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It had been almost a year.
A year of stolen nights and bruised kisses. A year of snide comments by day and tangled sheets by night. Enemies-with-benefits — that's what Rose liked to call it, with a laugh and a shrug, as if it were all perfectly casual. As if it didn't bother her.
At first, it was exhilarating. The longstanding rivalry combusted into something primal, and the hate sex? Explosive. Satisfying. It scratched some furious itch in her soul she didn't even know she had. They didn't talk about it. That was part of the deal. No emotions, no strings, just fire and silence.
But lately — it was different.
Rose had caught herself scanning rooms for him. Thinking of him when she wasn't supposed to. The sharp tingle of jealousy that climbed up her spine when she saw him whispering to a blonde witch at some random party, his hand brushing a little too close to that girl's waist. He hadn't even looked guilty.
And worse — far worse — were the nights that didn't end in hasty departures. The ones that ended in his breath on her neck, his arms tight around her waist, and silence that stretched soft and golden into morning. The ones where he made tea, and didn't say why. Not that she ever asked.
Rose hadn't told anyone. Not her cousin Albus, not her friends. Because she knew the truth. She knew Scorpius Malfoy wasn't the type to fall for anyone. He was made of walls and ice and politeness so sharp it cut.
Still, she found herself thinking about him more than she should. Especially tonight.
She'd downed two glasses of firewhiskey at The Rook's Nest, the kind of place they only went to when they didn't want to be recognized. Her vision was a little blurry when she found him standing near the back, already waiting, his sleeves rolled up, hair damp from the rain. He didn't say anything when she approached — just gave her that look. The one that made her breath catch. The one that said upstairs, now.
And she went. Like she always did.
The moment the door to his flat closed behind them, he kissed her. Hard. Hands in her hair, mouth demanding, pulling her back into that familiar rhythm — the one they always followed. Her jacket hit the floor, then her wand clattered against the wall. She kissed him back because that's what they did — no talking, no thinking. Just heat.
But tonight, her thoughts were too loud.
Her fingers tangled in his shirt, and she kissed him like she meant it, like she needed it to mean something. He whispered her name against her throat, and it was too much. The ache in her chest swelled until she couldn't breathe.
And then —
She broke.
It started with a sharp gasp. Then a choke. Then sobs spilled out of her like something torn loose.
Scorpius froze. His hands dropped from her waist. "Rose?"
She couldn't look at him. She covered her face with shaking hands, turning away, trying to stop the heaving breathlessness, but that only made it worse.
"Hey," he said again, softer now. "Hey, it's alright, just—tell me what's wrong."
That made her cry harder.
"You don't care," she half-sobbed, half-laughed bitterly. "You don't care, Malfoy, don't pretend to. You're only doing this because you want to get laid."
His brow furrowed. "What—Rose, that's not—"
"I can't do this anymore!" she shouted, voice cracking. "I can't be your occasional shag, or your Tuesday night distraction, or- or whatever it is we're doing!. I thought I could—I thought I didn't care, but I do, and it hurts, it hurts when you flirt with every other girl like it doesn't mean anything, when you look at me with those eyes and that infuriating smirk and when we fuck like it's some kind of war and then how you become so cold just as the morning comes— it fucking hurts Scorpius and I'm tired of pretending it doesn't."
Silence.
She took a deep breath, her throat dry. He just stood there, as if she'd hexed him. His shirt half-undone, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes wide like she'd just said something impossible.
She hated how beautiful he looked. How devastated. How real.
But she wasn't going to fall for it.
Rose wiped her cheeks with trembling hands, shoved past him toward the door. "Don't say anything. Just—don't. I already know what this was. It was my fault. You never..never asked for this."
He didn't follow her. Didn't call her back. Of course he didn't, what a fool she had been.
She left the flat shaking, heart breaking, cursing herself for letting it go on this long.
And behind her, Scorpius stood in his living room, still in shock, hands clenched into fists — because he had planned to say something.
He just hadn't expected to lose her before he did.
Rose apparated straight into her flat, and the silence hit her like a wall.
It was too quiet.
Too real.
Too far from the warmth of his hands, from the smell of his skin, from the lie she'd almost let herself live in.
The door clicked shut behind her. She stood there for a second, motionless, the air heavy and too still, her chest caving in slow, sinking spasms. She thought, maybe stupidly, that she'd cry again. But nothing came. Maybe she was hollow now. Maybe—
"Rose?"
The voice came from the sofa.
She jolted.
Albus sat there, his long legs pulled up, a blanket over his knees, holding a tub of half-melted ice cream and looking slightly confused. His dark hair was rumpled, his eyes warm and worried behind his glasses.
