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The Grand Conclusion by Rosadora
Chapter 3 : History, Shmistory, BLERGH.
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 4


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ASIODSJGFDS I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY! PLEASE DON'T HURT ME. I've been so busy, with exams and all! DO NOT FEAR, READERS! THE STORY WILL GO ON. Anyway. This isn't my stuff. It's J.K. Rowling's charecters and what not, yadda yadda yadda ya...

Despite the rather, well, murky past the Malfoys had with our Potter/Weasley family, the friendship between us and Scorpius came about rather naturally. Simply, if you will. We (as in Albus and I) boarded the train for the first time, followed by the returning James, Dom, Molly, Freddie, and Victoire, incredulous and mildly concerned about the boy my father warned us about, and my mother encouraged us to be cordial to. Regardless of what you might’ve heard, we did not sit with Scorpius on the train ride to Hogwarts. Albus and I wedged ourselves in between Freddie and James. Scorpius would have had lung failure if he sat with us. I’m not joking. So he probably sat with some other nervous first years, but it’s really not important. Anyway, it was around the time that he wasn’t sorted into Slytherin that we decided he was alright.
 

*Assume a “lion standing on top of a hill, about to ROAR the shit out of you” stance (AKA the super hero stance, but I like to get original, no?) and yell: BEGIN FLASHBACK*


 

“I dunno guys…” James said, as Scorpius hastily scampered up to the Sorting Hat. “He seems a bit shifty."


 

Al and I had gathered near the Gryffindor table while James and Freddie guessed which house each incoming first year would be sorted into before the Hat could. (“Are you kidding me? He’s still got baby fat. Total Hufflepuff.”)


 

Freddie snorted. “What do you expect? He’s a Malfoy. We don’t even have to guess what house he’ll be in.”


 

“Too right. Pure bred Slytherin, mate. Dude’s a bad apple, a bad-"


 

Gryffindor!


 

Both their faced dropped immediately. While there was a short silence among the four of us, the rest of the house seemed pleased, and cheered for their from future housemate. Finally, Freddie choked out: “I think he’s alright.”   


 

“Yup. Yes. Yes. Sure-y, he’s fine. Good lad. Can’t believe we doubted him.” James said, still gaping, eyes darting between Scorpius and the Sorting Hat."


 

“Did we doubt him? I don’t recall that.” Freddie mused.


 

 “Ah, yes, Fredward. Neither do I, come to think of it! I’m pretty sure we said the kid’s the bloody shit.”


 

Al and I stared at the two. James stiffened, sitting up straighter. “What?” he sniffed. “Don’t judge us. Go get sorted.”


 

  *Come out of “lion standing on top of a hill about to ROAR the shit out of you” stance (which will be regarded furthermore as LSOTHAR, pronounced: luh-soth-ar) and announce: END FLASHBACK* 


 

From that point on, our family’s relationship with mini Malfoy flourished, much to my father’s chagrin. We had approval from James and Freddie, allowing us to safely walk the halls with him, free of the fear that he would get “pants-ed” by two very mysterious, illusive pranksters who tend to yell “BURN!” from their invisibility clocks.


 

Of course, when I say that our friendship “flourished” I mean that it took a while. A solid three months, come to think of it. When I first encountered Malfoy in a social setting it was, well, awkward.


 

*Assume LSOTHAR and announce: BEGIN FLASHBACK (see how the abbreviation makes things easier?)* 


 

It was right after the first Quidditch match. That year, Hufflepuff’s team positively sucked, so it was an easy defeat for Gryffindor, although we partied like it wasn’t. As James, Freddie, and the rest of the team were carried back into the common room atop housemates’ shoulders, greeted with butterbeer, firewhiskey, and blasting music, I met Scorpius.


 

Well, sort of. He actually knocked me over. (Years later he would argue that it was I who knocked into him, causing a reverse reaction in which I fell down. Don’t listen to him. He, much like James, yet less literally, is full of shit. 


 

Yet, now that I’m thinking about it, I guess it was both our faults. It was just a bad situation. I was wedged in between three tipsy, snogging couples on a gold, velvety couch. I had firmly planted my arse there the minute that party started, knowing that, (from James stories) nowhere was safe. Most of the dormitories were filled with snoggers and the occasional shaggers. Yes, shaggers. (“You get a few each year,” James had explained) Anyway, that couch was mine. I had mentally claimed it when I sprinted ahead of the crowd post-Quidditch victory. I’d lost Al in the crowd for that couch. The couch was rightfully mine for the sake of my mentality. Well, anyway, I lasted a solid ten, maybe fifteen minutes alone on couch, searching the mass of dancing and cheering fans for Al, when one couple fell onto the couch with their lips glued together. Alright, I thought to myself. This is what a party is like. I better get used to it. No biggie. Then couple on the other side of me plopped down, a good three minutes into Couple A’s snog. Then, approximately seven minutes into Couple B’s snog and ten minutes into Couple A’s snog, a Couple C joined the crowd. However, it wasn’t until James stumbled across the room with Christie Farris on his arm that I decided I’d had enough.


 

“Rosie!” he exclaimed, clearly intoxicated. “What’re ya doin’, all alone on the Kissing Couch!?”



 

 

Well, that would explain things. “The…what?” I stammered.



 

 

“The Kissing Couch!” James blurted, showering me with spit carrying a fire-whiskey scent. “Now scoot your boot, girly! Brother Jaaaaames needs to make use of it.”


 

Okay. So I hadn’t decided that I’d had enough of the couch. I was kicked off.


 

Anyway, I shot up from the couch like a firework and made a bee line for the loo when I was hit by someone. That someone recovered with a nice:    


 

“Blergh—sorry.”


