I have found my new obsession. Its name is Scorpius/Rose.

Anyway, this is just an idea that hit me out of nowhere in the middle of the night, so of course I had no choice but to get it all down. I've been going through a rough time these past several months, and I am almost embarrassed at how much this piece has cheered me up. I hope somebody else out there likes it too!

She's got you high and you don't even know yet

She's got you high and you don't even know yet

It's the search for the time before it leaves without you

Have you lost your mind or has she taken all of yours too?

Whats this about? I figured love would shine through

We've lost romance this world has turned so see through

Open your mind, believe it's going to come to

Keep romance alive and hope she's going to tell you

"She's Got You High" – Mumm-ra

One Down

I do not know my father.

I see him only during a few solid weeks in summer. Between his business trips and my typical disinterest in the manor outside my bedroom door, sometimes I miss him entirely until my last evening before returning to Hogwarts. We exchange small talk, and make all the polite, appropriate inquiries about each other's business, knowing that neither of us particularly cares. It's not anger, or bitterness; I simply do not know him, and I imagine he knows even less about me. I can always read up a couple of anecdotes about him in one history book or another. My mother discourages me from doing that, though. She says that it wasn't 'the real' Draco Malfoy back then.

I wish I knew what that meant. How much can marriage, fatherhood, and a booming career really change a man? Does his grim past fade away all the more with every fundraiser to which he insists on contributing for the improvement of Muggle-Wizard relations? Does he really think that the world will so easily forgive the Dark Mark that is not imprinted on his arm, but always on his face, in his eyes? I've seen the way he looks at the famous Potters, and the Weasleys. Is he less of a Malfoy, or more of a Malfoy? Is he even a Malfoy at all anymore?

My grandfather would give you a firm, resounding 'no'.

"But you don't care what your granddad thinks," she reminds me, waving her drink for emphasis. I smirk a little. So she has been paying attention.

"True," I concede. "But he has an annoying habit of . . . injecting his ideas into every little issue that comes up. I'm afraid I can't think about these things without including his opinion."

"Funny, I think I'm the same with mine. But probably for different reasons than yours." Her glass is nearly empty again, so I, the consummate gentleman, reach out again and fill it right back up. I probably shouldn't. It will only be a matter of time before our speech becomes slurred, and our vision will start to become shaky, and I will find it harder and harder to ignore how bloody spectacular she looks in that little green dress.

Rose Weasley is probably the last person I expected to be drinking with on a Friday night, let alone in the cold, dank Potions room. Still, the place has become rather cozy, especially after we set up a small cauldron fire between us. The party in the dungeons was fun – thanks to the oaths sworn by the ever-loyal and overwhelmingly prevalent Slytherin portraits not to run tattling to Headmistress McGonagall – but I don't do well with crowds. I never have. I used to become so impossible around parties that my parents couldn't hold them at our manor for longer than a couple of hours before my tantrums would send the guests rushing out in droves.

"You know," she comments, examining the pale liquid in her glass, "I could get used to this stuff. You certainly don't skimp, even when it comes to killing brain cells."

"Killing my what?" I splutter. "I have cells in my brain?"

"Right, I almost forgot who I'm talking to," she laughs. "It seems odd that wizards aren't required to have even the most basic understanding of human anatomy. Except for healers, of course, but even then . . ."

She shakes her head a little, and I watch her cherry red hair fall in waves over her shoulder. "Right. Anatomy," I murmur vacantly.

"It's French?"

"Sorry?"

"The wine. Maschera?"

"Italian, actually. I believe it means 'mask'."

"Or perhaps 'masquerade'," she supplies, her smile beginning to look a little bleary.

"What's the difference?" I ask, pouring myself another glass.

"Well . . ." She pauses to think for a moment, biting her lower lip in a manner that I cannot help but find transfixing. "It's one thing to hide your face. It's something else entirely to parade around as someone or something that you clearly are not, presenting an illusion as reality."

"Very deep."

"Why thank you."

"So which of those are you guilty of?"

She giggles into her drink, snorting it a little. I smile. "I live a fairly sheltered life, and I am a terrible liar. I couldn't hide anything if I tried, even if there was anything to hide at all."

I cock my head a little and raise an eyebrow. "You know . . . it's been my experience that those who live the most openly tend to have the biggest secrets. Perhaps you're overcompensating for something?"

"And it's been my experience," she counters shrewdly, gesturing with her glass yet again, "that the quiet ones are the people who have more to say. Maybe you're holding yourself back?"

