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Chapter 4: Roses have Thorns, but Thorns have Roses
"We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice that thorn bushes have roses."
–Abraham Lincoln
"But I don't want to show up alone!" Scorpius pleads. "Everyone will be all 'There's that bloke who didn't have anyone to come to the party with. What a loser.'"
"I hardly think everyone is going to think that," Rose reassures him, checking the open textbook in front of her and then scribbling a quote into her essay. "Just tell everyone I was too busy and couldn't make it."
He snatches the roll of parchment away and holds it behind his back. "You only had to write six inches and you've already written two feet, not to mention this isn't due until Thursday. You deserve to have a break."
"Give it back!" she demands, standing on tiptoes and making wild grabs at it; he merely laughs and holds it just out of her reach.
She collapses in her chair. "I hate you, Scorpius Malfoy!"
"Oh, Merlin," he smirks. "You're using my full name now. How scary."
Madam Pince glares daggers at them, and Scorpius lowers his voice. "Okay, I'll give it back to you, if -and this is all you have to do- you come to the party with me."
"Absolutely not."
"You don't have to stay the whole time," he bargains. "Only an hour or two. Dance a little, drink a little, have some fun. It's not every day Slytherin wins a Quidditch match."
"Give me my essay, Malfoy."
He sighs and drops it back onto the table. "You're no fun, Rose."
"What a pity," she replies sarcastically, searching through her bag for last week's notes on Patronuses.
"I meant it. You're so… uptight. You're a know-it-all. You're stubborn. You're-"
"Go away," Rose interrupts. "Do me a favor, Malfoy, and just leave."
"Honestly," he continues, as if he hadn't heard her. "You always think you're right. You like to boss people around. You don't know how to have fun. You don't even know what fun is, probably."
"If you're still trying to get me to come, it isn't working," she insists.
"You have no social life. You're frumpy. You don't care about what other people think," he rambles. "You're different. You have your own personal style."
She is still bending over her parchment, but her quill is frozen in place.
"No matter how crabby you are in the morning, you still look amazing even when you wake up with bedhead. You're a brilliant Keeper. You're sweet and funny. No bloke alive deserves you. You-"
She stands up and shoves her things inside her book bag. "All right, I'll come."
He stops, hardly believing his luck. "Really?"
She can't help but laugh. "Really."