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Format: Novel
Chapters: 4
Word Count: 18,286
Status: WIP
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Strong Language, Mild Violence, Scenes of a Sexual Nature, Substance Use or Abuse, Sensitive Topic/Issue/Theme, Contains Spoilers
Genres: Fluff, Humor, Romance
Characters: Teddy, Scorpius, Albus, James (II), Lily (II), Hugo, Rose, Victoire, OC
Pairings: Rose/Scorpius, Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, OC/OC, Other Pairing
First Published: 02/26/2012
Last Chapter: 02/18/2013
Last Updated: 02/18/2013
Summary:
Learning naughtiness from your worst enemy just got awkward.
(Rose/Scorpius)
GORGEOUS BANNER BY THE UBER TALENTED SONGBIRD AT TDA!
*Authors Note: Hey guys! This is my first fanfiction EVAH! So if you are reading this I am so thankful! I know this prologue is uber short, but that's just because this is a brief introduction to the actual story. The next chapter is when the story really commences. Please review and I'll love you forever! Also, this story is dedicated to Dally from the Outsiders. :)Oh, and anything you recognize I do not own. Also, avec is French for with. Yeah, that's it. :)
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THANK YOU TO ILLUMINATION AT TDA FOR THE BEAUTIFUL CHAPTER IMAGE! :)
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You see, it all started with a boy, like any other predicament of a teenage girl.
But then I had a bout of impulsive stupidity, followed by mortification and too much Ben and Jerry's, and before I knew it I had personally enlisted the aid of my arch nemesis in an insane scheme to ruin my reputation and ultimately win the heart of Lysander Scamander.
Sure, reflecting on it now, it sounds pretty darn bonkers.
On my defense, the plot seemed completely logical at the time, which was around midnight. And at midnight, everything just makes sense, even the crazy wild stuff in your dreams. And zany plans that involve your enemy's assistance.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Because, like I said, it all began with a boy.
Lysander Scamander.
Now, believe me, I, Rose Weasley, am not one of those bimbos who giggles when a decent-looking bloke walks by. But Sander...
Cue the dreamy sigh.
Lysander Scamander is something of a god to Hogwarts. I'm not even exaggerating; first through seventh years literally worship the kid. And I don't mean just the girls either; practically every guy is desperate to earn his 'mateship'. Because once a dude squirms his way into Sander's inner circle, said dude scores the prettiest girls, the hottest party invites, and the popularity that only Sander himself could rival. And as for the females... well, let's just say that he has the lot of us swooning. And, actually, a fair amount of guys too.
So you might be mistaking him for a ladies man. The kind without a heart but mindblowingly attractive looks. But he's actually a really good guy. I mean, he's sweet to everyone, even professors. And not to mention well rounded. He's the captain of the quidditch team and Head Boy. The boy is like the epitome of perfection.
And beautiful. Really freaking beautiful.
But the factor that triggered my infatuation with him is his brains. I mean, sure, the looks don't hurt either. But I'm not really the type that goes crazy over appearance. Actually, I don't really go boy crazy at all. The only guy I've ever honestly liked was Sander.
Okay, okay! I've always had a really weird crush on Rhett Butler, but I swear that's it! If Rhett Butler isn't the perfect specimen of man I don't know who is.
But, as I was saying, Sander is extremely smart. I've heard that he receives all Es and Os on his papers. And that he's a natural at potions. Which is probably my favorite subject.
I have adored Sander for five years... Since the moment he cast me that smile, his famous dazzling pearly smile, as I was first seated at the Gryffindor table.
And, as ridiculously cheezy as that is, that was the beginning of my creepy crush on Lysander Scamander.
Cool story, really.
And now I feel completely pathetic for rambling on about a boy. But it is necessary that you comprehend the perfection that is Lysander Scamander in order to understand why I did what I did.
You see, I don't usually do stupid things. And when I do stupid things, it is always unintentional. Like biffing it down the stairs, or colliding with other people in the hall. Which both occur way too frequently now that I mention it. But I never put myself out there. Which is sort of strange considering I'm a Gryffindor. And voluntarily engaging in idiotic affairs is practically what Gryffindors are famous for. But me, I'm just a wallflower. You know, always hanging back, keeping to herself... that's Rose Weasley. Except when I'm falling flat on my face, people don't really seem to notice me. Which is completely fine by me. My cousins can be the conspicuous, outgoing ones for all I care. The whole concept of being social isn't really my thing.
Merlin, I really sound like a fruit cup. Or one of those antisocial psychos. But you see, I'm just incredibly freakishly awkward, so I would rather just spare myself the humiliation of attempting socialize. I'm really just looking out for everyone's best interest by refusing to mix with others. Because if I mingle with someone, I will inevitably make them and myself feel awkward, so its best that I just keep to myself.
And I almost always keep to myself. But earlier, like I said, I had a spurt of reckless stupidity which started with Lysander Scamander and ended with fraternization avec the enemy.
Now, you've most likely gathered that I'm helplessly in love with Lysander Scamander. And that I'm an awkward fruit cup.
And, well, you see, awkward fruit cups and hot guys don't mix.
Particularly when said fruit cup confesses her undying affection for said hot guy on top of the bloody astronomy tower.
It's kind of a funny story.
But not really.
Because, before I could reclaim my rejected love, I had consumed enough cookie dough ice cream to sustain Canada and was begging Scorpius Malfoy for lessons in the art of being bad.
Yeah, I'm screwed.
Chapter 2: The Art of Attracting Perverts with Ketchup-Stained Parkas
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*Author's Note: First up, HOLY FREAKING WOW! I did not expect the prologue to be received as well as it was! The first chapter has already had over five hundred reads, and I'm completely flabbergasted. You guys are amazing! And all of your reviews made me do the Sue Heck dance. I'm not even kidding. And, if you know what the Sue Heck dance is, I love you. But I love you anyways since you are reading this. THANK YOU WONDERFUL PEOPLE! :))
Secondly, I am VERY SORRY about the wait. I am a bit of a perfectionist, and thats why this wasn't updated sooner. I swear when I submitted the prologue I had another chapter ready, but it sucked so I scrapped it. I wrote a few more chapters, submitted them, edited them to death, then deleted them. And then I finally wrote this, which probably sucks too, but I am extremely sleep-deprived right now so I can't even tell if this is terrible or not. Hopefully not. But I'm going to give you guys this anyways. Its fillery but I really hope its okay.
Thirdly, this is dedicated to Ryan Gosling because he is the most beautiful man ever and attractively awkward. :)
PS: This author's note is really long because I'm in a rambling sort of mood. Also, let it be known that I fell flat on my face during my food break while writing this chapter, so that can be my punishment for the slow update. Especially since it really hurt and my sister laughed at me. :) Also this was previously rejected which is part of the reason the update was slow. Its all my fault though because I'm a lethargic/busy cotton headed ninny muggins... :( :( :(
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING YOU RECOGNIZE. ESPECIALLY NOT THE GREAT GATSBY WHICH IS OWNED BY F. SCOTT FITZGERALD AND NOT ME! OR POCKETFUL OF SUNSHINE OR NATASHA B. OR RYAN GOSLING. (UNFORTUNATELY)
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BEAUTIFUL BANNER BY charme. AT TDA!
(yes, I can and will use Regina George for the bitchy character. :)
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November 6th – Saturday – 4:42pm “Prior to the Incident”
My favorite part of one-on-one time with my best mate is when she calls me out on my lack of interaction with the opposite sex.
No, seriously! Being reminded you are a sixth year lip virgin, by a part veela mind you, really boosts the self-esteem meter!
“Do you want to be an effing kneazle lady for the rest of your life? Because, I'm sorry, but that is the direction you are headed in.”
“Don't worry, Dommie,” I reassured my cousin cheerfully, scrawling the thesis of Albus' Potions essay. “I'll be something cool... like a hippogriff or dragon lady.”
You know what? I'll just run a farm of grotesquely large and vicious creatures!
Except, considering my rotten luck and tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'd inevitably be burned or eaten alive. Which isn't really a pleasant possibility.
Yeah, I'll just stick with the kneazles.
“Oh, shut up,” Dom huffed, flicking my arm playfully. “I'm being serious, Rosie. I mean, you have to make a move sometime. Before you wake up and realize you're thirty and effing old and wrinkled and shit.”
Madam Pince released an unhappy gargling/hissing sound from a bookshelf a few yards away that either meant for us to quiet our voices, or that she had a particularly large wad of mucus lodged in her pharynx.
I've been around the library a lot; I know these things.
Actually, I've been around the library too much to be considered socially acceptable, but thats irrelevant.
“I have another fourteen years before that happens. And, besides, I just want to concentrate on academics,” I whispered, pushing my glasses up to the bridge of my nose.
“Seriously? Are you, like, seriously right now?” Dom asked, her eyebrows ascending to the middle of her forehead.
“What?” I puzzled, flipping the yellowed pages of my Potions book.
“You want to... 'concentrate on academics,'?” Dom made air quotes, her eyebrows still nearly touching her hairline.
“Yeah,” I shrugged innocently, shooting Dom what was supposed to be a winning smile, but probably turned out looking like a constipated goblin grimace.
Hey, Merlin couldn't make all of us attractive. Or, you know, human-looking.
“Concentrating on academics, prefect, dorky glasses, ninja turtles panties... Godric, Rose, did I ever tell you how much of a complete sexual animal you are?”
“Oh my gosh, Dom! You can't just discuss someone's... undergarments... in public!” I whispered, my eyes flitting around the library for people.
“Prude,” Dom scoffed just as someone cleared their throat.
Madam Pince was towering over our table with a repulsed expression on her face.
Pumpkintarts.
“Oh, erm, hello, Madam,” I greeted sheepishly, my complexion scarlet.
How coincidental that every time I'm in a mortifying situation, I'm with Dom.
I tried to glare at Dom, who was snickering into her palm. Unfortunately, my face doesn't do glaring - it apparently just does constipated goblin - so the attempt was useless.
“Ladies!” she snapped creakily, wagging her finger in our faces, “There will be no discussion of such vulgar topics in this library as long as I'm alive!”
“So not very fucking long then,” Dom muttered under her breath.
A frightening growl rumbled in Madam Pince's throat.
“She said it!” Dom pointed at me, her opposite hand covering her heart.
What? What?
I widened my eyes in horror at Dom, who smirked.
Dom Weasley... the best mate who not only loudly announces the content of your panties, but then blames you for her harsh, f-bomb loaded comments about the librarian!
Cousin of the year, right there!
Madam Pince turned her furious countenance to me, “You had better learn to respect your elders, Miss Weasley, before I banish you from this library!”
“But I didn't... I- I'm sorry, I-”
“Immature, rude, little...” Madam Pince muttered bitterly as she limped away to her desk, ignoring my apologies.
“Merlin, she's such a bitch,” Dom snorted once she had situated herself in her awesome rolly librarian chair. “Oh, come on Rose. Don't look at me like that.”
My jaw remained anchored to the ground, my eyes still magnified to saucer size.
Not only does the librarian know that my panties feature fighting cartoon turtles, but now she loathes my guts.
Fantastic.
“She thinks I'm bad person!” I said worriedly, twisting the quill tucked behind my ear. “She probably hates me now, Dom!”
Anxiety rushed through my veins.
You see, nothing makes me more nervous than someone disliking me.
Well, except arachnids.
And tattooed Swiss people wearing berets. (Its a really long story.)
“She's just a batty old hag,” Dom rolled her eyes, then examined her manicure. “Why do you even give a shit about her?”
I looked back at Madam Pince; her face was twisted with burning hate and her eyes were shooting Avada rays into my forehead.
In other words, she wore an expression that blatantly said, “I would adore watching you suffocate to death in a pile of books while I laugh.”
“Because she's nice!” I exclaimed.
Dom cocked an eyebrow.
“Well, I mean, she probably is nice. She just- she just- … Maybe she was just having a trying afternoon.”
