Happy Springsmut, heather11483! Author: tudorrose1533 Recipient: heather11483 Title: Happy New Year Rating: NC-17 Pairing(s): Rose/Scorpius Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: A series of December thirty-firsts and January firsts featuring Scorpius Malfoy and Rose Weasley. Warnings: None Word Count: 7,845 Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy it, and that your requests were well-fulfilled! Thanks to my beta, K.—any errors found are my own!
He just didn't see why she had to sit there working as she was, with the rest of the school celebrating the New Year, and her silly little arse curled up in an armchair, lap stacked high with parchment and quill tucked behind her ear dripping ink onto her red curls, and just who did she think she was, her mother? Working on New Year's Eve? Scorpius couldn't believe it, and he said as much to the Scamander twins, one of whom—Lysander—belonged to Ravenclaw, and both of whom were friendly towards him most of the time.
Scorpius had not inherited his father's charisma (for all that he had his mother's bookishness in spades), but what skills he had with people he used for alliances, where his dad had favored forming armies; as a result Scorpius got on fairly well with a variety of students from all Houses; it had perhaps to do with the underlying sense of fairness and goodness that he possessed, buried beneath a scholar's uppity cleverness and the dry wit his father must have bottle-fed him as a babe.
"It's just that—we all decided to stay on for the hols to run about—and there she is, working." Scorpius sighed, scowling and uncorking another bottle of champagne. The first-years tittered at the noise, and Scorpius, who was a little drunk perhaps, raised the bottle high and grinned, his glasses slipping down his nose with the gesture. Dorcas Bones, eleven and besotted with the blond boy of seventeen (nearly a man, though his shoulders still wanted of broadening), turned a furious shade of crimson, and Lorcan nudged Lysander knowingly.
Despite belonging to another house, Lorcan knew Scorpius well—Rose and Albus were Ravenclaws, and the common room had become the locus of the Potter and Weasley and Scamander families (the Scamanders were as good as family, what with their parents Auntie Luna and Uncle Rolf to the Weasley and Potter children). Usually, Scorpius was shy around girls; circumspect might be the word; but the champagne had apparently gone to his head. It remained to be seen how his current topic of conversation—Rose Weasley—mixed with alcohol; Rose Weasley was often on his mind, but, as her brother and cousins made clear, he was rarely on hers. Seventeen and not half as clever a witch as her mother (though twice the Quidditch player her father had been), Rose was a hard worker—she had to be, to make the marks Dr. Hermione Granger expected of her offspring. Hugo laughed it off, made Fs, and spent weekends at his father's flat to avoid the scolding, but Rose took her mother's expectations to heart, and slaved over her schoolwork.
Scorpius, the sort of student who learned everything without trying and therefore took school to be a sort of game, could not understand her work ethic, and teased her mercilessly. Tonight, however, with champagne bubbling in his insides and the boys all around him—Scorpius was always painfully aware of his audience, and painfully aware of whom he had to impress—Scorpius felt slighted, ignored. Rose had promised to celebrate with them, and while she had dutifully counted ten-down-to-one for midnight, she had then returned to her sodding essay and left them all to their own devices. Lily Potter, with enough makeup slathered on her face to send her mother into spasms, had had too much to drink and fallen asleep on the sofa, and Albus and his girlfriend had vanished back to the Gryffindor common room, and the twins were only half paying him mind, and Hugo had defected to a group of younger Slytherins in a corner that included his cousin Roxanne, and Scorpius felt deprived of friends.
"Let's go shake the old girl up, eh?" he said, and suddenly he had everyone's attention again, for everyone loved Scorpius's practical jokes. They couldn't have known that the alcohol he'd imbibed had leant him a strange, mean edge this evening, and the Scamander twins, little Renny Longbottom who followed Albus like a shadow but had been told to stay out of the way for the night, if-you-know-what-I-mean, Renny, mate, and Dorcas Bones and her cohorts all perked up excitedly. Only Hugo, who had plenty of opportunities as Rose's brother to torment her day in and day out, remained uninterested.
"Here—you—Dorcas—come here," said Scorpius, and the little girl lit up as Scorpius whispered his orders, doling out tasks to everyone, until the whole of the room besides Rosie, who was caught up in the scratching of her quill scribbling on the parchment, was watching the clock, and then—
BOOM! Everyone stomped their feet and waved their wands and sent off little explosions, and the room shook with sound, and little Dorcas clapped her hands over Rosie's eyes, and Scorpius snatched away the essay, ink blotting the carefully written words in his haste, and Rose shrieked, and Scorpius grinned.
"Don't you think you ought to have some fun, Rosie-love?" he drawled, his heart pounding when her brown eyes met his.
However, she was not smiling.
"You bloody bastard!" Rose shouted, snapping to fury as quickly as a match struck to flame, the Weasley temper bringing a flush to her cheeks.
