AN: I found this thing in my computer, written some time ago. So I decided to post it. Hope you like it. It's actually pretty random, but whatever.

Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own HP, or Al or Scorpius. Ah well…let me go cry in my corner, alone. JKR does…lucky her. Well, it's good I don't actually—otherwise Hogwarts would go to the dogs...and Pigfarts would reign supreme!

Warning: Contains boy/boy kissing. If you don't like, then don't read/review. And profanity. Yeah. Enjoy!

~" The single clenched fist lifted and ready,
or the open hand held out and waiting.
Choose:
For we meet by one or the other."~

—Carl Sandburg

They stared into each other's eyes, their gazes locked together, for such a long time it might have already darkened itself outside in the spitting cold. No words were spoken, but understanding was in both sets of orbs. Looking at each other, they realized that they really were alike. Pain, hate, loss, and love were mingled in their hearts, and souls, and now their eyes reflected all these unworthy, but necessary emotions. It was a two-way mirror though; only vaguely representing those feelings.

The dark-haired boy held his hand out, reluctantly, his fingers outstretched; shaking.

The blond-haired boy kept his clenched, and at his side, his knuckles turning ghostly pale.

"Please," the green-eyed boy murmured. "Let me help you. I—I'm sorry."

"No," the gray-eyed blond said back, coldly. "Leave me alone." And with that he turned and left.

The other boy sighed, and watched with remorse as his enemy's back retreated into the dark. He shook his head, and made his way to his own bedroom. To the bedroom he hated so much, and knew someone else did. Many people did. But he hadn't chosen this. He hadn't asked for this. Slytherin hadn't been his choice...it just hadn't. But, unfortunately, he could not do anything about that—or about the other boy who loathed him for something he didn't cause.

The next day, at breakfast, the unwanted Slytherin stared into his bowl of porridge, his insides twisting and turning just at the thought of food. All around him, his fellow house-mates were chatting cheerfully to each other, some, like him, just sitting down silently. He happened to glance up at the same time the blond who hated him sat down in his chair at one of the other house tables, shooting him the usual vile look. He felt himself sink beneath that sea of gray coldness, and he quickly looked away, before an SOS was urgently needed. Strangely he still felt those eyes still on him, as if trying to produce a hole in his messy head, the sea opening wide and trying to gulp him down in its world of terror and draughtiness, until he drowned, and had no means of escape.

The young boy shivered, as though he were in the water, and received strange looks from his fellow classmates, which he ignored entirely. His cousin was sitting at the Ravenclaw table, chatting happily to her friends, while his older brother and younger sister sat at the Gryffindor table.

Instead of being in Gryffindor, like nearly all his family had, he ended up in damn Slytherin, friendless and afraid. He now slunk in the shadows, never talking; or talking when asked in class, but that was it. His brother hated him; his cousin hated him. His little sister and parents were indifferent, yet unaffectionate towards him nonetheless. He was a disgrace.

Sitting at a table far away from the dark-haired boy, the even bigger disgrace said nothing to no one, and ate nothing. He just sat there, inspecting his enemy, his eyes lingering on his face, body, hair, for every little movement, or inkling that he was about to get up and walk outside in the cold December air. The blond shuddered to think of going home for Christmas—yet staying here was no better.

When the Slytherin he detested got up and left, finally, the blond followed suit, moving languidly in the back, yet alert, like a snake ready to strike and just engulf its pray in its strong jaws, and enjoy the wails and yelps it gave.

The anger was like a fierce storm inside the boy stalking his enemy. It was destroying any traces of any other emotions, just leaving debris behind; the aftermath of the storm being an even greater abhorrence. It was unstoppable, and thunder and lightning were clashing against each other their battle of rage going on and on like a candle burning on with no flame.

The boy, realizing finally that he was not alone on the corridor, stopped and turned. The blond stood rigid, his eyes flaring up with such hatred it could have burned anyone.

"Um..." said the Slytherin uncertainly, cowering inside with fear at the heat in his enemy's gaze. Back in the Great Hall it had been a wave of cold saltwater; now it was a huge flame burning his insides. He didn't like the heat and coldness in the boy's eyes.

They stood in the usual uncomfortable, self-explanatory silence, keeping their gazes locked no matter the intensity in the other's one. That battle inside the blond's head was now happening in their eyes, and would surely end up occurring in reality one day. And he found himself waiting for it.