“For the past century?”
“You know what?” I shook my head, pulling myself feet. “I can't take this anymore, I have to go apologize.”
“Rosie! Its been less than thirty seconds! The old cow has probably forgotten about what I said by now!”
“But what if her feelings are hurt? I need to talk to her.”
“Stop trying to be such an effing people pleaser. You know, its okay hurt someone's feelings, especially if they're old.” Dom stated with a tone that implied this was obvious.
If there was an award for most superb advice, Dom Weasley would win it hands-down.
Great, and now I'm being facetious.
Plus I might have maybe sort of kinda made a Hufflepuff joke earlier today.
I'm pretty sure I'm about a -1000 on the karma meter right now for being a such a generally terrible person.
“I'll be right back,” I breathed, causing Dom to groan in annoyance.
I ambled up to Madam Pince, twirling the quill in my hand rapidly.
“Hi!” I exclaimed once I had reached the desk, the word saturated with too much joy and cheer for just one syllable.
“I'm busy,” Madam Pince spat.
I gulped, wiping her saliva from my nose. I looked back at Dom for support, but she was in the midst of flirting with some Ravenclaw guy.
Of course.
“How are you, Madam?” I asked timidly.
She fixed her bloodshoot eyes on mine.
“I just wanted to say, I am extremely sorry, Madame. I am terribly sorry, actually. And I didn't mean any of it. None at all!”
She still hadn't blinked yet.
Well, this is slightly uncomfortable.
“I actually think you are very youthful, Madam, I...” my voice trailed off as her heated glare intensified.
“You're disrupting my work. Sit down or leave,” she advised viciously after I squirmed.
“Thank you?” I mumbled weakly.
Let's pretend that wasn't terrifying.
I walked back to Dom, only stumbling over my feet one time!
Personal record!
At least one thing is going right today.
“You can leave,” Dom snapped once I had plopped back down at the table, waving the Ravenclaw bloke away. He hung his head sadly and staggered to a nearby bookshelf.
Poor bloke.
“God, all of the guys in this school won't frickin leave me alone! Its, like, so annoying. Like, no matter what the hell I do, they literally won't back off!” she complained dramtically.
Dom was wearing lipstick, a mini skirt, high heels, a pushup bra, and a shirt two sizes too small with a plunging neckline.
I have a peculiar feeling she doesn't mind attention from men.
“Sometimes I wish I was more like you, Rosie,” Dom sighed. “I mean, no blokes ever approach or try to flirt with you anything. It must be nice.”
“Oh, yes, its just lovely to be the undesirable nerdcake!” I laughed sardonically.
You see, its usually difficult to string together an appropriate response to most of Dom's comments, so I just reply with self-deprecating sarcasm. I mean, I never know if what she says is meant to be flattering or offensive. I'm pretty sure she means everything as a compliment, but what she says usually leaves me feeling sort of... ouch-ish.
Ouch-ish. I'm astounded that one didn't make it into the dictionary.
“You need a new tactic. Like, no guy would ever hit on you first – no offense – so maybe you should just come on to a bloke instead.”
I let out a disbelieving and completely unattractive snort, “Yeah, just ignore the fact that I'm too bloody awkward to even converse with a guy.”
“True. Maybe I should chat you up to someone.”
Yes, why don't I just let my gorgeous veela cousin try to persuade some guy to go out with me? That would totally make him want an me, an awkward ginger, over my blonde bombshell wingwoman.
“You know what? That is extremely nice of you, but no thanks.”
“Come on, Rosie, who do you fancy?” Dom demanded earnestly, tossing her blonde locks behind her shoulder.
“Dom, I already told you, I don't fancy anyone here.”
“Yeah fucking right. Look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn't want a piece of Lysander Scamander's hot arse right now.”
As if determined to expose my five year crush, my cheeks flushed scarlet.
Outstanding job, cheeks. Knew I could count on you to keep a bloody secret.
“Oh my God!” Dom gasped, widening her eyes. “You like Sander!”
“No!” I objected, although my complexion said otherwise.
“You naughty girl... crushing on the big Quidditch star,” Dom smirked mischievously, slapping my shoulder.
My cheeks burned even hotter, and I resisted the impulse to slam my flaming face against table.
“Don't you think he's a bit out of your league, though, Rosie?” Dom asked curiously, tilting her head to the side. “Besides, he doesn't really go for goody goodies.”
Rose Weasley, a goody goody?
PFFT.
I am the antipode of a goody-goody.
I mean, I may be a prefect. I may abide by the rules. I may have never cursed in my life. But I am not-
Oh, Merlin, who am I kidding? I'm the flipping epitome of goody-goody.
“I'm not trying to be mean or anything, but you and Sander aren't really on the same level. You know what I mean?”
Thank you for that assesment; I was never aware that the beautiful Gryffindor Quidditch Captain/ Hogwart's Head Boy was out of my league.
“I know,” I said defeatedly, adding another sentence to Albus' essay.
“Not to say that you shouldn't try for someone more... attainable. I'm just saying you should go for someone more on your level, you know?”
“Definitely,” I agreed absentmindedly, more focused on articulating the value of a bezoar rather than our conversation.
“What about that bloke?” Dom asked, nodding her head to a boy a few tables across from us.
“Harold?” I replied incredulously.
Harold McLaggen is a wiry, redheaded guy in our year with incredibly bad acne and pants that are usually three inches short for his legs.
“He's, like, perfect for you!” Dom exclaimed.
Say what?
“I mean, you're both always reading, you're both in the top three of our year, you're both gingers...You guys are like totally destined to be!”
I took one more glance at Harold, who was slouched in his chair, discreetly inspecting his earwax before sticking it to his Charms book.
Needless to say, Harold is a real catch.
“Erm, well, he seems...” I paused to find a nicer subsitute for 'undesirable earpicker' in my mental thesaurus, “... cool?”
Welcome to the Rose Weasley mental thesaurus, the only location where 'cool' and 'undesirable earpicker' are synonymous!
I pushed my glasses back up my nose, “But, erm... he's not really my 'type'.”
“Nonsense,” Dom waved away my statement with her hand, pulling herself to her feet. “I'll go tell him you're interested right now.”
Oh, Godric, no.
“I don't think that's a good idea!” I grasped Dom's wrist and attempted to pull her back.
Unfortunately, I don't possess any upper body strength, so Dom's arm easily slipped from my hand.
Curse you, stupid lack of arm muscles!
“I think its a brill idea! You obviously like him, Rosie. I can totally tell by how you're acting.”
My mouth hung open. This is one of those moments where I wonder how Dom can possibly be this bad at interpreting my actions after sixteen entire years of cousinhood and mateship.
I mean, maybe its just me, but I'm pretty sure physically trying to prevent my cousin from talking me up to the bloke doesn't spell attraction.
“I'll be right back!”
Dom winked and pranced away before I could deny my supposed feelings Harold.
Narglesticks.
I had an urge to tackle Dom as she strutted up to Harold, but decided on burying my face in my palms instead.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I peeked through my fingers; Dom was speaking avidly to Harold and his eyes were glued to her chest.
Charming.
And – dear, Merlin... Dom's bloody pointing me!
And did Harold just... He just licked his lips at me.
Harold McLaggen's tongue totally just moistened his creeper lips while looking at me.
I feel slightly scandalized.
My jaw plummeted to the ground and remained there... even after Dom had collapsed back into her chair.
“I just told Harold how much you like him, and totally suggested you guys should hang out at the party later,” Dom explained happily, clearly under the impression she had done me a gargantuan favor.
She did not just tell him that.... Merlin, please tell me she did not just tell him that.
“And he totally said yes!” Dom squeezed me in excitement.
Oh. My. Merlin.
My jaw was still glued to the floor and my larynx refused to make any sound.
Dom crossed her arms, “This is the part where you say 'thank you'.”
I still had not regained control of my voicebox.
“You know, you should be grateful, Rosie. I mean, Harold McLaggen is as good as its going to get for you,” Dom said sharply, like a mother scolding a child for poor manners.
I glanced at Harold. He was spitting on his spectacle lenses and then wiping them with his ketchup-stained parka.
If the kid who wears a parka to the library is the best I can do, I must really suck.
I mumbled an incoherent attempt at 'Thanks,' to Dom.
Harold couldn't be that bad... right?
I dared another look in his direction; he was sniffing his armpits.
Hmm.
“Er, hey Dommie?” I said apprehensively, watching my cousin pucker her lips to a compact mirror.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, erm, this whole 'going to the party with Harold' thing? Its not really working out for me.”
Dom released an irritated grunt, glancing up from her reflection, “Why the hell not? Are you saying he's not good enough for you? That's so shallow, Rosie.”
“No, of course not!” I said defensively. “I mean, I guess Harold's fine.”
“Good,” Dom said coolly, snapping her compact mirror shut. “Now you won't have to cling onto me the entire party.”
“What?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
You see, Dom drags me to parties. And I mean literally drags me. And when we arrive at the party, I immediately endeavor to find the nearest sofa or chair, then devour a novel while Dom most likely makes out with gorgeous blokes.
Its actually a great system because I manage to not socialize or interact with anyone the entire time! Amazing, right? Well, except for that one time that Slytherin girl pushed me out of my chair and chucked my copy of The Great Gatsby into the butterbeer bowl. I guess that would be considered interaction.
But I didn't try to make her apologize or anything afterwards because, honestly, she was a complete beast. I mean, the girl had a mustache and bodybuilder muscles and everything! I don't remember what her actual name was, but everyone called her 'Testosterone Tami.'
Yeah, I'd probably be pushing undersized gingers off of sofas and thrusting classic literature into pools of alcohol too if I was stuck with that nickname.
“Nevermind,” Dom sighed exasperatedly, before a puzzled look crossed her face. “You know what? Why am I even here in the first place? I hate the library.”
“I don't know. I was just working on Al's Potions and you sort of randomly plopped down and started talking to me.”
Or badgering me about the severe lack of blokes in my life.
Dom nodded, considering this, before she slapped her forehead in epiphany. “Oh yeah! I came down here to see if you had my Transfiguration assignment done.”
“Right,” I said, rummaging through my bag for a piece of parchment.
“Voila!” I exclaimed in a terrible French accent as I offered it to Dom.
“Oh my God, awesome,” Dom breathed, her manicured hands snatching the paper. “I was so busy earlier. And my friends would have literally murdered me if I didn't go out with them. You know how the Ravenclaws are. But, of course, Professor Chang just had to be a bitch and force me to make this up and turn it in today. Seriously, who makes stuff due on Saturdays? And, I knew you never do anything over the weekends anyways so, well....”
Dom shrugged.
“No problem. Al persuaded me to do an entire Potions essay for him, so, really, a Trans assignment was not a big deal.”
“Cool,” Dom grinned. “Let's go to dinner. I'm starving my fucking arse off.”
“A novel idea, my dear Dom! A novel idea, I do declare!” I agreed enthusiastically, scooping my school materials into my bag.
“Rosie, did I ever mention how much of a fucking weirdo you are?”
“Don't judge my amazing expressions!”
Dom rolled her eyes,“Godric, you're an embarassment.”
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November 6th – Saturday – 8:11pm – Gryffindor Girls Dormitory “Prior to the Incident”
“... and I was just like, 'Bitch, no, that's not even attractive.' And she was like, 'Fuck off.' And I was like, 'Why don't you put a paper bag over your face before someone blows chunks, you ugly whore.',” Dom explained, puckering her gloss-coated lips to the mirror.
This was the standard routine for Dom and I before parties; she would enhance her face to perfection with makeup, and I would sprawl out on my four poster while completing the assignments of my various other cousins.
And by various other cousins, I mean a plethora of relatives. I know I tend to exaggerate, but plethora is seriously the only word that can describe the staggering number of my cousins.
Well, plenitude could work. Or abundance. Or mob.
