Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling.

Warnings: This work of fiction contains references to the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse of a minor by an adult and spousal violence, in addition to the participation of a minor in an illegal cage fighting ring.

These Steel Cables

They met in a place that neither had ever thought they would be; a place so deep in the undergrowth that he could taste the soil in his mouth, and she could feel the maggots burrowing under her skin. A place they would look back on in the years to come and shake their heads, wondering how people can go so wrong, how they can spin off the tracks until they're using and being used and next thing they know they're tossed away like garbage.

It was on a normal, hateful day, the night of the full moon, that they met. She was safely sequestered in her little place, the hole she retired to when she had been used sufficiently for the night. She was comfortable with it now, being garbage. He, on the other hand, was brilliant and virile and not at all the coward she was. Yet they found themselves in the same position, time and time again.

So really, how different could they be?

The password to the prefect's bathroom made it's way around the school all too quickly. In fact, that was one of the things Rose hated most about Hogwarts. Despite being beautiful and green and chock full of magic, only the secrets that shouldn't be kept, remained just that – secrets.

She tried to stay away from any public places when she was like this, and the small, sixth floor prefect's bathroom had turned out to be, surprisingly, the least used room in the entire school. What was one more bathroom? Besides, it was very instrategically placed – one had to be willing to pace around redundantly in order to locate the entrance. In the three years she'd been frequenting this little hideout, Rose had never seen anybody but herself use it.

It was because of the long, trusting relationship that she shared with this particular prefect's bathroom that Rose did not hesitate to barrel through the door as fast as she could with the aching thighs, cracked ribs, and bloody, swollen lips that were the unwanted gifts bestowed upon her that evening. The tears came hot and fast now, swimming across her pores and burrowing themselves into the creases of her lips and nose. The salt burned her skin.

She paused in front of the mirror, staring at what she had become. 5'4'' with red-brown hair and pale hazel eyes was how a kind person would describe her, she supposed. But Rose was only kind when people deserved it, and the girl staring back at her deserved none of that tenuous courtesy. Palish skin with an unattractive yellow cast, set in soft creases around deep-set eyes and a small, flat nose. Everyone always said she had her mother's nose, but as Rose studied it very carefully, she decided that such an assessment was nothing but an affront to her mother.

She didn't bother to catalogue the bruising that ran along her cheekbones, the bloody nose, nor the busted lip. She hardly noticed them anymore.

Rose looked down, taking a deep breath and wincing at the painful twinge that accompanied it. She grabbed the muggle first-aid kit she had left under the sink, unzipping it to study the small, clear-plastic sections. Tape first, I think. All of this was second nature to her, as it had been for a long, long time. Figure-eight around the ankle, and just enough to hold the ribs in place. At this point, the ritual was almost comforting.

Something made her look up suddenly, and what she saw made the tape she was holding clatter to the floor.

There was a face reflected in the mirror beside hers, one that was at the same time both very different and much the same. Busted lip, black eye. But where she was used to seeing scarlet and coffee reflected back at her, there was white blonde hair and cobalt eyes set into harsh, chiseled features that possessed a fierceness she could only dream of. His face floated before her eyes, and in that moment, she could not for the life of her decide whether or not he was a dream. He had to be, she thought. This train of deliberate dissolution continued until Rose felt the fallen first-aid tape placed gently in her left hand, as if by some mystical force. She looked up, something shocked and horrified and just a little bit awed showing plainly in her eyes.

He didn't speak. He just sighed; long and deep and inexpressibly sad. With that, he turned around and left, nothing left in his wake but a frightened, beaten girl, some first-aid tape, and a few drops of purest red blood.

~ () ~

Rose had Defence Against the Dark Arts last period, just as she'd had since second year. She can still remember what it felt like, the first time she realized that as soon as she stepped into that classroom, her free will was gone. Cold toes pressed firmly to the floor inside her blue mary janes, fingers gripped around the edge of her desk, unable to move no matter how much she willed it.

Professor Tinstine was over forty with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a thin, long face. He was jovial and handsome in that distinguished way that only came with a certain number of wrinkles, and for the first few weeks after his arrival at the beginning of her third year, Rose just may have harboured a small crush on him.

