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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.

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