a/n: dedicated to s i l v e r a u r o r a because her writing, ohmygod.
pairing: ScorpiusRose
words: 1,639
only time will tell
it's a love story,
baby just say 'yes'.
/love story, taylor swift/
In 2023, Rose Weasley discovered she'd fallen in love, and broke someone's heart.
In 2023, Scorpius Malfoy found he loved someone—really loved—and did something about it.
2023
The room is illuminated by only a sliver of light shining brightly on the floor. Clothes are scattered here and there—everywhere—and they lie on the bed, shame rolling off of them in waves and guilt is overcoming them.
"Scorpius?" She says, her head resting on his bare chest and red hair fanning out, looking vibrant against his pale skin.
"Yes, Freckles?" His finger glides over her skin, tracing shapes absentmindedly, and tears spill over and suddenly his chest feels wet. He sits up, alarmed. "What's wrong?"
"I—I just—" She chokes on her words. "—can't do this anymore, I can't!" She cries out and she pulls the sheets around her, standing up. The curves of her body are heavily accented through the thin cloth and he feels his breath hitch.
She begins pulling on her clothing- underwear, shirt, skirt, stockings- and then he's sitting there, a strained look on his face.
"Are you leaving?" She senses the double meaning behind his words, hesitant, and she pauses in slipping into her shoes, biting her lip and fighting-fighting-fighting back the tears.
She nods slowly. "Yeah."
She stops for a minute to look at him before turning away, cheeks glistening and then she rushes out.
2020
The beginning of this mess is marked by a dismal day in the middle of winter, when the flurry of snow is raging on outside and everyone is inside trying to stay as warm as they possibly can. A girl and a boy—redhead and blonde, respectively—stand in the middle of the crowd.
The clock reads ten fifty-nine.
"You're a prick, you know that?" snarls Rose and Scorpius quirks an eyebrow at her.
"Why thank you, Freckles." He smirks. She hates that smirk.
She scowls. "Don't call me that."
"Alright, Freckles."
She glowers in that way that only Rose Weasley can. "I hate you, y'know?"
"I know, Freckles."
The clock now reads eleven.
2023
"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?" She snaps at a First Year, who is now trying fruitlessly to stuff a Fanged Frisbee into his pocket—she confiscates it.
"Don't let me catch you with one of these again!" She barks.
The First Year sends her a terrified look and scampers away.
She is alone now.
2020
"Freckles! Psst, Freckles!" She can hear his voice and a warning bell is going off in her brain, saying ignore-ignore-ignore, but his hisses are getting annoying and she can't take it.
"For Merlin's sake—" She slams her book down. "—what, Malfoy?"
He grins. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."
She grabs her book, gives him the middle finger—("Miss Weasley!")—and stalks out of the library.
The clock reads one twenty.
2023
It's funny, really, the way this girl—this girl who seems so Gryffindor, so brave—works. She's a picture of courage and daughter of heroes, a Ravenclaw (on the inside)—her mother's brains, you know. She's a Slytherin with her cunning, a Hufflepuff with her hard-working and she's all four houses mixed into one person, you see?
But really, she's none of that when it comes down to it. When you get to pure, untainted, raw Rose Weasley, she is nothing but a girl who tries too hard—always tries too hard.
Sometimes (most times) it doesn't end well.
2020
"Cute, Freckles," he passes her and winks, the girl on his arm (Alysha, was it?) rolling her eyes.
She's wearing a sundress, yellow, and a floppy hat and she looks like she's glowing, though he won't ever admit that.
"Thanks, Malfoy." She flashes him a quick grin and runs after her cousins, skin dotted with freckles and high heels that make her legs look like forever, and he smiles.
It is twelve thirty-one.
2023
Exactly twenty minutes after her departure, Rose begins to cry. Really cry, though, not the fake crying that Dominique does to get what she wants, nor the loud, attention-seeking crying that Lily does just so she can attract some sympathy.
This is real, honest crying, and since when does Rose Weasley do crying? She's normally the one running around trying so hard to solve everyone's problems and ignoring her own, and suddenly, (thanks to Malfoy), Rose Weasley is crying.
And for some reason, it makes her feel better.
She cries some more.
2021
"I reckon we ought to be friends." It's a fresh start to a new school year and she's prepared for anything, anything, but this. Since when does Scorpius Malfoy want to be friends with Rose Weasley?
She stands there, still shell-shocked, but nods anyway. "Uh, sure."
He flashes her a quick smile and walks away.
This moment, this legendary moment, is at four twenty-three. (Like it matters much anyway.)
(Oh, but it matters. It matters a lot.)
