Hello! I'm back with another one-shot, which I wrote during an attack of insomnia, inspired by some of the most stupid chickflicks ever (no offense, really, just my opinion.) 'Chronicles' will get updated this weekend, because I'm off to London the next day and obviously I can't update when I'm there. So stay tuned ;)

Disclaimer: don't own HP or any of the characters. JK Rowling does.

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU.

I hate the way you talk to me.

"Hey Malfoy, could you please move your books a bit?"

"Merlin, Weasley," you rolled your eyes, making no attempt whatsoever to do as I requested, "there is plenty of space left, isn't there? Must you always be so incredibly annoying?"

I frowned. "I asked it nicely, Scorpius, and no, there isn't enough space for both of us. We share this common room! I can claim this table just as much as you can!"

"Don't call me by my first name, you ugly bint," you snarled.

"We're heads, Malfoy! We ought to get on a little better, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think that, so fuck off," and then your gaze swept back to your parchment, completely writing me off.

I know I shouldn't care about any insult that flies out of your mouth. I am well aware. Lily always tells me to close off my hearing senses whenever you come into a radius of ten metres, but somehow my ears intensify their function when it comes to you. I remember the first time I noticed you – first year, sitting alone in an empty train compartment. Being the polite and well-mannered social butterfly I am, I took a brave step inside and offered my hand. The angelic features of your young face distorted into the sneer you later became famous for, and you spat, in a very snobby drawl: "I don't accept friendship from people like you." I didn't wait for your reply and stormed off with glossy eyes. When later that day I spotted your bright head in the midst of a group of young students, animating and charming them all with an apparently hilarious story, I ran off to my dormitory and cried myself to sleep. This situation is very representative for what followed the next seven years. You're funny and charming to about every girl but me. And due to some yet undiscovered reason I feel awful about it.

And the way you cut your hair.

I find it terrifying that you're in ninety percent of my classes. I find this so horrifyingly disturbing because this means that I just cannot ignore you. I don't know why, but when I'm aware of your presence in the same room, I always seek you out. And you make sure to be easily sought out.

It happens almost every day. I'm trying to concentrate on my lessons, fixating my eyes on whatever movement the current teacher is making, but there is this constant power, you see, this magical pressure that makes my vision automatically search for a shining, platinum spot. And there you are, blowing those few strands off your forehead, going through your hair with your long fingers – or letting other girls caressing it. Because that's why you do it, of course, coming off as relaxed and nonchalant as you do. To impress the girls. Not that you have to, naturally, since your hair is so pretty it almost makes me believe you formed a pact with the devil to make it this silky. Girls are lining up for you like you're the newest rollercoaster in Disneyland.

The sad thing is that I often wonder how a ride would be too.

I hate the way you ride your broom.

You're seeker for the Slytherin team and I fill in for the same job on the Ravenclaw team. We've both won the Quiddich cup on and off in the several years of schooling here in Hogwarts. In theory I've managed to catch the snitch just as much as you have. Yet in reality I expierence this differently.

It is unbelievable, the way you make seem flying effortless. You float around in the atmosphere, circling and turning, looking like you own the entire universe without trying in the slightest. And when you perceive the golden speck in the middle of your surroundings, it gets even worse. Then all your senses visibly sharpen, and your figure seems to dissolve in your broom. You become one.

So now I suddenly see you diving to the ground, and it takes me a full five seconds to recuperate. I haven't even looked for the snitch 'cause I've been so busy observing the way you handle your game. Eventually I follow your movements, and in a matter of seconds I am racing next to you, arm to arm. Just before we're heading for a serious injury by ducking into the ground, the snitch zooms upwards and we do too. We rush past each other a few times, but then in the end, when my arm is so stretched I can almost hear my joints dislocating, something in the corner of my eye catches my attention. It's a smudge of mud on your cheek, which it makes me laugh because it's so ironic, and for some reason I've reached out for your face to wipe it off, and I'm broken out of my reverie due to excessive cheering underneath us.

I look down and see it's the Slytherins.

I look up and you wear the biggest smirk, but somehow it's less evil than I'm used from you. "Usually you're more of a challenge, Weasley!"

And I glare daggers at you, but I'm only cursing myself, because I've let you once again distract me from my duties.

I hate it when you stare.

