(A.N) This is a scene I wrote for Commitment but edited out because I felt the story was long enough and didn't necessarily need this. I think it gives them a better dynamic, as a couple.

~'.~'.~".~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.

"She doesn't own a dress
her hair is always a mess,
you catch her stealin', she won't confess
she's beautiful.

Smokes a pack a day, but wait,
that's me, but anyway
she doesn't care a thing
about that hair,
she thinks I'm beautiful."

~Train

~'.~'.~".~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.~'.

"Do you want to play a game?" she asks. She's sitting on the bathroom counter, with his too-big shirt boasting about her legs and damp hair hanging in her eyes, looking entirely untouchable and out of place in the seventh-year boys' dorms smelly loo. He had been towelling off his dark hair when this proclamation was made (where his was still soaking, hers was part-way dry and completely mud-free from their debacle by the lake) and he risked a glance to her face (which admittedly started at her legs and worked upwards). He never could decipher anything she said.

He asked, "What game?"

She replied," A game where you tell me something, and then I tell you something. And so on."

He dove for the chance.

"Alright. You first, then." She tried to protest, but surrendered (and pouted) at the "you thought of it" look he gave.

She patted the empty space beside her on the counter, but suddenly decided that wasn't good enough. She hopped down and sank to the floor, leaning against the tub and stretching her legs out. "I don't actually like Potions. I'm just strangely talented at it."

He joined her. "I've always wanted to be a Seeker, but I'm no good at it."

"Honestly, Alice Griffiths and Frank Longbottom kind of sicken me. I hate that type of mushy affection; it reminds me why I don't date."

"When I'm older, I want kids."

"I don't. Want kids, that is. Well, maybe one wouldn't be so bad," she relented at his incredulous look.

"My parents want me to follow their footsteps, become an Auror, but I'm afraid."

"When I was eight and Tuney was nine, my magic almost killed her. She was frustrating me, and I accidentally cause a tree branch to break off the tree and crack her over the head. I was sort of relieved for the silence, until I saw the blood."

"I don't want my parents' money."

"I hate September 1st."

"Why?"

"No, no, you don't get to ask questions!" she shot him a look. "Your turn." He looked at her sceptically. She just raised an implying eyebrow.

"I started smoking when I was fourteen because my grandpa died. I wanted to recreate his smell for comfort over it."

"I used to think I would have to marry Sev because most other boys wouldn't even talk to me. I was terrified."

"That's because they were cowed by you. My mom had to quit her job to stay home and look after five-year-old me because I was a terror."

"My parents are horrified by me. I'm unnatural in their Christian world."

"I'm not actually as confident as I seem. I'm really just a sap and a bit of a coward with a good mask," he said. This took her by surprise. She watched his profile, the way his hair fell on his forehead and is high, aristocratic cheekbones. She saw his long eyelashes and the place where his dimples would be if he were to smile.

She saw his hands, playing with the edge of his towel in his lap, and she saw his nervousness and apprehension, as if he couldn't believe he'd just said that and what was she going to say? and there was no way to take it back now so he was just going to pretend like it was no big deal, that he told people things like that all the time, but what if she likes that he's honest and open? and then she blinked. All she saw now was a textbook-handsome, dark-haired boy with sad yet buoyant eyes and a childish grin that hadn't quite surfaced enough today.

Finally, softly, she said, "I hate September 1st because when I walk away from my family to get on the Express, I can't for the life of me decide whether or not I ever want to go back."

She was sad. He could tell. But this girl, this cracked and plastered-back-up girl beside him wouldn't want him to allow her to dwell, to feel sad with her, to pity her. So, he just kissed her on the temple and moved on. She loved it.

"I lost my v-card when I was fifteen to an Italian girl named something with an R that I could never pronounce."

She laughed (grateful). "I once snogged Sirius in the fourth floor corridor broom closet." His head whipped around to stare at her, and she pulled a face. "He kisses like a dog. Slobbery. It was disgusting, really." There's something in this he finds amusing, for some reason. "We mutually swore never to do it again."

"Back in first year, I used to pull this girl's ponytail because it was long and bright red, and she always gave the best reactions."

"Ah, so that was the trick. Too bad no one let me in on that secret. I wasn't invited to my own sister's wedding."

"I hate weddings. They're too . . . happy."

"I think glasses are really quite cute." She grinned at him, and he winked back.

"I wanted to be a Prefect, not that anyone knew."

"I'm failing Transfiguration, not that anyone knows."

"There was this pretty, vivacious red-head I used to purposely piss off because she was beautiful when she was all riled up."

She met his eyes and said, "I think I'm broken." Softly.

"I think you're classically, flawlessly imperfect." She was serious, and so was he, but it didn't last. She pulled herself away, put up that wall before he could get a good enough grip on the top to hoist himself over and save her.

She flashed him a smirk. "And I think you're just trying to get in my pants. Again."

He just grinned mischievously, dimples showing, and dropped his towel beside him so he could tickle her sides, pinning her to the floor and capturing her lips with his own. She pealed with laughter, echoing off the walls of the dorms, and his chuckles provided a sweet baritone to her soprano, and together they almost had a symphony of their own.

The game was over for today.