The Slytherin on the other hand, wished none of that. He wanted to help the other boy, to see why he hated him so much; to befriend the other. They were both loners, disgraces; smart and good-looking, yes, but what good did that do if no one, not even their families bothered to acknowledge them?

Again, the dark-haired boy struck his hand out, with even more disinclination. And this time the blond lifted his fist up in the air—threatening him.

"I...I can help you," murmured the dark-haired boy, his eyes fill with sympathy and compassion, on which the blond was slightly taken aback by.

"Shut up," he answered. "Shut up."

The dark-haired boy sighed, and let his arm fall. He watched the boy leave, turn his back on him, just like many people had done.

Albus Severus Potter was feeling sick when Christmas came. Only a few students chose to stay at Hogwarts, and he was grateful—especially when he found out Lily, James and Rose were going home. Barely any Slytherin remained, only a few like Nott, Goyle, Parkinson, Zabini and a few others Albus didn't know the names of. He hated it here—the cold, suffocating walls of the dungeons just didn't seem to fit him very well.

Sighing, he made his way to the Great Hall wishing with all his heart that Malfoy wasn't there, and had decided to go home.

Unfortunately, the wish hadn't been fulfilled. And bumping right into Scorpius Malfoy only made it worse.

Malfoy growled lowly, and it became louder when he saw who it was. Albus blinked and apologized. Malfoy, however, leered at him.

"Watch it, Potter," he hissed.

"Sorry, Malfoy," muttered Albus. Scorpius snorted, gave him a withering look, and proceeded to the Hufflepuff table. Albus winced again when the young Malfoy sat down, his heart wrenching. Hufflepuffs, often known to be kind and loyal were surprisingly cold towards Scorpius—they had hated him from the first moment he'd arrived. Albus thought it unfair. It wasn't as if Scorpius had wanted to end up in the house. But then again, he hadn't wanted to end up in Slytherin, and got the same treatment from everyone else. Apparently Slytherins hadn't exactly changed their opinion about Gryffindors (or rather the Potters), especially not when Albus' father, Harry Potter, the bloody Boy-Who-Lived hadn't been in what you would call good relations with most of the kids' parents. And when Albus, on a whim of rare braveness, tried to explain that he wasn't in Gryffindor, he got beaten up.

Scorpius's situation must have been worse though. He had a lot more bruises than Albus, more exposed. The young Malfoy desperately tried to hide them, but there were so many that he didn't exactly succeed. Albus, though, thought that most of them weren't only from the beatings his peers gave him—Draco Malfoy was known to be ruthless, just like his father had been. No wonder Scorpius had decided to stay at Hogwarts over the winter. Albus also knew his mother was just as bad, maybe even worse.

After breakfast, Albus found himself sitting at the edge of the frozen lake, his mind unfocused on the real world. No one was out—of course they wouldn't be, it was December for Merlin's sake, and only the insane of the insane would go out. Admittedly, Albus had never been sane; especially after all the punches and bruises he'd received in the past four years at Hogwarts.

Though someone else appeared to be just as insane as he was—the crunching sound of grass made him turn around to see Scorpius, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, glaring at him. His usually pale skin was even paler, goose-bumps prickling all over his skin from the cold. Why he hadn't at least put a coat on, Albus didn't know.

"What?" said Albus softly, turning to stare at the thin-ice lake again. Scorpius said nothing; instead he advanced a few steps, his eyes never leaving Albus.

"Get up," he commanded sharply. Albus frowned.

"What?" he said again getting up and staring at Scorpius in confusion. Scorpius gave him a cold, withering smile and before Albus could breathe, kneed him in the stomach.

Albus gasped, doubling over. It didn't hurt quite that much—it was just that Scorpius had caught him off guard. Taking a few deep, rapid breaths Albus looked up at Scorpius in surprise. Scorpius was scowling, cracking his knuckles together and kicking at the ground as if just waiting to pound Albus to death.

"What the hell?" murmured Albus. Scorpius smirked, but it didn't meet his eyes.

"Good, you're up," he said in his usual cold, drawling voice. "Now," he narrowed his gray eyes, "get ready for the biggest pounding you've ever had, bastard. Time to pay."