Scorpius felt dizzy. "Now, Rosie, don't talk to me that way," he said. "Or I'll—I'll just tear this in half and have you start over on a proper school day."
"And I'll tear you in half—give it back this instant!"
"I shan't," said Scorpius boldly, knowing he ought to stop but unable, with the eyes of the common room on him and his eyes fixed on Rose's chest, heaving with anger.
"You shall."
"Oh no I shan't," said Scorpius, almost stuttering but recovering himself. Dorcas was looking at him with fear and passion; the Scamander twins were shaking their heads, mouthing, Go on, Malfoy, give it back, and Hugo glowered from the corner threateningly; never mind that he was two years younger, he was twice Scorpius's size already—
"Give it here, Malfoy!" Rose demanded, reaching out her hand.
"No," said Scorpius; he felt the pressure of everyone around watching him, the buzzing of the champagne in the back of his brain, and the heat of adrenaline coursing through his veins—and he lost his head entirely. "Incendio!" he shouted…and the parchment went up in flames. As soon as he had done it he regretted it, for Rose suddenly looked less angry and more as though she might cry, and the Scamander twins lost their smiles, and little Dorcas let out a startled cry, and Hugo jerked himself out of the armchair, with his fierce little cousin Roxanne behind him, but it was too late, and Scorpius felt his face twisting into a grimace of its own accord, and heard himself say, "See that you don't work yourself to death on the holidays anymore, Rose. Maybe you ought to find yourself some friends to celebrate with, hmm?" Of course that was ridiculous, for Rose had dozens of friends—Scorpius had numbered himself amongst them, had tried so hard to get her to notice him, and she had so many cousins and siblings and make-believe family members that she could barely find time to add to her circle—but Rose looked even more hurt than before at his comment.
"You're nothing but a bully, Scorpius Malfoy," she said. "You're no better than your father."
The silence in the common room was heavy and hollow, and Scorpius could not only feel but hear his heart thudding in his chest like a cannon ball rolling down dungeon steps, thump-thump-thump, each stair carrying the weight further and further into a dark abyss he had tried so hard and so long to avoid. He loved his father but even he had heard the stories of what his father had been like at school and it was so easy to laugh it off and chalk it up to the tenor of the times—those were dark days—but here he was with the same smirk on the same pale, skinny face, and Scorpius suddenly saw a tiny reflection of his father in Rose's enormous pupils dilated with tears, and felt guilt wash through him tsunami-like.
In an instant seven years of casual friendship and a desperate crush—shared classes, dinners at the same house table, the commonality of the same group of boys (Rose's brother and cousins, Scorpius's best mates and favorite acquaintances), even the occasional laugh shared on late nights when they were both awake in the common room, Rose at work and Scorpius hell-bent on constructing a house of Exploding Snap cards, knowing no other way to impress her—were wiped clean, erased, by two scowls and a slowly smoldering piece of ink-splattered parchment, and from January until May when their seventh year ended Rose and Scorpius did not speak.
+++
It was past noon when the five bodies draped across the living room began to stir; Rose was the first, eyes blinking in the harshness of the midday sun, and she grimaced as the first pangs of a hangover headache began throbbing in her temples. She poked the heavy male body crushing her into the sofa cushions and hissed, "James—James! James—Sirius—Potter! Get—off!"
With a grunt and a moan James pried himself off of his cousin, inserting his elbow into her stomach for leverage and earning a swat on the head for his clumsiness. His movement dislodged the precarious position of his brother Albus, who had managed to fall asleep with half of his body on the sofa and the other half indelicately balanced on the bodies of the Scamander twins, who were snoring until a disgruntled James shoved Albus ungracefully on top of them. In a moment all of the members of last night's New Year's festivities were awake, and all were shouting obscenities at having been so rudely awoken, and with horrible hangovers besides.
"Shut up!" Rose hissed, raising a hand dramatically to her forehead. "I need a hangover potion this instant, and your vulgar mouths are not helping matters!"
"We are so terribly sorry, Mistress Rose," Albus apologized from his awkward tangle on the floor, the insincerity dripping from his lips like poison. His black hair stuck up every which way, just like his father's, and he began to laugh, as did James and the twins, and Rose picked herself up the sofa in a huff, making her way through the debris of empty bottles and strewn clothing toward the cupboard where she knew the medicinal potions were kept, ignoring them all.
"Some way to start the New Year," remarked Lorcan with a wry grin, and Rose sighed as she glanced at the mess on the floor—there was her new blouse, with a wine stain dribbled down the front, and her new skirt, which was crumpled but thankfully appeared intact. She was standing in her bra and underwear in her cousin James's flat, surrounded by the boys of her youth, who had grown into rowdy young men, all clamoring in their deep voices for a hangover potion—and she was no better, having already uncorked the bottle and helped herself to a liberal swig of the bitter-tasting remedy. Some way to start a new year indeed.
