Hi, all! Long time no see, yeah, I know. Hopefully you'll enjoy this one though xd

Disclaimer: don't own anything remotely recognisable to you.


Normality bothered him.

He once read that repetition caused contentment, long-term bliss, but all it seemed to do to in his world was bore him to death. He didn't like waking up and knowing exactly what was in store for him in the following hours, or going to sleep realising that all he'd accomplished that day he'd already achieved before. He didn't like eating the same meal on Wednesdays, or getting up on the same hour every Saturday. He didn't like spending every day with the same friends, or having the same girlfriend for too long. No matter how great the goal or food or mates or girls. He needed change. He was the season that came and went – maybe held up for a visit, but went all the same.

Yet today was different.

Because even his obsession for change needed to differ sometimes.

That, and then there was also the small fact that today, Rose Weasley wouldn't spare him a glance. They were in Potions, like every Monday morning. Unlike every Monday morning, however, she hadn't given him a wink when he sauntered into the room, she wasn't throwing him little notes, and she wasn't showing off her dimples by giving him secret smiles. He groaned inwardly. What in Merlin's name was her problem? And – honestly – couldn't she find a better day to ignore him? A day when she didn't look so... so delectable?

He sighed.

That was a lost game anyway. Rose Weasley always looked dashing. She just was that kind of girl. Technicolor in a world of black and white. Music in a world of silence. Smell of flowers in a world of bad odour. Cherry on top of the cake, really. Because she was alive. He liked her because she was a living species in a bland room – so much more than others. She awaked his senses. His surroundings seemed to lit up whenever she was around.

Yeah, he liked that.

(That; and then there was also the fact that she had this way with her tongue that nearly drove him up the wall...)

"Scorpius! Would you mind paying attention or are you too busy staring at Miss Weasley's back?"

Oh, shit.

He quickly schooled his aristocratic features into his trademark bored, haughty expression, put on the smirk he was infamous for, and tore away his eyes from Rose's neck. The next sight he stumbled upon – Pansy Parkinson, Potions professor, old, wrinkly, pug-faced, his father's ex-girlfriend – was a whole lot less endearing, but he couldn't risk getting himself a reputation as a lovesick fool, now could he?

"Of course, professor," he drawled sarcastically, "I will from now on do as you please."

From the back of the class came a few snickers. It happened as on a cue; he would say something kind-of-rude (which didn't really count with Pansy anyway, since she'd seen him as a toddler, naked even) and his fellow Slytherin peers would snicker. Every time. Never failed.

It bothered him.


Only when he turned to see Rose's reaction, she was looking at him with disgust ruining her pretty face, and rolled her eyes as soon as he caught her attention. He cocked one eyebrow in question, but she wrote him off almost immediately by ignoring his demand and starting a conversation with the person next to her.

She never did that when it came to him.

He was so getting to the bottom of this.

"Thought I'd find you here."

What an understatement that was.

For the past six years in Hogwarts, Rose Weasley had made the library her second home. She liked to study here, because it was always quiet, and private, and her cousins wouldn't bother her in this place. So when he couldn't see her anywhere at lunch after Potions, he didn't have to rake his brain to find her. He'd shaken off his friends when they asked him where he was going, and fled. As expected, he'd found her sitting Indian-style against a bookshelf, a piece of Muggle literature lying open in front of her, twirling one lock of curly red her around her finger. She hadn't noticed him towering over her until he'd spoken, and right now she was glaring loopholes through his head.

"Your ingenuity astounds me, Malfoy."

He gulped at her tone.

The last time she'd called him Malfoy was – well, a long time ago. She refrained from calling him with his surname from the moment they'd shared their first, uh, intimate moment.

"Care to tell me what I've done wrong?"

She ignored him ostentatiously. She flipped the page of her book, even though, as far as he could tell by the movements of her eyes, she wasn't really reading. He felt like a massive idiot just standing there, gazing down on the top of Rose's head, not knowing what to do. After what felt like an eternity, he decided to sit down as well, and carefully put a hand upon her shoulder.

