Notes: A little idea I had about Rose/Scorpius, my new ship. This was mostly an exercise in style and descriptive writing. I quite like how it turned out, and I hope you do, as well!

It seemed easy enough to hate her. He'd grown up listening to venom about her family, toxic words about the blood traitors they were, even if they had saved his father's life. The long-time biases and old school grudges were enough to convince him that she wasn't someone he wanted to get tangled up with.

Years seemed to slide by effortlessly, and she never posed the slightest problem for him. They each operated separately, each moving on their own accord, without the smallest glance in the other's direction. They acted civil when necessary, as though to prove that they were above the bad blood between their families, but he most certainly never went out of his way to compliment or even speak to her.

He couldn't help but wonder when all that had changed.

She was like a train wreck, so fascinating he couldn't help but watch even though he knew he shouldn't. He was mystified by her every movement, however trivial or mundane. She was truly an amazing creature, and he couldn't stand it.

He hated the way she made the world seem so simple, as though it was a portrait painted in black and white. She always knew the answers to life's problems, as though they were all things only mortals had to deal with, and she was far beyond it all, replying to questions with a laugh as though, yes, it really was that obvious. She was a damned know-it-all and bloody proud of it, acting as though her top grades really did make her better than everyone else and not lonely like he knew she really was, when the layers of intellectual superiority and close family bonds were torn away and it was just her.

It drove him mad when she sat by herself in the library, and he wasn't sure if it was because she deserved the company or she was trying too hard to make herself constantly better, tearing the rift between her and the other students even wider. He couldn't help but stare as she'd twist her crimson tangles around her elegant fingers, pale lips slightly parted and blue eyes staring intently at whichever massive tome she was studying at that precise moment. He longed to reach out to her, to feel her freckled cheek, flushed with flattered and embarrassed colour, beneath his cool fingertips. He wanted his hands to weave through her curls and roam down her neck, resting on the beautiful curves of her shoulders, and he yearned to feel the warmth of skin against skin, hopefully complementing some electric touch, and simply pull her close to him, disappearing inside an earth-shattering kiss.

He wanted her so badly and he hated it. He knew that she was all wrong, that they were all wrong, but something still pulled painfully inside his brain every time he saw her.

He couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever noticed him, hopelessly staring as she studied, drinking in knowledge with her shining eyes just as he thirsted for her attention. The thought had barely occurred to him when she glanced up, startled, as though she'd just been rudely interrupted by some massive distraction. She gazed at him, pink lips still parted, curiosity etched into her delicate face.

Every particle told him to simply smile and then forget, to return to his own homework, two rolls of parchment for Potions due the next day, but her stare pulled him in. Once her sapphire eyes met his silver, he couldn't bare to look away, captivated. He wanted her to know, to look into his eyes and see inside him, to breathe in the longing he was feeling for her, even if he didn't understand it.

He half-expected her to return to her work, to write it all off as some peculiar occurrence and just deny that it ever happened, but her eyes were locked onto him. It was as though she was silently beckoning to him with her mind, pulling him toward her with invisible ropes. After a moment he obeyed, despite all better judgement, scraping his chair legs back and rapidly approaching her.

The moment he stood, she broke away from the tacit connection they had formed, staring blurrily down at the books in front of her, her eyes too still and unfocused to really be reading. He felt his legs carrying him closer to her until at last she acknowledged him, still avoiding his gaze.

"Can I help you, Malfoy?"

Her voice was frigid and rough, his name appearing to burn her lips, but it still sounded to him as though it was some beautiful melody, sung only for him. Every wise part of him told him to run, that approaching her was a mistake, but he still felt drawn to her as if by some unseen, gravitational force.

"I believe you can," came his words, smooth as glass as he took a seat. "I believe that I'm in need of some advice."

"Go on," she replied, distracting herself with her favourite quill now, dipping it unnecessarily into dark ink and drawing it slowly across parchment.

"You see," he said, watching her more closely than ever, "I find myself driven completely mad by someone I was taught long ago to hate, and I'm not really sure what to do about it."

Her quill skipped on the paper, creating a nasty blot which she would surely blame him for later, but he didn't care. He was amused by the rising colour in her cheeks, certain that she read the meaning of his words, just as intended.

She placed her quill down carefully, dabbing at her parchment with a handkercheif. "I'm not sure I have a solution for you," she said, laughing nervously. She finally looked up at him, her crystal orbs glistening beautifully as she set the handkerchief aside.

"I think you do," he responded, and he was all too aware that his voice was filled with confidence he ought not have. Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned in, covering the centimeters between them in mere milliseconds. His lips found hers instantly and the result was pure, electric bliss. And to his delight, she didn't pull away in the slightest, not struggling in the least. She let his mouth move against hers, feeling the beautiful warmth and moisture and not making the smallest objection.

Every fiber of his being told him it was wrong, to be kissing her, to be kissing Rose Weasley, in the middle of the bloody library, of all places. Yet he knew that if it was indeed wrong, he never wanted to be right again.