Not long after they had all dosed themselves with the potion Rose set the boys to straightening up the room and installed herself in James's pathetically outfitted kitchen, frying up bacon and making an enormous batch of eggs, knowing all too well how the boys consumed food; she had watched her mother, her Aunt Ginny and her Auntie Luna cooking for this lot since they were babies.
Only Hugo and Lily were missing; of course Lily had been clubbing in London for the New Year, partying like mad, but then, she had the figure to wear slinky dresses and grind her arse against some drunken wizard's crotch for a night, while Rose took after her mother and grandmother—full in the hips, and breasts, but certainly not tiny like Lily and her mum. And then Hugo had gone and found himself a girlfriend through his new position at Gringott's, and begged off the now-annual drunken festivities, participated in by the sad lot that were the Weasley, Potter and Scamander cousins.
Rose had left school three years ago, and marveled at how poorly she'd managed to retain her Hogwarts girlfriends; with work consuming her day in and day out, her social circle had shrunk to what it had been when she was a child—her brother, her Potter cousins, and her "cousins" the Scamanders. Sometimes she wondered what had become of the others—the girls she had shared a dormitory with, had studied with, laughed and cried with, and, increasingly, attended the hen's nights and then weddings and then baby showers of—but mostly she did not. What sort of a girl did that make her? Rose wondered at times. But no matter. She heard from Maisy Finnegan every so often and that was enough.
Breakfast was over before Rose realized it had started, and then the boys all stretched their long limbs, buttoned their shirts properly, and headed out, even James, though he lived there; Lorcan had a work assignment to attend to, Lysander a pick-up Quidditch match, Albus was off to visit Granny Molly for the afternoon (he had always been her favorite, with his coloring so much like his father's and his quiet air), and James had some girl to see.
"You'll see yourself out, eh, Rosie?" he asked as he slipped through the door, grabbing a leather jacket off a hook by the entrance and nodding at her before he disappeared into the corridor. He left the door ajar, and Rose could hear his footsteps echoing on the stairs as he traveled down and around towards the first floor of the building. Yes, she would see herself out. A few quick spells and the stain on her blouse had vanished; a few more and she looked ironed and starched and neat again—not like some unruly girl who had nothing better to do on New Year's than drink herself black with a few hard-drinking boys who weren't even beaus or lovers—just her stupid cousins. Rose tied her hair back quickly, and then, with a sharp glance backward to check that the flat looked halfway decent, she walked out the door.
BOOM! Rose had scarcely turned her head around when she walked headlong into a tall, broad body exiting the flat next door; she stepped backwards, apologizing instantaneously, when something about the man's voice made her look up from where she was blushing towards the floor, and saw that she had managed to bump into Scorpius Malfoy of all people, still doing up his cuff links and wearing what had obviously been a very nice New Year's Eve suit before it had spent the night rumpled on someone's floor by her bed.
"Rose Weasley," he said. "Fancy seeing you here."
He looked normal, like her brother, her cousins, a young man, twenty, his glasses sliding down his aristocratic nose, but Rose felt terribly awkward, remembering the last time she had seen him, how they had not spoken for months, how she had changed partners in Herbology, how Scorpius had been half in love with her all through Hogwarts but how she had, then as now, made no time for boys, how Scorpius had made a comment under his breath about her blowing things out of proportion and, how, looking back, she had.
She realized she had not spoken.
"Hello. Yes. This is James's flat, though, I—"
"New Year's? Yes, he told me once about your annual alcoholic binge. Invited, me, actually. But I had—other obligations. Besides, I don't drink. Anymore."
"Mmmm." Since the champagne that night? Was it self-aggrandizing to assume that incident would have done it and not something more serious?
"Look, we should catch up sometime. It's a shame the way we parted in school—and you know I've always gotten along with Hugo and James and Albus, and the twins, and it's silly we aren't better friends, really."
"Yes," Rose agreed, but she didn't know if she meant it. She hadn't kept in touch with anyone—why should she bother rekindling a friendship with Scorpius, one that she had never really had? He was an acquaintance, a school acquaintance who had been difficult to her, even when it was a just a schoolboy crush trying her nerves, and perhaps she had been histrionic in a teenage girl sort of way after he set her essay on fire (then again, who set someone else's homework on fire?), but it didn't matter now, and she just hadn't the time for friends—
"Well, then. Then I suppose I'll go." And Scorpius made for the stairs; Rose hesitated and realized she had to follow, and they made awkward, fumbling idle chat on their way down the five flights—the weather; Rose's boots, which were high-heeled and had her clutching the railing; their jobs, his in publicity for a large publishing firm, hers as a Quidditch reporter for the Prophet—and then they had reached the foyer, stepped out, and, to Rose's relief, each turned in an opposite direction—
"Well, goodbye then," said Rose.
"Yes. Goodbye."
And they parted.
