Beta'd by the lovely Arete20 on Ao3.

Chapter Three: Not-Flirting

Rose was working on a piece about the public perception of new broomsticks when a slip of parchment slid across her desk. She unfolded it immediately.

I think we should talk to him again.

She glanced up; though Scorpius' head was down, she knew it was from him. He often sent notes when the office was too quiet to speak aloud without drawing attention. She wrote back:

Adam Bell?

Yes.

Rose looked up again to see Scorpius looking at her, grey eyes fixed and determined, mouth pressed in a line. She broke her gaze to write back.

I don't think that's a good idea. He didn't have as much insight as we thought.

That's not true. You just didn't like what he had to say.

She sent him a withering look. The corner of his mouth twitched and he swiped the parchment back.

Don't give me that, Rose. He talked to us, that's better than nothing.

Why are you so determined with this story? It seems kind of thin, anyway.

I just feel like there's something that they're hiding. Can you show me what you're working on, by the way?

With the usual sense of dread, Rose slid the draft of her article towards him, and he immediately began looking it over. She could admit that she was a perfectionist, especially when it came to Quidditch, and homework when she was at school, but she hated that those tendencies came out at work. She knew she wasn't any sort of exceptional writer, not like Scorpius was, but she couldn't help it.

Which was why, when Scorpius placed her article in his editing pile instead of giving it back, she panicked. "I can change the first part—"

"You don't have to. It's fine."

"I really—"

"It's done, Rose," Scorpius said, as patiently as one could after having the same conversation nearly every other day. "You've edited it to death. And that's my job."

Rose sighed and watched him as he replaced his ink bottle. He was very deliberate, attentively putting his quill in a spot where it wouldn't wipe against his sleeve, using the exact correct lid for the old bottle, carefully unscrewing the lid and removing the seal for the new one. She couldn't help but smile, which Scorpius only noticed once he'd finished with the ink bottles. He took back the parchment with their messages.

You're staring at me.

She could feel the thumping in her chest as she wrote back: It's cute.

What's cute about replacing ink bottles, exactly?

Nothing.

She could feel him staring at her, but she turned back to work.

She'd never flirted with Scorpius so directly before. Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing, but they weren't each other's soulmates. It wasn't going to go anywhere, and she had to get her feelings out somehow.

It couldn't hurt—right?

Rose was tying on a smock when she remembered just how terrible at painting she was.

Albus meant well, but when Rose said she had no talent in any sort of visual art—besides, maybe, putting up plants in her flat—she really meant it. All previous art experiences had gone horribly wrong; she only had to explain by pointing to a stain on the childhood bedroom floor that her parents ended up covering with a rug.

Nevertheless, when Albus absolutely insisted on her doing this Paint-and-Wine class with him, she couldn't say no. He had tirelessly helped her for nearly two weeks while her building's lift was down. When it was back up and running and all he asked in return for was to join his class, it didn't seem like such a big ordeal.

Until the smock. The smock made it real.

"I'm going to be awful," Rose whispered, sitting between Albus and a girl with long, wavy purple hair and golden-brown skin. There was a large canvas—too damn large, if you asked her—on an easel in front of her, as well as a cup full of water and a few paint brushes.

"This is actually the easiest class," Albus comforted, dropping his paint brushes into the water. "It's just a sunset over water. Or sunrise."

"It's intimidating."

"They will go extremely slowly."

"I need to go at a literal snail's pace."

"You need wine," he corrected, waving a hand to catch the attention of the bartender. Rose concluded that perhaps he was right about that.

And, halfway through the class, she concluded that the painting wasn't half-bad. Sure, her painting wasn't great and the blending in the colours was actually something developed to torture people, but it was actually sort of fun. She liked the colours she had chosen—she'd gone for these purple, pink and orange streaks—and it was actually resembling something like the beginning of a sunrise.

"Wow," she said, glancing at her neighbour's painting. Obviously, it wasn't her first class; her blending in the water was spectacular, and she had chosen much more than just three colours. "Your painting is beautiful."

"Thank you so much," she replied in surprise.

"Can you tell this is my first time?" Rose asked the girl, who laughed. "I am hopeless."

"I see some potential, actually," she said kindly, indicating to her horizon line with a paintbrush handle. "Your horizon line is quite straight."

"Honestly, the most difficult achievement of my life."