When she really ruminated on it, that fact was what made it all the more painful, the first time he cast what she later realized was the infamous Iniuria Curse on her, locked the classroom door, and did things to her that no man should do to any girl. The first time it happened, she was scared and confused, until it happened again, and she realized deep down in her heart of hearts, that there was nothing she could do to stop it. Ever. She was bound to him now – magically, physically, and emotionally; in every way that mattered.

So Rose Weasley did what she had done for her entire life. She closed her eyes and endured, making all the necessary motions and trying not to be noticed. It worked, she supposed. On one hand, she was happy that no one knew her dirty little secret. On the other hand, though, the one that was small and twisted and confused, she wondered at how nobody, not even her family, noticed the little scar that now existed on the back of her right knee, or her perpetually swollen lips and highly-coloured cheeks. Eventually, she stopped trying, noticing, or particularly caring. At least that's what she told herself.

And yet, she still managed to find herself staring in the mirror in that deserted prefect's bathroom, tears and dried blood mixing on her cheeks.

~ () ~

The next time Rose had occasion to visit the prefect's bathroom was three days later. The Professor had kept her late. She was confused as she climbed the stairs towards the sixth floor, her mind racing. Although Rose had some bruising on her neck, arms and thighs, today she had no other major injuries. In fact, he had been downright gentle. He had held her and kissed her and acted like he loved her, as he hurt her in the deepest places she knew. And to Rose, that was worse than all the pain she had ever experienced at his hands, this strange, cloying gentleness. It made her feel like a guilty party to his crime, and she realized as she pushed open the door that this had never been just his crime. It was hers too; it had been ever since that second day, and would be until the day she died.

For some reason, when she entered the bathroom and saw Scorpius Malfoy hunched over the main sink, taking great, heaving breaths, the only surprise she felt was a dull pang in her stomach. She realized, with some detachment as she stared at his broad back, that he was attempting to bandage what appeared to be a nasty puncture wound in his side. She stood there in the light of the doorway, her mind in overdrive, trying to wrap her head around the oddness of this situation.

Scorpius looked up sharply, his dark eyes pressing into her temples. "Get over here and help me, won't you?" He tugged sharply on the bandage, his tone gruff and frustrated.

"Oh, sorry. Of course. Sorry," Rose mumbled, scurrying over to his side, her hands fluttering uselessly. "Do you need me to wrap it, or press down, or just -,"

"Just wrap the bloody thing, alright? I don't need to be bleeding all over the sodding prefect's bathroom," he said, frustration and pain mixing in his throat to form words that frightened Rose to her core.

She didn't respond. Focusing on the task at hand, she pressed the adhesive firmly into his luminescent skin. Scopius hissed in pain, jerking away from her touch.

"I'm so sorry!" Rose cried, pulling back abruptly.

After a few seconds, she hesitantly pressed the bandage back to his wound, noting with some detached form of fascination how fluidly the scarlet liquid soaked into the absorbent bandage.

"Just finish it," he forced out, his words distorted by his clenched jaw.

She bit the inside of her cheek as she felt his stomach muscles tense under her fingers. "There. Done," She hiccupped, wiping the wetness from her cheeks.

Scorpius straightened, and she took the opportunity to study his face, the ridges and hollows painted in a mixture of cloud white and sickly purple. Looking back in the mirror, she shakily lifted a hand to her cheek, pressing it against the bruise that matched Scorpius'. Abruptly, she reached under the sink for her stash of first aid.

Before she could inhale, a pale, long-fingered hand was wrapped like a vice around her wrist. "What are you doing?" he heaved, his voice twitching in his throat.

Rose felt herself freeze up, her blood congealing in her veins. She could see the blue vein throbbing in Scorpius' forehead, his eyes wide and panicked with something more than just simple alarm. Paranoia creased every line of his face.

Rose took a deep, shuddering breath, her face feeling seized up and stiff, fear locking her joints in place. "I – I'm just getting some bruise salve," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She stared down at her wrist gripped in his hand, and noted how pathetic it appeared, small, limp, and unresisting despite it all. A salty tear landed on the back of his hand, and he released her as if he had been burned.

That was how Rose Weasley found herself standing beside Scorpius Malfoy in a dusty, deserted prefect's bathroom on a cold night in December. She realized as she patted the bruise relief cream to her face, that this was the first time in almost five years that anybody had seen her without a full body glamour wrapped around her like an invisible cocoon, lilting lightly between what she really was and what she wanted people to see. The best lies contained a sliver of the truth, after all.