"Ro-hose," he sing-songed when she didn't give the slightest flinch, "I'm just going to sit here until you give me some answers."

Still nothing.

And after five minutes: still nothing.

"Did you know you're kind of silly sitting there with your eyes fixed on your book while I know for a fact you're not actually reading?"

She looked up – finally – and then, suddenly, snapped her book shut. Her almond-shaped, ocean-coloured eyes were ablaze, and now he was certain she was angry. Not irritated – angry.

"Did you know that for someone supposedly so smart, you're the most dense retard I know?"


"Oh, come on, Rose," he tried again. "Help me out here!"

Instead of giving him what he was so desperately begging for, she stood up, dusted off her behind, and with the book under her arm, walked away. With an unsettling pressure in his chest, he watched her go. After she'd disappeared from his sight, he hurriedly struggled up and, not actually believing he was running after a girl, went to look for her once again. He caught up with her swiftly. She was just out of the library when he was able to grab her wrist, and more than determined, he demanded, "Tell me, Rose."

She swirled around at the contact, facing him in all her red-haired, freckled beauty, and to his utter surprise, he saw that her eyes were watering. Rose Weasley never cried. She wasn't the sob-type. She was the warrior-type.

"If you really want to know, Scorpius," she spat, "then why don't you ask Camille?"

And then she freed herself and turned around the corner, leaving him speechless.

Camille Boot was a fifth-year Gryffindor. She was tall and skinny and had long, straight, blonde hair. Her eyes were big, brown, and seductive. She was part of the Gryffindor Quidditch team (a chaser) and she was fairly talented. She was popular and pretty and well-liked and nice.

And she had a crush on him.

(You couldn't expect him to mind, could you?)

Last Saturday there was a party in the Gryffindor tower. He loved parties. Parties in Hogwarts were never the same. Yeah, everyone got drunk, but who-did-what-with-who always differed, and that amused him endlessly. Besides, unlike most of his housemates, he didn't have issues with the Gryffindors, had a few friends there, and definitely knew how to make fun with them.

Especially Camille Boot.

He didn't remember much from that evening, to be honest. He remembered downing a lot of Firewhiskey with his mates, and then suddenly Camille popping up, sitting down on his lap. From there on it got hazy. There were flashes of snogging and hands on her toned skin, but the rest was blank. The next thing he remembered was that when he woke up, she was lying next to him, fully clothed (which had to be a first), and as soon as she realised he was awake, she groggily asked, "Is there something between you and Rose Weasley?"

He'd frozen up after that. "What?"

"You said her name last night."

And when he didn't say anything, Camilla disappeared.

Later that afternoon, after she'd ignored him again during Charms, he was able to snatch some alone time with her. When she walked past, he managed to grab her arm, very much like before, and pull her into an empty class room. Before she could react, he locked the door, and ripped her wand out of her hand. When she realised there wasn't anything she could do, she settled for shooting him a murderous look.

"You have no right to be upset."

He folded his arms, looked at her with all traces of humour gone.

"I know," she replied, gritting her teeth.

He shook his head. "It was you who wanted to keep it a secret."

"I know."

"We never said it was exclusive."

"I know."

"We were just fooling around. You even said so last week."

"I know."

She looked away. She looked at her feet, the walls, the ceiling – everywhere but him.

"Then what about Camille?"

"Then why even bother?"

He grumbled in frustration. "About what?"

"Why have you been following me like a sodding puppy all day now?"


Because she was his Technicolor in black and white. Music in a world of silence. Smell of flowers in a world of bad odour. Cherry on top of the cake. Because she was alive and she awaked his senses. That's why he'd been following her around. Because she looked sad and he hated seeing her sad.

But he couldn't say that, could he?

"I don't know!"

"Well, there you got it! I don't know!" Her voice was louder now, sharp as a knife. "You never know, do you? And neither do I! I hate this!"

"What? You hate what?"