+++
The bar was coated in a thick layer of sticky slime, and Scorpius, wearing a new suit, avoided placing his hands or elbows or any part of him on it while he sipped his glass of water, looking out on the dance floor. He was twenty-three, now; too old, really, to be clubbing—and clubbing soberly—on New Year's Eve with a bunch of drunken teenagers, but he hadn't known what else to do, and this was as good as anything else. His mates from work were grinding with girls at the center of the dance floor, but Scorpius hadn't seen anyone he was interested in, particularly as all the women were falling over themselves with alcohol and he wasn't turned on by drunkenness at all.
Except.
He would have recognized that hair anywhere—bright red, two heads full of it, one set of locks curly and the other stick-straight—and he knew instantly which belonged to Rose Weasley and which to Lily Potter, and yes, they were pushing their way through the crowd to the bar, Lily wearing a silver shining thing that clung to her tits and arse and swung appealingly, Rose in clothes that were obviously not hers and too-small but looked attractive still, accentuating her hips and her graceful shoulders and her height—she was taller than Scorpius in the heels she tiptoed in—and Scorpius leaned back in his seat, plunked his elbow on the counter rakishly, and grimaced at the sticky slime the moment Rose and Lily appeared.
"Who're you pulling faces at, Scorpius Malfoy?" Lily demanded, big green eyes outlined in a thick rim of black.
"Nobody."
"Really. Well." Lily placed a hand on her hip, and huffed. "You won't mind buying us drinks, then?"
"Lily!" Rose hissed, but her cousin shimmied forward and offered Scorpius a tantalizing view of her cleavage.
"Not at all. What would you like?"
"Something strong. And Rose wants something sweet."
Scorpius looked at Rose, who stood limply by her cousin's side, for affirmation; Rose nodded, and Scorpius swiveled on the bar stool to place an order for a Long Island iced tea and a strawberry daiquiri. Lily nodded in approval, and after Scorpius had doled out the drinks, cocked her hip and asked, "Wanna dance?"
He nodded. Why not? Lily took his hand and led him towards the dance floor, and Scorpius had to enjoy the way her hips swiveled to the music, the sexiness of her little silver dress as the strobe light flashed and the colored lights swung overhead, dappling her body with reds, blues, yellows, purples, bringing out her hair, her eyes, her pale skin.
In a moment she was pressed against him, arse sliding along his crotch, and his hands were on her hips, and it was nice, it was very nice—he looked up and saw Rose, seated at the bar, which was a level above the dance floor and provided her with the perfect vantage point from which to scowl disapprovingly, and, Merlin, Scorpius could not help it—he was hard at the sight of her, her pursed lips and flashing brown eyes, the way her tits spilled out of her top, the way she sat with one leg crossed over the other, leaving little to the imagination with regards to what she wore under her skirt (not very much); it was all enough to send Scorpius reeling, and yet he had her younger cousin in his hands—Lily was writhing and bopping against him and sliding her hands up and down his thighs, but she wasn't enough for him, Rose was.
She sensed it, and turned, pouting; the music was too loud to hear through, but in the few seconds she disconnected from him another man appeared from the throbbing crowd and tugged at her wrist; Lily took a glance at the Foe Glass she wore embedded in a ring—Scorpius had never seen that before, but it was clever; Harry Potter's daughter had to be clever—and she went with him, not even looking back. Scorpius was alone on the dance floor. He trudged back to the bar.
"What do you want?" Rose asked disdainfully, two empty glasses rimmed with sloshy pink behind her on the bar, and another in hand, when Scorpius arrived.
"To dance."
"That's what Lily's for, I believe," said Rose with a toss of her head.
Scorpius paused. He had never been good with women, but he was sober and she was obviously tipsy, and that gave him an advantage—her skin was flushed and her tongue was loose with the alcohol—and he knew, he just knew, she was jealous. He had waited years to be in such a position—Rose wanting him, not the other way around. Of course, he had stopped thinking about her after Hogwarts; better to move on from a silly schoolboy crush—but it was so hard not to be tempted again. And he was attracted to her. He had always been attracted to her, and now she had grown up, and so had he, and it was worse. Far worse, now that he no longer needed to rely on dirty magazines and imagination, and knew exactly what he wanted from her.
"I'd have rather danced with you. But it would have been rude to refuse."
"I suppose I'm about to be rude then."
Scorpius sighed impatiently.
"I bought you a drink. You owe me a dance."
Rose glared at him. "That's terribly feudal of you, Scorpius Malfoy. Knights and damsels are dead and gone. I don't need chivalry and could have bought my own drink. I owe you nothing."
"What about a favor? Could you do me a favor and dance with me?"
Rose squirmed in her seat.
"What is it?"
"The thing is—"
"The thing is?"
"Oh, Scorpius—you know perfectly well you can't dance; I saw you at every Yule Ball! I don't want to dance with you. I just came to keep an eye on Lily. Well, she said to keep her company, but we both know what that really means."
