Sixth year. Girls who throw themselves at you slink off grudgingly by the end of September, because it's obvious you're desperately in love with Rose. So much, that you begin to think it's one-sided.
You confront her and she starts. She apologizes, and she's sorry. Rose puts on a noticeable effort to show affection.
But time moves along, and her attentions wane once more. It's not that she doesn't like you, only she doesn't seem to treat you any differently than all her little girlfriends. You want more—some sign that she thinks about you more often than the others.
You go to a party. You make out. The girl leaves. Rose cries.
It's the worst mistake of your life, but you do the unthinkable: you break up with Rose.
Not that that wasn't quite clear already, but now it's in words.
You hold your head in your hands and fling yourself into studies, late nights alone in the secluded common room. Hugo, surprisingly, still pushes for the same kinship you two once had. But as, well, unique as your little friend is, he still has the same quirky mannerisms, the same quaint colloquialisms, and the exact same shade of hair as…
As Rose.
Rose. You torment yourself.
For the rest of sixth year, she refuses to look at you.
Seventh year, she avoids you.
Life moves on as you become the Assistant of the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Percy Weasley is a kind man, if a bit patronizing, and there's no reason you should be so stiff with him.
But there he stands, yet another reminder of the one you lost.
Still, your career choice fits immensely well with you. As the day goes in and the day goes out, as you exit your empty apartment hurriedly in the mornings, you find your mind mostly free of her when you return, weary.
Heartache, on you, isn't something that shows physically. It's just a quiet lingering in your mind; a light touch constantly on your knee.
It's a ridiculously busy morning today. Just when you thought you were gaining opinion in the Head's eyes, that you're treated like a regular gofer!
"Malfoy," barks Weasley, "during your lunch break go pick up some proper dress robes. The Minister of Andorra is expecting proper officials, not harried underage interns."
One, I'm not an intern. That's the pretty blond half-blood downstairs, you seethe. Two, how the hell am I supposed to "pick up some proper dress robes" if I haven't ordered any? Third, you silently explode, Andorra is a country of roughly one hundred and eighty square miles. Who gives a bloody hippogriff head what they think?
But you conjure up a happy memory and send off a Patronus message as calmly as you can.
The little bell on the door rings shrilly. Wincing, you let the door swing shut as softly as possible—the silly Muggle trinkets some witches like…
"Madam Malkin?" you call. But the squat, gray-haired woman never appears. A vision takes her place.
"Madam isn't here, I'm afrai—oh my God!"
You briefly consider running away.
Rose's hair is swept up, away, into a massive bun. She's dusty and little glints of metal shine everywhere on her—pins. Her bright eyes are tired, but serene.
"Oh…oh my God…" Rose drops two spools of cloth and a badly torn robe. Quickly, she kneels to gather them back, but forgets to stand. She remains on her knees, staring at you with those wide pools of blue.
"S-Sco—" she chokes on your name. Briefly, Rose's pale cheeks are curtained by amber curls. Then, as if she can't resist, she yanks her hungry gaze back to your blanching face. She is so beautiful.
This time, her lashes are wet.
Suddenly, you have a crazy urge in your stomach. Working with bewildered foreigners, you've learned to trust your gut. More than trust, it's a thoughtless reaction, because the human body does what the brain wants and right now your mind is a blinking screen on default.
For half an hour Rose weeps mysterious tears into your embrace.