A/N: Hey all!
First of all… MY BIRTHDAY IS NEXT WEEK! (Shoutout to all my fellow Aries brethren!)
I will be celebrating pretty much all next week, which means that there most likely will not be an update until the following week (unless I'm feeling REAL inspired, which sometimes happens!)
Anyways- this chapter is a lot lighter than the previous few have been. I hope y'all enjoy the ScoRose dynamic in the second half.
I do have plans of eventually writing a chapter (or two) in Scorpius' POV once the story progresses a bit more, and we will see A LOT more of Albus (and other members of the Wotter clan) in future chapters.
Don't worry- I have not forgotten about Albus's predicament with his unfaithful ex-girlfriend! That will all be addressed in time.
That's all I really have to say for now.
Please read, like, bookmark, and ESPECIALLY review.
Happy reading!
-Everlasting Faerie Light
xXxXxXx
-Later July 2032, Present Day -
There is virtually nothing that Rose Weasley loves more than playing quidditch.
During her time with the Holyhead Harpies, she broke the standing league record for the number of bludger knockouts in both a single game and season.
The bull-headed Weasley was an aggressive beater- an unforgivable, monstrous force to be reckoned with.
With Rose Weasley on the pitch, it was guaranteed that at least one or two of the opposing team's players would end up at St. Mungo's with some serious head trauma.
Not only was she good at it, but playing quidditch professionally was a cathartic experience for Rose; it allowed her to channel all of her unbridled rage into smashing the shit out of some enchanted balls with a fucking bat while getting paid a shit-load of money.
If that isn't therapeutic, then Rose doesn't know what is.
However, after the whole 'bludgeoning-Athena-Nott's-face-with-a-bat' fiasco that cost her her entire career, Rose can barely bring herself to mount a broom without feeling both nauseous and depressed.
It's just another cruel reminder that she can never play quidditch professionally again.
So when Emery Davidson, the other department recruiter (besides Olivia Orford) and co-head of the British & Irish Quidditch League, asks Rose to play beater on his team for the bi-annual "Employees-Only" quidditch match against the Ludicrous Patents Office, Rose glares at the man as if he had just slapped her across the face.
"No," she spits at him before turning her attention back to the hefty amount of paperwork sprawled out evenly on her desk.
"Come on, Weasley!" pleads Davidson. "The Ludicrous Patents Office has Rodgers and Macmillan. They're both retired beaters from Puddlemere United. We really won't stand a chance unless you play on our side."
"First of all- not my problem," Rose snaps curtly as she flips the page of the document in front of her. "Secondly, why the bloody hell is the Quidditch Division counting on me to help you win a quidditch match against the sodding Ludicrous Patents Office? That's fucking pathetic."
Emery Davidson smirks, amber eyes alight with amusement as he regards the less-than-friendly redhead before him. "First of all- you are a ministry employee. While playing isn't mandatory, it won't be a good look for you to deny participation in a department-sanctioned event- especially when the department has dire need of you. Secondly-" he quickly prattles off before Rose, who is now glaring at him with every fiber of her being, can interrupt him.
"You are seriously one of the best beaters the Holyhead Harpies has ever seen, Weasley- even better than your aunt, and she was quite the demon on the pitch. They were lucky to have you for as long as they did."
Davidson offers Rose one of his panty-dropping smiles, and despite her natural aggression and disdain, the curly-haired Weasley cannot help but blush a deep shade of red to match the color of her hair.
After all, Rose cannot deny that Emery Davidson is a very attractive man. With a tall, athletic build, bright amber eyes, and a mature, gentlemanly grace that can only be achieved through his older age, Davidson possesses the ability to date and/or bed any female (or male) that he wants.
But for some odd reason, he seems to be interested in none other than Rose "I-hate-anything-that-breathes" Weasley as of late, despite her prickly personality.
Rose considers herself an observant person after all- and has kept count of the number of times Emery Davidson dropped by her office for some random or otherwise meaningless reason during the past few weeks (an average of four times in a single workshift, with the record being eight times). She isn't an idiot; despite her rather bleak love life, Rose can always tell when some poor bloke (or lass) has the limited brain capacity to accidentally fall for someone like her.
And it never ends well.
"Nice try, Davidson," Rose once again turns her attention back to her paperwork. "But you're going to have to do better than that. Flattery won't get you jack-shit from me."
"If you play, I will take you out to dinner. There's this lovely new Italian place in Hogsmeade," he offers with a wink.
Rose snorts. "Try again."