Scorpius laughed out loud. He glanced at the dance floor; Lily was with a new bloke. Yes, he did know what she meant. And he did remember that he was a terrible dancer at school—but it had been six years now. Honestly.
"This isn't swing or salsa, Rosie; it's clubbing. I promise I won't step on your toes. Shouldn't you let yourself have some fun?"
She had finished her drink. She set it down, and took his hand, reluctantly. "All right," she told him. "I'll let you take a shot."
"Look—Scorpius," she added, as they made their way to the dance floor, throngs of people pushing past them, their fingertips the only parts of their bodies touching as they made their way through the crowd, "I'm sorry, about—"
"It's been six years. It's all right."
And then they were dancing. She faced him, wrapped her arms tentatively around his neck, and he put his hands on her hips, placed his legs on either side of her thigh, and began to rock to the music; she moved with him; the beat sped up, and so did they. He was a perfectly decent dancer, even when sober, for the music was simple and the mass of people around him fueled his energy, fixed his rhythm. The alcohol had erased her self-consciousness, so that she danced as enthusiastically as Lily, and a good deal more gracefully; she was a fabulous dancer, actually—coordinated, from Quidditch perhaps, she knew her body, knew just where to press against and pull away; she arched her back and dug her nails into his collar; he felt hot, claustrophobic in the best sense, turned on, he supposed he would have said if he was made to define it; no, horny as fuck was better—Scorpius had to restrain himself from putting his hands all over her; as it was, his palms slid to her bum, and he felt her hands slide down his neck to his chest and then back up again. This was perfect, this was heaven; Scorpius had never dreamed New Year's would turn out so well.
They danced for three songs, and then took a break outside the club, to get some air. She was flushed with drink and heat and sweat, and her hair was falling in damp tendrils, framing her face prettily; he took in how lovely she looked and smiled, and she smiled back, a little shyly.
"Shall we?" he asked. "Have I redeemed myself?"
"Rather," she replied, flirtatiously, her voice an entire octave higher than ordinary, and she recognized her own advances and turned pinker with embarrassment. It was adorable, and Scorpius brushed his fingers across her cheek.
"Let's," he said, and he held the door for her.
They danced some more. The music was wilder, and his pulse beat rapidly; he turned her around and wrapped his arms around her body, his hands running up and down her sides, and pressed himself against her, growing hard at the feel of her arse against him; he ground against her, again and again, and she did not pull away, she pressed back towards him, lost in the music, and it was too good to be true—Rose Weasley, dancing debauchedly, with him—
He leaned in to place a kiss on her neck, his lips cold against her hot skin, and she shivered, sending matching thrills down his body at the motion. His hands climbed higher, he placed them on her ribs, below her breasts, and then he dared to lift his thumbs, in search of her nipples, and there they were, hard, twin nubs beneath his fingertips, and she shivered again and dug her fingers into his thighs, and it was bliss.
Scorpius took a deep breath, aware of how sober he was and that she was drunk, not very drunk but a little, more than he, and it would be taking advantage in a way—but he was also painfully conscious of his growing erection and the way she was squeezing his thighs, leaning her head back against his neck, nuzzling him, and at that thought he could not help himself: he spun her around, looked deeply into her eyes, which were half-closed but slowly opening, and kissed her.
She kissed back. She kissed back eagerly, even, putting her arms around his neck, and Scorpius pressed a hand against the small of her back to bring her closer. Then she pulled away.
"I'm so sorry—" he began, but she had not broken the kiss willingly; there was a hand on her wrist, belonging to the young man from earlier, who had taken Lily from him, and Scorpius scowled and reached back out for Rose, only to have her shake her head at him impatiently; the young man was whispering in her ear, and Rose tried to say something to Scorpius but he could not hear her, and finally she mouthed, "LILY!" and began to follow the young man through the crowd, and Scorpius went with them.
The man brought them to the toilets, where Lily was on the floor of what Scorpius supposed was the woman's loo but had an equal number of men and women inside; Lily was leaning over a toilet bowl, puking her brains out, long hair being held back by an irritated-looking woman.
"I've got her, I've got her," Rose said; her voice seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the loo, where the thud of the music was only a hum and voices and vomiting and sounds of sex echoed against the tile faintly. Scorpius's ears were ringing at the shift in volume. Rose went down on her knees on the filthy floor, to take Lily's hair and rub her back, and she shot Scorpius a resigned glance.
"Go on," she said. "I'm taking her home."
And she wrapped her arms around Lily and Disapparated.
+++
New Year's Day, and half the city was hung over. Rose was going into work; she had things to catch up on, and though the office was closed, her boss had long since given in to Rose's workaholic tendencies. "It's a habit I got into in school, trying to take after my mum," Rose had explained, and Geoff had tossed her a spare key, lips quirking at the corners with a smile.
