A Brief History of a Beautiful Friendship

You first came to know her as Rose the first day of first year Charms, when you heard her introduce herself to a nearby housemate. A while later, when she beat you to performing the perfect levitation spell on a piece of feather, you learned she was a Weasley, and you cursed yourself for missing all that red hair and freckles.

That's when you decided you had to keep her close by. She was a Weasley and a Gryffindor, and a half-blood at that (which only really mattered when you were speaking to Grandfather) but she had managed to beat a Malfoy.

You decided being her friend would be a bit wiser than Father's advice that you keep your distance from the Weasleys and the Potters. But because you were not a daring Gryffindor but a Ravenclaw raised to be Slytherin, you refrained from introducing yourself and just trailed her friends and her around.

In third year, you finally gathered enough courage to propose an alliance with her. By that time, you had developed a healthy competition with the girl: she beat you in Charms, Transfigurations and Care of Magical Creatures while you trounced her in Herbology, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

A week and a half into your third year, you approached her while she was by the lake. She was blessedly free of her Gryffindor posse, and seemed to be feeding the Giant Squid with left over pudding.

"Weasley." You gave her a curt nod of acknowledgement.

"Hullo, Malfoy."

"Finally ditched your dreadful friends?" You see if you can goad her into a Weasley tantrum.

"Finally realized you're too dreadful to have friends?"

You like her wit. "I'm not dignifying that with an answer, Weasley."

"Cripes, Malfoy! Why do you talk like you're fifty-two? You sound older than my mum!"

"It's not my fault you're not used to hearing dignified language." You turn up your nose in mock disdain.

She laughed then. It was light and lilting, but you gave no outward indication that you liked it. "You're only thirteen! Pull that stick out of there!"

"Vulgar as ever, I see. Anyway, I came to talk to you about a few important matters."

"Important matters?"

"I think it would be beneficial for us to be allies. We're both smart and we're both from powerful families. But most importantly, we're both good at Quidditch. It's only logical to be allies instead of rivals."

"Good grief, Malfoy!" She lowered her voice and gave you a teasing cock of an eyebrow, "is there a war going on that I should know of?"

"Honestly!" You said, with a shake of your head. "There is no war, Weasley. But it always helps to be prepared, Father did say so himself."

"Malfoy," her voice became serious and she frowned thoughtfully, "did your father put you up to this?"

"Of course not." You scoffed indignantly at the very thought.

"Well then, yes. Let's be friends."

You spluttered, cheeks flushing in disbelief. "I wasn't asking for your friendship!"

"Pity, that. But all my allies are my friends! So what do you say? Friends?"

You nodded, and silently envied how easy that was for her.

The two of you became friends, indeed. You did almost everything together, revise for lessons, practise Quidditch, and sneak out for midnight strolls. She told you she loved "how you're so snarky but not really mean." You dropped hints, when you were feeling magnanimous, of how her company was the thing you treasured most in the world, because from her you learned how to be a child.

On your midnight excursions, she taught you how to tickle the pear to get inside the kitchens. You helped her improve her atrocious chess-playing.

She taught you the charm that could temporarily bring down the wards around the Restricted Section in the library. You showed her a spell that would keep her unmanageable red hair in place even while she tossed Quaffles about on the pitch.

But now that you're both in your seventh year, you've noticed how you've been teaching each other things that are increasingly more important.

"Don't be too stiff, Rose, your partner's going to think you're a wooden plank." You try to sound irritated when actually you're not. You are enjoying how her hand feels in yours, and how your other hand is resting at the small of her back, pulling her body flush against you.

"And what if I am a wooden plank?"

"I thought I was the one with a stick up his arse?"

"It's just so bloody hard, Score! How do you expect me to square my shoulders, not be stiff, and sway all at the same time? It's just not done!"

"Psssh… Mother and Father do it all the time, I'm sure you'll manage it eventually."

"That's just it. You find it easy because you grew up watching two people who loved dancing! Dad's absolutely rubbish at dancing. I think Mum gave up on him even before I was born."

"Oh Rosie, if you stop now you're definitely not going to learn anything."

"Don't call me Rosie, 'Mummy's Little Star.' Why couldn't you just be my partner? At least you wouldn't care if I danced like a plank."

"Enough of the nicknames. And don't look at me like that, you were the one who asked that McLaggen git to the Leaving Ball."

"You started it." She grumbles, but eventually focuses on squaring her shoulders, swaying in time with the beat, and relaxing in your arms.

"Press a little harder, Score, just like that." She smells wonderful, like rosewater and soap. Even above the scent of the oil you can smell her, and you love it. Her smell is the one thing that lingers in your consciousness right before you sleep, and is what you look for right after waking up. That is your innermost secret.

"And I should do it repeatedly?"

"Mmhmm." Your cheeks flush as she sighs softly.

"The sounds you're making are downright adorable." You poke her side, interrupting your rhythm and making her squirm in a feeble attempt to elbow you in the stomach.

"Git. Don't stop. I can't believe I taught you this only now."

"Where did you learn this, again?"

"Dad gives Mum a massage every month when she gets her period—"

"—Ew, Weasley! What have I said about period talk?" You scrunch up your face and stick out your tongue, but oh, you love that she tells you intimate things, because you know it's one more matter that she shares only with you.

"Shut up. Mum's back gets all achy when it's that time of the month for her, and before you say anything, no, it's not mine. Quidditch practise was just hell." She grumbles and grimaces as you start to work on a particularly sore spot.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Like hell you weren't."

Actually, you're trying notto say the things running through your mind. Like how fantastic she looks lying on her stomach, half-naked, and spread out before you.