"So," Rose began, her voice cracked with disuse, "why are you here, then, Malfoy?" She continued to apply the bruise cream, trying to maintain some sort of balance between foolhardiness and simply inquiry.

Scorpius brought his hand down onto the concrete countertop with enough force to shake a couple of latent drops of water from the turned-off faucet. Rose jumped.

"Shut up, Weasley. I'm not standing here because I want to hang out with you. I'm here because there is nowhere else to go. So do us both a favour, and just shut up," He bit the words out harshly, desperately, in a voice like steel.

"Right. Of course. Sorry, I just thought that, well –,"

He ran his hand through his hair, mussing the normally slicked back strands. "Don't. Don't think. We're obviously both here because of something that we can't talk about, or don't want to talk about. So just give it a rest," He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. "Good night, Weasley."

He left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and the room suddenly became bigger and colder and much less comforting. Rose stared at herself in the mirror, feeling her face scrunch unattractively as she covered her mouth with her hand.

Maybe I want to talk about it, Malfoy. Maybe I need to. She stared hard at her reflection, knowing full well that the only person who could hear her words was the ugly, sobbing girl in the mirror.

~ () ~

"I know, Hugo, it's Christmastime. But I just… I have some things to finish up here, okay? Mum will understand," Rose fought the urge to cry as she said goodbye to her little brother. It seemed like that was all she did these days.

He sighed, looking far more grown up than she had imagined he ever would. When had this happened? "Yeah, I get it," he acceded, adjusting the strap of his book bag as he got up and turned around.

"Wait, what about my hug goodbye?" She waited, but Hugo didn't come any closer. He appeared nervous as he ran his hand over his face, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"You're never around anymore, Rose. You've changed, so much so that sometimes I look at you and don't even realize that you're there. Where did my sister go?" His voice cracked on the last syllable.

Rose wanted to say something, to have the power to weave a blanket of words in the air that she could place around his shoulders, if not just for Hugo, then for herself as well. But she found herself at a loss. He lingered for a moment, his warm, cinnamon-coloured eyes scorching her where she stood, until he turned away abruptly, his steps long and jerky as he walked away.

She wanted to follow him, to scream that she loved him and missed him and wished she could come home and be with her family like she had been before. But she knew, as she stood there watching the boy that was now bigger than her leave the castle, that she would never be able to go home and live safely ensconced within her family the way she had. They were to be her home, her refuge; the place she went to feel loved and happy and safe, something she hadn't felt in three long years, and would probably never feel again.

Rose. Rose. Rose.

She closed her eyes as a spasm exploded through her body. She locked her muscles in place, her nails digging into the palms of her hands as she concentrated.

Rose. Rose. Rose.

Her feet moved of their own accord, one in front of the other. He was calling. So just like every other time, she forced herself to resist, knowing as she did it that it would do no good. It never did. She felt like a roller-coaster car at one of those muggle carnivals that her mother used to take her to – attached to a rail that forced her through the same pattern over and over again until she was rusted through and broken down. So rickety that everybody stayed away. Stumbling as her feet were forced down the hallway, Rose Weasley cried.

When she reached the Professor's office door, Rose felt her fist drawn up to the door of its own accord, smashing down in a painful knock. He always made her knock. The door creaked open, but Rose didn't look up. She studied the ground affixed to her feet, staring in awe at the grey shadow that filled the blank concrete beneath them. He was so tall, so large, so all-encompassing.

So frightening.

As usual, no words passed between them. First came the hands, then the lips, followed by the hips, and then the fists. Always in that order. Rose liked the way it was organized – it gave her something to focus on while her hair was splayed around her head and her spine hurt from the hardness of the concrete. That was one good thing about being cursed, she supposed. There was never any thought, no resistance except for that initial burst of adrenaline that was squeezed out of her veins each time he called. She had learned long ago that it would do no good. In the end, there was really just the rhythm, the pain, and the salty, fearful regret.

When it was over, she would stand up, grimacing inside as those invisible, darkly magical fingers forced up the corners of her lips into a bestial smile that was somehow meant to convey happiness. Complicity. Rose turned around and shuffled out of the room, trying vainly to ignore the hand prints on her neck and the blood on her thighs, focusing instead on the way Scorpius Malfoy looked when she entered the bathroom, his indigo eyes wide and unseeing, the weight of his scars and hers bringing him to his knees.

END PART I