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Temporary. by ilharrypotter

Format: Short story
Chapters: 3
Word Count: 7,798
Status: WIP

Rating: Mature
Warnings: Strong Language, Scenes of a Mild Sexual Nature, Substance Use or Abuse

Genres: Fluff, Humor, Romance
Characters: Teddy, Scorpius, Rose, Victoire, OtherCanon
Pairings: Other Pairing, Rose/Scorpius, Teddy/Victoire

First Published: 04/23/2011
Last Chapter: 08/02/2011
Last Updated: 08/02/2011

Banner: crucio@TDA.

Everything in Dominique's life is temporary.

Her sanity.

Her job.

And - hopefully - her infatuation with an unattainable bloke.

Written for Jenna822's "Oh the Possibilities!" Challenge.

Chapter 1: Mission Hairbrush.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

A/N: Instead of working on Seven Weddings or Real Ladies, which gain much better reception than my silly other little WIPs that can't hold a candle to my beautiful, wonderful, magnificent novels-in-progress, I'm entering challenges out the arse. I know, I know. I shouldn't. I should back away from the forums - run away, really - and keep doing what I know I can do.

Instead, I'm writing for challenges. Which is bad. Meow. Don't get too angry with me.









Enter the nineteen-year-old, Dominique Weasley. I want my hairbrush. I can’t believe that I have to demand its safe return from my brother.




“Make me!”




Enter my sixteen-year-old brother, Louis Weasley. He enjoys when I’m angry with him, and I’m most definitely angry. Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it. He also enjoys stealing my belongings – including my clothes. I kind of think he’s gay. Not to say that would be a bad thing, but… yeah. I think he’s gay.




“Oh, Merlin, shut up! I have a headache!”




And our twenty-five-year-older sister, Victoire Lupin, who has a hangover. She’s about to explode on both of us – I know this for a fact.




“I will shut up when he gives me my hairbrush back,” I growl at Victoire, who clutches her forehead with her manicured fingernails at the sound of my voice.




Oh, my beautiful family. Where are my parents in a time like this?




Not that they could do anything. They’ve gotten over interfering in our arguments; Mum used to screech and fuss, and Daddy used to scold and separate us. That gets old for anyone, even Weasleys – who are born to be good parents – and French women – who never stop screeching. Nowadays, they sit by and watch with grins on their faces. The louder we get, the more they laugh. Over the past twenty five years, they’ve collectively lost their minds.




Last night, Victoire celebrated her anniversary with her husband, Teddy Lupin. Hence the hangover. She dropped by this morning to visit with Louis, still home from Hogwarts for his one final day of Christmas holidays, apparently forgetting that hangovers plus me and Louis equals pain. I thought she learned that ten years ago when she got drunk for the first time at a Christmas party thrown by our Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry. Victoire’s memory sucks.




“You’re not getting it back! I like it better than mine – it works better!” Louis insists, running a hand through his silky blonde hair.




He has girl hair. He won’t admit it, but he does. It’s long enough to touch his golden eyelashes, and it’s shiny and smooth like a girl’s. You can so tell he’s got Veela in his blood. He even acts like a girl about his beloved hair – constantly primping it, brushing it, running his hands through it. I tell him this often – especially when he borrows my hot pink hairbrush and acts like I’m not going to notice.




Enter my very feminine brother.




Man, am I proud to have him in my family…




“You’re such a pouf!” I cross my arms over my chest.




“At least I’m not a temp!” he responds, as if this is a clever jab.




Newsflash. It isn’t.




Enter the utter failure known as Dominique, surrounded by her freakish, intelligent, successful family members who like to tease her. Thanks to my troll-like grades on my NEWTs – no kidding, I got four Trolls, a Dreadful, an Acceptable, and one solitary Exceeds Expectations – I work for the Magical Temporary Worker Agency of London. (My next “duty” is to serve food at a wedding tomorrow night. Fuck.)




Apparently, the Ministry of Magic doesn’t look too kindly on people who only managed to pass their Charms and Care of Magical Creatures NEWTs, no matter what their last name is. Found that one out for myself. Quite the embarrassment.




Enter Louis, who thinks it’s funny to make fun of me for being what Maman calls a “disappointment to my family name”. Sixteen-year-old boys, man… they amaze me with their creativity and their general arsehole-ness.




“Just give it back, Louis!” I snap at him, not even bothering to attack him for the temp comment. I hear that too much to waste my energy anymore.




“Please just stop screaming!” Victoire groans, sinking onto the kitchen table and covering her ears with her hair and her hands.




I should feel bad for my sister, but today I don’t; Louis, as the baby and golden child, has always gotten away with everything, and usually, Victoire and I defend each other and fight back against the spoiled brat. She’s too hung-over to assist me in my time of need, however, so I have no sympathy for her aching head.




