Chapter 1 : The Beginning.
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Long, thick fingers grazed along my body, light as a feather, leaving my skin tingling with electricity whichever path they chose – along my neck, over my bare, freckled shoulders, down the length of my arms, over my hips and thighs, up to grasp my waist with an urgency that I had never experienced before. I could hardly breathe, hardly remember my own name, hardly remember why all of this was so fucking wrong. All I could concentrate on was the feeling of rough, masculine hands against the softness of my skin, the sensation of a hungry mouth on mine, soft, succulent lips demanding that my own meet them at every soft peck, every deep, urgent kiss. I sighed contentedly, curling my fingers around his neck, pulling him down closer to me, closing the gap between us that existed naturally thanks to our differing heights.
I had long since lost the heels that had brought me so close to his towering six foot two. When we’d danced earlier that evening - before anything had gone wrong, when my hair was still perfectly coiffed into an up do and my makeup was untouched - I had been able to look him directly in the eye without craning my neck for the first time… well, ever. Now, with fiery red tendrils falling around my face and my lipstick smudged, I was back to being my normal five foot nine – tall for a girl, but still small enough to require him to bend his back to really kiss me.
As if he was reading my mind, he grabbed me, suddenly, arms looping around my torso, hands resting under my bum to lift me. My legs wrapped naturally around his waist as he backed me into the wall. The cold stone of the Delacour’s outhouse was rough against my back, exposed due to the backless design of my dress. I didn’t care. I moaned, pushing myself into him. He responded immediately, sighing into mouth, hands tightening on my bum, arching every available inch of himself against me.
It was, without a doubt, the hottest moment of my life so far. Every part of me felt like I was on fire, my heart was beating so fast I was sure he could hear it, my eyes were heavy lidded, my breathing heavy. I had never wanted anything – anyone – so much in my short, seventeen year old life. I didn’t care about consequences, I didn’t care that it was all so messed up, I didn’t care that we had both come to Victoire and Teddy’s sodding wedding with other people. All I cared about – all I could care about – was him, and the way we fitted together, and the way he was making my body do things I hadn’t even known it was capable of. All I cared about was prolonging this moment – this delicious, insatiable moment – for as long as possible.
“Stop thinking, Weasley,” he murmured, pausing with his lips just above my collar bone as my fingers crept into his hair. I hated how he could read my mind. Why could he always do that, answer me without hearing the question? He nipped at my skin. “Rose.”
“Shut up and kiss me,” I whispered, and then his mouth was back on mine, and his hands were pulling my hair out of whatever semblance of style I’d had left and tangling the curls around his fingers.
He captured my bottom lip gently between his teeth, biting down with just enough pressure to make me gasp and then groan, a long, languid sound that I had never had myself make before. Every noise I emitted seemed to stir a reaction in him, making him hungrier, rougher, faster, kissing me deeper and with more force.
I arched my neck, allowing him access to the space where it met my shoulder, my most sensitive spot. He attached his mouth to it like we’d been doing this forever, sucking at the skin while my hands roamed the hard expanse that was his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as quickly as my numb fingers could manage and pushing it over his shoulders onto the floor.
I had seen him topless before, on long sunny afternoons on the Quidditch pitch, but Good Merlin this was different.
His muscles seemed to shine in the moonlight. He wasn’t brawny. He didn’t have the kind of body you’d expect from a Gryffindor, he wasn’t huge and thick. Instead he was lean, with just enough definition to make my stomach gooey at the sight of him. His waist was slim, curving in to leave two defined hip bones that slipped into his trousers. A smattering of light hair covered his chest and his stomach, narrowing into a trail that disappeared into the waistband of his boxers. The sight of him made me ache, like he was an itch I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to scratch enough.
“Shit,” I muttered, allowing my eyes to flutter closed as he worked his tongue up my neck to behind my ear. This feeling- the simmering in the very pit of my stomach, the tingling in my toes – it was dangerous. It was going somewhere I couldn’t control – somewhere I didn’t want to control, and I was happy to let it. How had I let this happen?
Scorpius Malfoy’s hands slipped under the hem of my dress, grazing along my bare thigh, pushing the material up over my waist, over my shoulders, over my arms until it was lying with his shirt on the ground.
How had this come about?
How was I half naked in an outhouse, making out with my arch nemesis?
5 months earlier
October 2nd 2021
The sun was shining.
This in itself was a reason for me to be in a bad mood. The sunlight may have been streaming inconsiderately into the Slytherin Quidditch changing room, illuminating the lockers and sending tiny beams of light shimmering over the benches now, but the weather had been miserable for most of the summer that had just passed. This had been the summer between my 5th and 6th years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the summer in which I had finally got rid of my braces and grown boobs, the summer which I had been forced to spend most of inside thanks to the crappy British weather – and now, now we were back at school with NEWTs to think about and classes to go to, the sun decided to put its bloody hat on.
Hip hip hip hooray.
Add in the fact that I was currently experiencing the worst hangover of my life, and you can see why, as my dad liked to say, I “had the grumps.”
“I’m going to puke.”
