Shawn Smith is certainly perfect. This is one of the few things that the entire female population of Hogwarts School can agree is an undisputed fact: that dark-haired, green-eyed, tall, beautiful Shawn Smith is the most faultless creature that has ever set foot on soil, has ever taken a breath, gone swimming, or blinked. Gryffindor beater, prefect, second in all of his classes except for charms (for which he is first), and recipient of unnaturally decent genetics. He is adored by every teacher he has ever had, for how could a boy so diligent, determined, delightful not simply be a gem in the eyes of any that have ever found a calling in bestowing knowledge upon the wizarding youth?

An exemplary specimen he is, that Shawn Smith. With those dark brown locks that invite touching, broad shoulders and smile, and a body that is perfectly formed and sculpted by years of quidditch practice; he is a living tribute to the male form.

Gilda Ipswitch swears that his penis is at least nine inches long, a scrap of gossip that nobody questions because it's probably true and Gilda is a shameless tart.

Even those brooding Slytherin girls, so desperate to prove that they are different from everyone else, so eager to non-conform, would trade in any amount of Sleekeazies to have him take an interest in them.

What's strange is, I don't even think he even realizes how others see him.

I could go on and on about how absolutely wonderful he is. How his eyes are green and his laugh is like rivers or whatnot. But I won't. Because anyone could tell you this. Every girl will have a different way of saying it, but, nevertheless, the content will remain generally cohesive and poetic.

I glance up from my toast and butter and he's smiling widely at me, which isn't rare. I send him back a chaste grin and continue eating, because I know that in a few minutes he'll tell me that he's going to protect me on Wednesday's match, something I don't really need but accept as a gesture. I suppose that's what really matters. Maybe I found it comforting or special the first few times, but I don't really remember. I've just come to expect it by now.

I stand and sling my bag over my shoulder, walking slowly, so he can catch up.

"Rosie!"

I turn and smile as he jogs up and kisses me gently on the lips. I begin to kiss him back but he pulls away.

"Are you ready for the match on Wednesday?" Shawn asks, his smile sweet and a little shy.

"Nervous. But ready. James has been drilling us hard as it is, so I think the team is set. But Torres is fast and she has a new broom. So who knows if I can beat her this year."

"We haven't lost a match to Ravenclaw in two years. And you know I'll be there."

"Yeah," I sigh. "You always are. I haven't worried about bludgers for months."

We walk down the hall in silence and people stare at him, only noticing me because they know he cares. I wonder if they wonder what he sees in me, as I'm wondering that too. Stepping outside brings me out of my daze as a blast of wind blows my hat off my head and stings my eyes.

Shawn is a gentleman and runs after my hat. I wait for him. Because he's a gentleman.

Part of me contemplates running, when I feel wool fit snug over my hair. His hands are warm as I feel them on my ears, which tend to turn red as the weather gets colder.

I can already see Professor Hagrid as we walk to class. Shawn's bare hands are covering my now gloved ones. First years stare enviously, and I begin to question what makes him so special. Would they be more appreciative if they had him?

I know I'm undeserving, or unappreciative, whatever one would call this restlessness. But I want to know what it would be like to feel passionate about someone that cares for me. I haven't felt that. Every day I push things a little further, go a little past where he's comfortable, and every time he pulls away, makes an excuse.

Often, if I have the time to spare, I'll close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to have his lips take mine heatedly after classes. His hands firm against my neck, pressing me to him.

"I really want you to kiss me," I say, my voice imitating those seductive women in mum's movies the best I could, despite the slight sharpness and disdain for the characters.

He blushes, which for most might be endearing in its contradiction but just irritates me at this point, and looks at me like prey in the hands of a lion.

"Hagrid is about to start the lesson."

And that is the end of that, so I grumble and step inside the mammoth hut.

"Now, what we 'ave here," Hagrid huffs, trying to keep hold of whatever was wriggling in his large hands, "well, who knows what we 'ave here?"

My hand is the first in the air and I catch Francesca Widler roll her eyes. I want to take pride in this or tell myself that she's jealous, but in the end it still stings. Shawn's hand joins mine in the air.

"Ahm- Yes, you, Miss Weasley. Yes."

"It's a Niffler. They're harmless, but sniff out valuables, therefor making—"

"Terrible house pets, yes. Five to Gryffindor, Miss Weasley. Can en'one tell me where they can be found?"

He explains how to calm them, clean them, and what to expect for their mating habits, the latter of which may be the most revolting thing I have ever seen. But James already shoved this lesson under my nose last year, so I let my eyes glaze and my mind run free.

I had friends before Shawn. My cousins, yes, but others as well. So it wasn't quite like he had blessed me with popularity. I was just given a bridge into a different world. I always knew of the post-curfew gatherings, but never had the courage or the connections to be welcome. With him I could be part of it, envied. Admired even. Seen less as the top-of-her-class-in-every-little-fucking-thing Rose Weasley, but as 'alright' or 'kind of cool'. Because I am. I can take a shot of Firewhiskey if I want and can hold it, get drunk if that is what the rest are doing. Because I have it right. Because I am alright.

The sound of the outside, wind and leaves, fills the back of my mind and the room and I lazily turn to acknowledge the lanky blond that enters the hut.

"I was in the infirmary..." he mumbles, voice low and course. His eyes are on his feet, so his hair shields some of his face.