Actually, not mob, because that would imply my cousins are a mass of livid peasants armed with pitchforks. Which, you know, they're not. Though, the lot of them are quite intimdating. And usually angry. Fortunately, none of them own pitchforks.
At least I don't think so...
“So then I told the bitch to go rot in hell like the ugly slut she was.”
“Oh,” I said from my bed, scrawling the killer concluding sentence to Albus' Potions essay. “That's nice.”
You see, its sort of hard to conjure an intelligent response to Dom's stories. Especially the ones that mostly involve her insulting random girls at pubs and a lot of 'and I was likes.'
“Yeah, and then she was like, 'Oh my God you did not just say that!.' And I was like, 'Damn right I did, slut.' And she totally walked away, like almost crying. It was freaking hilarious.”
Dom applied another coat of mascara to her lashes. I hadn't bothered putting any makeup on.
Which was sort of ironic considering I was the one who actually required it. I mean, Dom could still be a ten with a natural face.
Actually, I've never worn makeup in my entire life. Not because I don't need it, more due to the fact that I don't trust myself with sharp objects (eyeliner pencil) near fragile body parts (corneas). I mean, I tried putting on eyeshadow once and nearly blinded myself.
I can injure myself with practically any unanimous object.
Aside from academics, its my only talent.
“Are you seriously going to wear that?” Dom asked incredulously, turning from her reflection to raise her eyebrows at me. She was dressed in a denim skirt, a sparkly black top, and incredibly high high heels that looked fantastic.
I glanced down at my outfit...my uniform completed with a three year old pair of battered flats. You see, my feet and unfortunately every other part of my body ceased growing in third year.
"I was going for 'school chic'?" I tried.
Dom looked thoroughly unimpressed.
"Nerd savvy?"
Dom exhaled agitatedly, “Hopefully Harold won't care that you look like a prune.”
Crap.
I had nearly forgotten about armpit-sniffing Harold with his chapped lips and ill-fitting trousers. In other words, my date for the evening.
Yay.
“Alright, I'm ready,” Dom announced after a final dousing of flowery perfume.
She cast me one more disapproving look before we headed out to the Room of Requirement for Matt Finnegan's birthday party.
You see, Gryffindors go all out for parties; hundreds of galleons worth of alcohol and delicacies, disco balls, simulated dragon ride machines... everything really. Gryffindor parties are so incredible that members of other houses even show up to our Quidditch victory celebrations. So all of our fiestas are in the Room of Requirement for the sake of free supplies and enough room.
In a nutshell, basically, putting on wild parties are another thing Gryffindors are famous for. In addition to our nerve and adventurous souls, of course!
Yeah, I don't know why I was sorted into Gryffindor either.
“I'm fine!” I assured Dom a few cooridors later, choking up twenty-five year old dust.
I don't know what Mr. Filch does in his spare time, nor do have any desire to, but let me tell you it is most certainly not cleaning. Trust me... Considering the mindblowing number of times I've biffed it in this school, I would know.
“God, you're graceless,” Dom shook her head disapprovingly as I pulled myself up to my feet.
“Are you serious? I'm practically Marie Taglioni!”
Dom crinkled her nose and raised her eyebrows.
“You know, Marie Taglioni? Famous ballerina?”
Dom's brows continued to travel up her forehead, “How would you be practically a ballerina if you just tripped?”
“Er, I was being facetious.”
Her face was still distorted with confusion.
“You know, sarcasm...” I attempted to explain.
Dom cast me a confuzzled and slightly irritated glance.
And this is why I should probably contain my sarcastic comments within the confines of my mind. Otherwise I end up looking stupid.
Actually, I usually end up looking stupid whether or not I keep my mouth shut or not.
That tends to happen when you are a spectacularly awkward sixteen year old with a severe lack of coordination.
“Nevermind, I was just being weird,” I sighed as we stepped up to the portal.
We began to paced back and forth in front of the door in silence.
Awkward silence...
"Ay yayay ayayayay ...Ive got a pocket got pocket full of sunshine, I've got a love got a love and its-"
I was quelled by Dom's glare.
"Never again, Rosie."
Note to self: Stop singing in uncomfortable situations; It does not diffuse the tension, it just makes you look like a bumbling idiot.
After three more paces, I grasped the handle to the Room of Requirement.
“Shit! Wait!” Dom exclaimed, causing my hand to release the doorknob. “Teeth check!”
“Oh, thank Merlin! I completely spaced!”
Dom and I bared our teeth to eachother.
You see, both of us have always had this strange phobia that something is stuck in our teeth.
Actually, Dom and I are just extremely obsessed with our teeth. It has sort of bonded us, in a way. I mean, I was the one who helped Dom overcome her whitening charm addiction last year. And she's the one I turn to in the dead of night when burdened with frightening nigtmares of gum disease.
“You're good,” we chorused, then simultaneously sighed in relief.
We entered the portal, greeted by blaring muggle music, strobe lights, and flurries of confetti.
After a few paces into the roaring party, I saw him...
Situated directly in front of us, looking especially sleazy in all his poorly-fitted, vertical-striped, mustard-stained pants glory, was Harold McLaggen.
Dear mother of french toast.
“Bye, Rosie! Have fun!” Dom advised me happily, skipping away to flirt and kiss cute boys who probably wear regular sized pants.
WAIT, DOM! DON'T ABANDON ME!
Harold McLaggen licked his apparently critically chapped lips.
Am I supposed to flattered by this or something?
I resisted the urge to chase after Dom. Preferably at a hundred mile per hour speed.
“I suppose I have you all to myself then, smexy lady,” Harold drawled slowly, then released a disturbing and slightly evil chuckle that made me feel very very uncomfortable.
Well... This looks like a promising evening.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
*Think Rose is a complete nerdcake pushover? Think Dom is a skanky bitch? Just want a hot serving of Scorpius Malfoy already? (Its coming, its coming!) Please let me know what you think in the box situated below and you will have my eternal gratitude. :) PS - THE PLOT STARTS SOON!
Chapter 3: The Art of Eluding the Scooching Game
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*Author's Note: *sheepishly walks out from behind fortress*
Heeyy guys. If there's, you know, any of you left.
Probably not.
So, as you probably have noticed, I haven't updated in about... you know... half a year. Yep. Now, read the following to view my excuses.
April: Wrote most of this chapter but lost it when my computer contracted a virus. Sadness.
May: Was too busy with track to write chapter. Hey! This was back when I had a life!
June: Was too busy partying with friends. Just kidding about this one. I actually have no life. Or friends for that matter. Okay, I have one, but that's about it. So no excuse.
July: No excuse. Except Drivers Ed. Which by the way I absolutely sucked at. Three cheers for being a crappy driver. WOOT WOOT WOOT!
August: No excuse. Whatsoever
If you don't read any further, I don't blame you. Just know that I am so sorry for the wait. And that if you are planning on reading this chapter, I freaking love you. I seriously do. And I'm sorry if this chapter sucks since I haven't been in school in forever and have therefore been unedumacated for three months. Not my fault that my spelleeng skilz r badd nows! Oh, God, this is why I shouldn't try to be funny. And this is the first time I've written in three months... so... yeah, my fingers are crossed that this doesn't suck too badly. I swear the next one will be better though!
Honestly, I'll just be grateful if anyone is even reading this! Again, I love you, you lovely darlings of amazingness! :)
Because my life is sad, I don't own Harry Potter, Natasha B, Pocketful of Sunshine, or, most unfortunately, Ryan Gosling. (I'm working on that last one though.)
Thank you for coming back, lovelies! :)
Oh, and thank you all for the reviews you left four months ago! They made me smile! :)
* * * * *
(LYSANDER SCAMANDER)
LOVELY CHAPTER IMAGE DONE BY BEPO @ TDA!
* * * * *
So, arguably, Harold McLaggen may not... precisely be considered the... 'ideal catch'.
He's not the cliche hunk on a steed that girls dream of. He doesn't have luscious golden locks that flow in the wind. He doesn't have rippling muscles. He does not possess a lot of, or possibly any, blatantly desirable qualities.
Now you might say that Harold's lack of conventional appeal amounts to him not being 'a catch'. Alas! You are mistaken! Because guess what, you! Harold McLaggen is a catch! You know why?
Originality.
What a beautiful concept.
I mean, honestly, what in the gosh darn earth is more attractive than originality? What more could I ask for? I mean, forget about a six pack and charm when you can have uniqueness!
So, yeah, Harold McLaggen isn't Prince Charming. He may be, you know, a tad creepy. But, really, what's the difference between being creepy and being sexily mysterious if you really think about it?
Actually, nevermind, don't think about it.
But really, all of Harold's little quirks make him that much more... attractive.
Yes... attractive. Or, you know, something slightly resembling that.
So, in a nutshell, Harold McLaggen isn't the sort of fellow that sweeps you off your feet. But, you know, Rose Weasley has never been a feet-sweeping sort of chica anyway. Rose Weasley is, in fact, the type of girl who mentally rambles in the third person while most certainly not engaging in feet sweeping activities or anything else that requires being desirable and/or sexy.
And, really, I should just be grateful that someone actually has shown the slightest bit of interest in the first place. But here's the thing; I tried. I tried - for Dom, Harold and the sake of being nice - to... fancy... Harold back. I knew that was the right thing to do. I mean, I owed Dom for setting me up with someone. Regardless of that someone being the kid who constantly has catsup smattered on his chin. Not that that matters to me anyway; everyone should feel free to have whatever sort of condiment they want smeared across their face without judgement. Its clearly not the most appealing thing in the world, but-
Anyway.
So, as I was saying, I really did try to like Harold back. I honestly did.
But here's the thing... I just thought maybe Harold had one semi-decent personality trait. Just one quality to overshadow, well, his overall 'Harold-ness.'
I really didn't think that was too much to ask for. I mean, I'm not the unreasonable sort. I just sort of expected... I don't know... something simple, easy. Like a good sense of humor, or possibly a basic set of manners.
Perhaps even remotely decent hygiene?
But apparently even general cleanliness was shooting too high.
*****
November 6th - Saturday - Room of Requirement "Prior to the Incident"
"... even the Minister himself claimed I was the most talented piccoloist in the entirety of Europe. Possibly the world! And - while still maintaining my humble attitude of course - I can't exactly admit I was surprised he thought so. I mean, my musical ability quite obviously exceeds that of even the more refined piccoloists. And not to mention, in addition to my raw talent, there's that unmistakeable charm and uniquely brilliant sound I personally bring to the instrument. Of course, that..."
I nodded sympathetically to whatever Harold was on about, discreetly straining my pupils to glance at my watch.
8:47
The same as the last two times I checked.
Hmm.
You know, I think they were wrong about time flying when you're having fun. Because, right now, I'm just having a jolly old time and I'm pretty sure time has just slowed to the speed of a Cleansweep One.
"... and, not to toot my own horn of course, but I must say my musical abilities are greater than... say... the magical ones of even the renowned Albus Dumbledore! Or even..."
Make that a stationary, magic-less broom. That's about the speed of time at the moment.
I must be having a right blast then.
Woo hoo.
Oh, God, I'm really sorry. You know, for the sarcasm. You must think I'm a really, really crappy person. I mean, what with the basically ignoring Harold, the facetious comments... I guess the darkness inside of me is finally exposing itself.
Oh, dear goodness, this was probably how Voldemort started out, wasn't it? First he started using poor listening skills, then came the mental sarcastic remarks... and before you knew it he had begun his reign of terror and didn't have even a nub for a nose.
Actually, maybe I'm just being paranoid... Haha. Yeah. I mean, I'll admit I tend to overthink a smidgen.
My hand flew to my nose all the same.
Bloody quaffletarts.
... I think its gotten... smaller.
"... Wouldn't you agree, Posie?"
"Er- what! What! What's going on?" I jumped from my seat, startled by Harold's voice, my hand still clutching my apparently shrinking nose.