But first, what Rose really needed was coffee; she had become addicted to the stuff at twenty-four, when Hugo got back from his stay in Egypt (where Uncle Bill and Tante Fleur were retiring) and told her she had to try this particular sort of coffee he'd brought back with him. She had instantly begun to search far and wide for a shop in London that served it, and had finally succeeded at a hole-in-the-wall Muggle coffee shop run by Egyptian immigrants, where they had taken to her, the sunny-faced redhead who always ordered the same thing and came in on a daily basis.
This morning Rose took her time; after all, she wasn't late for work. She sat at a table by the window, and gazed outside, watching the street. There were women walking by; it was a sunny January day, and they wore bright-colored coats, and leaned on each other's arms, laughing. And there was a mother with her baby pram; and a couple, still wearing last night's clothes, but clearly pleased to be with one another, despite the matted hair and smeared makeup. Rose smiled.
And there was a man who looked strangely familiar, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt under a long black coat. He came in and shed his coat, took off his hat, and when Rose saw the glimmering blond hair she knew him at once.
"Scorpius."
He turned. He was wearing new glasses, with black frames; they suited him better than his old ones. He looked terribly old, and Rose remembered with a start the difference between twenty-three and twenty-six. He carried a briefcase.
"Here for coffee?"
"It's my favorite place," he said, and he went to the counter without another word, placing the same order as Rose. She bit her tongue, not sure whether she should say something about this coincidence. It was hard not to admire him as he stood waiting for his coffee; he looked handsome, in his beat-up jeans and shirt, the muscles of his shoulders pressing against the confines of his neatly-pressed shirt (and the neatness of his shirt on its own nearly made Rose swoon; she appreciated good ironing).
She remembered with embarrassment kissing him three years ago, almost to the day, at that club, and how she had meant to return his Floo, but then work had gotten mad, and then it had been too late, and she had been ashamed to have let it go so long, and he had stopped trying. And she remembered seeing him once, coming out of James's flat, one morning, so long ago that she could not remember when or why. And school, of course. School. They had known each other for so long, had been friends once; he had been one of James's groomsmen, but Rose had missed the wedding, had not realized her international Floo license had expired and been trapped in Spain that weekend. She remembered how Lily had accused her of avoiding Scorpius at the wedding, and Rose had denied it, but then wondered—was that so? She had been anxious about seeing him. How was it that he seemed to appear so rarely and yet was such a constant presence?
Her head was always in the clouds, with him present. His coffee was already ready. He took it, and glanced at an empty table, then Rose's.
"Join me," she said.
He sat down on the little wooden chair opposite hers, too tall almost for the spindly seat, and took a long, hot sip of coffee, licking his lips appreciatively afterwards. Rose grinned. "We ordered the same," she said, indicating her own mug, and Scorpius cocked his head.
"Is that so?"
"Mmm-hmm."
He nodded. "We have good taste."
They drank their coffee in silence for a bit, enjoying the warmth of the January sunshine coming through the windowpane, and watching the people come and go, strolling on the surprisingly nice day, their scarves barely disturbed by wind and hats neatly perched atop their heads.
"So, you never returned my Floo calls," said Scorpius suddenly.
"No. I didn't."
"Why was that?" His voice was awkward, embarrassed. Rose wondered just how much experience he had with women, that he looked so uncomfortable.
"Er—to be honest, work was insane that week. And then—I had waited too long. So I just—didn't Floo back. You see?"
"I wouldn't have minded."
"I didn't know."
He looked so earnest, so pained. He twisted his mouth, bit his lip, and drank more coffee.
"I still think about you. Is that mad?" he said, in as matter-of-fact a tone of voice as he had said, "Is that so?" As though telling her he still thought of her were everyday conversation. "Not always—not when I'm with another woman—but when I'm not—which is often—I remember you. I was mad about you at school, and you completely blew me off. And at that club—you were such a cock-tease, and you completely shut me down."
Rose blushed. This was the kind of talk Lily inspired in men; Rose would never have wanted to make a man feel this way.
"Not purposefully. You know that, I hope."
He nodded.
"I'm sorry."
"Yes. Well."
"I am. Though there's not much I can do about it now. But I am sorry."
"Why's that?" Scorpius asked, head jerking up from his coffee mug abruptly, glasses askew. "What—are you seeing someone? Albus hadn't said—"
She blinked. He had asked her cousin about her? "No," she replied. "It's just that it's been years, and we're here, today, in this coffee shop, not three years ago anywhere else."
"Is that all?"
"Well—yes."
Scorpius stood up abruptly, his chair scraping the wooden floors horribly. The owners seemed unconcerned, but Rose looked up at him, startled.
"Come here," he said, extending his hand.
"What?"
"Come here."