 

Blergh? Who the hell makes a sound like ‘blergh’? 


 

“Oh, yes.” I said, flustered. Now this next part I’d like to blame on the loud music, but I think in actuality, my sudden infatuation with the sound/word “blergh” got the best of me. “And, well, blergh to you, too.”


 

Scorpius knitted his eyebrows together. “Did I say that?”


 

“It sounded like that.” I said, noting the awkwardness that had arisen. “But, you know, I mean, I could be mistaken. It’s freaking loud in here. Really, this party is crap. I mean I was sitting on that couch over there, apparently it’s called the “Kissing Couch” and, whoa mate, you look pretty bad...are you...”


 

As I was talking Scorpius had managed to turn a deep shade of green, his eyes misting over and a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. “…uh, hey, are you alright?”


 

Scorpius gulped and nodded. Then he seemed to change his mind as his eyes widened, his cheeks inflating. He choked out: “Too—much—fire—whiskey—ugh!


 

Scorpius then proceeded to regurgitate all of his fire whiskey and other occupants of his stomach all over my new high-tops.


 

Bloody hell!


 

And that was how I met Scorpius.  


 

____ 

The Tales of Rosadora Weabely: Chapter 1, continued:

 

“This is most definitely your fault. But don’t worry; I’ll go tell Professor Dean about the mishap.”


 

What?” I gasped. “No, no, no, no, no you will not.” 


 

Jake and I then proceeded to have some sort of intense eye contact as Professor Dean walked by, each of us daring the other to tell him. Yet, apparently we didn’t have to.


 

Professor Dean had at first glided past us, gazing at each project with slight indifference. Then, of course, he saw ours. His eyes widened and I swear to Merlin he looked like a Pygmy Puff set on fire… (Not that I’ve ever done that before…?) 


 

“Ms. Weabley, Mr. Cadstone,” he began. “Is there a—


 

“Cadston.” Jake blurted.


 

Professor Dean raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”


 

“Cadston. It’s Cadston. Without an e. Like ton, the unit of measurement."


 

“Of course,” Professor Dean replied, narrowing his eyes at Jake. “Now, where was—”


 

Now, don’t judge me. Please don’t. It’s just…Advanced Herbolody, also known as (insert scary, doom voice) No Man’s Land (The Class!). It’s the ideal and most common class for sabotage. Anyway, with the grade we were bound to get on this project, we might as well have taken the T (troll) taxi (is there a taxi for trolls, anyway?) back to platform 9 ¾ and proclaimed ourselves Muggles.


 

Of course, looking back on this, I see that I was being a bit dramatic. But anyway, I Petrificous Totalus-ed Stacy Patil’s mandrake so that Professor Dean would see it and think they produced a ‘still born Mandrake’, a common mistake if not watered properly, and forget about our, err, caterpillar.


 

Ms. Weabley!


 

“Yes, Professor?”


 

“I saw that!”


 

“—shit! Rosadora,”


 

“Mr. Cadston!”


 

HAH! I'm not the only once getting in trouble. Anyway, it was a stupid move on Jake's part. It's widely known that Professor Dean hates cursing. Jake’s face crumbled, realizing his mistake. “Yes, Professor?”


 

“Language. Detention for the both of you.”


 

And that was really how this mess started I suppose. With a detention. A detention in which we shagged the living daylights out of each other and proceeded to have a secret relationship because our families hate each other. Call us Romeo and fucking Juliet. It’s true.


 

“Isn’t that sort of melodramatic?


 

    “Fuck, Al.”


 

“Excuse me?” Al asked. 


 

"I was just getting to the plot line!”


 

Al rolled his eyes, and pulled his hoodie over his head, revealing his black and white Fever Ray t-shirt that complimented his grey corduroys. That fashionista. Not to say I’m not one myself. And might I add I did not get my excellent taste from my mother, whose style eventually developed with all the extravagant parties they had to go to during the height of the War Hero era. She does a “chic-glam-urban” style thingy. I’m more of a: high waisted shorts, band t-shirt tucked in, converse type of gir,l anyway. But on a more serious note, he’s been all moody for the past two-ish weeks (hence the t-shirt. If you haven’t heard of Fever Ray, go on that Muggle device. I believe you call it Footube…noobtoob, something like that, and look them up) because of Lily and Finnegan. He can’t seem to move on from the whole ordeal. He hasn’t even spoken to Lily since, and that was two weeks ago. So he’s being more critical than he usually is, making him quite critical. It’s bad. But anyway:

          “I understand that but…Romeo and Juliet? C’mon, Rose. Make it a gradual relationship. A progression.”  he suggested.


 

I, for one, really liked the idea of the whole “Romeo/Juliet forbidden love thing”. It would be so bad ass, and that’s what Rosadora’s like, isn’t it?


 

 I suppose I haven’t gotten that far in the story yet, so you can’t agree with me, but for the sake of agreeing, I know you agree with me. I also have a habit of making sentences much more confusing than they need be, but that’s a story for another time. I would’ve told you the story right now, but Al and I got a visitor, if you will. A short, unexpected on, at that.


 

            A tear-streaked Lily pushed the door open with her back, facing Dom and ever-so-eloquently stumbled into the room. “Oh, for the love of Merlin, he just left me there to go be with her. I should’ve never! That prat. To think that—oh.


 

            Well this is awkward.


 

           I mean, I was happy to see Lily, tipsy and teary or not, but from Al’s perspective, it’s pretty bloody awkward. He hadn’t spoken to Lily in two weeks and now he had to go all Big Brother on everyone cause clearly, someone had upset her. (I made a mental note to set up a bet between Freddie and James concerning who caused the upset. My bet, of course, is on Finnegan.)


 

        So, yeah. It was pretty awkward.


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