You see, sometimes I become so engulfed in my thoughts I lose touch with reality completely. And, many times, the only word that can withdraw me from the insanity of my brain is my own name.
Or, in this case, a name that wasn't my name but a name that someone was under the impression was my name.
If you didn't quite catch that, let me articulate. For the past thirty minutes and forty two seconds that I've spent with Harold McLaggen, we've been settled on an olive-colored sofa positoned in the back corner of the room of requirement, discussing the finer matters of life over blasting music and ridiculously loud partiers. And by discussing the finer matters of life, I mean Harold McLaggen gabbing endlessly about Harold McLaggen, Harold McLaggen's interests, and every aspect of Harold McLaggen's life without Rose Weasley getting in three words. Well, actually I did put in three words. Those being 'Its Rose, actually,' when he first called me Posie. Three words he clearly didn't bother to retain.
So, yeah, that's about it; Rose Weasley spends thirty minutes with a guy and he still hasn't learned her name. Story of Rose Weasley's life.
"I asked you, Posie," Harold sighs, taking a dramatic pause, "if you agree that Hogwarts should issue some sort of doctrine to make enrollment more selective. I'm just saying the students here are really losing their class," Harold sniffed disgustedly, looking blatantly repulsed by our peers.
I sort of stare at him for moment, digesting the high-watered, striped trousers, the numerous mustard stains, the dandruff flakes that are currently cascading from his carrot-colored hair as he scratches his head, the suspicious tuna smell that is wafting from his parka.
Hmm.
"Erm... you really think so, Harold?" I ask, tilting my head to the side.
"Oh, Posie," Harold chuckles, "you make me laugh. I mean, who else other than our peers? Me?" Harold joked, cackling heartily.
I fake-laugh loudly, "Haha, definitely not you, that's for sure!"
The part of me that was still hoping Harold was somewhat normal has just been completely destroyed by the knowledge that, quite clearly, the kid is bloody delusional.
After our awkward chorus of laughing dies, an even more awkward silence follows. An awkwardly awkward silence in which Harold stares at me while smirking and licking his lips. In the meantime, I take a sip of water while my eyes casually scan the room for anything but his. I can still feel it though... the staring. His careful observance of my every move. His unblinking eyes studying-
Is it just me, or is Harold starting to sound like a serial killer?
"Oh, Posie, you're so smexy when you do that. You know... drink water," Harold groans, scooching himself closer to me.
I choke a bit, making a mental promise to never drink water again before scooching farther from Harold, "Erm... thanks."
You see, Harold and I have been playing the scooching game for the past twenty five minutes. He'll make a sexual comment that will add to my severe discomfort, then scooch closer to me. In return, I will awkwardly respond and scooch farther away from him. Its a game of sorts I suppose, except I'll be the inevitablely be the loser because I will eventually run out of sofa to scooch away from Harold. And when that dreaded point finally arrives, the thing Harold has attempted to make happen for the past twenty five minutes will unfortunately happen...
Our bodies will... touch.
Merlin, help me.
I look to my right; I only have about three inches until the end of the sofa.
Harold licks his apparently critically dry lips yet again and slides in closer to me.
Make that two inches...
God, I need time! A distraction!
"Erm, so, Harold... what are your plans for the future?" I ask, hoping to hinder Harold's movenment while I conjure a plan to slip away.
Now, I know what you're thinking... Why not just flee without explanation before Harold's apparently grease-covered body comes into contact with mine? Believe me, I want nothing more than to sprint off to my room now and immerse myself in blankets and books like the sad, little hermit I am. However, there's just two issues with that method of escape. One being my lovely cousin Dom's wrath when Harold explains my rude departure, and the other being... well, I just can't do that to Harold. I couldn't just ditch someone. So what if his pants are a little tight, and his behavior is a little, erm, deeply unsettling. I'm pretty sure the kid has feelings. You know, most likely.
"My plans for the future? If you're thinking about our wedding already just say so!" Harold chuckled. "Don't you think that's just a tad forward though, Posie?"
Wh-... what?
I part my lips to say something, but without success. Instead, my mouth open and closed repeatedly like a blubbering fish.
I was wrong; the kid isn't delusional, he's bloody mental.
"However, in terms of career goals for the future, I've decided that, while playing the piccolo on the side obviously, I'd fancy entering the kneazle-cat market," Harold smirks, looking pleased with himself.
"Oh, mmhmm, what's that?" I asked, attempting to sound intrigued while recovering from Harold's previous assumption.
But, I guess that doesn't sound so bad. The kneazle-cat market, I mean. Harold likes animals. Maybe, just maybe, he's not that horrible afterall.
Just a normal guy. Enjoying some feline.
...
Yeah, that didn't really come out right, did it?
"Well, its not very popular, honestly. Though I cannot possibly see why. To put if briefly, its, well, we basically provide a home for kneazles and cats. The responsibilities entail feeding them, caring for them, and so on."
I nodded, nonchalantly wiping Harold's spit from 'popular' off my cheek, "Sounds nice."
"But in the end its trying to create the perfect cross between the unremarkable cat and the untameable kneazle. So I would then force the two breeds to take part in sexual activity. Quite often. Meanwhile, I'd come up with new charms to improve the offspring of kneazles and cats! For instance, I've already perfected a charm to increase the nutrional value of kneazle milk by 5.38 percent! 5.38 percent! And I've currently been slaving away on one to increase the sex drive of the male cat!"
...
Well... I was right... Harold does enjoy animals.
Just, you know... oddly.
"Doesn't that sound, splendid, Posie?"
"Yeah... splendid. That's, yeah, that's certainly the word for it," I cough, then take a gargantuan gulp of water as if its-
Oh, fricktarts!
I hurl my water bottle across the room to prevent myself from doing what I swore I would never do... Drink water. Especially in the presence of ' Harold Turned-On-By-H20-Consuming McLaggen.'
Believe me, the last thing I want to do is give Harold the wrong idea. And if dying by dehydration is what I must do to prevent that, that is what I shall do.
"But enough about my passion," Harold exhales, clearly not noticing the half-full plastic bottle zooming an inch above his head, "and more about... us."
On that word, his hot, peanut-butter scented breath warms my cheek in the most repulsive, vomit-inducing way possible.
And then he begins to do the inevitable, the dreaded....
He ... scooches.
"Erm... I don't think you really understand -" I say, now leaning over the arm of the couch to avoid Harold.
"Yeah," Harold whispers in what he apparently thought was a sexy voice. "I can feel the electricity between us too."
Dear mother of french toast.
"Harold, I really don't-" I begin to say, my torso now hanging over the end of sofa.
I can just imagine how ridiculous the situation must look: Me stretched impossibly over the edge of the couch, probably with saucer-sized eyes and an expression of pure terror etched on my face. Then Harold with all his lick lipping and ear scratching, practically crushing me with his body, leaning toward me with puckered lips. And-
Wait..
Did I just say... puckered lips?
Oh. Snap.
"Shh..." Harold whispers, leaning towards me, his lips pressed together and curved in a circle, "Say no more, Posie love."
...
You know how near death circumstances how people always claim that time slows nearly to a halt, how their life flashes before their eyes? Well, I thought I knew that feeling by just reading about it.
But never, until this moment, with Harold McLaggen's cracked, infected-looking lips seconds away from grazing mine, did I ever experience it...
Time stood still, the party noises were replaced with a haunting chorus of the Hogwarts anthem (Yeah, I really do not know) , and a plethora of memories replayed before me.
The whole shebang was rather disturbing to be frank. And most of the memories were just me tripping over things... me doing homework... me doing other people's homework... me tripping over things... In otherwords my life in general.
And my cousins say I don't know how live.
PSSHT.
"Oh, Posie," Harold moaned, breaking me out of my momentary trance.
The ringing fades and shouts of drunken students and Celestina Warbeck's amplified voice suddenly fill my ears. I look up and-
Holy son of a firebolt.
Harold's face was literally an inch from mine, his lips puckered and ready for landing.
Oh, God, Rose, move! Freaking MOVE!
With the skills of a ninja, I somehow manage to roll out from under Harold's doughey form in the nick of time.
I collapse on the floor with a thump, and wipe my forehead with relief. Oh, God, I don't even want to think about what could've happened. Or, more accurately, what... almost was. A shiver runs through my body as I recount how close I came to nearly losing my lip virginity.
Hey, at least it will make for a decent story.
... Not that I have any friends to tell it to.
Oh.
"What in the name of a galloping gargoyle is going on, Posie?" Harold demands loudly. "What is the meaning of this?"
Crap.
Think, think, think...
My eyes scanned the room desperately for something... inspiration for a suitable explanation. I couldn't tell him the truth; the truth was cruel. Sure Harold was too creepy and undesirable to even consider kissing, but I couldn't tell him that. I mean, maybe someone like Dom could. Not that she would every be that position. But even so I didn't have her nerve. And besides, he was still a good person. Kind of. I couldn't just hurt his feelings just because he made feel incredibly uncomfortable.
My eyes flitted around dark room, lit only by strobe lights, booze charmed to glow in the dark, and spells being cast from intoxicated students' wands, inspecting every object and person.
But still nothing.
My eyes finally settled on my watch.
8:56
Suddenly, I had a brain blast.
"Oh, Harold! I am so so so sorry!" I exclaim dramatically, rising to my feet. "God, I- Its nearly nine! Nearly my bedtime! I didn't even realize until now. Time was just flying on by, I was having such a good time! WHOOSH! Wow! Yeah, such a fantastic time! F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C! Ha ha!"
You know, there's a reason I'm not an actress. And that reason is everytime I attempt to act, I sound like a southern belle who overdosed on Felix Felicis and happy pills. To be honest its not usually a believable performance.
Harold's tongue grazes his teeth as he stands up. "Well, I suppose this is farewell for the night."
"Haha, yep! Unfortunately! Yes, I really really have to go! It was lovely though! Thank you! Bye!"
I bolt towards the door but something attaches itself to my wrist to hold me back and I fly backwards.
"Now, wait just a minute there, smexy..."
Oh, Merlin, no.
"Not before I say goodbye... properly," Harold breathes heavily in my ear.
I was so close too.
Harold casts a creepy wink at me, then lifts my reluctant hand, gradually raising it to his-
"Oh, erm, my mother told me I wasn't allowed to let boys touch my hands Harold," I quickly say in a panicked voice, a centimeter before his mouth slobbered over my palm. "I'm really sorry."
My mother doesn't let boys touch my hands?
Again, what is wrong with me?
"Oh, I see," Harold smirks, looking unphased as he drops my hand. "You're one of those... innocent ones aren't you, Posie."
I don't respond. Instead, I widen my eyes and take a slight step back.
He has this way of lingering on certain words that really freaks me out.
Harold groans then leans in to my ear, "Well I'll just have to do something about that won't I?"
"Erm... I had really better get going!" I exclaim, powerwalking towards the door before Harold can attempt to do anything about that.
"Why don't I walk you down to the common room, Posie. Unless you would rather stay in... my room..."
"No, I'm good! Thanks!" I shout, dodging partiers and spells as I dash to the portal, my legs moving more rapidly than they ever had in the entirety of my life.
"I'll be seeing you very soon, Posie. Even if you don't see me..."
What the-
I turn around briefly and see Harold staring unblinkingly at me, moistening his finger with his tongue before placing it on his-
Merlin's PANTS!
I accelerate to a full sprint as I depart from the room of requirement, not bothering - nor wanting - to take a mere glance back.
I fly through the winding cooridors, up and down staircases with tricks I've learned to anticipate, attempting to separate myself as far as from Harold McLaggen as possible. Its nearly curfew, but I don't venture back toward the Gryffindor Tower. I don't want to curl up on my four poster; I want fresh air, space to breathe.
Miraculously, after minutes of sprinting and shaking my mind of everything that had just happened, I arrive at the steel, spiral staircase I was hunting for. And by 'miraculously', I truly mean miraculously. I mean, I have about as much directional sense as I do grace. And I have about as much of a tendency to get lost as I do to be awkard. You do the math on that one.