Davidson groans out loud, though his exasperation remains good-natured and playful. "Fine. How about I pay you twenty galleons?"
"Forty galleons," counters the now slightly interested Weasley, her sharp blue eyes flashing dangerously at the handsome man smiling at her from across her desk.
"Ouch, you drive a hard bargain," replies Davidson in a mock-scolding voice, which earns him another glare.
"Forty galleons or I'm not playing."
"Okay. Deal."
Rose blinks a few times in surprise. "Wait really?"
"Really."
She narrows her eyes at the dashing man. "That was way too easy. What's the catch?"
"No catch at all." Rose feels her breath catch in her throat as Davidson leans towards her with eyes full of shining amber, his hands resting on the edge of her desk. "But— I wasn't joking about dinner. My offer still stands. What do you say, Rose?"
Once again, Rose's face transforms into an oven.
She doesn't know how to respond.
It's not that Rose isn't interested in the idea of dinner, drinks, and possibly more with Emery Davidson, because she definitely is.
She knows an attractive man when she sees one, and she can tell that Davidson would undoubtedly treat her very well in more ways than one.
But at the same time, she cannot deny the fact that her love life tends to follow a very consistent and dismal pattern.
Rose has been in four different relationships throughout her twenty six years of existence- including her disastrous joke of a teenage shitpot with Patrick Fitzgerald.
And they all ended for the same reason.
The reason being that Rose Weasley is a mean bitch.
The progression and devolution of all four relationships were strikingly similar. It was all fun and games during the "courting" and "honeymoon phase" — in fact, every single one of her dumbass exes had initially found her aggressive and combative attitude to be attractive for some fucking reason. Maybe it was because they wanted to spice up their sex life, or maybe they just wanted a challenge of sorts, or maybe they were all low-key masochists—- whatever the reason, it didn't matter after an average of about three to five months.
Sometimes Rose wishes that she can blame men in general for her sexual misfortune, but that blame would be grossly misplaced given that the longest of her four relationships (which lasted about six months before going to complete shit) was with a drop-dead-gorgeous, half-Veela female by the name of Melodie Duboise.
After being screamed at, berated, and ruthlessly dumped by Melodie and the three other wankers she dated over the years, Rose came to the conclusion that neither men nor women were the problem here— no, she was. She still is.
And at the end of the day, nobody, regardless of gender, wants to date a mean bitch.
So why should Emery Davidson be any different?
Of course, Rose doesn't know how to explain all of this to Davidson without sounding like a lunatic with an unnecessary amount of baggage, so she just stares at him, her mind reeling at a million miles per hour as it desperately seeks to deliver a proper response.
"You are allowed to say 'no.' I can handle rejection," Davidson offers, though she can see the playful glint in his eye fading as the seconds tick by without her uttering a word.
"I— can I say maybe?" Rose replies in an uncharacteristically small voice, her cheeks reddening even more (if that is even possible.) "I just— I have a lot going on at the moment, and I'm not sure if I'm at a place in my life to go out on dates, but I definitely would be interested given any other circumstance, and I'm not just saying this to turn you down politely, because if I was actually trying to turn you down, we both know I'd be anything but polite-"
Dear Merlin.
She is rambling.
And she can't seem to stop.
Thankfully, Emery Davidson also happens to be a gracious man.
With that playful glint reappearing in those amber eyes of his, he throws his head back and laughs.
Not one of those condescending laughs that indicates mockery, but a genuine laugh that makes Rose's insides feel warm.
Once he recovers, he fixes her with a smile that manages to be both suave and kind at the same time. "I completely understand. Whenever you're ready for that date, just let me know. I'm only an office away. As for the quidditch game against the Ludicrous Patents office…"
Rose rolls her eyes at his slick attempt at changing the subject; though she can't fight a smile from creeping onto her freckled lips.
"…the actual game is this Friday at noon during lunchtime, so we are practicing as a team from eight to ten tonight to make sure we are all up to par. And you, Miss Weasley, will be in attendance. We cannot lose to the bloody Ludicrous Patents Office. The tossers."
The smile slips from Rose's lips. "If I am required to interact with coworkers outside of office hours, then I'll have to add a ten galleon service fee to my original price. Fifty galleons."
"Okay, now you're just being a brat," childes the older man with a flirtatious smirk. "How about forty five galleons?"
Though her initial response is to continue being a stubborn bitch, Rose bites her lip and crosses her arms over her chest petulantly. "Fine. Forty five galleons. And you have to pay me when I see you tonight. Where are we all meeting anyway?"
