Disclaimer: Nowhere in my name, do I have the letters J, K or R. So I think we all can conclude I am not a middle age bilionaire who lives in a Scottish castle.
Note: Written for the 'Five Things Challenge' at Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges Forum. Special thanks goes out to my beta, Defier of Reason, who sat through all the rewrites, edited and revised versions of this piece. Thank for your endless patience! Also to Charli, for saying she 'liked it.' Please note, my feelings on this piece are conflicted. While part of me adores the cuteness and fluffyness of it, the other part of me is slightly nasuated by that fact that I wrote it. So my apologies to everyone in advance.
i. enemy, n.: one who feels hatred towards, intends injury to, or opposes the interests of another; a foe.
You think your animosity towards each other first started when you laid eyes on each other, back in First Year. You were Rose Weasley, daughter of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger-Weasley, determined to make your own place in the world. He was Scorpius Malfoy, son of Draco Malfoy, heir to a long lineage that boasted of deviants and Dark Arts. Fueled by the same determination as you, he was firmly fixated on a plan to make a name for himself, one other than that of his infamous surname. You were set on the same path. So was it any wonder the two of you clashed?
But somewhere throughout the school year, in-between the intense rivalry, quirky banter and endless study hours, a sort of mutual respect begins to grow. You cannot help but admire him, the way he diligently studies, the way he mentally systematizes everything in his life, yet still manages to find time to help others. It's a trait you can easily respect. He in turn grudgingly admits that even though you are both a Weasley and a girl, which equates almost to a blasphemy in his eyes, you are the only person at Hogwarts worth competing against.
And slowly, the word enemy no longer seems to fit the pair of you.
ii. irritate, v.: to excite anger; provoke; annoy; exasperate.
By the middle of Third Year, an awkward truce has been established between you and him. Gone are the days of flaring tempers, hurtful words and furious glares. Instead of working against each other, many nights now find the two of you sitting in the library, side by side.
And even though he still never misses a chance to pull on your ponytail, stick his tongue out at you, or steal your book bag, you can never manage to stay mad at him for long. Maybe it has to do with the way he causes you to laugh despite your anger, or the cocky smile he throws your way -the one that always manages to seemingly melt through your irritation.
Yet deep down, in a heart that is still too young to have experienced heartbreak, you somehow know that the indescribable emotions he causes you to feel is anything but irritation.
iii. simple adj.: having only one part, not involved or complex.
For the most part, Sixth Year passes eventless. You and he have grown up - him especially in the physical sense - and he begins to spend more and more time outdoors on the Quidditch pitch, rather than locked inside a dusty old library with you. And it hurts. Because things are no longer the same as they once were.
And while a part of you misses the little boy he used to be, the other part of you longs to know the man he has become. But you reflect on the fact that he still considers you to be a friend, and you hold onto that small flame of hope with all the fervor in your young soul. Because, somewhere along the line, you realize that all your hopes and dreams for the future have become wrapped up in a certain boy with wolfish grey eyes who will never return your affections. Yet, that one-sided arrangement suits you just fine, because it's the only one you've ever known. Until those few occasions when he stays and sits far too close for comfort, somehow managing to make your stomach clench and release butterflies with every teasing smile he throws your way. It's at that moment that you realize you want more.
And suddenly, simplicity isn't that simple anymore.
iv. Free adj.: not to be controlled by the obligation or will of another.
You spend the reminder of the year fascinated by him, sneaking subtle glances at him from afar, noting his little quirks at the breakfast table, his magnificent work in Charms class, the way he strides down the hallway in a walk that is exclusively his own.
To the eyes of many observers you seem to be an independent female, not tied down to the wants and wishes of any male. You yourself try not to let any man, relative or otherwise, dictate your life. But it's not until he mentions how nice you look in green, his deep velvety voice sending a sudden chill down your spine, that you realize how free you truly are.
And you ignore the fact that you start to wear green excessively in the months that follow.
v. Unrequited adj.: not reciprocated or returned in kind: unrequited love.
It is not until a particularly scary Bludger incident the following year that you decide to tell him how you feel. You take courage in the emptiness of the Hospital Wing and the slow, even sound of his breathing as he slumbers, lost in peaceful dreams. You lean in slowly, quietly, and gently lift a hand to his bandaged head, whispering three words softly in his ear, words that you have never muttered to anyone outside of your family circle. As you lean back, a sudden tear rolls down your cheek and you close your eyes, unable to stop the onslaught of emotions that are currently raging war in your heart.
And then, suddenly, a rough, calloused finger touches your face softly, wiping away the extra moisture. You open your eyes slowly to find familiar, grey orbs gazing back at you. You can feel your heart tugging painfully in your chest as those same eyes gently roam your face. He whispers something, his voice hoarse and dry, yet at the same time dreadfully comforting. He tells you he loves you and you manage to swallow thickly as your eyes fill up with tears again, the difference being that these tears are tears of joy.
Maybe unrequited love isn't so unrequited after all.