Albus widened his eyes, first in bewilderment then in the pain he felt when a blow from the Hufflepuff was directed in his face. He cursed, and twisted his head.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" he shouted. Scorpius gave him a calm, twisted smile, his fist still clenched tightly at his side.

"Hmm, let's see I—" he slammed right into Albus, making them both topple on the ground, he on top of the Slytherin, "—fucking—" his fist made contact with Albus' jaw, "—hate you!"

Scorpius's face twisted in disgust, and the tip of his foot kicking Albus's shin—it was sure to leave a mark. Then the blows kept coming and coming at him, merciless and hard, something Albus knew he'd felt before, but this was worse.

His head twisted sideways countless times, his nose and jaw cracking, blood covering his face. He didn't do anything to stop Scorpius, from the simple fact that the said boy had him pinned down, and defenceless. All the while, the young Malfoy was cursing him.

"You—damn—bloody—arsehole—all—because—of—you—and—your—life—I'm—an—effing—disgrace! I hate you!"

Albus screamed out in pain, finally, but it was quickly muffled by Scorpius's rough hand. What Scorpius had just said hurt him far more than the blows he'd given him. Whilst the punches and kicks harmed him on the outside, those cold, spiteful words penetrated into his mind, making him shiver and wish with all his heart that the Hufflepuff hadn't just said that. But something in Albus's look maybe made Scorpius grin maliciously and repeat those very words he seemed to know Albus hated.

"I hate you," he whispered, his hot breath tickling Albus. "I loathe you so much, Albus Severus Potter. I hope to see you die—but before, to suffer. To suffer at the greatest wizard's hands. And seeing that the Dark Lord is gone, I shall have to torture you myself."

Albus gaped in surprise when Scorpius got off him, taking his wand out from his jeans' pocket.

"Willow," murmured Scorpius, running a finger along the smooth piece of wood. "10 inches—unicorn hair. Good for charms apparently." He looked at Albus, his eyes horribly cold. "Like I'd believe such crap. I know it's better for...well, other things."

Smirking again, he stood above Albus's frightened face, the wand directed right at the boy's nose. Slowly, yet clearly he muttered, "Crucio."

Albus got ready for the immense pain he was going to feel—alongside the one which was already present—but didn't. He had been screwing his eyes shut, but they opened immediately when Scorpius cursed loudly.

"I said Crucio!" said the boy, glaring at his wand. Nothing happened. "Dammit! God dammit!" He threw the wand at the grass furiously, panting. "Your fault, Potter! It's always your fucking fault!"

Albus coughed up blood, propelling himself on his elbows, gasping and panting. "What? How is it my fault?" Scorpius glared at him.

"Because you exist," he spat. "You're in my way. Because of you I'm in Hufflepuff! Hufflepuff, of all houses! You should have been sorted there—no, instead you get sorted in Slytherin. It should be the other way around!" He shook with rage, his eyes flaring up with hatred and—Albus blinked when he saw it—crystal-like tears. They fell on his pale, enraged face, every breath he took puffing hatred and grief.

Albus, getting unsteadily to his feet, stared at Scorpius. Scorpius was glowering at the ground, but he looked up at the movement. He seethed at Albus and then was on top of him again, in a second. Albus this time reacted—he caught hold of Scorpius's wrists before the boy could land another punch. Scorpius was taller only by a bit—but Albus played Quidditch. Even if most his house-mates hated him, he had managed to make the team, and was one of the best players, although not a seeker. He was a chaser, just like his grandfather had been; and James was seeker. Somehow it should have been the other way around, but that was how it had happened.

"Calm down," said Albus, his voice surprisingly soft. "Scorpius—calm down."

Scorpius's face twisted in an inhumane anger and tried to fight against Albus's grasp.

"Burn in hell, Albus Severus Potter," he spat, the words like the venom a snake emitted from his forked tongue. They entered in Albus' skin before he could stop them, and burned really badly.

"Please," begged Albus, just as quietly as before. "Please...don't...I never meant to...I mean I didn't want you to be in...In Hufflepuff...and I didn't want to be in Slytherin. Please, Mal— Scorpius, don't—don't think that."

Scorpius stared at him in surprise, before he got the usual Malfoy sneer. "Oh, really, now, eh? Wow, Potter, you should be a fucking actor—you nearly got me there!"