"At the new Malfoy Manor in Scotland."
Rose chokes on her own spit.
She feels as if something in her brain short-circuits.
Fuck.
Honestly, she shouldn't be surprised.
After all, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports participating in a ministry-sanctioned, employees-only quidditch match to stimulate team morale and participation amongst the workers isn't an outrageous concept by any means.
But the idea of stepping foot into Malfoy Manor- into the very living quarters of Scorpius Malfoy and Merlin forbid- Octavia Montague- transforms Rose's insides into cement.
She grits her teeth.
"That sounds like a fucking disaster waiting to happen," she snaps in a low, venomous voice, her sharp blue eyes narrowing dangerously. "Mr. Malfoy and his wife both hate my guts."
Emery Davidson cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, a puzzled expression gracing his features as he regards the suddenly aggravated Weasley.
"Really? I would have never guessed. I was under the impression that you and Mr. Malfoy got along swimmingly, given how well you two work together."
Rose snorts out loud.
"In fact, he's the one that suggested I ask you to play on our team," continues Davidson without missing a beat. "At this morning's recruiter debrief, he kept going on about how you're one of the best beaters he has ever seen- that you're literally unstoppable. Of course I already knew that, though."
Davidson's flirtatious quip goes unnoticed by Rose, whose mind is now reeling uncontrollably over the fact that Scorpius Malfoy complimented her bloody flying skills.
No, he didn't just compliment her flying skills, he called her "one of the best beaters he has ever seen."
What the actual fuck is happening right now?
Did she get sucked into some alternate dimension without realizing it?
Is Davidson pulling her leg?
When Rose doesn't respond, Davidson lets out a sigh as a wariness creeping onto his otherwise untarnished face. "If you really don't want to play, then you don't have to. I can ask Meyers instead- but everyone knows that he isn't even half as good as you."
He runs a hand through his golden halo of locks and offers Rose a sheepish smile. "Like I said, you're an amazing beater Rose. And everybody would be more than thrilled to have you on our team. I cannot speak for his wife, but if Mr. Malfoy hates you as much as you think he does, then I'd reckon he'd do anything that he can to prevent you from playing at all rather than strongly suggesting that you play alongside him. Plus…"
He leans towards her once again, his amber eyes full of mischief. "Are you really going to say no to forty-five galleons?"
Rose grunts in response.
She just hopes that Octavia Monta-Malfoy will be out and about riding some Borgin n' Burkes dumpster cock- or any cock that happens to be twenty plus miles away from the new Malfoy Manor between eight and ten o' clock tonight.
xXxXxXxXx
It has officially been three weeks since Rose's shit-storm of a first day as Malfoy's personal assistant, and despite their less-than-amicable interaction, things have not been going as expected.
Rose initially expected her place of work to be a constant warzone, where she and Malfoy would battle it out just like when they did when they were snot-nosed kids hurling punches, hexes, and other types of abuse at each other throughout the corridors of Hogwarts.
After all, he did pin her to a bookcase and threaten to make her life miserable during their first mail sorting period.
And of course, being the sick-minded twat that she is, the first sensation that coursed through Rose's brain (and ovaries) was an intensely primal desire at the prospect of being physically pressed up against the bloody wanker like some sexually depraved bint.
(The scandalized Weasley has yet to discuss this particular bit of information with Healer Jones during her sessions.)
Yep.
On that first day, things were exactly as they were back at Hogwarts.
Except now they aren't.
And her place of work is, in fact, not the warzone she had expected it to be.
And that's because Scorpius Malfoy has made it obvious that he wants essentially nothing to do with Rose Weasley outside of business and/or office matters.
He refuses to humor her attempts at arguing or baiting him. He keeps his head down low and his focus solely on his paperwork when he speaks to her in a tone that is always flat, professional, and frigid. He barely even spares her a single glance when they are around each other, which makes their daily two hour mail sorting period extremely awkward.
And it drives Rose absolutely bonkers.
While Healer Jones continually insists that Malfoy's lack of interaction with her is probably for the best, the aggravated, conflict-starved Weasley cannot help but wish that the prat would just pick a fight with her, hurl a hex at her, insult her…
Grab her and throw her against a bookcase…
Or into a broom cupboard.
Nevertheless, Scorpius Malfoy consistently transforms into the human personification of cardboard the moment Rose graces him with her presence, and she fucking hates it.
There does happen to be a silver lining to this whole situation in that the entire department has been experiencing a substantial increase in productivity thanks to her contributions as the new administrative assistant.