2023
"Freck—Rose. Wait—wait!" She hears his voice and begins running, running, and hasn't this always been a game of chase me, chase me?
So he does.
2022
They've been friends for over a year—it's a record. They talk and laugh and just hang around (Al's still not over it) and, well, they can't even remember the last time they fought.
It's funny, really, that they can just go from being enemies to friends, but anything's possible, right?
"Scorpius—hurry up, dammit." She sighs, tapping her foot and he throws a book at her. She neatly dodges it.
"Patience, Freckles." He smirks and she groans.
"We're late, y'know. It's already seven-oh-two."
"Don't think Al gives a fuck if we're two minutes late, Freckles."
She sighs again.
2023
"I don't want you, Scorpius! Go away!" She runs faster, adrenaline coursing through her veins and he won't give up, he can't.
Not after all that happened. Not after that.
He won't ever stop chasing, will he?
2022
They share a drunken kiss at Al's party—but really, more than a drunken kiss.
She wakes up in his bed. Naked.
And he's next to her.
Also naked.
"Fuck!" She shakes his arm and he stirs.
"Whuzzgoinon?" He groans and gets up, watching her through tired eyes. "Rose?"
"Malfoy—we- last night—fuck- we…well, we—"
She blushes.
"Fucked? Yeah, we kind of did."
"…"
"…"
"Want to do it again?"
"Scorpius!"
"Well, I was just asking."
She presses her lips to his and the clock reads eight twenty-seven.
2023
"Rose—Freckles—stop!" He yells after her. "Don't run away from this, Rose, don't!"
She stops and whirls around, and she is possibly the most beautiful sight he's ever seen with her lion-curls in tangles around her, scarlet-crimson-ruby all rolled into one and her clear blue eyes shining with what looks like regret and he stops in his tracks.
"Malfoy," Her voice breaks, "I don't…I can't."
2022
They become friends-with-benefits, and it always ends up with someone hurt, or both of them hurt, but they're willing to risk it. They meet in the Room of Requirement and tinytiny broom cupboards and empty classrooms. They find passion and zeal and it's be-au-tiful and they shine brightbrightbrighter than the stars, they do.
"Reckon we should try for a relationship?"
"No." She pauses. "No, that wouldn't work at all."
And they're both falling apart and tearing at the seams of this relationship-sex-whatever, slowly breaking apart and there are fissures, ohsomany, but they try hard to keep things together, patched up, taped up, fixed up.
It is nine fifty-three.
2023
"Rose, please, you can—we can make this work." The look in her eyes tells him everything; that she's afraid, that she's skeptical- she's never been good with hiding her emotions. "We can."
"What if we can't?" She asks quietly and then she is a bundle of her worst fears on the neatly-tiled floor and he needs to make this work, he needs to.
(He thinks he needs her more than anything.)
2022
"Y'know, this sex thing is good." She sighs after a particularly vigorous session and he chuckles.
"Agreed."
Two thirty-seven.
2023
"I- Scorpius, we don't match!" She cries; he closes his eyes. "We're not supposed to be Romeo-and-Juliet, star-crossed lovers!"
"Don't give up on this, Rose."
2022
"I kind of love you, did you know that?" He strokes her hair.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Scorpius, you know you don't have to say that, right? We're just having sex, y'know. It's not a big deal."
He shrugs. "It is to me."
Three fifteen.
2023
"I'm not giving up! I'm just—just—done trying, Scorpius!" Her voice is a cross between a scream and a strangled sob and there's a hint of desperation he just can't miss.
"You're giving up, Freckles."
2022
"Really, though, maybe we can try for a relationship."
She snorts. "Right, right, and I'm going to go ride off into the sunset on a Crumple-Horned Snorkack named Fluffy with my best friend, Lucky the leprechaun."
He chortles. "I'm serious, Freckles."
"I'm sure you are."
Ten forty-eight.
2023
"You bastard," Tears are pouring out of her eyes with fierce abandon, but they're angry tears. "I'm not giving up!"
"Prove it."
2022
"You're really rather adorable, Freckles."
"Love you too, Scorpius."
One-oh-one.
2023
She walks up to him, fervor in every step, in every fiber of her being and then—
She kisses him. The kind of kiss that makes him forget about every other girl and every other fling and makes him think of lion curls and clear azure eyes, and that makes him feel piss drunk but ohohoh, he wouldn't give it up for the world.
"I'm-" kiss "-not-" kiss "-giving-" kiss "-up!"
He smirks against her lips, elatedness spreading throughout his body and it feels like they're on fire.
"Good, because neither am I."
(Victory.)