She hesitated, uncertain, and then rose, not sure of what else to do. He took her hand, firmly, and walked her towards the toilets and the back door of the establishment, into the long dark corridor with the photographs of Cairo hanging crookedly on the walls, around a corner from the main room of the coffee shop.
"Scorpius?"
He kissed her. After removing his glasses, and tucking them into the breast pocket of his button-down, he pushed her back up against the wall, with his hands on her shoulders, and then ran them down her arms and kissed her, bending his head, mouth on hers, one leg pressed between her thighs, triggering instant heat that spread through her body like a wildfire. Her arms were loose, uncomprehending, at her sides, and then she clutched at his hips, threading her fingers through his belt loops, rubbing her knuckles on the leather of his belt, and tilting her head to better kiss him; he had her pinned flat against the wall and they were eye-level, and then he dipped his head and she could feel his eyelashes sweep against her cheek as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to her jaw.
She moaned at the wet heat and pressed against him, arching her body towards his—he moved his hands lower, releasing his iron grip on her shoulders, now that it was clear she was not going to move away, and palmed one of her breasts tentatively, through the heavy wool sweater she was now dying to strip off. Her skin was beginning to tingle, she felt her body humming with energy, and she both heard and felt him groan as she raked a hand down his back, long nails sharp even through his shirt.
He had both hands to her breasts now, squeezing, searching for her nipples through the thick fabric, and she could not help it: she slid her hands down his chest towards his stomach, which was far better-defined than she had expected of a scholarly man who worked in publishing, and then toyed with the hem of her sweater, finally lifting it above her navel so that he noticed, and plunged his hands underneath it, sliding up her bare skin to her breasts and sighing with release as he slipped his hands beneath her bra and touched her nipples. Her own hands were now in the perfect position to reach for the top button on his jeans, to fiddle with it but not undo it, teasingly, and then press her hand lower, against his cock, which was hard and hot beneath the denim, and she listened with satisfaction as he let out a loud moan.
"They'll hear me," he growled, and she grazed her teeth along his neck; she did not care, for if this was going where it seemed to be going then the owners of the coffee shop would be hearing far more in moments.
Under her sweater Scorpius had tugged down the cups of her bra, and had his cold hands on her warm breasts, was pinching her nipples and twisting, just roughly enough to elicit sparks and cause her to lean her head back against the wall, exposing her throat for rushed kisses; she reached for the zipper of his jeans and lowered her head to see better when she could not quite grasp it; Scorpius found himself with a mouthful of hair and she heard him half-chuckle, half-gasp with lust and spit out the wet strands—she giggled—and the laughter did not dull the urgency they both felt, but somehow made it more real—she met his eyes for the first time, and the vibrant blue made her insides reverse themselves, and, with everything inside-out, she felt ten times more vulnerable than before. Her hand was still at the fly of his jeans and she could just feel his cock straining for release, and then he smiled, and said, "Please?"
That was all it took, and she had pushed her hand down his boxers, wrapped her fist around his cock and smirked at the loud groan this provoked; as she slid her hand slowly up and down, he began to rub small, soft circles around her nipples with his thumbs, until they were both moaning with the painful, pleasurable feeling of going so slowly, taking their time. Then she squeezed harder, and sped up, and he did too, one hand departing from her breast to try and fumble beneath her skirt; he could not get his hand past the waistband, and therefore tried from the other direction, putting a hand up past the hem and directly to her knickers, which, Rose realized suddenly—her mind all at once there and no longer elsewhere—were soaked through; his whole body rumbled with delight as he pressed his fingers to the wet cotton and she felt her knees begin to give out; he wrapped an arm around her waist, abandoning her breasts entirely, and she whimpered a little—the result was that he stopped holding her up just long enough to pull off her sweater, in order to lower his head and mouth to her breasts and keep his fingers to her cunt, but she had already let her knees give way, and sank to the floor, and, now that she found herself there, her sweater a convenient cushion, she tugged at his jeans, then his boxers, and had her mouth on his cock before he could stop her.
Rose had only done this twice before, with a boyfriend she had been serious about but not overly fond of in her early twenties, and she had not liked the taste of that man; Scorpius was entirely different, and the sounds he made when she moved her tongue and mouth—first one, then the other, and then simultaneously to great fanfare—were encouraging—more than encouraging, they turned her on—and she continued to run her tongue along his cock and slide back and forth, once letting her teeth slowly slide up his shaft and listening to him hiss, wondering whether that were a good thing or not; he had his hand fisted in her hair and seemed ready to fall over with the way his legs and torso had gone slack, so she backed off, wanting to turn him around and press him against the wall for support, but letting go for a moment resulted in him heaving her upwards, plunging his tongue into her mouth and running his fingers through her hair, then pressing light kisses to her forehead, cheeks, chin, his hands already wandering across her body, reaching behind for the clasp on her bra. It seemed unfair that she should be half-naked in the coffee shop with his body hidden beneath clothes, and she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, baring his chest; he had a beautiful chest, she could not help running her fingers all over it—
"Rosie?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you let me fuck you?"