I groaned, peeling open one azure eye to glare at the moody blonde who was sprawled on her stomach across the bench opposite me, her face hidden by a curtain of shiny hair. “Don’t you dare.”
Maggie Wood - my best friend of five years and daughter of one of the most successful Quidditch players, like, ever - lifted her middle finger in response to my snarky command. “This is your fault, Weasley,” she reminded me through a yawn. “Henceforth, I reserve the right to vomit all over your precious changing room.”
I let my gaze veer into a roll as I pushed myself gingerly into a seated position, ignoring the waves of nausea that erupted in my stomach. This was typical Maggie – only my frustratingly clever, perpetually annoyed BFF could use words like “henceforth” while nursing a killer hangover. Best student in our year and top of the class in every subject she took, she actually enjoyed homework and studying, two things that sent me into a spiralling pit of despair. If she hadn’t had a wild streak in her to rival the Marauders, I would have thought she was secretly my mother’s kid, she was so much more similar to her than I was.
Besides, it most definitely wasn’t all my fault. I mean, sure. It may have been my idea, as newly appointed captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, to host a small get-together to bond the team before the season started. It was not my fault that the entire team then proceeded to drink about as much alcohol as they had blood in their bodies. No one person can be held responsible for six fully grown Slytherins getting absolutely shit-faced, can they?
“My head hurts,” Juliette Zabini, my other best friend in the whole wide world, grumbled. She slumped over to us, throwing herself dejectedly into the seat next to mine. “I’m going to kill you, Rose.”
Or maybe they can.
“Quit blaming me,” an annoyed edge crept into my voice as Jules dropped her head onto my shoulder with a thud. I spluttered as tight, ink black curls swamped my face. “I am one hundred percent sure that a Zabini was responsible for the three games of Butterbeer pong-”
Matthieu, Jules’s twin, snorted derisively from the other side of the room. “Hey!”
“ – and it was one of you idiot’s idea to do Fire-Bombs,” I finished, ignoring Matty’s feeble interjection and aiming my glower in the general direction of my Chasers; three Seventh year lads who had about as many brain cells between them as my left foot. Walt Richmond: a tall, bumble-y blonde, Sam Sullivan: a thin, wiry guy who could score more goals in five minutes than I had in my entire life, and Bobby MacMillan: the hunk of the team, all shrugged back at me, unbothered by both my accusation and, it seemed, the alcohol. My brow puckered with bitterness at their ability to handle their Fire Whiskey.
“And it was your idea to hold a team bonding party the night before a seven a.m. practise, genius,” Maggie crowed from her foetal position. “Blame’s on you, kid.”
Everyone jeered in agreement as I picked up her Keeper’s gloves from the floor, aiming them half-heartedly at her head.
A sigh escaped my pursed lips. I released the gloves, one landing yards away from Maggie’s bench, one slapping her in the stomach, making her sit up with a sharp inhale of breath that made Jules chortle beside me. “What, Matty?”
Matty’s expression was pinched in apprehension. “You’re going to want to see this for yourself.”
Something about his tone made a feeling of dread settle in my stomach. There wasn’t much that the players on the team were nervous about saying to me – I’d only just been appointed Captain, after all, and had spent most of the three years I’d been on the team simply being the annoying Seeker from a famous family.
I got to my feet gingerly, leaving Jules to collapse into the space where I’d been sitting, and followed Matty out from the changing room to the pitch.
“You have got to be kidding me…”
A sea of crimson and gold filled the sky and ground. I could see my cousin Al, once one of my best friends and Keeper for the Gryffindor team, flying around by the hoops, weaving in and out of them, doing some sort of stupid drill. There was a gaggle of perfect girls stretching on the grass by the stands, including Al’s little sister Lily, a fourth year who had just made the team and was already by far the most beautiful out of all of the Weasley-Potter kids. Frankie, Professor Longbottom’s oldest kid, and Joey, his best friend, were batting a bludger between them on broomsticks that hovered a few feet from the ground. And finally, standing to the side with a clipboard, a “Captain” badge placed just-too-noticeably on his robes, stood Scorpius Malfoy, bane of my existence, arch nemesis, and general all round tosser.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Malfoy smirked, not looking up from his board as Matty backed away into the changing room. “Hello, Weasley,” his voice was tinged with sardonic amusement. “That’s the proper way to greet someone, you know.”
I forced a simpering smile onto my face. “Why, hi there, Malfoy,” I giggled, flicking my hair. “Happy?” I straightened up, my expression dropping back into one of sheer frustration. I folded my arms over my chest. “Now, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
He lifted his eyes to look at me, smoky grey meeting clear blue. His expression, as always, was partly indecipherable. It infuriated me that after all these years of Quidditch rivalry, match after match of racing each other to get to the Snitch, after years of him hovering around The Burrow thanks to an unfortunate friendship between him and Al, I still couldn’t read him properly. He was a mystery to me, and rivalries are ever more difficult when you don’t have a clue what the other person is going to do next. “It looks like I’m revising plays while my team warms up,” he said eventually. His voice seemed to get deeper every time I spoke to him. “But feel free to share your thoughts on what’s going on.”
“It looks like you’ve completely hijacked my practise.”