The day after the Quiddich match, we have Transfigurations together. This is not my best subject, and therefore I am seated on the first row. I get top scores in every class I take, so I don't want this to be different. You, on the other hand, have a knack for Transfigurations (and for Potions, and for Arithmancy, and Defence Against the Dark Arts, and...) and I know for a fact that you're sitting two rows behind me, hence the aforementioned magical pressure that makes me want to seek you out wherever you are.

Professor McGonagall is turning a web of spiders into spun of gold, and I know I should be extremely intrigued by this event, yet I can't find the focus to do so. It's you, again, and this time you're doing it on purpose. I can feel you boring peek holes in my head with your metal grey eyes, probably narrowed to slits, as always as you're looking at me, and your stare is so intense it makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. It takes all of my self-discipline to not turn around and ask what the hell is wrong.

I hate your big fancy dragon leather shoes.

After a week of diminishing under your gaze, I am very much inclined to avoid you as much as I possibly can. Unfortunately for me, I've never been one for luck, and one day, while rushing off from the Great Hall, I accidentally crash into your tall posture. I fall flat with my ass on the stone floor and even though you're much more solid than I am and therefore still standing straight, you seem as bewildered as I am. Of course, when you notice me sprawled on the ground, your rich laugh is echoing through the corridor and I'm flushed with embarrassment. I keep looking at your shoes to evade your face, and I am reminded again of your origin. Your shoes are symbolic for everything you represent: smooth, shiny, ridiculously expensive, decadent, best-of-the-best.

"Get up, Weasley," I vaguely hear you chuckling, and I'm nearly spitting a retort when I notice your hand's extended. I'm surprised out of my wits, because never in a million years I'd expected you to help me up. Nevertheless, I'm not dreaming and I take it.

I do my utmost best to ignore the tingling in my skin that this contact causes.

And the way you read my mind.

That evening we're sitting in our shared common room. You're checking one of your essays, and while I should do the same thing, I'm staring at the cracking fire in the hearth, my thoughts occupied with earlier events.

"Oh, come off it, Weasley," you suddenly say, looking up from your homework.

I arouse from my daze. "Huh? What?"

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you owe me."

I gape at you, you and your smug face. "How did you know that?"

"It's written all across your face," you reply matter-of-factly, even though I'm sure it isn't, "and for the record, don't mention it. In fact, I plead for ignorance on both parts, alright?"

I don't know what to make of your comment, so I blink and nod dumbly. Then I finally succeed to bring my attention upon my essay and for the first time in this entire evening, I manage to write more than five lines on paper.

I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme.

Two weeks later, Professor Slughorn is announcing the teams for a long-time Potions project. As fate wants it, our names are listed together. Originally I don't mind much, since you've been reasonably civilized towards me lately and you're also one of the only people who's able to keep up with me, but then you just have to go and protest. You look at Professor Slughorn with great distaste, even though you normally appreciate the man, and tell him you'd rather not.

"Mr. Malfoy, you're paired up with Mrs. Weasley and that's final," Professor Slughorn reprimands sternly, but the damage is already done.

"Oh Malfoy, you make me want to gag, you stupid slag," I blurt out, completely against my habits, "you make me want to strangle you really hard, the way you're acting like a total retard!"

I suppose I would get detention for this if Professor Slughorn wasn't clutching both his sides because he was laughing so hard. I honestly didn't realize I was rhyming, I was just sputtering anything that sprouted into my brain.

"Think you're funny now, don't you, Weasley?" you say coolly, not laughing like the rest of the class, which surprises me somewhat. "I'm not a slag, nor a retard, for your information!"

"Yes, you are," I retaliate angrily, but before I can add anything, Professor Slughorn intervenes and repeats that we're paired up, whether we like it or not. Begrudgingly, you stomp over to my desk and dump down your stuff next to me.

I have a feeling that this collaboration is going to be miserable.

I also believe the feeling is mutual.

I hate the way you're always right.

We've worked on our project – Veritaserum – for a month, and those thirty days have passed with ups and downs. In general I could state that we haven't bitten each other's noses off. In fact, in the moments we studied next to each other in our common room, it was actually quite nice, for we both knew things the other didn't.

Today is the day before we have to turn in our Potion, and the bottle is standing proudly in the middle of the table. The two of us are minding our own business, reading a book, and it occurs to me that you spend much more time in this room then you used to. I suppose it's because you're getting sick of all those girls following you around like dogs.

