You hate the way

Summary: One-shot. Post Deathly Hallows. Scorpius/Rose. Sort of angsty. He hates the effect she has on him. Nothing to do with my other WIP HP story, this is a stand-alone.

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: The only thing that is mine is the plot. Everything else belongs to JK Rowling.

You hate her.

You hate every single thing about her.

You've hated her for six bloody years now and you don't see the feelings disappearing at any time soon.

You hate the way that she wears her hair; it's like she has no shame, flaunting a particularly sensual female asset like that. The riotous red curls cascade freely down her back, like they're deliberately taunting you. She used to wear it pulled back in a tight plait or a ponytail for the first couple of years at Hogwarts, but not anymore. Not now. Now it's almost as if she makes a calculated effort to show it off in all it's fiery, satiny glory. It is no longer demurely confined to a hairclip, its colour is bright in the otherwise dull classroom, and you hate that you notice it so much.

You hate that you cannot look away.

You hate her freckles. Stupid pointless splatters of colour that scatter her snub nose, her high cheekbones and also her bare arms as she concentrates hard on the Charms essay spread on the table before her, shirt sleeves rolled up in the humid April heat and the top two buttons of her shirt unfastened. Her tie is loosened and her school robes are long gone, for the library is stifling in this weather. She absentmindedly bends down to straighten one crooked knee sock and you hate that your eyes unconsciously follow the motion of her hand. You idly wonder if she has those freckles everywhere and you hate yourself more for even thinking it.

You hate her big blue eyes. You've made a concerted effort not to look directly at her for long enough now, but occasionally if your eyes do accidentally meet (which is admittedly not always an accident on your part), you cannot help but notice they are almost the colour of vivid sapphires. You hate that they always look happy to see everyone but you.

You hate that when she concentrates on whatever she is reading (and she reads a lot), sometimes her tongue runs over her plump lower lip, licking it or perhaps unconsciously biting it as her eyes brighten with interest. Her long eyelashes sweep downward as she analyses the text more closely, delicately fluttering over flawless skin. You clutch your quill tighter as you desperately look away and hate yourself for being affected so much by a mere gesture.

You hate that your father still despises both of her parents and you hate that the two of you were never going to be friends, much as you might have wanted to.

But most of all you hate Rose Weasley because she is a Weasley and you know that if it was any other girl then you wouldn't have to stop yourself from loving her.

A/N: Sorry, short I know. Hope you like it.