When Scorpius asks her out, Lily says yes.

When he asks her to slip out with him, into the clearing just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest past Hagrid's old cottage, she accepts. When he pleads with her, voice husky and crackled with desire, to slide up her skirt and slide down her panties and take her there, in the dew-chilled grass, she nods, encouraging him with voice and quick, rough jolts of her hips.

Her parents don't understand. Ginny just throws up her hands and says that Lily's old enough to know what she wants, she supposes. Harry looks at her with carefully blank emerald eyes and tells her that she's making a mistake. Why, Father? she wants to ask. I thought you said the Malfoys were all right now?

But she says nothing, keeping each calculated jibe, each burning taunt to herself, hoarding it like pirate's treasure. And at night, she whispers them all to Scorpius, who only laughs and takes another drag off his cigarette.

"They wouldn't understand," he says, offering her a drag, although he knows she will decline. "They don't understand you. You aren't like them. The rest of your family. Are you?"

"No," Lily whispers, sitting picture-perfect on the bed next to him. Draco doesn't care if she's there, and she takes advantage of it gratefully. Like father, like son, she supposes. "No, I'm not."

Scorpius stubs out the cigarette and pushes her down against the pillows, his eyes burning. She gives in, willingly, her tongue sliding against bruised, love-struck lips. The curves of her body fitted against his. Like pieces of a puzzle.

"I'm not," she whispers again, in the ember-scorched aftermath.

"Want a drag?" Scorpius asks, offering her a fresh cigarette. She surprises them both by grabbing his hand and pulling him closer, inhaling. It burns her lungs and she coughs.

"I think I will," she says, and takes another drag.