“I’ll stop screaming when he gives me my fucking hairbrush!”




“No!” he sticks his tongue out at me.




“Louis! Give it back!”




Enter Louis, the golden child of the Weasley-Delacour family.




I really wonder what makes him so damn special. What’s worse to my family? Being a temp, being married to Teddy, or having the maturity of a three year old? I don’t see how they could pick.




I stamp my foot, preparing to verbally attack Louis once again. Then, I think better of it. I’m nineteen. I’m a legal witch. I can Apparate. Within seconds, I whirl around in a circle and find myself outside Louis’ bedroom.




My poor brother is sixteen. He can’t pull shit like this. Ha. Pouf doesn’t stand a bloody chance against me now.




Mission Hairbrush is a go.




Enter the girl who uses her seven years of wasted Hogwarts education to come up with unoriginal names for her various “missions” into her brother’s room to regain possession of items he’s stolen from her.




I suppose that’s why I’m a temp…




I grab the doorknob and shove open the heavy wooden door. Louis isn’t smart enough to lock his room whenever he’s hiding my hairbrush inside, apparently. Thank Merlin my brother isn’t as smart as he is feminine.




Just as I step inside and slam the door behind me so Louis can’t launch a surprise attack while I’m pilfering through his desk drawers, there’s a loud pop, and a bloke appears only a few centimeters away from me, his face far too close to mine for my comfort.




“Erm,” the bloke bites his lip, and his pale cheeks blush with scarlet. “You’re not Louis.”




“Congratulations,” I murmur, stepping back to further examine the sudden intruder who has distracted me from Mission Hairbrush. I should be a little more surprised – probably scared, honestly – but I’m not. That’s me for ya.




Enter the most gorgeous boy I’ve ever seen pop into my brother’s room at complete random – which is a meaningless statement, since I’ve never seen anyone pop into my brother’s room at complete random. So – he’s one of the prettiest boys I’ve seen in a very long time. That’s a more accurate statement.




The bloke looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place his face with any of the names swirling around in my brain. I believe I saw him during my years at Hogwarts, but I know he isn’t my age; I would remember him if he was. Staring at him with critical eyes, I try to remember the name of the owner of his stony grey eyes, golden hair, and appreciable muscular build – it’s not happening. Damn it.




“You’re much prettier than Louis,” he adds, ignoring my sarcasm – a good thing.




Enter the most flirtatious person I’ve ever had break into my house.




(Yet another meaningless statement. But no less… Yum.)




I blink in silence. “Erm… t- thank – erm, thank you?” I finally stammer. “If that was supposed to be a compliment…”




“It was a compliment, albeit a shit excuse for one,” he grins.




Enter a bloke with a gorgeous grin.




Oh, dear Merlin, hold me back!




“It’ll do,” I force out as my cheeks continue to redden.




Wow. I am such a loquacious person.




“Is Louis here?” he asks me.




I shake my head, and then I freeze and curse at myself. Louis is here. He’s downstairs. I was just screaming at him downstairs in the kitchen. What the hell? Shit. What am I doing? I hate attractive males.




“I was hoping to catch him,” the boy snaps his fingers in disappointment. He doesn’t seem at all concerned that I still have no idea who he is or why he’s in my house, which are two perfectly good reasons to curse him out the window, no matter how flirtatious he may be. “Damn it. I suppose I’ll drop by again later – or maybe wait for him. Do you think he’ll be home soon?”




“He – he’s home,” I answer, surprised that this bloke has offered me no explanation as to why he’s even here. He acts like it’s normal for him to be in my house – when trust me, it isn’t. Once again, I would remember. I would definitely remember. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude, but… who are you and what are you doing in my brother’s bedroom?”




He raises his eyebrows. “Oh! I’m sorry,” he reaches out to brush his fingers against my upper arm, and I’m surprised by the gooseflesh the touch creates on my skin. “I’m Scorp – a friend of your brother’s.”




I cock my head to the right. I’m not so sure if I like the emphasis he put on friend. Maybe my brother really is gay. Huh. What a shame – this boy is cute, regardless of his peculiar name. Scorp. How odd. Scorp and Dom – well, that sounds pretty adorable. I take back what I said; it’s not odd at all. In fact, I say the combination to myself a few more times, and a smile tugs on the corners of my lips.




Absently, I wonder when the last time I had a date was – it must have been years ago, back when I was still at Hogwarts. It’s been even longer since I’ve even been interested in a bloke – and here I am, pairing my name with this bloke’s in my brain. Well, aren’t I planning ahead.




Scorp and Dom. Scorp and Dom.




Oh, what a sound. Yummy.




Enter Dom, the crazy temp who’s way too guilty of thinking insanely far ahead of herself.




Too bad he may be gay.




