She found him walking the halls of Hogwarts, an implacable silver-haired shadow stalking the midnight hour. He was alone, whereas she had company: a Ravenclaw, close to her side but not quite touching (though she knew he wanted to). She'd forgotten his name the moment she'd seen Scorpius, when she'd seen half a man and half a god moving toward her with the harsh inevitability of winter, restrained fury bound in chains of ice and cool reserve.

"Malfoy," she said, as if his presence needed announcement when she'd felt him coming well before she ever saw him. The Ravenclaw beside her—what was his name again? Did it matter?—tensed, hand probably closing on his wand in a vain attempt to defend her honour against Scorpius. A pointless gesture.

She had no honour where Scorpius was concerned.

Neither of them did.

"Weasley," he drawled, her name slipping out around his tongue like her sense of self-control as he turned to her companion. The man—no, the boy—next to her probably looked confused, perhaps a little wary, maybe a little afraid to look into eyes of silver and gun-metal grey, but Rose was too busy watching Scorpius to notice, breath quickening as she rode on the intoxicating danger of his presence.

"You. Leave. Now," he commanded to the Ravenclaw; his name was unimportant next to Scorpius', next to the way she could sense the tension in his body and the cracks shattering in his arctic reserve.

Had it been during day, the Ravenclaw probably would have stood his ground, but this was in the darkened shadows of Hogwarts, past curfew, no students or housemates around to save him, to straighten his posture and harden his spine against the weight of Scorpius' presence. Rose didn't turn to watch him go.

"Perhaps you should return to your own house, too," she said. Rose didn't want him to go, but tormenting him was all she knew.

He only drew closer, a coiling viper ready to strike, lifting an elegant hand to grasp her jaw with a force just shy of what he would need to hurt. His grip was natural, instinctive; after all, that was a line they'd been treading for years. His touch sent a pang of heat—of life—through her, even though his fingers were icy cold.

"I haven't punished you for what you did to me, yet," he whispered, breath caressing the other side of her cheek as he leaned in too close not close enough. "I still have the scars." Rose couldn't help the way her eyes flickered toward his chest, where she'd hit him with a Cutting Curse not a week ago. His presence was too intoxicating, burning like acid through the chains that bound her to the idea of what she was supposed to be, for her to possibly look away.

"Would you like to know what I'm going to do to you?" he asked; her skin pebbled where his words touched her, a counter-harmony against the heat pulsing through her from where his hand still held her jaw, the pressure not quite enough to close it when she started to speak.

"No," she answered, and he called her on the falsehood.

"Liar."

She closed his mouth with her own, shoving him back against the wall; his body jarred when he hit the wall, and he involuntarily—or was it?—bit down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Rose couldn't bring herself to care; the metallic tang mixed in with the taste of him and the heat of his body against her (he'd been cold before, but she set him on fire).

She was harsh, demanding, he always fighting for control at the most inopportune moment, but neither of them could bring themselves to care. Kissing Scorpius was like wrestling with a hurricane, a primal, exhilarating thrill where she could simply live for the now and the hard strength of his body as they pressed together with furious, angry need. Rose's hands ran down his neck to his shoulders, hard and muscled from years of swinging a Beater's bat like a knight of old wielding a greatsword, and she pulled him even closer even as their mouths broke apart.

She was flushed, not only through her cheeks but all over her body, and his eyes blazed with lust and hate; everything was always primal between them, blood and pain and sex and desire mixing together with wild abandon. His hand blurred to his wand and so did hers, but with a bang he blew open the door of the broom cupboard opposite them before pocketing it and picking her up like she weighed nothing at all, slamming her against its wooden back; even if she'd cared about the hurt, she was too distracted by the way he was almost consuming her neck.

His need bled from every inch of his body, desire screaming from the cords of his arms and the tension in his neck, matched only by her panting breaths and involuntary shudders. Clothes hit the floor, shredded and torn, because he was never close enough ripping hers from her flesh and she was aching wanting needing raking his apart with her nails.

Finally, finally nothing separated them and they came together like wildcats as what was left of her robes hiked around her waist; their coupling was animalistic and fierce as they surrendered their rage and hatred for deeper urges. He was harsh, brutal, taking her slick and fast. She was a quivering ball of angry want and instinctual desire, gasping for more but too proud to beg.

She didn't wonder about what their families would think of them now, or the rumours that would spread through the hallways until their next fight and everyone went back to understanding they loathed one another like night and day. She didn't wonder about anything, lost in hazy flashes of fire and a building crescendo like thunderstorms on distant horizons; she had barely enough focus to lock her legs around his waist and wrench him even closer.

He kissed her as she came apart, clenching herself around him as she swallowed his harsh grunts with her mouth. Moments later, she bit his lip, teeth plunging into defenceless flesh as he finished inside her, bleeding him to match the way he'd bled her at the very start, marking him in the way he'd marked her. For a moment, everything was silent, and then he stepped away as she slid down the wall, chest still heaving and heart still racing.

"Where… where do you think you're going?" she panted as he made his way to the door.

"Away," he said, blood trickling from his lips, clothes repairing themselves as well as physically possible with a flick of his wand.

"Did I say you could?" she asked almost haughtily, somehow imperious even as she gasped air into her lungs. He looked at her, eying her half-nakedness and the way her long, pale legs still quivered before replying.

"What are you going to do about it, Weasley? I'm far from sure you could even stand," he smirked, sated satisfaction rippling off him in waves. He looked far more like a teenager than she'd ever seen him look before; she hated it almost as much as she wanted it.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," she spat.

"You just did," he replied, raising a pointed eyebrow. She flushed, not out of embarrassment but with frustration at the fact she'd walked right into that one, drawing her wand and repairing what she could of her robes; it was a haphazard job, and she found herself hating him for being so violent in his desire even though she knew she'd done the same to him.

She couldn't help it; she always wanted more of him, even though she felt sometimes that the need—the burning, searing life—that pulsed through her at his slightest touch would torch her where she stood. He set her on fire, let her feel like Rose rather than a Weasley, and she hated it, hated depending on someone for her own self-identity.

She was so lost in her thoughts she didn't notice he'd left until the door clicked closed. When she looked up, the only sign he'd ever been there—apart from the way her body ached with beautiful exhaustion—was the single, Slytherin-green rose lying on the ground before her.

The way his blood dappled its petals from where he'd kissed it with bleeding lips before leaving it on the floor spelled out the story of their relationship: spikes and thorns and pain combining into something brokenly beautiful.

Inspired in part by MondayChardonnay's A Fine Line, which you should read if you've even thought about pairing Rose and Scorpius. And if you notice any similarities to a particular scene in Mark Lawrence's novel Emperor of Thorns, you're awesome for having read the trilogy.