"Aren't you Rose Weasley?" she asked. Rose half-shrugged, half-nodded. "Listen, I'm not much of a Quidditch fan, but even I know how many points you scored to win in that one game against the Tornadoes."

"That wasn't just me," she assured, turning red. "Anyway, I've retired now."

"After that fall? I heard about that." The girl nodded solemnly. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm writing for Quidditch World magazine." Rose grabbed some white paint and squirted some onto her paper plate of paints. "What are you doing? Art?"

"If only," she said, laughing. "I'm at the Ministry. Filling out spreadsheets, it's a thrilling job."

"Ouch."

"I'm dying to get out," she confessed, dabbing details on the water of her sunset. "This is the only job I've done since I left school. It pays well, but it's mind-numbing. I just don't know what else I would do. Changing careers sounds tough. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, right?"

"It was," Rose confirmed. "I mean, mine was exciting, playing Quidditch and all… but something about it didn't fit after a while."

"Sometimes things change," she said, nodding. "How long did you do it before you realized that?"

"About four years." Rose dipped her brush in the water, dabbing it at the bottom. It was refreshing, the way that Laila didn't judge her at all. Emily would have been pushing her back to training by this point in the conversation. "Played for six years before I quit, though."

"I'm coming up around eight." She sighed as she used a tiny paintbrush to add birds to her canvas. "Once I figure out what I'm good at, maybe I can be as brave."

Brave. Rose had been in Gryffindor, but she hadn't felt so brave lately. Leaving Quidditch didn't feel like something that was courageous, even if it was what she wanted. Sometimes she wondered what the hat would say if she put it on now, versus the person she was at eleven years old.

Rose was finishing up purple streaks of clouds at the edge of her canvas when she heard Albus laughing beside her, talking to a bearded redhead next to him that she didn't recognize (quite a feat, considering she was a Weasley). There was something different about his laugh, and the way he was speaking in a low voice. It hit her a few moments later:

Albus was flirting.

With someone who wasn't Orion.

The painting class slowly wrapped up after that, and the girl turned to Rose as she was leaving. "Do you ever want to do some more paint classes, or do some shopping, or something?"

Rose, who'd been somewhat distracted, was surprised. Was this how adults made friends? She brightened immediately. "Yeah, that sounds like a lot of fun."

She scribbled on a bit of paper, writing her name—Laila Sharma—and her address before waving goodbye. Rose turned to see Albus doing something similar with his neighbour, except his hand was on his bicep, and they were standing much too closely for it to be friendly. As the man left, Albus turned to Rose, clearly trying not to grin so widely.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" he asked as they made their way outside to Diagon Alley, large canvases in hand. The incredulousness of his casualness caused Rose to throw subtlety out the window.

"Al, are you going out with him?" she demanded.

"I dunno." He looked down at his shoes, still smiling. "He was nice."

"Right." Rose struggled for words. "But. You know, he's—"

"He's not my soulmate," Albus finished, the corners of his mouth drooping slightly. "Yeah, I know."

"How can you—"

"Well, my actual soulmate doesn't want to move beyond friendship, does he?" he burst out a little too loudly, disturbing a tiny old witch outside Madame Malkin's and making her drop her bag. He didn't seem to notice. "Orion has known we're soulmates for three years."

Rose hastily picked up the bag and sent the witch an apologetic look before replying. "I get that, but—"

"Three years, Rose."

"But he's supposed to be the one, isn't he?" she said weakly. "I mean… doesn't he feel like the one?"

"He does." Al went quiet for a moment. "But sometimes it feels like nothing is ever going to change."

They stopped, and though her shin seared in pain, she took a moment to observe him. He seemed genuinely frustrated, and she knew he never wanted to hurt Orion. Her cousin was obviously in pain from a different kind of unrequited love than her own.

And maybe something else, something familiar… loneliness?

"I flirted with Scorpius," Rose confessed, looking past him to a closed bookstore. "I dunno why."

Albus tilted his head in confusion. "But you're not soulmates."

"Right."

"You… you're such a hypocrite, Rose."

"I know. I'm sorry, Al."

"What's going on?"

She let out a long breath. "It's almost easier now, being around him. In a way. Maybe he's not the one, but that doesn't change how I feel about him, does it?"

He sighed. "Why do you like him so much?"

"I dunno." She did know, but voicing it aloud wasn't her strong suit. "He's intelligent. Really dedicated, works extremely hard. He remembers how I like my coffee. He researches everything before he writes something. He's never afraid of saying what he thinks, not even when he knows someone has a strong opinion otherwise…"

She trailed off, but Albus didn't respond, only chewing his lip worriedly.

