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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.)


-Paige. 



 



 

“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.

 

 

 

Damn.

 

 

 

“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.

 

 

 

Cute.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Scorp

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Damn.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Yummy.

 

 

 

(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?

 

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