“Erm, he borrowed something of mine before we left for hols and I really need it back,” he adds, probably an awkward response to the smile on my face.




Oh, what an awkward creature I am.




“Feel free to rifle through his shit to find it,” I tell the bloke as I pull my wand from the back pocket of my torn, wrinkled jeans. “I’m on the hunt for my hairbrush.”




Scorp raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Louis steals your hairbrush too?”




Oh, yeah. My brother is gay. It’s official.




I roll my eyes at this. “Yes, he does. Excuse him – he’s a pouf in extreme denial.” This probably isn’t the best thing to say to the bloke, if the emphasis he put on friend meant anything at all, but it doesn’t stop me. Logic never stops me from saying stupid things.




“I’ve always thought that about him,” he winks one grey eye at me.




Okay, there’s no way this bloke is my brother’s lover. Nope. Not a single chance – the wink sealed the deal. Without responding to Scorp, fearing that I may say something crazy, random, and inappropriate, I wave my wand in the air around me and call out, “Accio hairbrush.”




Within seconds, four hairbrushes launch themselves at me from all different directions; I cover my face with my hands as they all pelt my poor body and then land with a thud at my feet. I drop to my knees to gather up the hairbrushes – they’re all mine, you see – and as I’m reaching for the one that started my fight with Louis this morning, my fingertips brush against someone else’s. I look up in shock to find Scorp crouched in front of me, reaching for the hairbrush as well.




“What’s your name?” he whispers, his voice low and rough.




At this close proximity, I see the fainted hint of golden stubble running down his thin face and crossing over his lips; for some reason I can’t explain, I want to run my hands along those cheekbones of his, kissing the line of his jaw where the stubble is most evident.




Is it clear that I haven’t talked to an attractive bloke in a really long time? I think so.




“Dominique,” I murmur in response, looking down at the ground towards my hairbrush again.




Oh, I’m losing my mind. I never introduce myself as Dominique; it’s always Dom. My name is too fancy for my personality. For some reason, though, I don’t think about this – all I think about is impressing this bloke, making myself seem sophisticated and older and beautiful to this bloke. I’ve never been this kind of girl – the kind of girl to shamelessly flirt with a boy she’s never seen before, a boy who just appeared in her brother’s bedroom at complete random. Yet here I am, doing just that. Oh, hell. What the fuck, Dom?




When I reach out to take my hairbrush, hoping to gather my belongings and get away before I do anything else stupid, Scorp grabs my hand with his. I almost fall backwards from my extreme surprise – and from the shock that radiates from the source all the way to my toes and back up to my brain. I tremble as he lifts my hand to his face, pressing his soft lips against my palm and smiling against my flesh.




“Nice to meet you, Dominique,” Scorp murmurs, his breath tickling the top of my hand.




Then, the beautiful boy releases my hand and stands up straight. He glances around Louis’ room and reaches for a heavy textbook that’s been haphazardly thrown – open, face-down – onto my younger brother’s bed. With one last smile, he spins on the spot, textbook in hand, and disappears with a crack, leaving me crouched on the floor, holding my hairbrush tight in my hand.




I stare at the spot from which he Disapparated, already missing his flirtatious smile and his warm presence – already missing the boy I don’t even know.


A/N: I'm really amazed that I have /no/ reviews on this yet... it's makin' me kinda sad. Anyone wanna make me a little happy? Let me know what you think of this. It could end up being a novella, but I don't even know if people like it enough for me to finish! Meow.



Chapter 2: Mission Kissing Scorp.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

As usual, I typed up an author's note once, and then the wonderful HPFF Gods decided to completely eat it. As usual. This is getting to be an every day thing. I wonder if I should just stop writing author's notes the first time, because I know they'll be gone by the second time. Man do I LOVE them HPFF Gods right about now. (As I curse them out in my head because they SUCK.)

On a brighter note - anyone find the title of this chapter to be hopelessly vague, so much so that they have no chance of finding out what's going to happen in this chapter? (My sarcasm function, along with my ability to title chapters, is a little screwy today.)




“Are you on something?” the redhead sitting across from me asks with a wrinkled brow. She raises her cup of tea to her pursed lips and watches me skeptically. “You’ve got the most idiotic look on your face I’ve ever seen.”




Enter my ever-critical, ever-skeptical younger cousin and closest mate, Rose Weasley.




Grinning at Rose, I shake my head. “No, I’m not on anything,” I respond, although I understand why she might suspect the contrary.




I won’t deny that I’ve been especially happy and smiley today, and I don’t usually go for smiling, so this might seem suspicious to people who know me well. Or to people who barely know me at all, to be perfectly honest. I don’t look like a smiley person at first glance. I bet when I show up at “work” tonight, everyone will ask me ten thousand times – at the least – what drugs I’ve taken since they last saw me.




