A/N: Hello, people. I haven't been on here in forever. But as you can see, I'm trying to write this story here. Hopefully, it'll go better than my previous icky attempts. I think that this might just be the one.
Enjoy :)
Love is the rose. Lust is the thorn.
Why shouldn't moonseed and neem oil ever be used in a potion together?
Rose sighed, rubbing her eyes fiercely with the heel of her hand. Her quill slipped out of her fingers and clattered to the floor. Professor Digory really did detest fourth-years.
Catching herself before she could fall asleep, she glanced sleepily at the clock ticking in the corner and yawned, stretching and twisting her back to get a feel for uncomfortably hard, wooden chair beneath her. How other Hogwarts students had survived, she didn't know.
She sat up, looking more intently at the clock and internally panicking. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitfuckingshitsticks.
Hastily, she shoved her parchment and inkwell – remember to close it first, sweetheart – she reminded herself, hoping she hadn't ruined her books. Eyes darting around anxiously at the quiet library, she got up, silently padding her way across to the large double doors, swinging them shut behind her.
She spelled the doors shut and then smiled grimly as she squatted down so her ears were level with the keyhole, pulling three bobby pins from her hair. Oh yes, she'd caught Argus Filch locking the doors the muggle way to keep students like her out, and she didn't intend to leave evidence for him to find that would lead him to the Weasleys at once.
Merlin knew that they were the only students that could unpick a lock with bobby pins or a few toothpicks. Filch would've known it was her straight away. Which other Weasley would bother being in there so late?
Hearing a small click, she pushed herself away from the doors and grabbed her bag, slinging it over one shoulder. She dropped the three bobby pins into it, and pulled several more out of her hair as well, shaking her head so her tresses fell somewhat decently around her shoulders.
She was fucking late.
She hurried through the hallways as quickly as she could, paying as much attention to sounds as much as possible. Years of wanting to stay up past her bedtime had trained Rose to completely focus her hearing somewhere else while she was doing something else. Many nights, she'd detected her parents' footsteps on the floor outside her bedroom, and had had enough time to smack her nightlight off and snuggle into her sheets just for a few minutes, until they believed she was asleep.
When the door closed, she'd sit back up and go back to reading.
Walk, breathe, listen. Over and over and over again, like a mantra. She couldn't afford to be caught. She'd never be able to look her family in the eye again. It would be mortification worse than the time Nana Weasley had caught Teddy and Victoire in a broom closet together at the Burrow.
Footsteps.
Her back slammed against the wall as she stood as still as possible, breathing harshly. She peeked around the corner and rolled her eyes.
Prefects.
Her cousin. It was bound to be. She didn't really care which one it was at that point. Three houses had been graced with Weasley-Potter prefects that year.
Dominique, Molly, Roxie. Really, when would the boys of the family ever step up and stop behaving like absolute oafs?
Her heart beat erratically in her chest when her mind reminded her treacherously that she wasn't exactly fit to hold the Weasley banner up proud either. Rose wished she could permanently shut down that snide, sarcastic bitch that voiced her inner monologue.
The prefects moved on, mumbling about late nights, and she breathed.
Jogging lightly up the stairs, she reached the landing from where the long climb to the Ravenclaw tower awaited. Insufferable, stuck-up prudes.
Her hand was shaking. It was actually fucking shaking. Where was he?
Her eyes flitted from one direction to another before her heart rate calmed down. Granted, she wasn't on time, but Professor Digory really, really hated fourth-years, and there'd been times when he never actually showed up at all.
Waiting, waiting, for him to make an appearance before she called this whole thing off and decided to go back to her dorm.
"You're late." He sounded angry, and that only irritated the fuck out of her more.
"Yeah, well. I'm not exactly running around here just to do your bidding, twat." She snarked, running a hand through her hair to try and tame the wild, curly locks. He rolled his eyes and stepped forward.
He was sweaty, she noted. "What the hell were you doing? You look like someone just poured a bucket of cold water over your head and you stood there and let them. Going soft, Zabini?"
He chuckled, his dark eyes glinting. "Quidditch."
She scoffed. "It's past one."
"I know. I told you to be here at twelve-thirty." He was angry, and in a few quick strides, he was towering over her, doing his best to stare her down.
"And I told you," she hissed, taking a few of her own steps forward, bumping her chest with his and forcing him to stumble away from her, "that you'd be lucky if I showed up at all. It's late. I'm tired. Did I waste my time?"
His mouth attacked hers with a savagery she'd associated with him the day he walked into the Great Hall and was sorted into Slytherin – of course he was sorted into Slytherin, he was a fucking Zabini – and she gripped his arms, steadying her small frame before he shoved her backwards and she collided with the wall.
"You son of a bitch." She spat. "That'll leave bruises."
He grinned at her, cheekily, mockingly. "Good."
She yanked his lapels down and crushed her lips to him again, letting him hoist her and lock her legs around his waist. He ripped his mouth from her, leaving it stinging and her gasping, reaching up to make sure he hadn't drawn blood.
He hadn't stopped, trailing down until he worked feverishly on her neck, one spot after another. He grunted, lifting her higher and a hand came to settle on her arse. She bit her lip and stifled a moan.
"I won't tell on you if you like it, Weasley. I'm not a snitch." He looked up at her, challenging her.
"Shut up and do your job."
He slammed her back into the wall again and smiled at her sudden intake of breath. "I'm the one giving the orders around here. You aren't."
"Sure, Zabini." She sucked in mouthfuls of air. "And I'll tell your precious pureblood friends that you approached me, and not the other way around. I'll tell them what you really think about my dirty, blood traitor arse, so if you could kindly shut up and do your fucking job, we'd all be the happier here."
He didn't reply, and she knew she'd pissed him off to the point where he made sure he'd leave a few more well-defined bruises on her hips before he let her go for the evening. He descended on her collarbone again, marking her pale skin easily, one hand digging into her hip. He hadn't cut his nails again. She'd definitely need a Band-aid tonight.
She straightened.
"Liked that, did you?" He murmured. She didn't hear him.
A pair of molten silver eyes were glaring furiously at her from across the hall. Suddenly ashamed of herself, she dropped her eyes, biting her lip again to stop the wretched moan that Zabini had almost elicited from her.
He'd caught them again.
A/N: This is a Scorose fic, I promise. Keep with me, you might be surprised with what I have in store for this retelling.
Leave a review if you're interested, I might take this down if no one wants to read.
Hope you have/are having/had a good day :D