I snorted. “Don’t play dumb with me. You knew Slytherin were meant to be practising this morning.” I let my eyes skim over him with a dismissive smile. “This is low, even for you. Things must be going badly for Gryffindor this term.”
“Cute, Weasley,” Malfoy replied. “Actually, we just wanted to get some extra time in. Unlike some, I’m committed to my new role as Captain.”
I eyed his badge pointedly. “Clearly.”
“And as we were here first, I think you should take your – are we calling this a team?” he tossed a glance over to the door of the changing room where my players had assembled, watching us argue with an air of mild interest. “And go back to bed.”
“Hallelujah!” Maggie cawed.
“I think you should go fuck yourself,” I retorted, face flushed. “But we can’t always get what we want can we?”
“Such language this morning, Weasley. What would your mother say?” he tilted his head to the side as if trying to remember something. “Oh, that’s right – you’ve already shamed the family so much she probably wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. You know – going over to the green side.”
The laugh that bubbled from my throat was completely devoid of humour. Bringing up the fact that I had been sorted Slytherin – the only one of my family to have done so – was old news in Malfoy v Weasley territory. “Original,” I remarked, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “At least it’s possible to shame my family – it really couldn’t get any worse with yours, could it?”
“Have you always been this insufferable, or did that come with the Slytherin robes?”
“That’s rich, coming from-”
“Mr Malfoy! Miss Weasley!”
I turned on my heel, letting out felt like my fiftieth sigh of the day – and it wasn’t even eight a.m. Madam Spinnet, the fit flying instructor who every boy from first to last year had a crush on, was hurrying across the pitch towards us.
“Look what you’ve done,” I hissed at Malfoy.
“Me?” his tone was incredulous. “You’re the one getting all arsey and swear-y everywhere.”
“Swear-y isn’t a word, Merlin. Do Gryffindors even go to class?”
“It’s a word because I said it.”
“Oh yeah. That’s how it works.”
“Oh I forgot, you are the font of all knowledge. Enlighten me-”
“What is going on here?” Spinnet finally reached us, coming to a standstill with her hands on her hips, the movement pushing out her ample bosom. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Al fly straight into one of the hoops, his eyes only on her. “You’re making a ruckus, and frankly I don’t see a lot of Quidditch practise going on from either team.”
I cleared my throat, shooting Malfoy a look of disdain. “Well, that would be because Malfoy stole the pitch from us,” I informed Spinnet authoritatively. “I booked the pitch for Slytherin to practise this morning, and Malfoy decided to steal it for his own use.”
“I hardly stole it, Madam Spinnet,” Malfoy said. “I was aware that the Slytherin team might not make it to practise this morning, and thought rather than let the pitch go to waist, I’d get my team in for some extra training.”
“Why the fu – hell would you think that?” I demanded, correcting myself when I saw Spinnet throw me a sharp glance.
Malfoy shrugged, leaning closer to Spinnet. If I hadn’t known better, and Spinnet hadn’t been older than my parents which made her like, over 45, I would’ve sworn she swooned at him. I gritted my teeth in frustration. Sure, Malfoy was considered by some to be attractive – he had high cheek bones and startling eyes and the kind of hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial. But his personality automatically voided all of that – which anyone with half a brain would realise. “A little birdy told me that the Slytherin team were partying into the early hours last night.” He glanced at me, his expression smug. “I’ve seen Weasley drunk before, Madam Spinnet, and it’s not a pretty sight. I didn’t see how she would make it to practise this morning, considering.”
“You little shit,” I barked. My cheeks flushed as I recalled the occasion he was talking about: James’s 17th birthday party two years earlier and me, drunk for the first time off two shots of Fire whisky, throwing up in a hedge in front of all of the guests. “Are you spying on me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself love.”
“How the hell else would you know-”
I stuttered to a stop, startled by Spinnet’s sudden command. I had almost forgotten she was there, I’d been so wrapped up in the argument with Malfoy. He had that effect on me – the ability to make me unreasonably mad in the shortest amount of time.
“I’ve stood by and watched you two battle it out on the pitch,” Spinnet began, her voice rough with authority. The Gryffindor team had stopped whatever they were doing now, crowding round with my own players to listen more closely to what was going on. “For how long now? Two years?”
“Three,” Malfoy muttered.
“Three years. And I’ve told myself, and other teachers, that what the pair of you have is just healthy rivalry.” The look she gave us bordered on disappointed. “Well, I can’t say that anymore. Clearly, you two have issues that you need to work out and I have just the way for you to do it.”
I stifled a yawn. Spinnet’s punishments were infamously lame.
“We’re starting a new after class Quidditch and flying club for third years and below, and you are going to run it.”
Malfoy blinked. “What, you mean take turns to help you out?”
“No, Mr Malfoy,” Spinnet smiled falsely. “I mean you are going to be completely in charge, three nights a week, for the entire year.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, turning to leave.
A/N: Well hullo there! Thanks for reading the first chapter of my new little story. I'm really not meant to be writing fan fiction right now, I'm meant to be revising, but I've had Rose's annoying voice in my head for a while now, demanding that her story be told so here we are. Reviews are ALWAYS welcome! Let me know what you think ;)
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