𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐒𝐈𝐀| ✔︎

𝐒𝐈𝐗|𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

THE DAYS PASSED, and to Harry's dismay, he couldn't seem to find Malfoy doing anything out of the ordinary. However, his vase had become so full of roses that water had begun to spill out. But on the brightside, it did make his room smell a whole lot nicer.

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room with his two best friends, Harry stared down at the blazing fire. It was a scarlet colour, fierce and almost maniacal, intense and yet chaste. Hermione was making tea yet again, pouring down the kettle and soaking her tea bag before stirring it around.

"Are you going to tell Hermione about the rose?" Ron asked, breaching the comfortable silence. Hermione looked up with wrinkled brows. She usually didn't let things like this concern her.

"Rose? What rose?" she asked, blowing the steam away from her Chamomile. It had obviously occurred to her of Harry's distress — but with that sense of brilliant revelation the obvious can bring, Harry had not once mentioned anything about a rose. Then again, she hadn't been able to get much out of Harry the day he was brooding. For whatever reason — she didn't know.

Harry gave Ron a deadly glare before turning to Hermione and sighing. "You weren't supposed to know — no one is — but I've been receiving roses quite frankly every morning. Do you remember when we sat here together? Just the two of us? You were making tea. Just like now. Surely you remember."

Hermione gave a curt nod. "Yes, Harry. That hasn't slipped my mind. I'm still worried. Why don't you tell us what's really going on?" she tried.

Harry nodded. He was uneasy, what would his friends think if he told them he was dreaming of Malfoy? Oh well. It was now or never.

"I've been dreaming of Malfoy," Harry says, and he pauses to see their reactions. As expected; they're both wide-eyed, so he continues. "every night — for the past two weeks, I think."

"Harry —"

"And it's not just that, they're sensual. And every time I wake there's always a rose. Somewhere in the dorm or the common room for me to gather. And I don't know where they're coming from or who the sender is but I think it's Malfoy," he pauses as if he's intaking a big breath of air. "I think I like Malfoy."

He feels himself flush as he fails to make eye contact with them, but he looks up as Hermione and Ron just laugh. Why are they laughing? They don't think it's a joke, right? Some silly game he's playing? Harry can't afford the embarrassment but he still says nothing.

"Oh Harry," Hermione guffaws as she sets aside her tea cup. "you're such a hopeless romantic."

It was time to put his mood swings to use. "What do you mean, Hermione?" he cried. "Can't you see how stressed I am?"

Ron wiped his eyes. "Mate, seriously — if you think Malfoy is sending you pretty pink roses, why don't you just go confront him? Bet he'd love that." he winks at Harry, and (if possible) Harry becomes about four shades redder. Obviously he can't do that.

"All I know is that he's different. He isn't the Malfoy we know. I haven't seen him insult someone in quite a while — It's like he'd forgave and forgot." 

"You know what they say, someone with no forgiveness in their heart has a worse punishment than death. Why don't you write to him?" Hermione offers. "Like a love letter?"

Harry's head begins to form a migraine. He frowns at the intrusive thought. "Hermione, for someone who is at the top of all her classes, that's an absurd idea." he almost laughs at the idea of how sappy that would be, so he leaves to head upstairs back to the dormitory leaving them behind.

And the realisation comes faster than a slap in the face. He's completely, utterly screwed.

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a/n: Sorry for the short chapter. Big things are coming!