A/N: This is my first go, so go easy! Actually, don't. Tell me every little thing I've done worng so I can perfect my mistakes.

Disclaimer: No. I am not J.K Rowling. As you might have guessed. And no. Harry does not belong to me. Sadly enough.

It is not my fault that I have to share the Headship with that foul cockroach. You should have seen his face when he found out who was Head Girl to his Head Boy. It fell, for all of a millisecond, and then that trademark Malfoy smirk retuned.

Six years.

That's how long I've had to put up with taunts from the slimeball.

And now.

In my final year.

With important exams coming up.

Some twisted, evil, loathsome idiot has decided that we've got to share everything.

The title. A dorm. A bathroom.

How is that last one even justified? One bathroom? To be shared by a girl and a boy? How perverted. It might have been fine. If the Head Boy had been someone vaguely attractive. Or even a Blast-Ended Skrewt. McGonagall must be off her rocker if she thought that a Weasley and a Malfoy were ever going to make a good team. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. A good person and the worst person on the planet.

But none of that matters, because 'what's done is done.' Malfoy and I are stuck together.

For a year.

I'm just going to pray that I have the self control not to murder the blonde prat any time soon.

And even now, at eleven o' clock a night, he's just sitting there.

Still smirking.

"Doesn't it hurt your face Malfoy?" I ask abruptly, fed up with his grey eyes just staring into space. But rather than being a decent human being and turning round to face me to reply, he merely drawls

"This smirk, Weasley, is part of my heritage. The same way you appear to have inherited red hair and freckles. But then. Can we all come from a gene pool as magnificent as mine?"

I half expect him to conjure a hand mirror and start to fix his hair. But, he doesn't. Damn it. I could have thought of so many lines for that one. Spoilsport.


She's itching to talk to me again. Okay, so the gene pool comment had sounded egotistical, but Weasley had been asking for it. She thinks she's so funny. But, she's not at all. Whilst wit is ingrained in my very being, she tries to the point of pettiness.

I sigh at the prospect of a year of 'friendly' banter with her; I would have preferred anything to Weasley as Head Girl. And I mean anything, not anyone.

"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs" Weasley says, grinning. "Spill Malfoy. Which unlucky mite is it now?"

"You, Weasley" I reply, "Are the most irritating parasite to inhabit the Earth in a very long time"

She raises an eyebrow and puts a hand on her chest. "Oh dear. Scorpius. You wound me. You really do" she sighs theatrically.

"You jest at scars that never felt a wound" I return tartly. At which point, Weasley chokes on the very air that she's breathing. I smirk, delighted.

"You thought you were the only person in the entire wizarding community to have read Muggle literature?"

Looking genuinely shocked at my knowledge of that ridiculous play, she asks slowly, "You've touched Romeo and Juliet? Written by Shakespeare? One of the most famous Muggles ever?"

"I'm a Malfoy, Weasley" I say, wondering when on earth the uptight witch is going to relax "I'm cultured, unlike you Weasley lot"

"What's in a name?" she asks softly. "That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet"

"So, Weasley. You being a Rose and all. You're allowing me to call you anything?" I grin, which she mistakes for a leer.

"I'm tired Malfoy. I'm going to bed"

She thinks I'm coming onto her. Poor delusional soul.


He threw me. He really did. I mean, Scorpius Malfoy? The pureblood who looks down his nose at everyone. Had read the most famous romance play of all time. Dear Merlin. Whatever is happening to the world?

I contemplate as I get ready for bed.

Unlike our sitting room, which is a perfectly neutral mix of creams and beiges, my room is decorated in red and gold, which leaves me in no doubt that the slimeball's is green and silver. I'd unpacked all of my school stuff earlier in the evening, leaving only a layer of nostalgia at the bottom of my trunk; photos, a teddy, some letters. Picking up a photograph of the Weasley clan, (myself, Hugo, James, Al, Lily, Molly, Lucy, Roxy, Freddie, Dominique, Louis, Victoire and Teddy, of course) Victoire smiles at me. I wave back, before placing the photo carefully on my desk.

I'm sitting on my bed, reading peacefully, (a letter Uncle Charlie had sent from Romania) when young Master Malfoy seriously invades my privacy, Banging open the door that connects my bedroom to our shared bathroom, he stands in the doorway wearing grey jogging bottoms, and not much else. Raking me over with his eyes, he opens his mouth, which spoils the 'you would so make it as a model' effect quite dramatically, "Weasley, Have you got any toothpaste? I appear to have misplaced my own"

Lucky for him, my wand is on the other side of the room, or the door would be slamming right back in his smug face.

"Is my toothpaste good enough for you, Malfoy? Because, I mean, I'm only a half-blood. So, aren't your hallowed pureblood hands too good for my toothpaste?"

He gives up far too easily for my liking. Just takes a deep breath and snarls, "Grow up Weasley, all I wanted was some freakin' toothpaste" With that, he slams the door for himself, and seconds later I hear the swish of a wand and a tap running. So, if he could have just conjured the toothpaste in the first place, why exactly did he feel the need to bother me?


The look on Weasley's face, as I was standing in her doorway, was intriguing, to say the very least. I knew she wouldn't have lent me the toothpaste, but then I only really wanted to show off. I saw that little intake of breath when I opened the door, although she'll try and deny it of course. I must say, for a half blood, she didn't look too bad herself. I don't understand why she's so tense all the time. I mean, if she'd never told me her surname, hitched up her skirt by a few inches and undid a few of the buttons on her blouse, even she might have had a chance with me.

My room is identical to hers, except in Slytherin colours obviously, but she's already managed to get all her family paraphernalia into hers. The Weasleys and their family solidarity. The mere thought makes me chuckle. I don't need any of that stuff; I have power, which is all I'll ever need. Although, I'm sure she'll want to be the perfect Head Girl, do everything by the book, suck up to McGonagall etc, etc. It's all too exhausting for me.

Lying back on the cold silk sheets of my bed, I wonder whether Weasley is asleep yet. Not that it matters to me; but just lying here is boring and even another argument with her would be better than staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, because I have the weirdest dream; those hazel eyes of hers haunting me, like she's stalking me. Even whilst I'm dreaming I know that it's ridiculous; two people have never loathed each other more, our fathers, maybe, being the exception. But then, she's more intelligent than her father, and I'd like to think that I'm more witty than mine.

Stupid girl. There's something about those eyes, with their flecks of gold, (so typically Gryffindor) that intrigue me. Then, I roll over, realise this is Rose Weasley we're talking about and put my weird thoughts down to fatigue.