(And since I work for an extremely credible temp agency… half of the people who ask will also ask me where they can get some of said drugs. Because that, my friends, is what you come to expect from other people who work at a temp agency.)




Enter the silly little girl who’s already infatuated with a mystery boy with a one-syllabled name and a handsome face, so much so that it looks like she’s high.




“Did you meet someone?” Rose probes farther, curious as to what explanation lies behind my un-Dom-like behavior. “Oh! That must be it – did you meet a boy?”




(I hate that she sounds so surprised.)




As my best friend, Rose doesn’t find herself having to ask me for much information anymore; on the rare chance that there is information to give her, I offer it up freely, sending letters to her almost daily when she’s at Hogwarts and Flooing by her house often whenever she’s at home. I’m content today, however, with keeping Scorp, the way he said my name, and the way his lips brushed the top of my hand all to myself. It’s the best secret I’ve ever kept from Rose in my life – which says practically nothing, as I’ve never kept secrets from Rose unless they were trivial or embarrassing. 




Enter Dominique, the bad secret-keeper.




“Of course not,” I tell her, smiling into my teacup. “I would tell you if I had, Rosie.”




She wrinkles her brow further. She hates when I call her Rosie, and she knows from my suspicious smile that I’m one-hundred percent lying to her. She hates when I lie, as well.




Enter Rose Weasley, the girl who hates almost everything.




When it comes to me, anyway.




“Did you cut off all of Louis’ hair or something?”




“No,” I say. “But that sounds like an awesome plan for future revenge. Thanks for that one.”




Rose chuckles. “Anytime.”




Ever since we were kids, she’s been my partner in crime. She’s a year and a half younger than I am and ten thousand times smarter, and she knows it. Whenever we wanted to get back at my brother for something, Rose was the one helping me do so. Whenever I needed revenge on my bitchy roommate back at Hogwarts, Rose was the one planning the scheme that would eventually land us both in detention. Whenever we both landed ourselves in detention, Rose was the one breaking us out. Merlin, I can’t imagine my life at Hogwarts if Rose hadn’t been there with me for six of my seven years.




“When do you leave for Kings Cross?” I ask her, hoping she’s forgotten that she was in the middle of interrogating me.




“Later,” she responds in a clipped tone, arching her eyebrows. “Why are you avoiding my interrogation?”




Enter one of the many almost-eighteen year olds who’s a hell of a lot smarter than I am.








“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in mock surprise, slapping my hand against my chest so hard that it almost hurts.




“I really don’t appreciate you hiding something from me,” Rose comments. She’s trying to sound offended, but it’s not working for her. Rose is a terrible actress; I’m glad I have at least one thing on her – sort of, anyway. “I’m your best mate, aren’t I? You tell me everything.”




I shrug my shoulders. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure why I’m not telling Rose. There’s more to it than just wanting to bug the fuck out of her, really. If that was it, I would be torturing her more, teasing her with the information that she wasn’t allowed to know, knowing I would eventually give in to her begging and tell her just to listen to her complain about how unimportant it really was. Instead, I’m just holding Scorp inside, and I’m content with her not knowing – whether she cares enough to torture me about it or not. Her frustration with her ignorance is just a bonus.




Something tells me he’s just too good to be true, you see. He must be. A boy who flirts with me, willingly calls me Dominique, doesn’t run away when he sees that I’m clearly nutty just from one glimpse, and kisses my hand when he says goodbye? Yeah, this boy can’t possibly be real. There’s a ninety percent chance he’s just another figment of my imagination.




Enter the girl who is so lonely and deprived that she imagines blokes with whom she can interact.




Very gorgeous, hilarious, charming blokes.




Who seem quite real.




Even though it isn’t possible – not at all! – that they actually are real.






When I return home later in the afternoon, I’m surprised to see an unfamiliar owl sitting patiently outside my windowsill in my bedroom. Once the large, dark brown feathered creature sees me enter the room, it raises a wing towards the window latch as if to say, “Open it, damnit.








I cross the room and push my window open; the owl flies in without a second’s hesitation and settles down on the back of a chair, all the way across the room. Of course.




Damn. This fucking bird wants me to get my exercise today, doesn’t it?




Enter a girl who is not a fan of exercise. To say the very least.




When I cross the room again and untie the letter from the bird, I’m surprised to see a family seal I don’t recognize. I don’t ponder it for more than a moment; I don’t get mail much, so it’s not a surprise to be unfamiliar with a seal – or an owl, now that I think about it. No one ever contacts me by owl. Shit, no one contacts me at all, by any means.




Dominique –




I’ll be Apparating to your house again this evening. Five o’clock sharp, if you don’t mind. From earlier experience, you’ve proved to be a little frazzled by surprise appearances from strangers, so I’m giving you my advanced warning now.




