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The young couple was left alone in the cold night, a light drizzling rain settling into their hair and clothes. Readjusting his bag, the boy set off down the path.
The old manor creaked loudly, the windows rattling their panes and the ancient stonework groaning against the wind. It could not sleep either.
She fiddled aimlessly with a small silver band around her middle finger. She pulled it off, instead sliding it onto her ring finger and admiring it in the weak autumn sunlight. She would look good engaged.
Albus knew their reactions, their every encounter, who they talked to, what they did and he recognised the wordless way in which they communicated. But he dared not speak to them.
Rose breathed in and out, pretending not be fascinated by the workings of Albus' mind and dampened the desire to make him more normal.
Rose had realised he was not worth her time or effort, and that her attention could be put to better use making every teacher and every student adore and admire her.
He caught the scent of French perfume and a glance of the white blonde hair, the long red fingernails and the familiar sense of boredom and irritation surrounded him. Dominique. Again.
For a moment, Elodie wondered whether he would lash out. But, strangely, he held his tongue. He would never bother with someone as trivial as Rose Weasley.
He remembered the words his uncle had said to Rose at King’s Cross, the very first time they got on the Hogwarts Express - the remark may have had some profound effect on her, may have identified Scorpius as something else to best, something to conquer.
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