"I—what time is it—?" she asked, voice hoarse.
Albus frowned, setting the ice cream aside. "Half-ten. You said we'd do a movie night. You said not to let you bail this time."
She blinked, a pit opening in her stomach.
Right. Movie night. Merlin.
"Oh. Al. I forgot. I'm—sorry, I—"
Her voice cracked. And that was all it took.
Albus was up in a heartbeat. "Hey—Rose?" He reached her in two long strides, and when she looked at him, whatever she'd been holding together just... shattered.
A sob burst out, wild and choking. She doubled over, like her own grief had hit her in the stomach. Albus caught her before she hit the ground.
"Hey, hey—I've got you. It's alright. You're okay." His arms wrapped around her tightly, and she clung to him, her fingers digging into the back of his jumper like he was the only thing keeping her upright.
But she wasn't okay.
She hadn't been for months.
"I—Al, I'm so—so tired," she gasped into his shoulder. "I thought—I thought I could handle it. I thought I could just do this, but I can't—I can't—"
He guided her to the sofa without letting go, settling her down beside him like she might break apart completely if he moved too fast.
"Talk to me," he said gently, brushing hair off her damp cheeks. "Tell me what happened."
So she did.
She told him everything.
About the months of secrets. About how it started with a drunken fight that ended in a kiss that ended in a bed. About how she and Scorpius had sworn it meant nothing, that they hated each other, that it was just sex. About the lies she told herself every time he touched her like she was more. About the damn cuddling. The tea in the morning. The way he looked at her sometimes like she was the only thing that made sense.
"I don't know what I was to him, Al," she whispered brokenly. "I don't know if he ever meant anything he did. Maybe it was just convenient. Maybe I was just… easy. Familiar. An outlet."
"You weren't just anything," Albus said fiercely.
Rose shook her head. "I tried so hard to pretend it didn't matter. I swore I wouldn't care. But then I saw him flirting with someone else the other night and I felt like I couldn't breathe. And tonight, when he kissed me—when he looked at me—I just… I broke. Right there. In his flat, in his arms. I cried, Al. And he looked so worried and I hated him for it because I wanted to believe he cared, but I know he doesn't. I know what kind of man he is."
Her voice fell to a whisper. "And I still wanted him to stop me when I left."
Albus pulled her tighter against him, silent for a long moment as her tears soaked into his jumper.
"You've been carrying this alone?" he said finally. "For a year?"
"I didn't know how to say it. I didn't want to sound stupid. Or dramatic."
"Rose, you're literally crying into my chest," he deadpanned softly. "You sound human."
That got a hiccupped laugh from her. Just a tiny one.
Albus held her like only someone who loved her since childhood could — strong, unshaken, endlessly steady.
"You're not stupid," he murmured. "You fell for someone. That's brave. Even if he's a complete emotionally constipated idiot."
She sniffled, leaning her head on his shoulder. "He has really pretty eyes."
"I'll add that to the list of his crimes."
"I hate him."
"You don't."
"I want to."
He didn't answer. Just held her until the sobs quieted, until her breathing evened out. When she finally fell asleep on the couch, tangled in a blanket and wrapped in the safety of someone who would never let her down, Albus stayed beside her.
He didn't say it out loud. Not tonight. But he was already planning how he was going to hex Malfoy the next time he saw him.
And maybe — just maybe — tell him exactly what Rose had been too afraid to believe.
Scorpius Malfoy hadn't slept in three days.
Not a minute. Not a second.
He hadn't eaten, either — unless half a glass of whisky and a peppermint from the back of a drawer counted as a meal. The flat reeked of cold ash and guilt. He hadn't bothered to clean up. Her jacket was still hanging off the arm of his sofa. A single crimson hair clung to the cushion where she'd cried. He hadn't touched it.
He couldn't.
Rose had left his flat like her heart had exploded — and he'd just stood there. Frozen. Watching her go. Not stopping her.
He'd heard the door slam. He'd heard the echo. And then, just silence.
Scorpius had never hated himself more.
He kept replaying it — over and over in his head. The way she'd crumbled. How she'd sobbed, like he'd torn something essential out of her. And maybe he had. Maybe he'd kept the truth buried so deep it had started to rot. And now it was festering, spreading through everything.
Because the truth was simple. Painfully, irreversibly simple.
He was in love with her.
Had been, probably, since before the stupid arrangement even began. Maybe since she'd hexed him in the fifth year for insulting her hair. Maybe since she'd grown into this blazing, brilliant creature who laughed too loud and cried in broom closets when no one was watching. Maybe since always.
