistance, and his awkward attempts to excuse her away, but Rose needed something real, something physical—a distraction. Because she had no reason to be feeling like this, no reason at all for these unfounded pathetic pining—
Someone had taken the bottle off her now, interrupting the motion of lifting to her mouth and away again, trying to lose herself to movement—shunting and shoving bodies with a rhythm that only made sense if she closed her eyes and tried to translate the noise into a beat. It was easier with the warm buzz that had started to creep up on her, sneaking into her blood so gradually that it was hard to discern the chemical from genuine enjoyment.
But there were hands now, shoving cups into hers, pulling her and touching her. She could tell it wasn't Al, she'd somehow lost him an indiscriminate period of time ago. Instead she tried to ride the buzz.
But then, all of a sudden, it built into nausea, as though the Firewhiskey was curdling in her stomach. She needed air—all she could taste was sweat and alcohol, and it was making her guts roil. She tried to fight her way out of the crowd, but it was more like stumbling, tripping over legs and limbs on her way to the edge.
People parted when they saw her, as though they could sense how sick she felt, and Rose was groping for the door, needing fresh air and the bracing cold to snap her out of the trance she'd found herself in. It was a maze of sound and colour, faceless forms watching her pass disinterestedly, until the cold metal of a door handle was under her fingers and she twisted it open.
The silence of the corridor was like a slap to the face, as the door swung shut behind her. Already everything felt a little sharper—though the walls still insisted on leaning over her, and she found some difficulty in not walking into them.
A corner loomed up ahead, and Rose could practically smell the fresh air of the balcony she knew wasn't far away. But the sound of voices came first; raised and angry, and Rose slowed, curiosity getting the better of her, even in a state like this.
"You made me look like a fool!" Female, undoubtedly, but Rose was too drunk to figure out why it sounded familiar.
"You looked like no such thing." There was no mistaking this voice, Rose's stomach roiled but she forced herself to stay put.
"We both know that I jeopardized my reputation to out us—"
"Then why did you do it, Lauren? Why did you announce our physical relationship to the entirety of our house? What did you expect would happen?" Malfoy's voice was hard, pushed to the edge of his patience.
Lauren hesitated, and Rose knew the girl was deciding on truth or lies, trying to conveniently skirt around the truth in the way only Slytherins had mastered, "Because—" she faltered, "Because, you arsehole, you were supposed to come to me! You were supposed to make us official! You know about honour, about the esteem I'm supposed to be held in! I'm a fucking Avery!"
"It's not my fault you backed yourself into a corner, and expected me to bail you out. I don't indulge manipulation, Lauren. I thought you knew enough about me to know that, at least."
"I don't understand why you wanted us to sneak around in the first place! There's nothing wrong with us dating—it's probably expected, in fact! I'm a pure-blood, you're a pure-blood—"
Malfoy hissed, "Jesus, Lauren, don't start with that bollocks. It's nothing to do with purity—"
"Well, then, what is it?!" the girl cried, sounding a little hysterical, "My parents were implicated with the Death Eaters too, you know! If you think I'm ashamed—"
"Bloody hell, Lauren." Malfoy sounded like he was rapidly reaching the end of his patience, as Avery's voice grew higher in pitch.
"Well, what now, Scorpius? Because I'm fucking in lov—"
"Don't." Malfoy's tone was curt, low and abrupt in juxtaposition with Avery's cries.
"But I do, Scorpius! I love yo—"
"No!" The venom in Malfoy's tone was one that Rose was all too familiar with, even if she wasn't on the receiving end this time, "No, you don't! You're just infatuated with the idea of the 'Malfoy' name, of all the gold in my vaults! You want a big engagement ring—a front page wedding! That has to be it, right? Because there's no way you could be enamoured with me as a person; when was the last time we had an actual conversation? What do you actually know about me? And I don't mean the names of my great-grandparents."
Avery's voice was quieter now, meek, as though she sensed defeat, "I know things about you."
"Aside from how I like my dick sucked." Malfoy snapped, and the following silence was like a slap.
"Lauren, I'm sorry—" Malfoy was saying, but Lauren spoke over him,
"Go fuck yourself, Malfoy."
There were footsteps now, and Rose remembered she wasn't meant to have heard their conversation, and moved frantically to hide. But in the fog of her drunken mind, she registered that they were growing fainter, not louder, meaning Avery was walking in the opposite direction.
She barely had time to sigh in relief, as another wave of nausea hit, and Rose grappled for support on the wall, waiting for it to pass. But the distraction pulled her attention from her surroundings, meaning she didn't hear the footsteps until a lumos was shoved under her throat with a growl.
"Merlin. It's you." Malfoy voice stated resignedly, pulling his wand from its aggressive position.
"I—I d-didn't mean to hear." The words were thick, harder to form than usual.
"Christ, you're three sheets to the wind!" Scorpius sounded derisive and amused at the same time, which Rose struggled to process.