Oh, and… if you don’t want an appearance from me at all… well… I’m afraid you’re just going to have to send me away.




If you aren’t dazzled by my charms before you can manage to do so.








Well, someone has me figured out, eh? That’s a shame. I know I’m not necessarily an unpredictable, mysterious type of girl, but it’d be nice if a bloke had to pause and think about what I was going to do next at least once. Not that I ever have any blokes trying to think about what I’m going to do – the male gender, as you surely remember, doesn’t find me particularly interesting. They’ll all collectively agree that I’m pretty enough – “She’s got nothing on her sister!” often accompanies those pseudo-compliments – and I’ve got Veela in my blood to boot, but my sanity or lack thereof tends to chase off anyone who thinks my good looks are worth a try.




Honestly, I don’t even think my Veela genetics help me out anymore; I’ve reached a point where magic can only do so much to make me seem less like a nutter.




It doesn’t stop me from being slightly disappointed that Scorp understands me so well after meeting me one single time. He knows I couldn’t send him away – he’s right, completely right. His charms are too much for me, and I don’t even know why. But somehow, he does know this.








While I’m brooding, my arms crossed over my chest and my mind spinning and cursing at my own predictability, I hear the clock from downstairs in the living room begin to chime – it’s five o’clock. In an hour and a half, I’ll have to get ready for “work” and be at the wedding reception by seven, but right now, it’s five o’clock, and that means Scorp. Five o’clock sharp, just as he said. I stop pouting just as I hear a loud crack, and I know Scorp is here, even though I’m not facing him. Perfect timing. He appeared right when I was about to get very angry with myself.




I turn around – slowly, so I don’t look too terribly excited and embarrass myself – and just look at Scorp, who leans against my desk casually, like he’s been standing there for half an hour instead of a few seconds.




“Nice to see you again, Dominique.”




“Hi,” I respond, and then I bite my lip and curse myself.




Hi. Really?




Enter this big, huge, fat awkward moment, also known as my entire fucking life.




My big, huge, fat awkward moment-slash-entire-fucking-life doesn’t faze Scorp, though. He rolls back his shoulders and grins at me.




Enter the random stranger who looks even better than he did earlier today.








(That’s the only word my brain can coherently think whenever he’s around, apparently.)




“I’ve thought about you all day,” he tells me.




Merlin’s beard, he looks good. Much better than he did the first time I saw him, although I don’t know how that makes any sense whatsoever. He’s wearing the same clothes, his hair is tousled the same way, and his eyes are the same attractive shade of grey; the only thing different is the stubble on his face, which is more noticeable now that more time has passed.




“I’ve thought about you too,” I answer.




Good job, Dom. That was a very coherent response. I’m proud of you, self.




“Noted.” Scorp smiles.




Merlin, he sure is bloody attractive when he smiles. (And all other times.)




Enter the girl who’s falling, falling, falling. Fast.




Scorp takes a step towards me, still smiling. He’s being cautious with me, I see, and I appreciate it, because even this simple action sends me reeling in its aftermath. As my mind spins and my breathing hastens, just because he got a little closer to me here in my bedroom, I hope he can’t tell. Silently, I remind myself to breathe and calm down. It’s just a small step. Nothing big. Nothing scary. Nothing groundbreaking. Just a tiny step that brings him just a tiny bit closer to me.




Nonetheless, it starts my heart off at a rapid pace, and I resist the urge to clutch my chest and scream for help. I’m not having a heart attack, I know. I’m just here in Scorp’s presence, and apparently, gorgeous boys make awkward girls’ hearts beat far too fast. It’s the first time I’ve been an awkward girl standing in a small room with a gorgeous bloke, so excuse me as I continue to adjust. I’ll get acquainted with these side effects of Scorp’s presence soon enough. (As long as I have enough time to get acquainted with them, of course.)




Enter the huge fucking awkward, nervous, odd mess of failure commonly known as Dominique Weasley.




I don’t think it’s hard to tell that I’m breathing raggedly and hardly holding myself up straight, but Scorp doesn’t seem to be turned off by or even notice my obvious freak-out. Thank Merlin he’s relatively oblivious – that’ll save me in the future.




If we have a future, I mean.




“Can I tell you a secret?” he murmurs, his voice low again.




The sound sends shivers up my spine, and I get a little dizzy – even though I’ve heard his voice a couple times, and it should be ineffective now. Should is the key term. Should never seems to apply to my life, only everyone else’s very normal and usually quite successful – when compared to my own - life. Which honestly sucks to the nth degree.




Can I have a therapist, please?




“Of course you can,” I respond, and then I launch into one of my most embarrassing habits – rambling. Oh, shit. He’s going to run now. “I’m very good with secrets. I never tell. People tell me secrets all the time. I’m the best secret-keeper around – I’ll never tell anyone. I think that might have something to do with the fact that I never have anyone else to tell.”




