basic rules of inheritance
she is love
and i believe her when she speaks- She Is Love, Oasis
Victoire reckons that the boy only catches her eye because she's so bored. He's far too young, but sadly that's only usually a problem for her before she's got a couple of drinks inside her.
And tonight, Victoire has far more than a couple sloshing around her veins.
You see, the Muggle nightclub had seemed like such a brilliant idea when Clarissa suggested it. A night of dancing and forgetting your troubles – what could be better? So she'd dressed up in her best party outfit, battled that Veela gene down (way down), and got herself absolutely wasted within about an hour.
And now she is seriously, extremely, and completely bored.
Naturally, that's when the best-looking boy she's seen in a while collapses onto the barstool next to her and orders her a drink.
"I don't want one," she replies instantly because he's – what, eighteen? – and she's not really into cradle-snatching.
"C'mon, one drink," he coaxes, and his eyes are sincere and familiar somehow. She's thinking that she's sure she knows this guy from somewhere when suddenly there's another drink in front of her and he's inviting her to dance.
Victoire divides her gaze between him and the glass, and then she's throwing all caution to the wind and taking two large gulps of the burning liquid and accepting his hand out onto the dance floor.
And, because she's Victoire and this is the sort thing that happens to her, soon he's dancing closer than she would normally be comfortable with. But the alcohol rages and controls and she does nothing, says nothing, just looks forward to a night where she won't have to remember even something so important as her own name.
"So what do they call you?" she shouts over the music, and he smiles – genuinely, beamingly smiles – and leans to yell into her ear.
"Among 'twat' and 'idiot' and 'git', it's usually Scorpius."
"Scorpius," she repeats, and warning bells are going off in her head for reasons she cannot fathom so she merely shrugs them off and leans in to holler messily into his ear. "I'm Victoire."
There's something that looks suspiciously like a smirk on his face when she draws back, and his lips shape words she can't hear (that look suspiciously like "I know") so she just smiles broadly, her body swaying with the music.
And then suddenly his hands are on her and his mouth is pressing against hers and she realises that she's done it, she's let it slip, that Veela pull has blazed out of her like a river of molten gold and he's caught, handsome Scorpius is caught like a fish in a net.
Usually at this point she'd back off, retreat, run away and fight and fight and fight until she's normal again, back to just plain (beautiful) Victoire, with no subtle burn of luminescence around her.
But it's been so long since that fight with Teddy and she needs this, needs it desperately – and since when has being drunk improved your sense of judgement?
She wakes up the next morning in a stranger's bed with his blonde head on the pillow next to her and her brain feeling like it might explode if she makes any sudden movements. So she lies completely still, utterly not sure what to do with herself, and just watches him breathe.
He rolls over suddenly, and through the haze of the hangover something about the planes of his face is very familiar, and then – oh, Merlin, nononono, please no – she's placing him and she's scrambling out of bed and onto the floor, clutching the sheets around herself, not sure whether to scream or cry.
"Ugh, Merlin, can't you just let a guy sleep?" he inquires in a sleep-heavy voice, burying his face in the pillows. "It's only nine-thirty. Come back to bed."
"But…but…but… but you're Scorpius Malfoy," she stammers, standing and backing away in the direction of the bathroom. "As in, Rose's Scorpius."
He turns his head back to face her again, still resting on his pillow, and he looks decidedly forlorn as he rubs his forehead.
"We're on a break," he informs her blankly, obviously trying hard not to let emotion show through. "She thinks I'm quote-unquote 'selfish and arrogant'."
"Well, I hate to state the obvious," Victoire replies, "but you kind of are."
"Shut up, Weasley," he retorts instantly, and suddenly he's flinging her dress over the bed at her, grinning slightly. "Go get dressed."
"You little –"
"Now, now," he admonishes her, finally rising from the bed and pulling on a pair of boxer shorts. "I'm not the one who tricked an innocent boy into my bed using freaky Veela voodoo crap."
"It was an accident," she responds, instantly on the defensive, and she doesn't know why she's the one giving ground when he paces towards her because – after all – she's twenty-four and a Weasley and she was one of the best in her year at magic. But this man – this boy is eighteen and there's something sort of wild about the way he is, so she retreats into the bathroom to get dressed.
"Hey, I've got an idea," she says as she exits, now dressed, trying to coax her hair into some semblance of normality. "How about we never mention this again?"
He sizes her up, considering, and then a slight smile forms on his lips and he blows her a kiss.
"Whatever you like," he replies nonchalantly, standing there in the middle of his bedroom as though he hasn't a care in the world. She ignores the kiss and bolts out of the door, apparating away as soon as is humanely possible and arriving back at her flat in a daze of kiss-bruised lips and a pounding hangover.
She leans back against her closed front door, shoes clutched in her hands, and she doesn't cry – because she's Victoire, and her whole life is just one big mess of boys and mistakes and bad decisions, and if she said she wasn't used to it by now she'd be lying.
Later, in wilder moments, she regards her younger cousins and she thinks that making bad decisions is most definitely a family trait.