But he was a coward.
He'd let her believe it was just sex. That it was convenient. That it was nothing. Because admitting anything else would've been like handing over his jugular.
He didn't do love. Or vulnerability. Or trust. He didn't even know how. But Merlin, she'd made him want to learn.
And now it was too late.
He was still sitting on the damn floor — back against the cold wall, the fire long dead — when the Floo burst to life in a storm of green flame and fury.
Scorpius flinched. For a second — a desperate, insane second — he hoped it was her. Rose, charging in, screaming at him like she used to, maybe hexing him in the face. That would've been fine. He would've been glad, in fact.
But it wasn't her.
It was Albus.
And he looked ready to kill someone.
Scorpius barely had time to pull himself upright before Albus stalked through the fire, his wand already out, his eyes blazing with something between murder and heartbreak.
"You absolute bastard."
Scorpius didn't say anything. He couldn't. He didn't know how to brace for this.
Albus stepped closer, shoulders squared, jaw tight. "You made her cry."
Scorpius looked away.
"You made her sob like her soul had been ripped out," Albus said, voice cracking. "And you just let her go?"
"I didn't know what to say."
"You don't get to say that. Not after everything. You've been using her, Scorpius—"
"No." The word was sharp. Low. It scraped out of him like gravel. "I haven't. I never did."
Albus scoffed. "Could've fooled me."
"She's not—" Scorpius cut himself off, hands clenched into fists. "She's not a fling. Or some... distraction. She's everything, Al. I just—" His voice faltered. "I didn't know how to tell her. I thought if I kept it simple—kept it physical—then maybe it wouldn't ruin everything."
"Well, guess what," Albus said coldly, "you ruined it anyway."
That hit like a punch to the ribs.
"I know," Scorpius whispered.
Albus stared at him for a long moment. "Do you even want her? Or do you just miss the convenience of having someone who put up with your commitment issues?"
Scorpius looked up, and this time, there was fire in his eyes. Raw, quiet, but burning.
"I want her," he said. "I've always wanted her. Before the arrangement. Before the first time she kissed me. Before I knew what it meant to need someone."
Albus's jaw worked. "Then why the hell didn't you tell her that?"
"Because I was scared." His voice was broken now. Honest. "Because when you spend your life pretending you don't feel anything, it's hard to admit you actually do."
Albus exhaled slowly. The fury faded a fraction. "You know what she said to me that night? She said she hated you. And she meant it. But she was still hoping you'd stop her."
Scorpius closed his eyes. Something in him caved.
"I would've," he whispered. "If I could've moved. If I wasn't too busy hating myself for letting her believe she didn't matter."
Silence settled between them, thick and uneasy.
Finally, Albus lowered his wand. "You've got one chance, Malfoy. One. If you hurt her again—"
"I won't," Scorpius said quietly, not even blinking. "I can't."
Albus nodded once, stiffly, then turned to leave. But just before stepping back through the Floo, he paused.
"She loves you," he said, without looking back. "She doesn't want to believe it. But she does."
And then he was gone, and Scorpius was alone again — still sleepless, still aching — but maybe, just maybe, with something left to fight for.
Scorpius wrote her letters.
Not one. Not two.
Dozens.
Some messy, ink-smudged confessions written at three in the morning, the parchment crumpled with sweaty palms. Some careful and short, like he was trying not to scare her away. Some long and raw, telling her things he'd never said out loud to anyone.
He told her she wasn't a mistake.
That he'd been in love with her before he even knew what to call it. That he missed the way she made tea with far too much ginger, and how she never said "goodbye" on the Floo, just cut off like it didn't matter, but it always did to him. That he knew he'd messed up. That he didn't expect forgiveness — just a chance to talk. To see her. Once.
She never replied.
Not once.
He'd memorized the shape of her name in his own handwriting. Rose. Rose. Rose. Every one of those letters was returned by owl, unopened. Sealed tight with magic he couldn't break, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
So he tried waiting.
Outside her office — leaning against the stone column, trying not to look too eager, too pathetic — just hoping she'd come out and maybe… maybe stop. Maybe look at him.
She never did.
He'd wait for hours, sometimes. But somehow, she was always gone by the time he got there. As if she knew. As if she was deliberately slipping through cracks he couldn't follow. She had eyes everywhere, and a will of iron.
She blocked her Floo. Changed the wards on her flat. Albus wouldn't tell him where she was, and Scorpius didn't blame him.
It was like she'd vanished into two places: her office, and the flat she refused to leave.