"Don't have any sheets," she slurred, "but maybe had a few little bitty drinksss."
Scorpius seemed to double than merge, and Rose rubbed and squinted to put the image right again. The whole bloody room seemed to be spinning, and Rose wished it would stop.
"We'd better get you back to Mother Al, he must be worried sick."
"I'm fine! Todally fine—" Rose insisted, attempting to use the wall as an aid to standing.
"Are you seriously too drunk to stand?" Scorpius wasn't helping, just watching as though he found it funny.
"Jog on, you beautiful prat." She muttered, managing to fight into a standing position before her knees buckled, and she was on the floor again.
"Hmm? Could you repeat that?" Scorpius was laughing, and Rose's face flamed, the conscious part of her brain recognizing that she'd said something she really shouldn't have.
"Here." He was saying, lowering himself to Rose's very improper position on the floor. Then his hands were on her back, her thighs, and before she knew what had happened, she found herself thrown over his shoulder.
"Hey! Puuut me down! This is indignified!" she cried, trying to make her argument sound as sober as she could.
"So is rolling about on the floor, blind drunk. Don't worry, you'll owe me one."
They were moving now, Rose was jostled with every footstep, wind catching where her skirt had ridden dangerously high. Blast Georgette for talking her into wearing it.
"Why won't you date Avery propersaly?" Rose found herself asking, before it had even been a conscious thought.
Rose was moved around a little as he adjusted her position, but to her surprise, he actually answered, "She's not my type." His tone was gruff, discouraging further questions. So Rose asked another one,
"What'sss your type?"
"Not Lauren."
Rose huffed, trying in vain to tug her skirt down without attracting Malfoy's attention,
"This issn't ladylike." She muttered under her breath, but Scorpius caught it,
"What isn't ladylike, is getting completely rat-arsed at school, and then stumbling around and listening in on people's conversations."
"You shouldn't have been conversating so loudly!" Rose protested, trying to glare at Malfoy, but finding herself in the wrong position.
She felt his laugh as opposed to hearing it, a warm rumble against her lower belly.
"We're here." He said, unnecessarily, as Rose felt her foot hit the wooden door with a graceless clunk. She panicked only for second, imagining Malfoy waltzing into the party with her in this revealing position. She just hoped Malfoy hadn't noticed.
But her fears proved unnecessary as he set her on her feet, just outside the door, before opening it to admit the both of them.
He kept his hand firm on her elbow, another around her waist, ready to guide her rebelling body through the throngs. But they barely took three steps into the room before Rose's friends swarmed them,
"Jesus, we were wondering where you got to—"
"—dancing one minute, lost you the next—"
"—you were going hard on the booze, Tessie was convinced you were choking on your own vomit—"
They were all talking at once, in a relieved sort of way. Malfoy hadn't left, still keeping her upright. It took the group a minute to notice him, and when they did, an awkward silence fell. Well, as silent as they could be under the booming music.
"I found your lost lion cub." Malfoy told them, as though it wasn't obvious.
Al was the first to relax, "Thanks, Scor." He breathed, relieved and thankful, with none of the awkwardness the others were faced with. Rose felt herself being exchanged in hands, like a parcel, into Al's arms. Was that sexist, being passed off to another man? She would've protested at the indignity of it all, but the spinning room was too much, and she supposed it was mostly her own fault.
"She needs water, and bed." Malfoy told them seriously, far from the chuckling boy in the hall.
"She only had a few shots." Georgette snorted in humour, back to eye-rolling now that all was rightfully restored.
"Bloody lightweight." Malfoy scowled, but Rose was sure it didn't hold much of its usual malice.
"Well," Al started awkwardly, the only one in the group on good terms with the Slytherin, "I'll see you back in the dorm. I better help Rosie back to bed."
Al hadn't called her Rosie since they were small. It was a term of endearment common in the family, but only her father had continued to use it as Rose had grown. Truthfully, she had probably earned it, as the alcohol had reduced her to a childlike state.
Malfoy nodded, looking unsure about whether to bid the others goodnight, before departing in silence.
There was a pause—Rose could feel the girls sharing looks over her head—and Albus hoisted her up from where she'd been sliding.
"C'mon then, my lady." Al indicated with a grunt, as she shifted her weight in his arms. Rose couldn't help but immediately notice how different Malfoy's embrace felt to Albus'. Her cousin's arms were like they always were, comforting and brotherly. Whenever Rose had bad dreams—or vice versa—they snuggle together as children, protecting each other from the dark corners in the room and odd looking shadows. But Malfoy…
The group were heading for the doors, cutting through groups of people, some drunker than others. Rose knew she ought not to be looking, but Malfoy was nowhere in sight.
A/N: Admittedly, I'm not happy with my writing in the second half of the chapter. It needs an edit and a little bit of rewriting, but I'm just eager to get this chapter up so I can confirm that this fic isn't dead! I've just run out of pre-written stuff, and have been madly madly busy. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and don't forget to review! Thanks for all the support, you're all the best!