It also turns out that Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy are professionally compatible, and work very well together when they both make the silent, but mutual decision to NOT choke, hit, or hex each other into oblivion.
Despite their lack of verbal communication, Rose can tell that Malfoy is pleased with her work because- well- he hasn't whined or complained yet.
Not once.
And Malfoy is a notorious whiner.
All of these thoughts crash through Rose's head like a violent tidal wave as she helps Malfoy sort through his mail on a Wednesday afternoon, the silence of the room thick and palpable.
Rose looks over the contents of the document in her hands, quickly determining that it is nothing more than a receipt for a batch order of brand new golden snitches, and places it in a pile to be transferred to the Quidditch Division. As she does so, she lets out a small breath, her sharp blue eyes flitting upwards to rest on Malfoy, whose undivided attention is super-glued to his sodding paperwork. Nothing new there.
The curly-haired Weasley lets out a derisive snort, hoping that the tosser would at least glance at her in disgust for making such an uncivilized sound.
He doesn't even flinch.
Fuck this.
Three weeks of awkward, quasi-peaceful silence has gone FAR ENOUGH.
After another disgruntled sigh, Rose's lips quirk into a smirk as she regards the man sitting so guardedly across from her.
"So you think I'm one of the best beaters you've ever seen?" she asks him, her smug voice sharply cutting through the silence like a knife.
Malfoy's silver eyes flit upwards to regard Rose for a split second, a condescending look that screams 'why the fuck are you talking to me?' scribbled all over his irritatingly handsome face before he returns his attention back to his stupid-ass paperwork, his lips pressed together in a flat line.
He doesn't answer her.
Wow. Fuck you too.
Rose immediately bristles, that familiar heat slowly but steadily building up within her gut. With flashing eyes, her smirk slowly devolves into a sneer as she glares venomously at Scorpius Malfoy, who seems determined to give her the same amount of attention he'd give an annoying mosquito or a rotten flobberworm.
Rose Weasley hates many things, but she really, REALLY hates being ignored.
"What's the matter, Malfoy? Cunty wife's got your tongue?" she mocks him with relish as she rips another envelope open with unnecessary force. "Montague's got you pussy-whipped."
Healer Jones would be very disappointed in her right now.
And honestly, a small part of Rose's consciousness is disappointed in herself as well.
But that doesn't stop her.
Malfoy stiffens, his expression darkening as his fingers tighten around his quill. For a blissful second, Rose sees the fissures start to form on his statue-like facade.
But instead of exploding (as she hoped he would), Malfoy closes his silver eyes and takes a deep, labored breath before exhaling slowly through pursed lips.
Unsatisfied with his lack of response, Rose cannot help but step just a bit further over the metaphorical boundary line, the beast living behind the confines of her ribcage rearing its ugly head expectantly.
"You know, I just find it absolutely hilarious that your darling wife could order you to chop your testicles off while she actively gets all of her holes slammed by three different cocks if she wanted to, and you'd do it for her in a heartbeat. That is, if you haven't already. Just admit it, Malfoy. You're a whipped little bitch."
Just as the word bitch leaves Rose's mouth, Malfoy slams both of his hands down on the table with a resounding thud, thunderous eyes now fixated on the curly-haired Weasley.
However, when he speaks, his voice is calm.
And deadly. Definitely deadly.
It sends a bout of chills surging down Rose's spine.
"I am beyond engaging with petulant, attention-starved brats, Weasley. I will only say this once before I kick your sorry arse out of my office. I do not want to talk to you. So, please. For the love of Merlin. Do. Not. Talk. To. Me."
And just like that, Malfoy snatches up a fresh pile of documents and goes back to ignoring Rose, his by-default cold expression now tainted with a bitterness that can only be the result of interacting with a certain unhinged, curly-haired Weasley.
That bitterness…
It's so familiar to Rose.
She's seen it on his face so many times before.
Which isn't all that surprising given that she was his constant source of distress back at school.
But you've made that bitterness go away before.
Rose's next insult dies on her lips, and another palpable silence fills the space between the two feuding adults.
Without warning, images of a bloody, broken, and grief-stricken Scorpius Malfoy start to flood her ever-shifting brain.
She no longer sees the professionally poised, maliciously cold-blooded twenty-six year old man physically sitting across the desk from her.
No… instead, she sees a seventeen year old boy who's hurt, angry, and confused.
A child who has lost his mother.
It was such a strange impulse- to hug a blood-covered Scorpius Malfoy in that bathroom stall in the dead of night all those years ago, despite the volatility and bitterness that existed (and still exists) between them.