Enter Dom, the rambling artist.




“And no one ever tells me secrets, because I don’t talk to anyone. Except my siblings. And my cousins. And now you, I suppose, since I would guess we’re friends now, and of course I would never tell a secret that my friend told me. I would never betray a friend’s trust. Trust is very important, you know. So, I take secrets very seriously – you can trust me, for sure. I’ve never – ”




Now, I’m capable of rambling on and on for hours on end. I’ve got practice from trying to annoy Louis or Victoire halfway to their deaths – yes, sometimes I actually have to try to be a pain in the arse – and I’m really a bloody genius when it comes to the art of rambling. There’s no one on this planet that can ramble more than I can – and do – and there’s no one who can stop me once I’ve gotten started. There’s no end to it.




Except that there is.




The boy takes another step forward – moving so quickly I can’t even overanalyze the action in my brain as it’s occurring – and almost launches himself at me, but it’s a much more graceful, perfect movement than that. His lips crash down on mine suddenly, and I have no chance to ask him what he’s doing before it becomes quite evident that Scorp, that gorgeous boy who kissed my hand, called me Dominique, and helped me gather up the stolen hairbrushes earlier this morning in Louis’ bedroom, is kissing me.




Enter the bloke who just finally stopped me, the rambling artist, from rambling.




His hands tangle themselves in my overgrown, knotted curls, and I melt at his touch, moving closer and closer to Scorp even though there isn’t any space in between us. If I thought the moments when our hands brushed together or our flesh connected for only a second were powerful and electrifying, kissing this bloke is Elder Wand kind of powerful. I can feel my knees weakening as we speak.




As quickly as he rushed towards me, he releases me from his grip and moves the slightest bit away so that our lips no longer touch. Scorp presses his forehead against mine and runs the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. The corners of his lips curl upward; he’s pleased with himself. And I have to say – I’m rather pleased with him as well.




He kissed me.




He kissed me.




“Can I tell you my secret without you going off on a tangent?” he asks, smiling so that I know he’s only teasing me and not insulting my tendency to ramble – which is a nice touch.




The simple, gorgeous, dazzling smile on his face keeps me from overanalyzing and overreacting all over again to something else that isn’t nearly as important as I try to make it; I appreciate that. It saves me from a migraine later today. My brain isn’t used to all of this thinking that Scorp makes me do.




“Oh,” I mumble. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll be quiet.”




He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you this morning.”




“Feel free to do it again.”




That was the best line that’s left my mouth in weeks. Maybe all I needed to pass my classes in Hogwarts was a gorgeous boy to snog.






so, here we go again with the author's note... take two?


Chapter 3: Mission Missing Him.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Hello again! Sorry it's taken so long. I had to write this chapter, and it was taking me... let's not even go there. It was comparable to pulling teeth. I think I finally fixed the spacing issues that have been plaguing all of my updates, as well. So from now on, maybe I'll have normal spacing in my posts!? Cool, right? Remember to read and review; this story is still a baby, and she needs some loving. :)


“Mother fucker,” I swear, bouncing around on one foot as I massage my knee, which was just mercilessly slammed into the very sharp corner of the low coffee table my mother insisted on putting in front of the fireplace. “Damn it all to hell!”



Enter the interior design skills of stubborn French women – in case you all didn’t know and couldn’t figure it out from the painful reunion of my battered knee cap and the coffee table, they suck.




“Bloody fucking hell,” I continue cursing, falling onto the coffee table even though I’ve been told a million times that tables are not to be sat upon.




My vulgar, profane moaning and groaning will surely wake up both of my parents and lure them downstairs – inciting another “don’t sit on the tables!” lecture from Mummy Dearest, if she’s in the right mood, and a chuckle or two from my father, no matter his mood – but I don’t care. I stopped caring about the rules about using tables as benches the first time I slammed an appendage into one of the deathly sharp corners of the bloody coffee table – which was at a young age, mind you.




Sitting on the table, I wait for the throbbing pain in my knee to go away. When I was younger, my father taught me to ignore such things as bumps and bruises – if I ignored the pain, it would go away without notice, and if I paid it attention, it would plague me for even longer. I believed him when I was younger – much like I believed every word that left his mouth. Now, of course, I’ve got no patience for such advice. That hurt like a mother fucker and I do intend to wallow in the pain until it goes away.




