Just a quick and pointlessone-shot. Very short and kind of sweet.

Disclaimer: don't own Scorpius Malfoy, nor Rose Weasley.


They sat down on a wooden, old bench in the center of the park and in the center of their universe. Their backs fractured the golden light of the evening sun; their silhouettes drawn from the tip of their feet to all the way down the hill. Butterflies fluttered their endless dance – both outside and inside the stomachs of the two young people fitting into each other. On his broad shoulder laid her auburn, curly head and on her voluptuous hip rested his long, pale fingers. Her gaze was fixed on his aristocratic profile, while his metal gray eyes stared straight ahead.

"I have a confession to make, Scorpius," sighed the girl.

He looked away from the distance, to her freckled face. "You have a confession to make?"

"Yes," she nodded, thoughtfully, "it concerns my marriage. You remember my wedding is tomorrow, right?"

He chuckled softly – his laughter like music in her ears – and bended towards her, until their noses touched.

"Well," continued the girl with a racing heart, "I love him. My fiancé, I mean."

"So you love your fiancé," mimicked the boy, while descending his mouth upon hers, tantalizingly slow, and massaged her lips gently with his tongue. Then, without retrieving: "Please tell me, Rose. What would your fiancé say if he saw you doing this?"

Breathlessly, she took in his beautiful features. "Nothing. He'd say nothing."

And then she kissed him – no restrictions – with her hands in his platinum, silky hair.

She was positioned in front of the mirror. Her wild curls were tamed; slicked back and tied together in a pretty knot. Her neck was adorned by shimmering, diamond jewellery, and from her waist down white waves cascaded to the ground. On her naked upper arm laid a feminine hand. Mother looked at the daughter in the reflection.

"Are you sure?" asked the worried woman.

The daughter confirmed resolutely: "Yes, mum. I am absolutely sure."

For a moment they smiled at each other in the mirror.

"You look stunning, my dear," said the woman eventually, a gleam of pride spreading across her cheeks.

The girl observes herself, satiated. "Thank you."

The yard was enchanting. The girl remembered that in her dreams, her wedding was just as fairy-like as this event, and this train of thought made her beam. On her opposite stood her future husband, also in ecstasy, and on her left the elder man in traditional robes. He spilled his usual speech, but the girl hardly heard a word he said. Instead, she called out to her fiancé with her eyes.

"I have a confession to make," mouthed the bride, and a red lock of hair fell out her bun.

The groom formed an 'O' with his lips. Then he pushed the lock back behind her ear.

She blushed slightly, and then whispered as quietly as she could: "I love my lover."

The elder man in traditional robes landed on the finale part. The tension was like electricity: crackling and tangible. The audience waited, with bottled up breaths, for the authentic moment in which these two people would exchange their vows.The elder man turned his head from left to right, from man to woman.

"Please tell me, Rose. What would your lover say if he saw you doing this?" whispered back the groom, just as quiet. Then, a few decibels louder: "Yes. I do."

The elder man repeated his words the other way around.

"Nothing, he'd say nothing," muttered she, and then, blatantly: "Yes, I do."

And then she kissed him – no restrictions – with her hands in his platinum, silky hair.

The end.