"That potion looks very inviting, isn't it?" your voice comes out of the blue, and I see you staring at the bottle.

I shake my head. "We're not going to try it, Scorpius!"

I almost smack myself for calling you by your first name, but you don't seem notice, or at least you don't give any indication, and instead you keep on staring. "We should test it, you know. To see if everything's okay?"

"You know it's perfect as well as I do," I refute, "so you're just searching an excuse!"

"Okay, so what if I am? You're so boring, Weasley, honestly, live a little!"

"I do live! You know nothing of what I do in my spare-time!" I protest, indignant.

You tear away your gaze from the bottle and pinpoint it on my face. "Yes, I do. You read. And sometimes you go to the Ravenclaw common room to play Wizarding Chess, or sometimes you even go to the Gryffindor common room to hang around with your friends. But that's not exciting, now is it?"

"That's not true!" I sputter, completely gobsmacked by the fact that you know this.

You smirk, as always. "I know it is, so give it up, Weasley!"

"Alright," I give in and glare, "but no embarrassing questions, okay?"

"Sure," you reply, but there is a glint in your eyes that doesn't fail my notice.

I hate it when you lie, I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry.

"So," you say after we've taken a sip from the revoltingly tasting potion, "what is your favourite animal?"

"An owl," I answer, and no pains bestows upon me. "My turn. Do you ever read the Witch Weekly?"

"What kind of question is that?" you crack a grin, and then: "Yes, I do."

"You do?" I repeat, laughing myself, 'cause I'd never pegged you as the type to read mindless magazines.

You shrug. "Mum reads it so it's always at home. Do you read the Quibbler?"

"Nnnn- yes," I admit, and you laugh harder now, "but only very rarely."

"Do you believe in Nargles?" you continue between laughing fits.

I throw a Quill at you, playfully, and then I realize I just threw something at you, playfully. "Of course not, silly!"

"Alright, alright," you get hold of yourself, catching the Quill, "have you ever been in love?"

My jaw drops. "Wait, what?" Then something painful hammers upon my stomach. "N – yes."

You lift your eyebrows and look very intrigued.

"My turn," I cut you off, before you can even open your mouth, "have you ever been in love?"

"I suppose," you respond suavely, and I feel a lump forming in my throat.

You don't perceive my emotions, and ask: "Are you a virgin?"

"Malfoy!" I screech. "That question is way out of line! Ye- no, I'm not."

And then something happens with your eyes. I don't know if I just have a vivid imagination, or the colour in your eyes really grows darker, like you're unpleasantly surprised. "That's strange. Who'd ever be mentally impaired enough to want to touch you?"

It's been so long since you've truly insulted me, that I feel tears welling up almost instantly. I swallow, and try to mask them as soon as possible. I look at your angry face, and muster up all the courage I can collect. "Do you care, Scorpius?"

"Don't call me by my first name," you growl, "and about what? That you're not a virgin? No, I'm just-" your eyes widen suddenly, in what I guess from your movements is pain, "Sur... prised... I don't-" and you shove your chair backwards in an attempt to leave, "care, at all."

And you run off, knowing you're lying, and knowing that I know it too.

This time I don't stop the tears from spilling over my cheeks.

I hate it when you're not around and the fact that you leave me in the dark.

The Veritaserum was perfect; we received an Outstanding, and Professor Slughorn was very pleased. But aside from that, things have gone downhill. Another two weeks have passed, and with a lot of planning on your behalf, you've managed to avoid me altogether. In classes you always sit behind me, and since I'm always earlier and you're always straight on time, I never really see you, except for the few times I turn my head. Our common room is hardly 'our' common room anymore because you're never there. I presume you're always in the Slytherin dungeons, or in some girl's bed, since you've been making up for the void lately.

I replay that scene with the Veritaserum every night, when I'm trying to sleep. I ask myself what went wrong, why the hell you were so friendly and then suddenly so harsh, and most of all I toss and turn at the thought of what you said. What does it mean? Why do you care? And more importantly, why don't you want me to know?

Merlin, you make me mad, in so many ways, I can't even begin to describe.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you.