When it finally subsides a few minutes later, I stand up again and wince, shaking my scraggly blond hair out of the braid I’m required to keep it in for my newest temporary job – a server for a magical catering company that serves some of the most prestigious magical families in all of Europe. Tonight, I served various hors d’oeuvres and champagne to highly-esteemed French, Austrian, and Belgian witches and wizards at the wedding of the beautiful daughter of the new headmistress at Beauxbatons. Carrying around a heavy, goblin-made silver tray all evening and stopping whenever a well-dressed snob in dress robes and pearls wanted a salmon puff and a flute of expensive champagne is exhausting. I can barely bend my arm out of the tray-holding position.




Putting weight on my now-injured knee hurts a little, and I find myself limping towards the staircase before I remember a very valuable piece of information that almost always seems to slip my mind when I need it most – I’m a legal witch.




Enter a girl with the ability to Apparate from place to place at will!




Thank you, Merlin.








When I’m safely in my bedroom, I throw my wand onto the nightstand and fling myself across my bed, face first. I spend a few minutes enjoying how comfortable my mattress is – especially since I’ve been standing on my aching feet since five o’clock this evening when I reported to the banquet hall to help the caterers set up for dinner – and letting all of my blood finally circulate back up through my torso – which, by the way, aches almost as badly as my knees and ankles do.




Enter the old woman in a young witch’s body.




After silence settles in my bedroom – once I stop groaning in pain, I mean – I hear a strange sound. It almost sounds like… breathing. Very soft breathing. Muffled, almost. Like someone is trying to prevent themselves from being heard. Hmm… very curious. Being the ninja that I am, desperate to find out if I really do hear breathing, I hold my own breath. (Because it would be my luck that I think I hear someone in my room breathing, and it’s actually me.)




No, I still hear it. Huh. That’s weird. Oh well. I close my eyes and wiggle a little, digging a little crevice into my thick duvet cover for my aching body.




Wait a second… breathing?




Holy shit balls.




I let out a loud battle cry slash petrified scream, fly off the bed, grab a pillow, and whip my head around, trying to find the source of the breathing. A murderer? A rapist? A Death Eater – even though they’re all in Askaban?




Then, only a few seconds later, I find the second life form whose breathing I heard.




Oh, for the love of Merlin.




By the way, the source of the breathing? It’s Scorp’s owl. Sitting only a few meters away from my open bedroom window, looking quite amused at the show I just put on for her. If she could talk, she would fly straight back to Hogwarts and tell Scorp all about the silly girl who tried to beat an intruder to death with a pillow in the middle of the night.




I slap my hand to my forehead, cursing at myself for being so magnificently stupid. I am truly, honestly, completely stupid.




Merlin’s bloody beard, Dom, really? Thank Godric it wasn’t a person looking to murder me or something like that. What would I have done? Left my wand on the table behind me and beat them to death with the pillow I’m clutching? Oh, how threatening.




Enter a legal witch who can’t ever seem to remember she’s a legal witch.




“How’s it going, Guinevere?” I greet the owl cordially – because I’m out of my fucking mind – and drop my weapon, approaching the owl and grabbing the bag of owl treats on my desk to reward the owl and apologize for thinking she was a murderer hiding in my bedroom. Maybe if I pretend like nothing happened, she won’t keep making that condescending owl face at me. (I doubt that.) “Did you miss me?”




Whenever I see Guinevere, which occurs at least every other day –daily if I’m lucky, and multiple times in a day if Merlin feels sympathetic for giving me such a pathetic existence – I find myself almost automatically in a good mood. Why, might you ask?




Well, isn’t that obvious?




When Guinevere is here, it means she’s got a letter.




When Guinevere has a letter, it means Scorp sent a letter.




When Scorp sends a letter, it means he wants to talk to me!




And when Scorp wants to talk to me, it means I am one happy girl.










I miss you. Damn, I really miss you. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen you – I didn’t think it would bother me this badly, but bugger… it really does. I can’t wait to see you again. To see your blushing face and your messy curls. To kiss you again. To hear your voice and listen to you ramble on and on about nothing. I miss you dearly – I want desperately to see you again, love.




So… I’m making plans to see you again. As luck would have it, tomorrow is a Hogsmeade trip. I know your shift won’t start until five – that gives us plenty of time. Please, meet me at the Three Broomsticks at noon. I’ll be there, waiting to see you.




You’ve charmed me.








I read the letter over and over again, this idiotic smile on my face the whole time. Scorp misses me. He really misses me. Oh, he misses me. The bloke owls me quite frequently, of course, and he tells me he misses me in most of the letters that he’s sent. However, he hasn’t expressed just how much he misses me in any of his letters, and it’s nice to know that I’m not the only person going absolutely crazy.




And it’s even nicer to know that he’s so crazy that he can’t wait another day to see me.




Major ego boost.




Enter a witch with a man – won’t my momma be proud.




Kicking my legs in the air like I used to when I was a little girl, I read the letter again and then press it to my chest, a few seconds away from squealing like an overexcited seven year old. He misses me.