She looked away from his nipples, which she had been slowly plucking at, and into his eyes. He looked almost timid again.
"Here? Now?"
"Uh, yeah." His eyes darted away and he grinned sheepishly, boyishly.
"Yeah. Yeah, I should think so." Rose grinned, and leaned back against the wall, catching her breath as he stared at her naked torso and she stared at his, and his cock, which was wet with spit still, hard and throbbing, and she wanted nothing more than to feel him inside her—
"What did you say?" Scorpius looked scandalized.
"Hmmm?"
"About—my—uh—"
Rose felt her whole body sizzle with heat and embarrassment. She had been speaking out loud. She had never voiced thoughts like those, had never put into words aloud all the dirty details she imagined in a running interior monologue whenever she had sex. She felt almost ashamed, except that Scorpius's cock was twitching, and when she finished the sentence—"…cock?"—it seemed to almost grow harder, longer, beneath her eyes.
"Yeah." His voice was thick, clogged, did she dare deem it "lustful?"
"Just that I love sucking on it, and licking it," Rose began, her voice growing huskier as she gained confidence, wrapping her hand around the cock in question, listening to him moan, then feeling his fingers skate along her skin, up her thigh, trailing circles and zigzags, almost tickling her until he had pushed aside her knickers and pressed his fingers against her, in her, sliding his index finger in and out of her and pressing his thumb against her clit, in jerky, unsure circles, which smoothened as she began to gasp and groan to his rhythm. He stopped only to help her pull her knickers off, and then his fingers were moving faster and faster, and she gasped for air. "I love the way your fingers feel fucking me," she managed to hiss, as her brain began to cloud. "And I want to feel you inside me—want to feel your cock deep inside of me, fucking me hard—I want you to fuck me, fuck, Scorpius, please!"
He shoved her against the wall, and the brutality of it did not faze Rose one bit as he hoisted her higher, shoved her skirt out of the way, and then positioned his cock at her entrance and slid inside, biting his lip and letting out a low, even groan, to match the higher-pitched keen that she emitted; he stayed sheathed within her for a moment and then she urged him—"Scorpius, move, Merlin, move!"—and he began to thrust in and out of her, slowly and then faster as she wrapped her legs more tightly around him, and buried her face in his neck, biting at the flesh there and sucking until she knew she would leave a mark—a childish gesture she had always dismissed as silly and possessive until now, when she wanted to mark him as her own—
"Talk to me," she gasped, and Scorpius stopped mid-thrust, panting, to whisper in her ear, his voice raspy with exertion, "I love the way you feel—hot and wet and tight around my cock and absolutely bloody perfect and I want to fuck you until you scream my name, and then lick you until you can't speak at all."
Rose gave herself up to the moment, felt her body go limp as Scorpius wedged his fingers between their hot, sticky bodies, put his finger to her clit, and the world began to blur, her whole body ached, her legs trembled, and she began to shout, "Don't stop!" until she was hoarse; she could feel the beginnings of an orgasm overtaking her, and her body shook and quaked under his touch, even as he continued to thrust into her, more and more erratically; then, suddenly, she seized up, flung her head back against the wall and did not feel the impact as her legs shook and a flood of emotion and feeling overtook her.
The sight and feel of her seemed to send shockwaves through Scorpius as well, for he gave a shout and came, too, his body falling limp against her, squishing her against the wall, his chest sticking to hers, heaving with exhaustion. Then suddenly he was sliding down her body, stopping with the tip of his nose just touching her red patch of curls, and his tongue was on her clit, his hands gripping her thighs, her skirt just skimming his hair, which was mussed and wild, and Rose simply repeated his name over and over, a litany, as she came, harder than she had ever come before, to the feel of his tongue lapping at her clit, in firm broad strokes and then intense licks, faster and faster, bringing her to the edge and sending her toppling over with a scream.
Then they were still, and Rose said, when she had caught her breath: "We can't ever come back here."
"No," Scorpius agreed, rising from his knees.
"I can't find anywhere else with this Egyptian coffee."
"We'll figure it out."
Rose nodded. Scorpius stepped back, and pulled up his boxers, then his jeans. He proceeded to re-button his shirt as Rose scooped up her knickers, bra, and sweater, and redressed.
"I need my purse," said Rose.
"My coat," Scorpius added.
She looked at him, blushing.
"Where to?"
"Out the front door, I think," said Scorpius evenly, readjusting his glasses. "And then—my place? Have you had breakfast?"
"I was just grabbing coffee. So, no. I was on my way to work."
"Bacon and eggs it is," said Scorpius with a laugh. He took her hand. "Come on. If we don't meet their eyes it will be fine. I think."
They laughed, and walked out in a hurry, grabbing their things, before heading out into the bright January day together.