I ascend quickly up the stairs, making sure to grip the railing tightly; I've collapsed down steps enough times in my day. Then again, one more time probably wouldn't make a difference. I release my white-knuckled grip from the germ-infested railing, figuring I probably won't fall anyway.
I mean, today hasn't precisely been the epitome of wonderful. Maybe Merlin will go easy on me for the rest of the night, give me some temporary balance or something. Besides, its not like the evening could get any-
I face-plant on the top, steel step.
-worse.
I pick myself up, whistling like I didn't just fail at life yet again, and pull on the iron ring handle of the door leading to the Astronomy Tower.
*****
November 6th - Saturday - 9:07 pm - The Astronomy Tower "The Incident"
A gentle November breeze grazes my cheeks as I enter. I close the door gently behind me then step forward to the stone barrier. There's a nip in the wind, so I hug my arms to my chest. Its nice though, the coolness; the sensation of cold takes my mind off things.
Things like the threat of Harold McLaggen watching me. Or things like Harold McLaggen's signature tuna scent that is still somehow lingering in my nostrils. Or the things like-
Actually, screw you, sensation of cold, you don't take my mind off things! You just make me bloody COLD!
I release an agitated huff and lean over the barrier of the astronomy tower.
Why is it that I can solely express my feelings toward non-living things? Like cold? Or stairs (aka bloody contraptions of heck.)? Yet I can't even tell the textbook definition of a future rapist that he's making me uncomfortable?
Honestly, how did I even wind up in Gryffindor? I mean, I doubt I possess a single nerve or courageous bone in my body; I'm just a weirdo who mentally freaks out on unanimate objects. Whoopdy do.
And now I'm saying whoopdy do. Lovely.
Maybe James was right all along; Maybe the sorting hat is on crack. Clearly that's the only explanation for a coward like me getting sorted into a house infamous for its residents' bravery.
Or possibly I'm too lame for any house so the hat just placed me in Gryffindor for simply the cruel irony of it.
Actually, you know, that sort of makes sense.
Cruel, ironic hat.
I watch the smoke-like air escape from my lips as I exhale, feeling even more loser-ish than usual. I know its the right thing to do, trying to be nice I mean. But sometimes, I wish that just once I could speak my mind. Refuse to wordlessly accept whatever Dom or anyone elses inflicts on me. Stand up for myself.
I shake my head, shoving those thoughts elsewhere. I didn't want to speak my mind if it meant pain at another's expense. And I couldn't very well stand up for myself without inevitably, unintentionally hurting someone else. In the end, I would rather accept the suck than dish it out. If that makes any sense. So my cousins took advantage of me sometimes. So Harold McLaggen would most likely continue to make me uncomfortable until I graduate. I would rather just embrace that, deal with it myself, instead of making an issue of it all. There was no need for conflict. It wasn't necessary for me to assert myself. And, really, everything is perfectly fine the way it is.
And, besides, I shouldn't stand around feeling sorry for my situation.
Now what was that thing I always did when I needed to raise my spirits?
Right.
"I've got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine, I've gotta love, and I know that its all mine, oh. WHOA OH!" I sing at a blood-curdling volume.
I then squint my eyes shut and spread my arms out like a bird. "DO WHAT YOU WANT AND YOU'RE NEVER GONNA BREAK THIS, STICKS AND STONES ARE NEVER GONNA SHAKE THIS! OH! WHOA OH WHOA."
I proceed to do a beautiful combination of the running man - my signature move - and the cabbage patch as I commence the next verse, "TAKE ME AWAAAY! A SECRET PLACE! A SWEET ESCAPE! TAKE ME A-"
My voice abruptly goes mute and I clasp my palm to my mouth.
Somehow, over my obnoxiously, ungodly loud singing, I hear the door creak open.
Oh. Crap.
This is the part where I get murdered, isn't it? Actually, getting slaughtered would be preferable if they heard my god-awful rendition of Pocketful of Sunshine.
Or, even worse yet... witnessed my dance moves.
Merlin, help me.
I rest my back against the stone edge of tower, my heart beating at approximately a million beats per second. I try to look intimidating, like someone even the baddest of bad would not want to cross, but most likely resemble a scared puppy instead.
I brace myself for the worst - either Voldemort risen from the dead or Harold McLaggen - as the portal widens.
Holy french toast.
Holy french toast.
HOLY. FRENCH. TOAST.
I didn't realize my eyes were shut until a voice says, "Rose?"
Well, I suppose this is goodbye, sweet sweet earth.
Carefully, I open one eye at a time. And-
My jaw hangs open as I study the figure before me... The sandy blonde locks, the sparkly blue eyes, the smile so dazzling I can still see it in the dark of night.
Lysander Scamander.
Cue the sky-rocketing heart rate.
*****
*Another note: Hey! Did I mention I adore you for reading this chiz? Anyway, I have more written up and was planning on making this a longer chapter, but then I decided I wanted to have... 'The Incident' in chappie four instead. :) Hope you don't mind too badly.
So... think Harold is delightfully repulsive? Find Rose to be a an awkwardly, nerdly child who needs to freaking assert herself already? Want Sander already? Or Scorpius? If so, stick around for chapter four where your magical dreams will come true.
Kind of.
Or not.
Anyway tell me your thinkerings in the box situated below!
THANK YOU FOR YOUR AWESOMENESS! :D
Chapter 4: The Art of Gormandizing Rejection Ice Cream On Your Knees At Night
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*Author's Note: *timidly* ... Hey, friendship. :) Actually, no one's going to read this. Which is understandable. But I will proceed anyhow.
Please don't loathe me. Please? Please? I'm so sorry about the wait again. Believe it or not most of this chapter was completed in September. But then life got terribly busy and... well. I'll show you.
September: Sports and an abundance of homework and assignments and lab reports oh my! Other stuff too but my memory is particularly sucky as its 1:30 in the morning.
October: Elected to homecoming court! No, really, I was thoroughly astounded too. What? People like me? That is some unfeasible shit right there, that is. I was in a parade and got to march out on the football field in 4 inch red heels and a skimpy dress in 20 degree weather too. It was amazing though. :) (Note: I DIDN'T FALL! WOOT WOOT!)
November: Fat kidded Thanksgiving like a boss. Qualified for the State meet for my sport. More school. There's a mortifying story about my mom calling my crush at the time's grandma too but I'll spare you.
December: Got a boyfriend. WHAT? I know, nerdcake like me getting a boyfriend. Believe or not unfeasible shit like that happened. But unfeasible shit only can last for so long. Which brings us to our next month...
January: Broke up with boyfriend. Which ineffably sucks because he was one of my best friends. Note the was. Anyway, this is probably TMI for you, so I'll stop. I love talking about my trivial problems so if you want to know anything --- Well, I'm not permitted to mention the site that starts with an f that most hpff authors go on. But if you care about my melodrama of an uneventful life, I would adore if you asked questions there or in the reviews here! :D
So, in essence, I'm sorry about the wait. I'm also sorry I skimped on Scorp's 'appearance' here. BUT HE'S IN HERE I PROMISE EVEN IF ITS FOR ONE LINE OF DIALOGUE AND SOME THOROUGH ONCE-OVERING! I'm hoping to release chappie 5 ASAP. All Scorpius. Please don't hate me or punch me. And lastly this probably sucks a lot. So please don't judge me or tape a kick me sign on my back and lampoon me. I'M VERY DELICATE! But this chapter isn't as funny as the last, just to warn you. Its more fillery, so my apologies.
OH AND THANK YOU SOOO MUCH FOR READING THIS, LOVE! YOU BEAUTIFUL, WONDERFUL CREATURE! :D
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING YOU RECOGNIZE. ESPECIALLY NOT HOUSE ELVES OR COOKIE DOUGH ICE CREAM OR POCKETFUL OF SUNSHINE OR NATASHA B. OR RYAN GOSLING. (MOST UNFORTUNATELY)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(Scorpius Malfoy. THANK YOU TO REBEL_HEART AT TDA! :))
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November 6th - Saturday - 9:16 pm - The Astronomy Tower "The Incident"
* * *
Okay, Rose. Cool. For once in your pathetic gosh darn existence just be cool.
I pressed myself against the frigid stone barrier of the astronomy tower and exhaled, repeating that word in my head.
Cool.
Right.
Cool. As in I totally wasn't just singing and dancing atrociously to Pocketful of Sunshine by myself. As in acting indifferent to Lysander Scamander's drool-inducing, tongue-tying presence. As in not blushing when he shoots his Witch-Weekly's-Most-Charming-Smile-Award-worthy beam...
And as in, most obviously, not fangirling.
Which, you know, I'm so totally not.
Pssht.
LYSANDER SCAMANDER! OH MY GOODNESS HE'S SO FIT! HOLY MOTHER OF CANADIAN BACON, IS HE FIT! AND THAT SMILE... OH GOOOOOOOD! JUST MARRY ME, LOVE! JUST MARRY ME!
...
That. That wasn't me...
Just a little bit.
But, I mean, this is Lysander we're talking about. Lysander flipping Scamander with all his charm and face of sunshine and apple-scented hair.
... Not that I would precisely... per se... know his hair's signature aroma. I mean, he just appears as though he might possibly maybe perhaps be a fruity-smelling hair sort of bloke.
Yup.
... So I smelled him once.
Or, you know, three times.
Look, its not my fault that I sit behind him in arithmancy! I mean, maybe you could claim my action of leaning over to sniff him was partially voluntary but...
I'm a sad, sad, creeping person okay! Don't judge me.
But, regardless of everything, I'm going to be cool For once, I'm going to exhibit the social behavior of a normal person and have an actual, non-awkward conversation with someone. And I'm not going to let my diminutive, insignificant, completely minor feelings of infatuation affect that.
"Hey, Rose, what's up?" Lysander suddenly said amiably, silencing my inner ranting.
Oh... Oh gosh.
My stomach plummeted to my feet.
What's up?
What's up?!
Yeah, how in the name of muffins am I supposed to respond to that without mortifying myself?
A numbing panic swept through my body. My lips opened and closed repeatedly as I racked my stupefied brains for a non-humiliating, non-moronic answer.
"Erm..." I mumbled intelligently.
Oh, God, Rose! Think!
What is that word you use to greet people?
I squinted my eyes, now desperately searching my fuzzy, temporarily paralyzed mind for any acceptable English. For some reason only the word 'lemons' kept popping up.
Actually, not so much popping up as being chanted in my head with a haunting, never-ending repetitiveness like a citrus-obsessed cult.
Lemons. Lemons. Lemons. Lemons. Lemons...
You know, I think my encounter with Harold did more mental damage than I originally suspected.
Or maybe Merlin thought it would be comical to strip me of my thought and speech capabilities whilst in the presence of the boy I fancied and watch me suffer. Or, in other words, essentially fail at life.
Because clearly I don't do that enough on my own.
Lysander coughed from the other side of the Astronomy Tower, looking slightly uncomfortable. And-
Oh crap.
And I just realized that I've been gawking at Sander during the entirety of my pathetic ten second brainstorming session.
Now not only have I given my crush of six years the impression that I am a speechless, daft idiot, but an awkward, creepy, ogling freak as well.
Lovely job, Rose.
My cheeks warm and I avert my eyes from Sander, who is beginning to (understandably) look very much concerned.
He has an adorable concerned face; His nose gets all scrunched up and he squints those baby blues just a bit... Its soo-
You know, I should probably say something now instead of continuing to appreciate his face.
Or I should have probably said something fifteen seconds ago. Like the normal person that I am clearly not.
Well, on the bright side, I couldn't possibly say anything at this point to make me look more stupid than I already do.
I breathe and mentally repeat my mantra: 'Cool.'
Phew. Okay. I got this. I so got this.
"Yo, yo, yo, dude! Sup broseph? What's popping, dawg?"