These past three weeks have been hard for both of us, I know. In my letters back to Scorp, I try to veil how much I miss him – but I can’t do it. I blurt out over and over again that I miss him bunches and bunches, that I’m sad and lonely without him, that I don’t know how I can make it any longer without seeing him. I feel like a genuine over-obsessive teenage girl – a phase I definitely skipped when I was back at Hogwarts.




I don’t know what it is about him, but I think he might make me even more insane than I already was before I met him. I know so little about him. I don’t even know his last name. I know that he’s unbelievably attractive, that he makes me feel like a little girl, that he is an amazing kisser. Not enough factual information to fall in love, get married, and have children, but just enough information for me to be infatuated with him for years on end. Which I plan to do.




And all I can say is… I hope he lasts.




If he doesn’t, I’ll lose my mind.




Okay, shut up. I know you can’t lose something you’ve never had.






Enter the socially awkward, forever alone, opposite of stylish Dominique Weasley.




While she tries to pick out an outfit in which she will be meeting Scorp.




Oh, my Godric, please send some fashionable angel – well, maybe not an angel… – to assist me. I need help. I need serious help. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, shit, damn. Shit fuck damn shit. I need to find an outfit. I have ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Scorp in Hogsmeade, and what am I currently wearing?




A pair of Louis’ red boxers – which are covered in very manly lions; go, go, Gryffindor! – and my bra.




Maybe I look cute – for a psychopath – but this will not do. I stare at my reflection in the floor length mirror I stole from Victoire’s old bedroom this morning, hands on my hips and head tilted to the right as I examine myself.




It’s not the craziest outfit I’ve ever worn, of course… Hey! Why are you looking at me like that?




For god’s sake, I grew up with both the Scamander and Longbottom families, and half of my wardrobe consists of my grandmother’s homemade jumpers – give me a fucking break. So, I’m not the most fashionable girl in this world. But I have reasons.




Anyway, as I was saying… it’s not the craziest outfit I’ve ever worn, but it’s definitely not appropriate for Hogsmeade. Not around Scorp.




So… I need pants. And a shirt. Preferably both. If that’s not too much to ask. If that is too much to ask, I might not be leaving the house anytime soon.




While I rush back to my closet and flip through the jumpers, ill-fitting blouses and dresses, and torn, ratty t-shirts I stole from my brother and various cousins, my mind is racing. What am I going to do if I can’t find something to wear? Am I going to show up in Hogsmeade in a pair of almost-clean jeans and the Chudley Canons shirt that Uncle Ron bought me for Christmas? That’s the only outfit I can think of that isn’t entirely embarrassing. The only one. And it’s still semi-embarrassing, because there’s a hole in the t-shirt, right over my left boob. Cool.




I’ve never been the kind of girl to care. I wear what I wear. It never mattered to me before who I was going to see when I got dressed in the morning. All of a sudden, though, it matters way too much to me. It matters way more than it should. And it’s all because of Scorp.




Enter the only boy who can make me act like a girl.




Someone knocks on my bedroom door, and I whirl around in a circle, grabbing a shirt to cover my upper half as the person lets themselves in. There’s always got to be a visitor whenever I’m in a clothing crisis – wait. Never mind. I’ve never been in a clothing crisis before. I’ve never cared before.




“Having trouble?”




“Go away, Dad.”




Enter the least helpful member of my family when it comes to fashion decisions.




“I’ve never seen you have so much trouble find an outfit for work.”




“That’s because I’m not trying to find an outfit for work,” I respond, slipping the shirt I grabbed over my head and flipping through my clothes again – maybe, just maybe, something will appear all of a sudden in front of me. Something useful. Something non-embarrassing. Something I can actually wear in front of Scorp. If that exists in my closet. Which I doubt it does.




“What are you trying to find an outfit for, then?” Dad plops down on the end of my bed, among piles of blankets and discarded jumpers I threw out of my closet earlier, and crosses his arms over his chest. He grins, like he thinks he’s onto something. “Do you have a date?”




I look at Dad and raise my eyebrows. He knows better than to think his darling daughter – me, of all people – might have a date. (Even though I do, sort of. Which is, in and of itself, a major shocker.) But he’s such an optimistic creature. It’s almost unhealthy.




“Of course not, Dad,” I roll my eyes, trying to sound exasperated. If I give any hints that he’s right, I’ll never get out of the house again. He is, after all, a father, and a damn protective one at that. Even if I am nineteen years old and completely out of his control. Even though I still live in his house… eat his food… spend his money… Oh.




Enter a nineteen-year-old who is still entirely dependent on her father.




“See, Dom, I told you I still have a sense of humor.”




My jaw drops. Did anyone else hear that?




Enter the extremely cruel arsehole of a father who’s just been disowned by his slightly insane failure of a daughter.