"Scorpius," said Albus, ignoring what the Hufflepuff had just said. His eyes were pained and pleading. "I just want to help you."

"And I want you to die. The world doesn't work according to us, does it, Potter? We can't control what happens—or the people. We can't...we can't control anything. Fate does that. Karma does that. And you know what they say—karma's a bitch, isn't it?"

Sighing, Scorpius tried to lift his body off his adversary, but all he succeeded in doing was roll over right next to the boy, on the cold grass. He felt his platinum blond hair getting damp, but he didn't care. He stared up at the clear blue sky, his eyes watering again with the unwanted tears. He was a Malfoy, goddammit—Malfoys never cried.

To his immense surprise Albus lifted a shaking hand and put his fingers on Scorpius's cheek, caressing it gently, shivering at the cold in the boy's face. Scorpius, though he did not want to admit it, liked the touch—Albus's fingers were warm and the voice with which he spoken a few minutes ago, had been just as warm and kind, melting their way through to Scorpius' heart like the nice, sweet honey.

Scorpius shut his eyes tight, feeling like the world was spiralling away, and all that existed was the tingling sensation Albus's hand gave him, and Albus and himself...that was all there was to this world, him, Albus...no hate, no pain, no grief...just them both...he felt no hate for the boy...just that other feeling for him was out...no one else...

Just the feeling of Albus's hands cupping his face lightly...just the feeling of his lips parting...just the feeling of someone else's lips against his, and—

Scorpius's eyes widened at the kiss. It was soft and gentle, as if asking for permission—hesitant and unsure. Scorpius wanted to break it; to curse the boy even more, but something in the way Albus's warm lips moved around his, his wet tongue sometimes lashing out to rake over his lower lip, the way it felt so right yet wrong—it made Scorpius want to simply give in, and melt into it.

But, being a Malfoy, Scorpius pulled back, and pushed the boy away by his shoulder-blades. He opened his mouth to shout something, but the complete look of innocent hurt on Albus's face made him stop. The green eyes stared into his, blinking and sparkling in the faint light the sun sent down upon the icy land. They were so upset, so childlike...and the way the Slytherin's lower lip trembled, put out in a pout...and the way his messy hair fell over his forehead in a boyish way, strands of it going through his lashes, along with rays of sunlight, and falling on the other side of his face...the way his shaking, diffident hand once again went on his face, stroking his cheek, leaving a burning yet so good feeling behind...

"Merlin, Potter," Scorpius breathed, mesmerized. Albus smiled slightly—a small smile, to go with the look of utter innocence in his absolutely adorable face. And then, without warning, Albus had his lips against his, the kiss just as tender as before. Scorpius moaned. It felt so good...so good, but Albus was making it...too soft. He wanted more...just one little kiss like that wouldn't help anyone.

So Scorpius, acting like a rightful Slytherin he should have been, growled, and pulled Albus on top of him, breaking the kiss for a second.

Again the two stared at each other—it was like in all those cliché movies, where the boy and girl simply gaze at each other, love and lust in their eyes, and then they end up kissing, either passionately or softly.

But this wasn't a movie—it was cruel reality. So Scorpius snarled once more at Albus, pushing the boy off him just as quickly as he'd pulled him on.

"Piss off, Potter," he growled, getting up and swiping the strands of hair in his face. Again Albus had that look of hurt, but also of pure horror. Scorpius smirked at him, enjoying the way his eyes narrowed slightly, filling up with tears; simply enjoying the lust in Albus's eyes, and the craving. Truthfully, on the inside, he wanted the same thing as Albus, but he'd always been a bit too good at keeping it cool and hiding his emotions—well, that was until he cracked, like had had now.

If he's my enemy, Scorpius thought, a new idea forming in his mind, then I need to know his soft spot—and I do.

"I'm your soft spot," he whispered, and turned away, leaving the broken Slytherin lying on the cold ground, shaking and staring, shocked and hurt; broken.

Just like he'd wanted.

AN: Constructive criticism appreciated! Thanks! (It pained me too to write something other than fluff, don't worry.) I wanna know what you thought, 'cause I'm kind of nervous about it. Also wondering whether it should remain a one-shot or not. You guys say!

Thanks for reading!

~Trippy