...
You know, there's a reason why English witches don't speak in the locution of American gangsters.
And this is it.
I pressed my palm to my burning countenance, simultaneously wishing Merlin would just kill me already, and waiting to hear Lysander dart down the stairs to escape my weirdness...
...Every rapid footstep a reminder of how I had completely ruined the one in a trillion chance I had of ever having an actual conversation with him.
Did I mention how much I severely loathe myself?
Because I do. I seriously do.
"Oh just getting some fresh air," Sander laughed, apparently unfazed. "You?"
I peered up at him incredulously. He hadn't left?
Seriously?
Did he not just hear my previous, social-suicidal words?
Actually, I probably heard him wrong just now.
Maybe he was advising me to seek counseling. Or inquiring whether or not I had mental issues.
Ha ha, yeah. That must be it.
"Oh, yeah, no, I haven't sought out therapy yet. Don't worry though, I'm completely stable. Thanks," I replied cheerfully.
"Uh... what?" Lysander looked thoroughly confused.
... Or maybe he really was asking me...
Oh.
Well this is awkward.
I giggled, trying to diffuse the the tangible awkwardness in the air, "Oh, you know, I've just been..."
I paused.
Clearly the truth - Singing to Pocketful of Sunshine badly, dancing to Pocketful of Sunshine badly, and currently attempting to not drool at your hotness - were not socially acceptable answers.
"Oh, yeah, I've just been... looking at the stars."
Our gazes simultaneously shifted towards the...
Completely starless sky.
...
I. Hate. Myself.
"Well, er, I meant waiting for the clouds to move. Yeeeahh..." I improvised badly.
I turned around to face the bleak-looking, starless sky, waiting, again, to hear Lysander open the portal and leave.
But, don't get me wrong, I'm completely at ease with that. You know, the fact that Lysander would, in a matter of seconds, make a hasty departure from the Astronomy Tower and pray to Merlin he never encountered the hopelessly awkward, socially moronic Rose Weasley ever again.
And, I mean, most girls would probably be upset if they had essentially mortified the french toast out of themselves and ruined the zero chance they had with the bloke they fancied. But, in terms of the Rose Weasley social interaction scale, mortifying the french toast of myself and ruining the zero chance I had with the bloke I fancied was a gargantuan triumph.
No, seriously.
I'm honestly really proud of myself right now.
"Oh, cool. Mind if I join?" Lysander asked, strolling up beside me.
... What?
The bloke was still here?
What the...
I raised my eyebrows dubiously. "Are you serious?"
I pinched my forearm because, clearly, if - of all people - the God of Hogwarts hadn't abandoned me by this point, the only excuse is that I'm dreaming.
Unless, hypothetically, I was addicted to psychodelic potions. Then the reason would be that I was hallucinating.
But, you know, I'm not a potions addict, so that was actually really irrelevant.
"Yeah, I'm serious!" Lysander suddenly laughed, startling me. "Why? Is my presence bothersome to you, Rose Weasley?"
Lysander Scamander... knows my full name?
Blatantly dreaming.
I smiled, "Lysander Scamander bothersome to me? Never. I'm just surprised that you would want to join in on my lame... erm... cloudwatching."
"Well I'm just surprised that unblemished-record-holder Rose Weasley is out past curfew. You know, as Head Boy I have no choice other than to report you to Filch."
"Oh my gosh," I slapped my palm to my forehead. "You're right! I am so sorry! I just needed some air and completely disregarded-"
"I'm kidding!" he laughed, punching my arm jovially. "I would never report you, Rose."
He winked and my cheeks colored back to their usual shade of gules.
Oh that boy and all his bloody attractiveness.
"Erm... thank you for not reporting me then," I said shyly, looking everywhere but his eyes.
"Oh, no problem," Lysander waved my comment away with his hand, his eyes meeting mine and...
Oh my God are his eyes blue. Like huge, glittering sapphires with the power to make my heart beat a million times faster than its normal pace.
I averted my gaze as my heart rate aggrandized and sighed softly to myself.
"You're James Potter's cousin, right?"
"Hmm?" I mumbled, before breaking out of my momentary trance. "Er, yeah. Why? What has he done now?"
I rubbed my temples and frowned, expecting the worst. Which, in James' case, was particularly bad. I mean, my entire family is shocked that the kid has made it to seventh year without expulsion, getting himself killed, killing someone else, or getting chucked in Azkaban. Out of my plethora of cousins, he definitely is the most mischievous. Which is really really saying something. The Potter-Weasley cousins aren't precisely notorious for abiding by the rules.
Lysander grinned, "Oh, no, he hasn't done anything recently. Well, at least anything that I know of. No, like, I just thought I remember seeing you when I went over to the Potters' last holiday."
"Oh, right. I think we were both at the Burrow for Christmas Eve. Yeah... I have a vague recollection."
Or a vivid memory of observing your every move and almost dying when our hands touched as I passed you the squash.
Yeah. A vague recollection sounds a little less creepy.
"Wow," Lysander closed his eyes and shook his head. "I am such a dumbarse. Of course you're James Potters' cousin! Everyone knows that the Weasleys and Potters are like... Wow. I'm sorry."
I waved his comment away, smiling, "Please, don't be. I'm actually accustomed to being the forgotten one."
Lysander chuckled and we both just sort of gazed at the... well, not stars... ominous looking clouds for awhile.
I furtively shifted my pupils to Sander, who was admiring the black sky with a trace of a smile on his face.
He was so flipping cute that I had to bite my lip to restrain myself from grinning.
Or to restrain myself from releasing a fangirl-esque squeal that probably would have scared the french toast out of him and ultimately ruined the moment.
I propped my elbows up on the surface of the barrier, thinking about how absolutely unbelievable this was. How absolutely implausible it was that I was literally an inch away from Lysander Scamander, watching the motion of the night clouds and acting somewhat normal. I mean, twenty minutes ago, had things continued the way they seemed to be going, I would have probably been attempting to politely tell Harold McLaggen I wasn't interested while he suffocated me with his tuna-scented body and told me more details about the kneazle-cat breeding that I really didn't want to hear.
I shivered a little in repulsion as that scenario crossed my mind.
"Are you cold?" Lysander asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
Aww. How sweet was he?
"Oh, no. I was just... thinking about-"
Harold McLaggen.
"-something weird," I decided.
"Really? You must be freezing though!" Lysander exclaimed. "I'm sorry, if I had a jacket I'd give it to you. Or if I was, like, better at Accio, I'd-"
"No, its okay," I assured him. "The cold is sort of invigorating actually. But thank you, though."
Lysander looked a little confused, and then laughed unsurely, "If you're okay then."
I returned a smile and glanced up at his mesmerizing blues.
"Why are you up here?" I suddenly said, the question slipping out as it entered my mind. "Instead of at the victory party thing?"
"Oh, yeah. That." Lysander frowned, shaking the dirty blonde locks from his eyes. "It was pretty lame. I mean, it was all right, but I wasn't really in the mood. Like, I didn't really feel like watching the same old prats getting smashed or dealing with the usual drama, you know what I mean?"
Never being involved in the party scene, I didn't really know what he meant. So, naturally, I nodded sympathetically. You know, to elucidate how aware I was of the woes of popularity.
"I just wanted to like, get away from it for awhile. I mean, I went for like ten minutes to see if anyone cool was there but... Oh! And James wasn't even there! And, obviously, a party isn't a party without James Potter," Lysander paused, smiling at the sky as though he was remembering James fondly. "Yeah, but I think James was planning on hooking up with Cassidy, and..."
Lysander stopped and bit his lip, "But you probably don't want to hear about that, do you?"
I crinkled my nose, "Eh, not particularly. I hear about his escapades much too often as it is."
And by too often, I mean at least daily I hear some girl describing her... experiences... with my rather promiscuous cousin in what is usually graphic, highly disturbing detail.
You've never really gagged until you've overheard a relative's bum being compared to 'the sexy, muscular ars(STAR) of a mother(STAR STAR STAR STAR)ing angel.'
"Yeah, I can't imagine your pain in having that manwhore for a cousin," Sander joked.
We both cracked up and I marveled at how surprisingly effortless it was to be with Sander. I mean, all these years I sort of viewed him as unreachable, untouchable. And, sure, he is obviously still far, far, far out of my league. But I sort of always thought that it would be impossible to converse with him. Like that he was so ungodly high above me that I wouldn't be able to be around him without blushing or spazzing or making a fool of myself. Well, except at first encounter... And I knew he was sweet, but I would have never expected that he would be so... normal. Like he was completely oblivious to our evident status difference. Which in my mind was absolutely crazy... the most popular guy in Hogwarts acting indifferent to the fact that I was merely a wallflower.
"So you weren't at the party were you? I never see you at any. You're probably too good for that shit anyway," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Actually, my lovely cousin Dom forces me to tag along with her to almost every one," I shook my head and smiled. "I'm not really in the middle of the party scene. You would probably find me in the corner reading pretentious literature and getting firewhiskey spilled on me though."
Way to make yourself look cool and not at all like a sad, pathetic loser, Rose. Really. I commend you on your ability to constantly make yourself appear more pitiful by the second.
Sander's crinkled his eyebrows, "For real? I, like, have never seen you at anything. I always see Dom though."
Well now there's a surprise.
"What?" Sander said.
Did I say that out loud?
"Er, nothing."
"Oh. Well, the next time there's a party and I want to talk to someone cool. I'll make sure to check the corner," Lysander beamed, shooting me a wink.
And there goes the feeling in my legs.
I twirled a strand of auburn hair around my index finger and grinned cheekily, "As long as you don't spill any alcohol on me and have a few intelligent thoughts on classic literature, you're totally welcome to join me there."
Oh. My. God.
Did I just kind of a little bit flirt?
With Lysander Scamander?
Without stuttering or blushing or peeing myself?
What is this madness?
"Did you know that you're really awesome to talk to, Rose?"
I blushed for about the thousandth time and snorted attractively, "Not really."
"Yeah you are! I swear, like, you're the nicest person I've talked to."
I didn't really know how to respond, so I just laughed and thanked him.
Well, I mean, I blushed too, but at this point my cheeks were stained an atrocious color of red that didn't so much blush as kept getting darker and darker.
Something vibrated loudly, prompting me to jump a little and Lysander to pull a slim, rectangular object from his back pocket.
"My wizPhone," Lysander assured me before glancing at the screen and releasing an exasperated sigh.
"Ugh. Apparently someone cast the Levicorpus hex on Finnegan and everyone is too wasted to remember the counter curse," he rolled his eyes. "You don't happen to know it do you?"
"Its 'Liberacorpus'," I answered instantaneously like the little nerd I was.
"Thanks, Rose, you're a genius," Lysander praised, causing me to pfft incredulously and melt a little.
He punched a few buttons on his wizPhone before it palpitated again.
"They're too smashed to do any magic," Lysander sighed as his eyes scrolled the screen, brushing hair from his ocean-blue eyes. "I better get down there before all of Finnegan's blood rushes to his head. Any spells to bring him back to life if he's dead by then?"
I squinted my eyes thoughtfully, "Hmm.. no revival spells that I'm aware of. But use 'Rennervate' if he's unconscious."
"You're unbelievable," Lysander beamed, leaning in before...
Oh.
My.
God.
Lysander Scamander kissed my cheek.
His beautiful lips grazed the surface of my perpetually blushing right cheek.
If I thought my heart rate had been rapid before, that was nothing compared to the insane, ridiculously unhealthy pace it was beating at now.
A goofy, dorky grin spread on my face and I couldn't help myself from putting my hand on my right cheek.
I would have tried to play it off like it was no big deal but... Lysander Scamander kissed my cheek.
Did I tell you that already?
"I better get going before Finnegan kills himself," I could barely hear Sander in my airy, giddy trance. "But talking with you was cool. We have to, like, hang out or something sometime."