But it just felt like the right thing to do.
And even if it was just for a few precious moments, you made the bitterness go away.
An overpowering sensation of melancholy floods her hardened heart.
Rose tears her eyes away from Malfoy, who is still pointedly ignoring her, and half-heartedly scans the document before her, unable to fully digest any of its contents.
The silence is absolutely unbearable.
So the impulsive Weasley surprises even herself with her next words.
"I'm sorry."
The incessant scratching of Malfoy's quill immediately stops.
Rose almost chokes on her own spit out of shock.
Well shit. These pensieve-talk sessions might actually be working after all.
Completely mortified, Rose keeps her eyes glued to the desk in front of her as a domineering entity takes control and uses her physical body to speak for her.
That entity being a sincere and sympathetic version of herself.
"I know you don't want me to talk to you, but- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said the things that I said. Old habits just die hard, I suppose…"
To her horror, a nervous chuckle escapes her lips.
Dear Merlin's saggy tit. Rose Weasley does NOT 'nervously' chuckle.
"Um…yeah. I'll just shut up now."
Rose grabs a huge pile of unopened envelopes and places them in front of her with just a tad too much enthusiasm to be believable.
Her attempts at becoming engrossed with some bullshit documents turn out to be a complete failure, because she can feel Malfoy's penetrating stare slice straight through her soul.
She unconsciously holds her breath, muscles tensed expectantly in preparation for his reaction.
"I can't believe you just tried to apologize to me. Am I having a nightmare?"
Malfoy's voice is flat with disbelief.
Rose forces herself to make eye contact with the git and her heart immediately does that stupid thing where it skips a beat.
He is unashamedly staring straight at her with multilayered gray eyes, paperwork completely forgotten in front of him.
And there's a gloating smirk on his lips.
Old habits really do die hard, because the sight of that smirk immediately puts the bull-headed Weasley on the defensive.
With flashing eyes and reddening cheeks, Rose points an accusatory finger at the smirking git.
"Well, I can't believe you'd actually compliment me on my quidditch skills to Emery Davidson and suggest that he ask me to join your stupid little work-quidditch team without having some sort of fucked up, ulterior motive."
Malfoy laughs, and the wicked sound sends an unwelcome surge of carnal heat to pool in the crevice just below her abdomen.
"You and I both know that I am more than capable of giving you compliments, Weasley."
Rose shuts her mouth, feeling as if a pot of boiling water had just been dumped over her head.
She is suddenly very aware of how fast her heart beats against both her chest and her eardrums, how hot her face feels, how her stomach flip flops uncontrollably as she forces herself to maintain eye contact with Malfoy.
He just fucking went there.
"You're disgusting," she spits at him, though the usual volatility in her voice is lacking.
Malfoy ignores her insult with grace as he leans back in his armchair, his features holding an air of amusement at her expense.
"It may have slipped your mind, but I am the head of this department, and given that this bi-annual quidditch game has been a department tradition for decades, I am required to participate. I absolutely refuse to lose to the Ludicrous Patents Office because, frankly, that would be humiliating. Our differences aside, you are a fantastic beater, and with you on my team, we have a good chance of winning this thing, despite the fact that they've got both Rodgers and Macmillan."
Rose's brain short-circuits the second the words 'you are a fantastic beater' leave Malfoy's lips.
"I knew that I definitely couldn't ask you personally without risk of injury, so I put the idea in Davidson's head. I figured he'd be the perfect candidate to ask you since the two of you have been exchanging googly eyes for the past three weeks…"
Is that- jealousy Rose hears in his voice?
No. Absolutely not.
She quickly tosses the thought aside, refusing to allow her mind to entertain such a ridiculous notion.
"So you see," Malfoy continues with a confidence that makes Rose want to slap him silly. "My world doesn't revolve solely around making your life perpetually miserable, Weasley. Unless you deserve it. Which is frequently. Though-"
The ghost of a coy smile appears through Malfoy's incessant smirk.
"You are surprisingly bearable at the moment."
Her mouth has the exact same consistency as parchment.
Rose honestly isn't sure whether to scream bloody murder at Malfoy or try her hand at making nice with him- for professional purposes only, of course.
After all, isn't that what he's trying to do with her right now?
He did just compliment her after all.
Even if it was blatantly back-handed.
"So you're essentially using me as a tool to stroke your oversized ego," she deadpans. "Why am I not surprised? Wait-"
Rose bristles, her blue eyes narrowing in on Malfoy as she points another accusatory finger at him.