The thing is, no matter how hard you ignore me, I don't possess the ability to do the same. When I enter the Great Hall, the first thing I do is letting my eyes wander over the Slytherin table for a bright blond head. And in class I always hope you answer a teacher's question, because I hear so little of your pompous, haughty drawl. When I walk through the passages, like I'm doing right now, I always hope to crash into you, like that one time -

"Weasley, wait!"

I tilt my head up to see if I'm hallucinating, because I could swear it is your voice urging me to stop. When I turn around I see I'm indeed not imagining things and it's you standing in front of me, not with a smirk, not a sneer, not even a grim line around your mouth, but with an expression of despair etched on your handsome face.

"What is it?" I snap coldly, dismissing the fact that my heart has started racing. "Come to insult me some more?"

"No!" you take a step closer, "not at all. Listen, I need to talk to you. Will you accompany me to our common room, so we can talk somewhere quiet?"

"What's in it for me?" I cast my eyes downwards, not able to look at you.

You place a hand on my shoulder, and I'm afraid I'm mistaking this for a comforting gesture. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

And call me stupid, maybe, but due to the surprising twist of events, I nod dumbly and trail behind his arrogant form and let him guide me through a way I know myself, not daring to break the silence.

Not even close…

When we arrive at our portrait, you mutter our password and you hold open the door for me. Pondering since when you were such a gentleman, I take a step inside and then almost tumble over when I see what's there.

Currently in front of me is a room, a heavenly room, covered in red roses. Everywhere inch of the room is layered in beautiful red roses and the sight is too marvellous to behold. I have to catch my breath before I can look at you. When I finally do so, I see you're looking nervous, and as soon as we make eye-contact you smile.

And that makes me catch my breath all over again.

"Wh-what is- is happening here?" I manage to choke out, in total shock.

You approach me and my heart hammers against my chest. "I wanted to apologize and I searched for ways to do so for two weeks. I wanted it to be perfect... And Weasley... Rose... what could be more fitting than a ton of beautiful red roses for someone who is exactly those three words?"

"Are you kidding me?" I cannot believe this. "I mean, it's not funny."

"No, I'm not!" you exclaim, and then you put your fingers in my red locks, towering over me.

Not even a little bit…

"If you think I'm beautiful, then why have you made it your personal goal to make me think otherwise for the past seven years?" I demand, too cautious to just let go.

"Look, here's the thing," you say, caressing my cheek, "I'm scared shitless when it comes to love, alright? It scares me to see all these girls following me around like I'm some God or something, and it scares me to see what they're willing to do for my affections. It scares me that I exploit this, that I use this to my advantages. And the reason why this scares me, is that, someday," you pause, and chills run over my spine, "someday someone might make me feel as weak as those girls feel to me. That someday someone might have to ability to exploit me, take advantage of me."

"That's not how love works, Scorpius," I whisper, barely audible.

You smile again, and it blinds me. "Perhaps. But then there was that day, I don't know if you remember it, but I suppose you do with that perfect memory of yours, you crashed into me. And you lay there, on the floor, and you looked so incredibly wonderful, I finally realized what had been in front of me for seven years and what everyone had been saying. And suddenly I started noticing things about you, you know? The way you nibble on your Quill when you're making homework. The way your eyes spark up when you're angry. And that in itself scared me. I woke up one morning, the morning before we tested the Veritaserum, and knew I was in love with you. That I am in love with you. Because whenever you're around I can't concentrate, my hearts starts pounding furiously, and I seek out your red curls everywhere! And so, when you told me you weren't a virgin, I felt something I had never experienced before: blinding jealousy. So I said things to you I didn't mean anymore. It took time to come to terms with my feelings for you, Rose, it really did..."

"I know how it is," I coax out hoarsely, "I understand..."

"The question is," you slowly entwine your fingers with mine, and I'm sure you can hear the pounding under my breasts, "whether you'd want to want me back... Exploit me, take advantage of me..."

"No!" I say firmly, and you let go of my hands and your face falls. "I don't want to exploit you or take advantage of you, Scorpius." I lean in closer. "I just want to want you back. I know what you meant, because I feel it too. I'm in love with you too."

And then, then something happens that I've been unconsciously wanting to happen for the past seven years, and which is not even possible to describe.

Your mouth descends onto mine, and as soon as our lips touch, you and I melt together as one.

Not even at all.

The end.