My eyebrow drops. "Touché."

She grins in the most absurdly adorable way, and I can't help but wonder if she is inspecting the minutia of my face, the way I am inspecting hers. I hadn't realized until now that her nose is covered by tiny freckles that almost blend perfectly into her complexion. Almost.

"You know, Malfoy, if you keep staring at me like that I'm going to start suspecting that you invited me up here for more than a friendly drink."

I inwardly cringe a little. "Please, don't call me that."

Her smile drops. "Oh, I . . . I didn't realize –"

"It isn't you," I hastily amend. "It's just . . . I don't like the way that name sounds when you say it."

"But you're saying it's not me?" she asks, looking genuinely mortified.

"Really, it's not. My name is . . ." I wave my hand around as though hoping I can grab an explanation out of midair. " . . . Cumbersome." Great, that'll make sense. "The less often I hear it, the happier I am. Scorpius suits me just fine."

She gives me one of those 'soft' looks – the kind girls get when they have just learned something profound about you. "Oh, all right then. In return, you can just call me Rose," she informs me with a little wag of the finger. "But please, not 'Rosie'. Only my brother can get away with that these days."

I bow my head in mock deference. "Deal. Now, as I recall, you seem to be under the false impression that I've been staring at you this whole time?"

"Oh come on, tell me that my eyes are not the most intriguing shade of blue you've ever seen."

"Your eyes are brown, genius." Her teeth flash in the firelight, and I realize that I have been caught. "Merlin, woman! Are you sure you don't belong in Slytherin?"

"Are you sure that you do? I was told you lot are supposed to be clever."

I actually allow myself to laugh at that. Even when smashed, the girl is quick on her feet.

But then she looks down, and her smile becomes almost bashful. "You know . . . maybe it's the wine, or something, but . . ." She bites her lip again. "I don't mind if you were looking at me."

I pause mid sip and regard her over the rim of my glass. I sit still for a moment, watching the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheekbones, waiting to see if she will carry us further down this path. When she doesn't speak again, I finally lean forward in my chair and set the glass aside.

"What did you think to yourself," I ask slowly, hardly daring to breathe, "when I asked if you wanted to have a drink with me, away from the party?"

She snaps her eyes back up to meet mine. "I thought . . . I thought 'why the hell not'."

I wait for her to continue. The girl is like an open book.

"And," she relents, "well . . . I'd be lying if I said that I've never been curious about you."

I can feel my eyebrow itching to jump back up. It's an annoying trait I inherited from both parents. "Really?" The quiet, mysterious, undoubtedly good-looking son of a millionaire famous for suspicious past dealings with the most notorious dark wizard that ever lived? What could be so interesting about that, of all things?

She too puts down her drink. "Come on, Mal – Scorpius. The very first time I ever laid eyes on you at the train station, my father told me explicitly 'not to get too friendly' with you. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to resist the urge to do the complete opposite of what your dad wants?"

This time I don't bother to hide the look on my face. She catches herself and laughs. "Well, of course you do. We pretty much just had a whole conversation about your father. But my dad is particularly impossible sometimes, I can tell you."

"I believe it."

We share one of those knowing smiles that usually only occur between old friends, and then fall silent for a moment.

"You know, my father said something of a similar nature to me on our first day as well."

"Yeah?"

I nod and rest my elbows on my knees. "Not in so many words, but everything about his manner . . . his posture, the look on his face, the way he grabbed my shoulder . . . I knew that you were trouble."

She looks as though she is about to laugh, but stops when she senses that I am not joking.

"I knew you would be a problem, from that moment on. I knew that every time you walked through the door, I would notice right away."

Something shifts in her eyes. Her full, perfect pink lips draw open to form the smallest 'o'. I have no idea how I am saying these words so calmly, when it feels like my heart is doing back flips in the pit of my stomach.

"I knew that you'd answer every question that I could not, and that I'd hate you for it. I knew that I was going to have to sit as far away from you as I could to avoid being distracted during class. I knew that I'd despise every bloke who thought he was good enough for you, because none of them could ever see you the way you're meant to be seen. They can never give you what you need, because you're looking for something real and all they want is a taste."

My vision is swimming, but I can still see that stunned, taut look on her face.

"I knew then that I'll always hate your family, because all they see when they look at me is another Malfoy, a Death Eater."

"That's not true," she protests, hardly speaking above a whisper.