She didn't go to the pubs anymore. Didn't show up to family dinners — not even at the Burrow, where she always made fun of the desserts and stole the last piece of pie. She didn't answer calls. Didn't respond to anyone who mentioned his name.
She built walls like only Rose Weasley could — fiercely, furiously, as if survival depended on how tightly she could shut him out.
Scorpius couldn't sleep. Couldn't work. He started showing up late to meetings at Aetheris Elixirs, dark circles under his eyes, barely pretending to care. He didn't fly anymore. His broom gathered dust in the closet like some ancient relic of a time when he thought adrenaline could fix things.
He'd stare at her name on envelopes. On court documents. On files sent from the Ministry that bore her signature. Rose Ophelia Weasley. Her signature always sharp. Always decisive.
God, he missed her.
But more than that — he missed the version of himself that only existed when she looked at him like he wasn't a Malfoy, or a mistake, or a mask.
Just a man.
A man who loved her. Desperately. Stupidly. Hopelessly.
He sat on his cold kitchen floor one night, surrounded by unopened letters he couldn't bring himself to burn, a bottle of Firewhiskey half-empty at his side. He hadn't drunk enough to forget. He never did.
Somewhere in London, she was awake too. Probably staring at the ceiling. Probably pretending she didn't feel a single thing.
And maybe, Scorpius thought, maybe he deserved that silence.
But Merlin, he still prayed she'd break it.
Even once.
Even if it was just to say goodbye.
Rose had done everything in her power not to think about him.
She returned his letters without opening them. Not because she didn't want to read them — Merlin, she ached to. She'd held one once, in trembling fingers, heart thudding like it might burst. She'd stared at her name in his handwriting. It wasn't the same crisp scrawl he used for contracts or ministry reports. It was looser. Messier. Like it cost him something.
She had wanted — desperately — to tear it open. To search it for anything: an apology, an excuse, a reason to hope.
But she hadn't.
Instead, she'd sealed it tighter, added two more protection spells, and sent it back. Because reading it would mean caring. And she couldn't afford to care.
Not anymore.
He'd had his chance to speak. To fight for her. And he hadn't.
So she built her walls. Brick by brick. Ward by ward.
She moved through life like a ghost of herself. Ate only when Albus badgered her into it. Cancelled plans. Skipped family dinners. Warded her Floo. Kept her head down at the Ministry. Worked late into the night until her eyes blurred and her heart stopped hurting just long enough for sleep to take her.
She saw him once, waiting outside her office.
It was raining. He had no umbrella. Just leaned against the building's stone facade like a statue cracked at the seams.
Her breath had caught when she saw him through the enchanted window, hair plastered to his forehead, hands buried in his pockets like he was cold — like he hadn't even noticed the weather.
She didn't go out the front.
She disapparated from the alley exit and left the lights on so he'd think she was still inside.
Coward, she told herself.
But if she got too close, she'd forget why she was angry. She'd fold. And he'd kiss her like he always did, and she'd forgive him with her mouth before he'd even asked.
She couldn't survive that again.
So she didn't leave her flat unless it was to work. Three weeks. Twenty-one days of silence. Of breathing stale air and pretending it didn't suffocate her.
Until tonight.
It was impulsive — stupidly so. She told herself she needed fresh air. That she needed a walk. That she needed to stop feeling like a ghost in her own skin.
She didn't even dress up. Threw on jeans, a black jumper, her old combat boots. Hair messy. No lipstick. No mask.
The pub wasn't far. One of those quiet corners of Diagon Alley that played soft music and served the kind of whisky you didn't shoot, but savored. She'd been there a few times before. It was the kind of place people didn't ask questions.
That's what she needed. A drink. Silence. Oblivion.
She made it three steps inside before she felt it — that pull.
Like her magic flickered. Like her skin woke up.
She told herself it was a coincidence.
Until she looked up.
And saw him.
Scorpius Malfoy.
Sitting at the far end of the bar, fingers wrapped around a drink he wasn't touching, hair longer than she remembered, eyes shadowed and tired. He wasn't wearing anything special — dark button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, no tie — but he looked like a fucking thunderstorm. Quiet and heavy and waiting to break.
He didn't see her.
Not at first.
So she froze.
Her whole body screamed to bolt. Apparate. Hide. Anything.
But her feet stayed planted. Her pulse thundered.
And then—
He looked up.
And their eyes met.
And just like always, everything else disappeared.
It didn't matter how many weeks had passed. How many times she told herself she hated him. How many nights she cried into her pillow and promised never to give him another second of her heart.
None of it mattered.
Because he saw her.
Always did.
Even in a crowded room. Even across smoke and sound and strangers.