"Yeah, definitely," I agreed without really thinking, most of me still floating and ascending high above the Astronomy Tower.
"I'll see you around Rose Weasley," Lysander Scamander winked again in that wildly charming, beautiful way of his.
With that goofy, dorky grin still etched on my face, I collapsed back into the stone barrier and breathlessly uttered something that resembled, "See you."
I watched Sander revolve himself around toward the portal, admiring the back of him in a totally non-creepy way. Reality was clouded by happy, dreamy haze, and all I could feel was... floatiness. Like I had temporarily been removed from the world and was hovering high in the atmosphere. And I felt like none of it had ever really happened. Like it had all just been an imagined fantasy.
A noisy creak awoke me from my temporary euphoria.
Lysander was pulling open the door, about to-
"Wait!" I suddenly breathed.
Part of the floatiness within me had transformed into a passionate insanity. The half of me that had finally found itself half-way in reality had lost all its reason and logic. My brain had lost its dominance to my senseless, stupid heart.
Lysander rotated back to face me, his visage contorted with worry, "What's wrong? What happened?"
I inhaled a gulp of frigid air and let out a deep, quivering breath.
"I think I'm in love with you."
...
Holy. Ships.
...
For the second time that night, it was as though I was witnessing everything unfold in tardigrade motion...
The gradual plummet of Lysander's jaw, the nearly-decelerated-into-stillness breeze...
Everything was painfully slow.
Except my ungraceful nose-dive back into real life. And except my transition from imbecilic-heart-thinking to reasonable-head-thinking.
And definitely except the quickly-processed knowledge that Rose Weasley had just royally screwed herself over.
Which, sure, she had done on numerous occasions due to her weird personality and knack for being a moronic nerdcake. But never to this humiliating, life-ruining extent.
"You... you think what?" Lysander rubbed his shoulder uncomfortably, squinting his eyes.
Oh God.
This is really awkward.
And that's coming from me.
I neglected to reply for a few seconds. I mean, what are you supposed to say when you've just confessed your affection for someone who barely knew you existed until that night, and then they ask you what you said when you know that they know what you said but the situation is just so bloody uncomfortable that you don't really feel like repeating your words of un-reciprocated love and putting yourself through more torture?
Holy mother of run ons I think I should receive an award for that one.
Actually, I should receive a punt in the face from myself for single-handedly ruining my already sad life.
Or maybe I should say something.
Or, better yet, explain to him that this is all an absurd dream before putting a confundus charm on him. Of course, then there would be the risk that he would become so confused he'd stumble off the Astronomy Tower...
Other than that would be an excellent idea. You know, if I didn't have morals.
Darn you, morals.
Well then. Truth it is.
"Okay," I said in small voice.
My hands were shaking and my stomach was fluttering with apprehension. It was a horrible feeling. I felt so nervous and small and uncomfortable. I just wished Merlin would let me vanish. Rescue me from having to continue.
"Lysander, I... Okay. So I've... I've had a really huge crush on you for a really long time."
I bit my lip and timidly peered up at Sander, who looked thoroughly shocked.
"I just... I just always thought you were really smart and sweet and pretty..."
Sander scrunched his eyebrows curiously.
"Er... I mean, you know, handsome. Yeah. And I just have always really liked you. And I just sort of got caught up in the moment. And I'm sorry about all this. And I feel really, really awkward right now and..." I sort of just stopped and buried my scathing face into my palms.
There was a few seconds of thick, unsettling silence.
"Wow," he finally said.
I widened the gap between my fingers so I could see through my hands.
Sander was still rubbing his shoulder.
"That is... wow. I'm sorry, I'm just sort of... surprised, I guess?"
I tried to conjure a reply, but nothing remotely response-worthy popped into my head.
"But... thank you though. That's really... nice," he finished.
I winced a little. Don't get me wrong, Lysander was being really kind about the whole ordeal. I mean, given that his admirer was me, I would have understood if he looked completely repulsed and lectured me on how I should find someone more on my level like Harold McLaggen to invest my undesired love into. But, even for the biggest losers of the world, having your love exchanged with a thank you and a 'that's really nice,' was slightly painful.
"And, Rose... Listen, you are so nice, and cute and everything.You're just really sweet and innocent, you know? You're perfect. Like too good for me."
I opened and closed my mouth repetitively.
Me too good for Lysander Scamander?
Is the boy bloody mad? Or does he have some serious self-worth issues or...?
I sighed as I tried to piece together what he meant.
"Like, its just that we wouldn't be right for each other. You're so... pristine."
"Pristine? Oh, no, no, no," I said cheerfully, waving the statement away. "I'm so amazingly far from being intemerate that one could say I was unpristine, actually. Terribly unpristine."
Lysander's lips crinkled upward into a half smile, "You're adorable. But you are. And I don't want to corrupt you. Look, Rose, what I'm trying to say is... I'm really tempted, but I can't. I'm sorry."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and whispered, "Stay sweet, love."
Without another word or glance back, he lifted the iron handle of the portal and descended down the steps.
When the door finally shut with harsh, punishing thud, I sunk to the stone floor.
For the first time that evening, I felt the bitter cold.
It wasn't pleasant.
For awhile, I sort of just laid there. I didn't self-loathe, or mull over the details of what had been the worst nights of my life, or puzzle over how I gone from being dizzy with glee to numb with nothingness. I simply laid. I simply was.
I felt nothing other than the cold.
* * *
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* * *
November 6th - Saturday - 10:34 pm - The Astronomy Tower 'Post-Incident But Before I Make Yet Another Mistake'
* * *
I am so stupid.
I rolled onto my back and tilted my head towards the sky, gazing at-
Hey! The stars are out!
You know, that's so exciting that I almost forgot about how stupid I was.
Because I'm really stupid.
Would you like to hear a funny story about how stupid I am? Well then, you'd better hold your socks so I don't knock them off when I explain to you how thoroughly, pathetically, ungodly stupid I am!
Ha ha. Right. Story time.
So, once upon a time, there was a really stupid girl who was hopelessly infatuated with an unattainable guy. Then stupid girl tells unattainable guy that-
BA HA HA!
Forgive me, I crack up telling this story every time. Its just so gosh darn funny how bloody stupid she is.
Anyway, stupid girl tells unattainable guy she's IN LURVE with him!
I know right! So stupid!
And then unattainable guy is really sweet about everything and lets her down really gently but, in the end, she still made an imbecile of her already stupid self. And then she winds up collapsing into fetal position on the Astronomy Tower in an unemotional blob.
And then, still a pathetic heap on the ground, she is so stupid that she begins telling this story to herself out loud. Like a flipping wacko, psychotic nutcase.
And that's the wonderful story of how Rose Weasley is really stupid.
The End and Happily Ever After for All and To All a Good Night for everyone but Rose Weasley who is really stupid.
You know, I really should become a griot. Like the African storytellers? I think I have a raw, natural talent for that.
Seriously.
You know what else I have a raw, natural talent for?
Being stupid!
I laughed hysterically with myself until I started choking, feeling only slightly mental.
Tonight had been absolutely catastrophic. A complete disaster. Everything had turned so terribly, horribly bad that it was almost comical. I mean, in my sixteen years of life I've humiliated myself an unfeasible amount of times and been in more awkward situations than one could go about counting. But tonight... Well, tonight was even worse than when I was seven and used the floo network by myself for the first time, said something that apparently sounded closer to 'Brazil' than 'Burrow', and ended up spending what was the most terrifying half hour of my life with an extraordinarily shady group of Latin Americans until Mum rescued me.
I placed my hands on my abdomen and extricated a sigh.
I wonder what time it is. It couldn't be that late, right? I mean, I'm not cold at all.
Actually...
I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead.
Nothing. I feel nothing.
I slapped myself a little bit, fruitlessly hoping to elicit some pain or any sensation of touch.
I kept smacking my face, purely for the sake of it making a really cool sound, until I realized it probably wasn't healthy that body was completely numb. And that I probably looked ridiculous sprawled across the ground of the Astronomy Tower bashing in my own face. But I had already put on a moronic display anyways, so the latter wasn't really an issue.
Besides, ridiculous would be just simply lounging on the ground by myself at whatever time at night, sans the slapping; The word for lounging on the ground by myself while hitting myself would be 'psychotic.'
Unexpectedly, I erupted into maniacal, lunatic laughter, taking even myself aback.
You know, I should probably get inside. Before the cold addles my brains more than it already clearly has.
Somehow, I picked myself up to my feet. Which, considering my body possessed no feeling whatsoever, was quite an impressive feat.
I hobbled over to the portal like a sad, crippled animal, only falling one time. It took me a substantial amount of time to open it given that my fingers were a little bit frozen to the point immobility...
You know, I could really use some help right now. Its rather a shame I have virtually no friends. Well, actually, I have a friend... If Dom counts. I don't know, our relationship isn't so much a friendship as it is a 'veela-cousin-who-pities-nerdy-pathetic-charity-case-of-other-cousin-and-attempts-to-help-out-said-pathetic-cousin-when-in-all-actuality-said-pathetic-cousin-just-ends-up-worse-off-than-before-ship.'
I shut the portal and sighed. At least Dom's intentions in helping me were good. Even if her aid and interference had only prevailed in dooming me. Dooming me to a dismal and terrifying... erm... 'date thing'... with Harold Cat-Happy McLaggen. Ultimately dooming me to the Astronomy Tower where I would sully any chance I ever had with the boy of dreams, consequently destroying whatever miniscule shred of dignity I formerly had.
I took my wobbly first step down the everlasting staircase, and shook my head. No, Dom was guiltless in this disaster. The sole role she had played in this mess was attempting to make me happy. However, the absolute abominable nature of the night was completely my fault. I mean, for one, Harold wasn't all that... repulsive. I shouldn't have made such a snap judgment, you know? Like, yeah, perhaps he was rather quirky, but there was most likely a deep, admirable explanation for that that would have made sense to me after awhile. I mean, Dom wouldn't have set me up with a complete dud, right? So it was my fault for not putting in any effort into my 'date thing.'
And obviously I only had myself to blame for the Sander Disaster. Granted, I was motivated by frustration and loneliness and every other repressed, unspoken feeling that had been growing inside me for the entirety of my life. After a lifetime of concealing everything, for once I just wanted to declare. Declare how I felt. Declare my feelings. Feelings that had intensified throughout the course of the evening and exploded. But still. I was guilty.
... And yes. You read that correctly. The Sander Disaster.
Rhymes elicit some sort of inexplicable joy in me, don't you see, golly gee?
You see what I did there?
Actually, a more fitting question would be, Why why why am I such a loathesome, sad individual?
I'll save that one for my therapist though.
Not that I actually 'have' a therapist... yet. I mean, I inevitably will someday. Its just one of those things that is going to happen. I can't stop it. Its just lingering there in future. And I don't know when its going happen, but I'm completely certain it will. Sort of like when Uncle Harry had the epiphany that his destiny was to vanquish Voldemort. He realized that an encounter with the Dark Lord was unstoppable. And he could escape it for some amount of time, but in the end, it was simply going to happen. I mean, he could have fled to Canada and grown a mustache and masqueraded as a maple syrup salesman for a bit. But, the point is, Voldemort was going to find him. I mean, he probably would have done something completely deplorable first like ridiculing the caterpillar above Uncle Harry's upper lip and stealing all of his maple syrup or something, but...
... What?
You know, sometimes the nonsense I spew out honestly scares me. I mean, imagine what I'll be like when I go senile.
... Oh dear God.
On second thought, please don't imagine.
...
* * *
After approximately 5 hours and seven minutes -not to mention an infinite number of eons - I finally reach the end of the staircase.
You know... reach... stumble... biff it painfully. Same difference, really.
I entered the corridor and ambled on aimlessly, not heading to my dormitory or... you know... anywhere entirely. Just walking.
For most likely the first time in my life I was apathetic. Indifferent. Woeless.