"They could never forgive you if you decided . . . if you felt that maybe I – "

She cuts me off then, sliding off her chair and landing gracefully between my legs, never once taking her eyes off mine. "And even if that were true," she carries on breathlessly, inches from my face, "I really wouldn't care."

I blink, and she is kissing me. Hard. Hungrily, with an intensity that I had never dared to imagine (and oh, how often I did imagine). It was never to happen here, in a cold dark dungeon, but everything else fits. Her fingers in my hair, the smell of her perfume that I know so well, the way she presses against me, the heat of her skin on mine . . .

I won't remember who moved in first, or if it was simultaneous, or if it even matters. I will remember hauling her up into my lap as though she weighs nothing at all. I will remember the rest of the world shrinking away beyond the sensation of her shifting weight, her curves under my hands, and the way she holds me in place with her thighs so that she can explore me in return. I'll remember the way she moans into my mouth. Merlin, the way this girl moans . . .

"You don't know how I've waited," she gasps during those few seconds in between when we need air. "Watched you for so long –"

I pull away again, operating on the last shred of self-control I have left. Rose sways in place, gazing down at me in a fog. "Wait," I managed to grind out. "This . . . this isn't how it's supposed to go."

She blinks drunkenly. "No?"

Shut up, you stupid raving moron. "No. Not . . . not like this."

"Like what?"

"Like this," I motion around me. "You, me, in this place. It's not right. It's not how you and I were meant to . . ."

"What are you talking about?" she demands. "Do you not . . . I mean . . ." Her body seems to go cold all of a sudden. "Did I just completely humiliate myself?"

"No!" I protest quickly. "Bloody hell, no, not in the slightest. Rose, you said that you've been waiting for this, right?"

She nods cautiously.

"Well, so have I," I explain. "I don't know if I can tell you how often I've thought about this. All I'm saying is, I don't think that we're meant to shag in the Potions room like two horny teenagers." You are the biggest idiot that ever walked on two legs.

"But Scorpius," she sighs impatiently, twisting her fingers in my shirt collar, "we are two horny teenagers."

I can't help but smirk. "Granted. But I can't allow myself to treat you like any other girl, all tucked away in dark corners, fumbling with our clothes, praying that nobody else –"

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING TO MY COUSIN?!"

Rose launches backwards out of my lap so quickly that she nearly lands in the cauldron fire. "Albus!" she gasps, eyes fixed on the furious silhouette of her cousin and best friend standing in the doorway. Oh shit. He must have noticed our absence at the party and gone looking for her.

I jump to my feet, my blood racing to catch up with my limbs. "Look, Potter, this is –"

"THIS IS YOU GETTING YOUR FILTHY ARSE KICKED!"

He charges forward like a bat out of hell, managing to look somehow ten times larger than I have ever seen him. But suddenly he stops dead in his tracks, with Rose's wand tip pressed firmly to his chest.

"No," she says coolly, "this is you calming down immediately and acting like a bloody grownup. This is you waking up and realizing that you are neither my father nor my mother, nor do you have any right to dictate what I choose to do, and with whom. This is you realizing that I am not a child anymore and that I am capable of making my own choices with or without your blessing. Am I making myself as transparently clear as possible?"

Even though she has her back to me, I can picture her face perfectly in my mind. I've seen her glower that way on more than one occasion, and this is not the first time she has had to pull out her wand to get her message across to a thickheaded cousin or two. No wonder she made Head Girl.

"But –"

"But nothing, Albus."

"He's a Malfoy!"

"You're damn right he is."

"He's . . . he's . . ."

She merely glares at him, wand still held as steady as a rock. Her cousin flails about in place for a moment, clearly searching his brain for a valid reason as to why he should be so upset. Then, after what seems to take forever, he manages to wrestle himself into some measure of stillness.

"Now," Rose said, considerably more cheerful as she lowered her wand, "you are going to head back to the tower and sleep off that firewhiskey before you go and embarrass yourself again."

"Hang on, Rose, I can't just –"

Something clearly must have changed in her expression, because he promptly shuts up and allows himself to be shepherded out of the room. But just before he disappears, he manages to lunge back in my line of sight and yell,

"You lay one bloody finger on her without permission, Malfoy, and I swear on Merlin's beard that I will –"

But then Rose slams the door, locks it, and turns back to me with a sheepish smile. I release the breath I didn't know I had been holding.

"Well, there's one down," she offers tentatively, moving towards me again.

"Nine more to go," I remind her.

"Well, it's actually a lot more than that, if you include my other cousins."

"Great. Thanks."

FIN