"You! Me! Everything!" She raked her hands through her enormous mass of hair. "I know we never agreed to exclusive, alright? I know I should've never wanted more from you than... whatever we have now, but I can no longer hold this up with you while watching you leaving with other girls!"

He searched for words, but none came. He didn't know what to do, nor what to say, and that frightened him. In the end, he quietly asked, "What is it you want from me?"

There was something in her eyes after that, and he couldn't quite decipher what. Grief, dejectedness, hopelessness? He never saw it before. Then again; they never found themselves in situations such as these either.

"What I want from you is something you can never give me, Scorpius."

Comprehension dawned on him, then.

"You're too afraid, you know that?" She continued when he remained silent. "You're afraid that maybe if you let one person close to you, they'll figure you out before you do."

She placed a hand on his cheek, and without removing it, kissed his lips lightly.

"I'm sorry, Scorpius."

And then she left. Again.

Normality bothered him.

He was lying in his bed that night, thinking about her. He thought about the moment he'd first spoken to her (second year, because she was occupying the seat in the library where he wanted to sit), about the first drunken kiss they'd shared (Ravenclaw party, few months ago), about their first everythings. He thought about her creamy legs, her soft skin, her eyes that drank him in. He thought about the way his arms would encircle her when she arched her back, the way she bit her lip when she was nervous, the way the colour of her face would match the colour of her hair whenever he made a crude comment. He thought about how she was brilliant, sarcastic, and fiery. He thought about how she was superior to everyone else he knew, how she outshone them all.

And then he thought about how he normally never thought about one girl too long.

Which meant he was breaking normality.

Rose Weasley was not normal. By any means. He recalled her words from earlier, and for one second an image Camille Boot popped up in his mind. Camille was pretty, sure. But Camille was a type – the kind of girl you pass in the hall way and think you have seen before even though you haven't – and she couldn't compare to the beauty of Rose. She couldn't compare to anything of Rose, really. And Scorpius thought about how much better he would feel if Rose was lying next to him now (not Camille, not any girl), and it made him realise that –

Damn it, he missed her.

He knew she was around, and he still missed her. It was an unfamiliar feeling he'd never encountered before, because she'd always been there, and before she was, he didn't know what he was missing. But he felt it now. And boy, that made him think of her even harder.

He knew she deserved much better than him. What was he, after all? Good-looking, yeah. Intelligent, definitely. Funny, sometimes. But he was also an undeniable prick that ran from every responsibility, that had never had a proper girlfriend, and that spent his days making rude remarks to teachers, partying, and smirking.

Yet he shouldn't have let her go.

She deserved better – but he still shouldn't have let her go.

The next morning he awaited her at the huge door of Great Hall.

She arrived a quarter to eight, with Albus Potter next to her. She looked paler than usual, with a grim face, but Merlin – she did something to him. He cleared his throat to make her notice him, and when she looked at him in surprise, he spoke up, "Albus, is it okay if I borrow Rose for a moment?"

"Oh," Albus eyed them suspiciously. "Yeah, sure. I'll wait for you inside, Rosie."

Rose didn't like to be called Rosie. He knew that.

"What's up?" She asked him, scrutinising, when Albus was gone.

He considered his options. He could tell her she looked nice, tell her not to feel bad about last night, ask her to copy her homework, or run away. She'd consider any of them plausible. It was what he'd usually do, after all. Especially running away. From everyone that got close to him. Because he couldn't bear anyone figuring him out before he did.

But instead of running away, he took her hand this time.

"Let's make it official."


She nearly toppled over in bafflement.

"Walk inside the Great Hall with me. Make it official."

He watched in fascination how her jaw dropped, how she managed to put it back into place, how her face transformed from agitated to amazed, how the limpness of her hand in his changed to firm. The scowl she was sporting slowly became a smile, and then he knew it was okay. He let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, and smiled back at her.

Not a smirk, but a smile.

"Okay," she beamed. "Okay."

And they walked into the Great Hall.


Normality bothered him.

But him and Rose Weasley – boyfriend and girlfriend?

Yeah. Definitely not normal.

The end.