Hagrid smiles and shrugs. "Go on an' take a seat then, Malfoy."

Malfoy nods and slips into the in front of me. His hand brushes my arm accidentally, and he looks over and utters a distant "sorry". I nod, somehow unable to look away.

He has the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

And they meet mine and I feel like a rock is in my throat and my stomach won't sit still, yet I haven't seen Scorpius in three years and hate him for having left at all. For being a typical Malfoy, a coward.

But at the same time I want him to speak to me, to apologize, so things could go back to how they were.

Quills and books are taken out of his bag; he takes notes. He doesn't look at me. I know it is forced: he's too stiff and fidgety, his bag catches around his ankle. He trips as he stands, pulling laughs from his fellow Ravenclaws.

But he never looks at me.

He wouldn't. Not after what he's done.

Bells ring in the distance, alerting the class that the lesson is over. Naturally, everyone stands quickly, all desperate to get one step closer to the end of classes. Scorpius is the first one out the door.

"Rosie?" Shawn steps in front of me, curious.

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

It isn't hard to tell that he's concerned. His whole face is concerned, as well as his body. His eyes are especially concerned because they furrow slightly. Even his hair is concerned, I'm sure. Because he's Shawn. And nobody cares more than him.

"I feel a little light headed." And I shrug, peck him on the cheek, and run before he can ask anything more.

Something reminds me that I should be thankful. I'm lucky. Fucking lucky. Bookish Rose Weasley bags the most lusted after boy in the school. Silly Rose. Plain Rose. Rose, with the troll-sized— no, basilisk-sized— family and the shadow of her parents looming over her. It could have been someone more deserving. Someone like Leah Franks, who is tall and blonde and incredibly nice. Or Greta Maddock, who was wildly talented and funny. But for some reason, for some strange tip in the scales of fate, I was the one. But that same instinct that is telling me to be grateful is also telling me that I want something more.

When he asked me out, I was moderately retarded in answering. Yes, we were friends from the Quidditch team, but not much more. So I was rather surprised that in the second week of the year I had a date. I had just come back from Charms, frustrated at Damien Thomas and his acute ability to slow me down, when the legendary sixth-year, blushing but forward, asks me to Hogsmeade and throws a bouquet of roses into my arms. Startled, I stammered out an astounded yes.

From there on, it was sealed. Fate. He thought I was perfect, and every one knew he was. And things felt like... something. At least it did then. Because I was starstruck? Not many handsome boys had an interest in me. And because at first, when everything was fresh and amazing, I had no inclination of him being predictable. He would steal me from my dorm room at one in the morning and fly me up to the astronomy tower.

Soon, I would learn that he would do that every time he had an issue with an essay.

After Tranfiguration, I find Shawn in the great hall playing Exploding Snap with his mates.

Inspiration strikes. I wind my hair into a high ponytail and unclasp the first two buttons of my shirt. I take a seat next to him and rest a hand on his thigh.

"Fly up to my room when you're done playing," I order to his ear with a husky whisper, just loud enough for his friends to hear. "I have a surprise for you."

I run spritely away, turn back to give him a quick stare, and know that I've done it right. His friends are grinning wolfishly and pushing him off the bench, so I run to my room and look for something to surprise him. The best I can do is grab perfume and spray it on my shoulders.

Leaves and cold air fill my dormitory, so I know he's here. Nervous and uncomfortable, but here.

Leaning on the windowsill, making sure that my buttons haven't redone themselves, I invite him in, to which he gulps.

"Well, come in," I offer.

"My broom," he says weakly.

"Just bring it in."

Almost reluctant, he enters and takes a seat on my bed. He laces his hands together and stares at his feet.

"What was it you wanted to show me?"

I smirk and crawl onto my bed, my legs folded under me, and I stare at him, waiting for him to show some interest.

Be sexy, be sexy, don't be a dork. Please, do not be a dork.

"I got a new perfume. I wanted to know what you thought of it."

I inch nearer and he sniffs lightly, his nose brushes my neck. I blink girlishly and asks him if he likes it before taking his lips against mine. He tastes a bit of pumpkin juice and smells like men's body wash, which almost makes me sneeze. I keep expecting him to lean away or break the kiss, but finally I feel his course hands on my back, encouraging me to lift myself on his lap. His teeth nibbled slightly on my lip and I let his tongue into my mouth. Breathing heavily, his hands roam up.

It's easy to tell that a situation has changed when the boy you were just kissing literally throws you off him and onto the floor.

"Oh shit, Rosie, I'm so sorry." He pulls me back onto the four poster. "I didn't mean to go so far, I just didn't— oh my god, I'm— Rosie. I wasn't thinking."

"B-but I wanted you to."

He stares at me and then the ground, shaking his head.

"Rosie, my parents are, I am, catholic. I want to live true. I can't. I'm sorry, but you need to understand that I can't be this tempted."

"Of course I understand." And I do. But I hate it.

He grins and wraps his arms around me. "You're the best."

I feel safe in his arms. I feel warm. I feel...

Shit. I feel bored. I shouldn't, but I do.

When I fall asleep, I dream of what it would be like to be naked next him. To have him kiss shapes on my stomach, his blonde hair tickling and making me giggle.

As I wake the next morning, I realize that Shawn doesn't have blonde hair.

I promptly tell myself to shut up and begin getting ready for the day.