"Did you tell Davidson to pay me?!"
"I don't see why that matters. Forty galleons is forty galleons, isn't it, Weasel-bee?"
"Emery told me forty five galleons," snaps Rose with as much petulance as she can muster, inwardly basking in the annoyance that crosses over Malfoy's face at her use of Davidson's first name.
A part of her is vexed at Davidson for initially lowballing her with twenty galleons when it wasn't even his money to lowball, but she decides to keep that little piece of information to herself.
"Well, it would seem that dear Emery has a whole five galleons to spare," retorts Malfoy with a level of petulance that can rival Rose's.
Rose smirks, unable to hide her amusement at this whole situation.
Before she can realize the implication behind her own actions, she finds herself leaning over the desk towards Malfoy. With her elbow propped up, she rests her chin on the palm of her hand, her head cocked to the side in mild curiosity as she locks her eyes onto his.
"So you convinced Davidson to pay me forty galleons of your money to play beater on an amateur quidditch team in some bullshit, employees-only match that has absolutely no purpose other than to waste everybody's lunchtime this coming Friday? Merlin, that's excessive. And borderline psychotic. Doesn't the winner at least get a medal or something?"
Malfoy mirrors her pose, his head also cocked gently to the side as he rests his chin on his palm. The corners of his lips are turned up in a very subtle, but unmistakably mischievous smile, and it makes her stomach perform an exotic array of backflips.
They are close enough to each other that Rose can smell hints of his sharp cologne.
"Medals are overrated. We get something even better," he muses.
Rose decides to humor him.
"Oh? And what might that be?"
"Bragging rights."
She snorts out loud.
"After playing quidditch professionally for over eight years, bragging rights become a bit stale. Even against teams like Puddlemere United- who, by the way, has absolute doxyshit for beaters these days."
Malfoy shoots her a glare for the slight against his favorite quidditch team. "Your prejudiced comments regarding Puddlemere United are unwanted. You're getting your forty galleons whether we win or lose, so you can just shut your mouth."
"Forty-five galleons," Rose reminds him with mirth. "To be paid in full tonight."
He graces her with another dramatic eye roll.
"Don't worry. Your boyfriend will definitely pay you with my money as soon as he sees you," he deadpans, though Rose can detect a hint of playfulness linger beneath his tone.
"He's got five whole galleons to contribute! Give him some credit," chides Rose, the corners of her lips turning up into a smile of their own volition.
What the fuck is happening?
You apologize to Malfoy, and now you two are cooped up in his office cracking jokes?
Not to mention he is literally paying you to come over to his house and play quidditch with him.
The world is mental.
Before Malfoy can respond, the office door swings open with a loud creak, and in steps Olivia Orford, her green eyes immediately narrowing in on the sight of both Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy leaning in just a hair too close to each other across the large wooden desk.
Rose immediately jumps backwards in her seat, feeling slightly winded for no real reason whatsoever. Malfoy, on the other hand, just raises an eyebrow at Olivia almost indifferently, his frigid professionalism effortlessly taking over his whole demeanor.
"Good afternoon, Olivia."
There is no mistaking the look of outrage that flashes across Olivia Orford's face as she glares malicious daggers at Rose.
After a beat of awkward silence, the older woman manages to collect herself enough to speak coherent words.
"You wanted to go over the bi-weekly numbers with me, Mr. Malfoy? It's five o' clock."
Her voice is rigid and strained, with blaring undertones of what can only be described as hurt.
Which really doesn't make much sense given that Rose was merely having a civil conversation with Malfoy, nothing more...
…but at the same time, it makes all the sense in the world.
"I appreciate your punctuality, Olivia. Miss Weasley and I were just finishing up," responds Malfoy with a confident evenness, though there is no mistaking the awkward tension hanging between the three adults like a wet towel.
With a sudden movement that could be mistaken for a muscle spasm, Rose clambers to her feet with every intention of making a swift exit. She keeps her head down so as to avoid any and all contact with either Malfoy or Olivia Orford.
But just as she steps out the doorway, she is stopped by the sound of Malfoy's voice.
"Oh, and Weasel-bee?"
For the first time in a long time, Rose's heart skips a beat at the sound of her nickname.
She turns around and regards Malfoy with a blank expression, completely ignoring the fact that Olivia Orford looks ready to strangle Rose in her sleep.
He offers her one last, subtle, but unmistakably mischievous smile.
"Eight o'clock sharp. Don't be late."