"What?" she prodded.

"I don't know how to say this," he began, "but Scorpius doesn't spend a lot of nights at home anymore."

Rose suddenly felt the quiet August night around them, enclosing her. "Wait—what does that mean?"

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "He's a bit secretive about it. Or maybe I just haven't asked directly. But I think you should know."

Her eyes burned and Albus drew her in his arms. It wasn't his fault, but she didn't love being blindsided. Even if Scorpius wasn't her soulmate, it felt crushing, like her own reality was a false mirror shattering before her eyes.

It was entirely possible she barely knew Scorpius at all.

She held Albus tightly.

When Rose received the annual Quidditch Gala invitation in her mailbox, she was genuinely surprised. Firstly, because they somehow had gotten her new address and mailed her things the muggle way. Almost impressive, even if it was slower than owls.

Secondly, because she was sure she wouldn't be invited back. Asking why not was irrational; Quidditch players, current or retired, attended the gala every year. Sometimes even Viktor Krum attended, and he hadn't played in at least twenty-five years.

Thirdly, because when she tossed the invitation down at her desk upon getting to work, Scorpius—who was there before her, oddly—snatched it up right away, taking only a second to glance over it before saying, "Let's go."

Rose couldn't quite believe her ears. She sat down, propped her cane at the side of her desk and took a deep breath before speaking. "Me?"

"Us." He tossed the invitation back to her and started making notes on his calendar. "This is a good chance to ask around about the story."

"The story," she repeated again, feeling a bit dumbfounded. Why did it feel so much like she was being strong-armed into a date?

Knowing Scorpius—and from what Albus told her, that he wasn't spending nights at their flat—it was entirely work-focused. Unfortunately.

Honestly, it was almost as if not being able to have him made her want him more.

Scorpius began to brainstorm a plan for the event. Under the guise of listening to his instructions, she inspected him carefully; his white-blond hair was messy-in-the-right-way as usual, his clothes looked clean and not the slightest bit rumpled. He didn't seem to have dark circles, but then again, he never did. Maybe he just won the genetic lottery. Or he went home last night.

"We'll have to figure out some way to talk to people who know what's going on," Scorpius finished, placing his quill down, eyes drifting to her cane. "Is it a cane day?"

"Yeah." Rose was stubborn about using her cane, but some days were worse than others. "It's a cane day."

He looked up and gave her a small, reassuring smile. A smile that reached around her heart and squeezed tight until she couldn't breathe.

Suddenly, the door of the Quidditch World office opened to a swarm of at least a hundred owls, flocking in in a frenzy. They hooted and screeched above—in anger?—as Rose's colleagues gasped and yelped. While it was normal to have an owl or two in at every hour, nothing about this was normal. They flapped their wings madly and began to circle the office.

Rose saw Scorpius dive under their conjoined desks and followed suit, narrowly missing an owl flying right at her head. Her shin burned in pain as she hit the ground roughly, but managed to scoot under her desk. Just in time, thankfully, as she saw a large owl dropping hit her seat.

"What the fuck is going on?" Scorpius shouted.

Rose propped up her leg and leaned against the side panel of her desk, blinking tears out of her eyes. "I don't know."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm just—" Rose hissed as she gingerly massaged her leg, which sometimes helped after long days. "I knocked my bad leg on the way down."

"Shit." Scorpius inched closer, hovering his hands over her legs. "Can I?"

She nodded, bracing herself, but his hands were surprisingly gentle and warm, even over her trousers. It was all she could do to focus on breathing, between the throbbing in her shin and fighting the rest of her body that was screaming for her to yank him closer.

"Do you think he did this?" Scorpius asked.

"You don't think—Davis?"

"He's the only one we questioned," he reasoned, still running his hands up and down her leg, "and it's not like anyone else who works here is regularly pissing people off."

"We do mostly write about plays and strategies," she agreed, using her palms to wipe the tears out from under her eyes. "What about Adam Bell?"

"It could've been him, possibly."

"Maybe—ahh!" Rose squealed as another owl dropping hit, this time the ground right beside her desk, nearly splattering onto her hand.

Scorpius shook his head, wide-eyed. "Whoever it was, they are definitely hiding something."

A/N: Happy Sunday! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

Next: we meet Orion.