He stood up.
Just a fraction. Like instinct. Like he couldn't not.
And she panicked.
Turned on her heel like fire had caught her skin, pushed through a crowd of laughing witches near the door, heart in her throat, vision blurring.
"Shit," she breathed, under her breath. "No no no—"
Because if he talked to her now, if he touched her—
She'd forget the pain.
And remember the hope.
And that, she knew, would hurt worse than anything.
At first, he thought he was imagining her.
It wouldn't have been the first time.
He'd seen her in crowds before — in the way a woman tossed her hair, or how someone laughed too loud in the middle of the street. He'd caught phantom glances of her in reflections, dreamed of her so often that sometimes he woke up thinking she was still beside him, warm and asleep, wrapped in the corner of his duvet like she used to be when they pretended they weren't pretending.
So when he looked up from his untouched drink and saw her—
Really saw her—
His brain stalled.
For a second, he thought his grief had finally tipped into delusion.
But no.
It was her.
Hair tousled and thrown into some messy twist like she didn't care. That old black jumper she'd once worn when he told her she looked like war and poetry in one breath. The way her eyes scanned the room like she was assessing threats, but there was that flicker — that split-second when her gaze landed on him and she froze.
It was her.
Flesh and blood and heartbreak.
Scorpius stood.
He didn't even think — his body moved before his mind caught up. A barely-there shift of weight, his hand pressing against the bartop like grounding himself might stop the surge in his chest.
And then—
She turned.
Not slowly. Not like someone unsure.
She ran.
Through the crowd. Through the blur of clinking glasses and soft music and too-loud laughter.
Running from him again.
No. Not this time.
His chair scraped violently against the floor as he shoved back, weaving between bodies with far more force than necessary. Someone cursed as he bumped past. He didn't care.
He barely noticed.
Because she was leaving again and he hadn't said a single word and if she disappeared this time — if she slipped through his fingers like smoke again — he didn't think he'd survive it.
"Rose!"
His voice cracked as he called after her, raw and ragged and not nearly loud enough.
She didn't stop.
Out the door. Onto the cobbled alley. The night was cool, and the moon caught her profile as she turned toward the Apparition point.
He reached her just before she disapparated.
Grabbed her wrist.
She spun like a blade — wild-eyed, wand half-pulled, fury already ignited.
"Let me go," she snapped, yanking her hand back. "You don't get to do this—"
"No," he said, hoarse. "I don't. I know I don't. But you're going to listen anyway."
Her jaw clenched. She shook her head.
"I don't owe you anything, Malfoy—"
"You don't," he cut in, breath catching. "You don't owe me a thing. But I— I owe you everything. I owe you the truth."
She blinked. Her lip trembled for half a second — and then she locked it down like she always did.
He stepped forward, voice shaking.
"You think I used you? You think you were just— just a convenient fuck? Do you know what it cost me to pretend that's all you were?"
She didn't speak.
So he kept going.
"Every time you left in the morning without looking back, I had to fight myself not to follow. Not to ask you to stay. I didn't say it because I didn't think I deserved to. Because I didn't want to be one more man who made you smaller than you are."
"You didn't make me anything," she hissed, voice breaking.
"I know," he said, softer. "But I let you believe something that wasn't true. I let you walk away that night because I was scared. Because if I tried to stop you and you still left, it would kill me."
Her eyes glistened. Her throat worked hard to swallow the tremble.
"I waited for you," he whispered. "Outside your office. I wrote to you. I—I even started talking to your fucking owl like an idiot hoping it would understand how much I love you."
She inhaled sharply.
"I love you, Rose. I have, since a long time. Probably before I realized it myself."
There it was. All of it. Finally spoken.
No anger. No posturing. Just pain and truth.
She stood still for a long time.
The kind of silence that could ruin a man.
And then she said, barely audible, "Then why didn't you say that before?"
He exhaled like he'd been holding it in for a year.
"Because I didn't think I was allowed to want more than what you gave."
Her face cracked.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. And then she made a sound — soft and wounded — like the breath before a sob.
She stepped forward and hit his chest. Not hard. Not like she wanted to hurt him. Just a weak, angry little push that collapsed into clutching fists.
"You idiot," she whispered. "You stupid, stupid—"
He caught her as she broke. Arms wrapping tight, holding her like he never would again if she pulled away. But she didn't.
She clung to him. Shaking. Crying. Whispering his name like it tasted like pain and relief all at once.
"I love you, too, you stupid fool."
And Scorpius — for the first time in weeks — breathed.
Really breathed.
Because she was in his arms.
And she wasn't running anymore.