You were convinced she was having you on earlier when she barged into your room wearing only a short bathrobe and even shorter shorts. She walked straight to your bed, looked over her shoulder, and asked you if you were coming along, just the way it's done in those dirty magazines.

You asked yourself which gods you pleased to have received this raunchier version of your best friend. Only two days ago you held her body close to yours in an attempt to teach her how to dance, and it felt as if Christmas had come early. But this is infinitely better. You still aren't convinced this isn't one of your more, interactive fantasies, but you resolve to enjoy while it lasts.

You bask in the feeling of her soft, smooth skin beneath your hands. You discover that she really is covered in freckles, and that she has a particularly adorable cluster of them right at the curve of her waist; a cluster that you think would be great to lick and suck.

"A bit harder, Scorpius. Yeah. Just like that. I promise to do this for you when you go through a nasty practice. Would you like that?"

And shite, would you ever. A noncommittal, "Yeah," is your response, though you feel that your cock is unbearably hard in your trousers at the thought of having her hands on your skin. How would it feel to have her above me and riding me?

It is agonizing. The sounds she makes whenever you press on a knot of muscle makes your cock harden even more. You take a deep breath to clear your mind of images of Dirty Things You'd Like To Do To Rose Weasley now that you've gotten her into bed. The thoughts don't want to go away, so you just restart the conversation hoping you'll forget about them eventually.

"So, your Dad really loves your Mum, hmm?"

"Yeah. But I reckon he does this for her only so she won't whinge and nag him more than usual."

"You think they shagged afterwards?" Oops. Your thoughts have slipped out of your mouth in the weirdest way possible, but you keep kneading her back so she won't notice.

"Ew, Malfoy! What have I told you about parents shagging talk?"

It's just you and her now, the way you'd always wanted it to be. You've just escaped the heat and noise of the Leaving Ball, and are pleasantly surprised that she followed you out. She looked like she was having a grand time, after all, in her fancy dress, giggling with her date.

Both of you are standing near the lake, the site of that, "historical," afternoon four years ago. The thoughts in both your minds are no doubt of the day you offered her an alliance and she gave you a friendship instead.

But your heart is hurting. You don't know how many minutes it's been since you saw her dancing with that McLaggen git. It was the same dance you taught her, perfected in each other's arms, and you can still taste the bile in your mouth. At the sight of his hands on her waist and her cheek on his chest, you had fled from the Great Hall, just like the drama queen Rose always accused you of being.

For the first time in your life you hate being intelligent. You hate knowing exactly what you feel; you hate not being the least bit confused with why you have a strong and steady urge to kiss your best friend. You are a Ravenclaw, and you understand perfectly that somewhere during those four years of friendship you fell in love with your very own Weasley.

Except now she's not yours, and you have to share. But you've never known how to share, have you?

"Scorpius." She kicks the ground.

"Scorpius, are you mad at me?"

"Of course not! Why should I be? You haven't done anything bad, have you?" Your answer is too loud and too abrupt for it to be convincing, but you have no energy to make it more to your Malfoy standards.

"Come on, Score—you're only like that when you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you. I—just. Fuck, Rose, you're turning me into a Hufflepuff here!"

She chuckles, but it's not the light and lilting laugh that you're used to. The sound is low, confused and a bit wary.

"There's nothing wrong with being in Hufflepuff," she teases.

And you fall for it. "You know that's not really what we're talking about."

"What are we talking about?" She asks. She looks up at you from hooded lashes, biting her lip with uncharacteristic reserve. Oh Merlin, you want to bite her lip for her.

You wish that you were half a Gryffindor. If you were, you would have kissed her ages ago, probably in fourth year, disguising the kiss as a prank immediately after that first time you noticed how plump and red her lips were.

Or maybe you could have kissed her during fifth year, in the library, while you both studied for your OWLS. She would have looked up from her Charms text, and you would have put down your quill and turned to her, cupped her face and just kissed her.

Perhaps you could have kissed her in sixth year, when she was sleeping in the Hospital Wing after a minor Quidditch accident. You could have brushed away her fringe and leaned down for a small peck on her lips as you watched over her sleep. Rose in such peace is a sight you want to wake up to for the rest of your life.

But you didn't. And now you are here, faced with a moment that you know will change the course of your life as you know it.

She takes a step closer to you, and suddenly, it's as if the world is just the two of you, her brown eyes looking at yours, and her scent drifting into your lungs, intoxicating your brain. She lifts a hand up to cup your cheek, all the while maintaining a gaze that asks you a million questions.

"Scorpius, please just say it. Then I'll do everything else for us, promise."

Her statement is cryptic, but you understand. She wants you to reveal your cards, to bare your soul - to tell her that you love her, without any assurance that she loves you back.

You don't know how to do it, but you want to. You want to claim her as your own and brand her with your kiss.

It is easier to pretend that you are simply dancing, not plotting to kiss her, so that you don't turn into a mass of nerves. You pull her flush against your body and lean even closer to her.

"Rose, you know better than to play with me, right?"

"I'm not play—"

You kiss her because you can. You kiss her because it's not smart to waste any more time, and it's a good strategy to keep her on her toes. Her eyes flutter shut but you force yours to stay open just so you have all five of your senses documenting the fact that you are finally kissing Rose Weasley.

The night is beautiful with its full moon and innumerable stars, but she is looking at you, and this all that matters. She has pushed you down the grass, and her face is hovering above yours. She is staring, and you feel a blush rise over your cheeks.

"Quit staring," you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, so maybe she didn't hear you.

But she does stop looking, if only to close the distance between her lips and yours, and give you your second kiss.