It was an odd feeling, as I was a perpetually woeful person. And now that I was in a situation that would inspire woe in even the more woeless people - strutting about the castle past curfew when Filch and his decrepit, feline companion are likely on the prowl - it was particularly odd to be experiencing the sensation of... erm... woelessness?
Sure, frolicking around the castle about an hour after curfew wouldn't precisely be considered terribly rebellious. Especially in my family. But for me it was sort of a big deal. I mean, I'm a strict abider of the law! A firm advocate of rule-following!
But now... Well I feel like a bad a-
A bad apple.
Wow.
Rose Weasley... official bad apple.
I like it.
My walk transformed into a gleeful, joyful skip that was most likely very bad-apple-esque. It was rather exciting, breaking the rules. You know, I can almost comprehend James' ridiculously idiotic, terribly bad actions now. Almost.
I continued on like that for a few corridors, feeling bad apple and woeless and wonderful.
I couldn't care less that I was putting my immaculate record in jeopardy. I couldn't care less that I was mortified and heartbroken and...
Just as abruptly as the woeless feeling had precipitated, it disappeared. The raw memory of the incident ignited in my conscious and burned there. The emotions I had repressed was suddenly and rapidly expanding within me, and I couldn't breathe. An urge to cry collected in my throat, but I wouldn't succumb to it.
Perhaps I was pathetic. In fact, I knew I was. I was pathetic to be this upset by the inevitable rejection, inevitable embarassment that would follow confessing my feelings to a boy who would never want me. It was a stupid thing to do. I was stupid. I deserved this. And I was pathetic. But I wouldn't cry.
I pressed my back to the wall of whichever corridor I was in and tried to catch my breath.
How could I have been so completely daft? Really though. I mean, has there ever been a time where I spoke out and it had positive consequences? Being spontaneous and brave and impulsive was for girls like Dom. Those were the girls who were destined to declare and rebel and take risks. The beautiful and wonderful girls. The conspicuous girls.
Not me. I was intended to be a wallflower. Blend in. Be nice. Follow the rules. I wasn't supposed to act boldly. Doing so would only disrupt the natural order of the universe. I wasn't an instigator or declarer or mess maker. I was meant to be an insignificant character, not a main one. Just there, not instigating conflict or wielding influence on the story. Just there.
And, you know, I've acknowledged that. I'm... I'm okay with that.
I just forgot for a moment.
I'll try not to forget again.
I rubbed my eyes and picked myself up, groping the wall to-
A shrill giggle echoed through the corridor, causing me to jump approximately an infinite amount of feet into the air and shriek at a volume I didn't know humans were capable of.
My head turned frantically, searching desperately for the source.
My heart was pumping at the pace of someone at wandpoint. I mean, when you hear a cute-to-the-point-of-demonic-sounding giggle in the dead of night - alone, mind you - you begin to freak out. Like about the possibility that your life is probably in the hands of some demented, cackling, midget clown or something.
Oh, God. It probably lurks in the corridors, then emits a cutesy-sounding chuckle before pouncing on you and strangling you with balloon animals!
HOLY FRENCH TOAST, THAT'S WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME, ISN'T IT!!?
But then I noticed sliver of light reflected on the wall. I revolved around to face a portal that had just opened. The kitchen portal.
The kitchen that opens its entrance when you tickle the painting of the pear. The pear, of course, releasing a giggle when you tickle it. Or, in this case, grope it.
I repressed a desire to smack my head in the forehead on account of my idiocy. Not to mention knack of jumping to lethal conclusions.
I looked around the corridor curiously, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Something was particularly inviting about the kitchen. But it felt wrong to enter at this hour. Or, actually, just enter at all.
I bit my lip and glanced at the kitchen. It was beckoning me almost. With its gleaming light and promise of nourishment.
Food.
Like Nom. Nom. Nom.
I took a step forward, but then stopped myself.
What in the name of french toast was I thinking anyway? Intruding in a place where students weren't even permitted in the first place? There wasn't even a purpose in it. And, again, it wasn't allowed, was it? I mean, even if James and Fred had done it numerous times.
I inhaled decisively and turned in the direction of the Gryffindor Tower. No, the idea of trespassing into the kitchen was ridiculous. Not to mention wrong and foolish and bad. Really bad.
But then I stopped myself again and took a long glance at the opened portal.
Oh... But- But- But-
Food.
...
Oh screw this internal conflict! THERE'S FOOD! YOU CAN'T RESIST FOOD!
I darted into the kitchen searching for any ort of nourishment I could find.
And holy pumpkintarts it was gorgeous.
Glimmering pots and pans were stacked along the stone walls. There was a plethora of appliances and immaculate countertops. And-
"Would Miss Weasley like something to eat? Twinky is happy to serve Miss Weasley!"
Startled, I jumped a bit before meeting a pair of big, brown eyes. A house elf.
"Hi, Twinky. How are you?" I asked pleasantly. As if it were a totally normal thing for a person to have just sprinted into the kitchen with the urgency of one escaping from a troll at Merlin knows whatever time at night.
A beam spread across her face, "Twinky is wonderful Miss Weasley! What would Miss Weasley like?"
You see. That's what I adored about house elves. If a human had witnessed me sprinting into the kitchen at Merlin knows what time of night, I would be chastised or judged or most probably lampooned for being a fat kid. But Twinky the House Elf harbors no judgment. Well, I mean, maybe she does. But she's tactful enough to be nice. Or maybe she just feels sorry for me because clearly I am a hopeless, nerd with mental issues so she will withhold the judgmental comments since clearly I am a pathetic individual. And-
You know, I think I may have a smidge of a tendency to overthink. But I still adore house elves nonetheless.
"Oh, that's okay. Actually, its quite rude of me to just barge in, so I'm really sorry. But thank you though..."
"Twinky would love to serve Miss Weasley! Twinky serves Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley every night!"
James and Fred.
Surprising.
"Do you think I could have some cookie dough ice cream, please?" I ventured timidly.
Because I just really wanted ice cream. Rejection just really arouses a craving for ice cream.
Winky clapped her palms together and a tub of ice cream nearly the size of myself materialized before me.
My jaw plummeted as I gazed down at the gargantuan display in front of me. No, I take back my previous statement; the ice cream tub was double the size of myself.
Well. That confirms it. Twinky does, in fact, think I'm a fat kid.
"Oh, wow, Twinky. Thank you so much but I don't think I can -"
"Miss Weasley is welcome!" Twinky said cheerily, before strutting off somewhere and deserting me with a container of cookie dough ice cream the volume of Neptune.
I exhaled and rubbed my hipster glasses - as Dom liked to call them - on my shirt.
So here I was. Heartbroken. Humiliated. Pathetic. Completely desolate. Well, except there was disgustingly massive tub of sugar by my feet. A really delicious tub of sugar...
I sank to my knees, prepared to begin gormandizing it like the pig I was. I lifted up my sp...
Spoon.
There was no spoon.
I picked myself up and scoured every kitchen crevice for some acceptable eating utensil. Anything.
I found an infinite supply of pots and pans. A really atrocious piece of cloth that may have been hat (but I wasn't sure.) And more pots and pans. Seriously, in this room alone, I'm almost positive there would be enough pots and pans to be lined up singularly along the equator and completely encircle the earth.
But literally no spoon. Or fork. Or spork. Or even chopsticks.
After sifting through the entirety of the kitchen, I came to a sad conclusion.
I closed my eyes. Then I looked at the ice cream tub.
I could practically hear it. The haunting, nonexistent whisper of the ice cream, I mean.
Hey there, little girl... Come eat me. I'm not dangerous. Just 4956394543897543975 calories of freaking delicious, that's all.
But, I mean. I couldn't. There wasn't even a eating utensil. And I couldn't conjure one without my wand.
You know, I really should start carrying my wand on me more often. I mean, not for defense or anything insignificant like that. Just for really crucial, imperative matters like when you need to conjure a spoon for your 5000 pounds of cookie dough ice cream.
I cast a pained glance at it. The tub. The irresistible creamy goodness.
I exhaled and clamped my eyes shut. There was only one way.
I rolled up my sleeves and winced.
Well, its not like I had dignity anyway..
And this is happening. This is actually happening, isn't it?
I'm actually about to immerse my entire arm in a enormous tub of rejection ice cream at eleven o' clock at night by myself.
On the optimistic side, I can probably never ever do anything more pitiful than this. And there's certainly no way in the name of Merlin that I could possibly sink to any level lower as a human being than at this moment.
Well... Cheers.
...
November 6th - Saturday - 11:23 pm - The Astronomy Tower 'Post-Incident But Before I Make Yet Another Mistake'
* * *
So that's how it happened. The most pitiful event in my life.
Pawing cookie dough ice cream and voraciously cramming it into my mouth whilst on my knees all by myself on a Saturday night.
But you know... its actually all good. I mean, ice cream is really comforting. Especially when its served in quantity more suitable to a giant than a 100 pound teenager.
I mean, the only negative part of it is that I'll inevitably have to cease my voracious consumption at some point to heave my overstuffed guts out. And then there's the fact that I have ice cream stuck on my face. Which really isn't an issue, but its uncomfortable and just makes me feel bad about being a messy eater. The fact that its in my hair though is a problem, however. Because it takes enough time to detangle my waves as it is and adding clusters of stickiness to that will consequently result in a five hour shower. Because detangling charms just don't work on my hair. And then there's the blatant. The obvious. That I undoubtedly look like a bloody moron. But I'm all alone. So only I can judge myself. Well, I mean, the big man can judge me too. But considering he's watched me fail miserably for the entirety of my life, this really wouldn't surprise him. I think he may have accepted the fact that I'm a hopeless basket case at this point. And now that he's come to terms with that, he possibly finds these situations amusing. Or maybe disappointing.
I deposited my hand into the neverending tub, and scooped up what could have been my 400th palm-full of ice cream.
A noise somewhere between a giggle and cry escaped my lips for some reason. I guess because of the simultaneous humor and tragedy in the situation. My 400th palm-full of ice cream. Me, practically on the verge of vomiting, engulfed in a person-sized container of comfort food with ice cream smeared on my nose.
It was so bloody sad it was nearly comical.
I let out a laugh and buried my face in my knees.
Merlin, with all the lunatic laughter and fat kidness going... Well, I mean, its just a wonder Sander didn't want me.
I laughed harder until it abated into a just a smile. You know what? This is good. This experience was actually good. Because I'm going to have a lot of inside jokes with myself after this.
Inside jokes with myself.
Oh, Merlin.
I dipped my arm back in the tub, synchronously entertained and repulsed by myself.
You know, it seems like I'm usually at conflict with myself. As if there's a lot of discord. within the confines of my own noggin. But if there's something I can agree with myself on its that this ice cream is-
"Weasley?"
- magnificently scrumptious.
Was that... Was that a voice?
No. Couldn't be.
Right?
Good gracious. Just when I was finally starting to concede with myself too, dag nabbit!
I turned my head around slowly, fruitlessly hoping that no one would be there. That I was just in delirium. Well, I mean, I've always been in delirium. But now crazy enough to be hearing voices as well.
But, instead of nothingness, my sight landed on a pair of snazzy shoes... then traveled up a pair of uniform pants... to white collared shirt and emerald tie... to...
Holy ships.
I just gave Scorpius Malfoy a once over.
...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Abhor me immensely for being a circumlocutious shit who didn't squeeze in Malfoy's appearance? (I swear I'm not teasing, I just had to have a lot things happen before I could fit him in how I wanted. And this chapter was super long and I didn't want to make it even more into an unorganized ramble than it already is.) Like Rose's hipster glasses? Passionately loathe cookie dough ice cream? Let me know in the box situated below and Ryan Gosling will take off his shirt for you. Well, not really, but if you look up Ryan Gosling on google there's a number of shirtless pics of him. Yeah. You're welcome. ;)
http://www.harrypotterfanfiction.com