This is a story of boy meets girl.
They meet on a brisk autumn day. He is small and blond and his bones scream aristocratic arsehole, and she is a ginger fireball with a blade of a tongue. They end up in the same compartment of a scarlet train heading towards a future of which they know nothing. But I'll tell you now, dear reader, it is not a happy one.
They are both Ravenclaws and both bloody outraged because he should be a Slytherin and she should be a Gryffindor and they sort of bond together in fury. They don't talk, but they don't fight either, and the other Ravenclaw first years give them a wide berth.
They sit in the library together and read in silence. She leans over to him and whispers, "Are we friends, Malfoy?"
He narrows his eyes and tightens his lips, his arms crossed and his book half-closed and, Merlin, everything about him screams no.
So she is surprised (but pleased) when he says, "Of course, you idiot."
(It becomes a running joke between them.
They'll stab each other with their sharpened words and bruise with misguided punches, but in the end they'll curl up next to the fire and one of them will whisper, "Friends?"
The other will nod.
She'll rest her head on his shoulder. He'll rest his head on top of hers. They'll sit there in silence until sleep claims them.)
And I suppose that that's the beginning beginning. But the beginning means nothing when it all end in tears, so we'll skip to the sort-of-beginning and try to forget blushing eleven year olds in a dusty corner of an ancient castle.
She's fifteen and he's sixteen and, Merlin's pants, it's so easy to annoy her. Because he's older and better at Transfiguration and he has a girlfriend and she's beautiful.
He sends Rose looks with encoded messages, and hopes she'll crack them before his "girlfriend" tries to touch him again. Because, yes, Dahlia is beautiful, but she's as dumb as a rock and incredibly meek for a Gryffindor. Her nails are like talons and he can't help but rub at the scars she has left on his neck.
Her voice is civil but her words are clipped and, look at her, she's practically foaming at the mouth. He flicks his wand and suddenly there's a black rabbit that once was a cushion and she screams in frustration and suddenly his legs are made of jelly and the floor has landed on his face.
But he's smiling because jealousy means she feels the same way he does.
And between you and me, she does, of course she does, but she's confused and annoyed and sometimes she wishes life was easier.
(He doesn't know that thoughts of perfect Dahlia taking away her Scorpius cause her to tease her milky skin with razors and watch as it gives way.
It's the only way that she can feign indifference when he's nearby.)
Now for the beginning.
The real beginning; the merging of lips and the brushing of skin, the scraping and clawing and moving and moaning, the physicality that burns them to ash.
It starts off innocently clichéd. Mistletoe.
She doesn't hesitate as he thought she would, merely grabbing his tie and falling into his open mouth. He's struck by how fucking right it feels here, with her like this.
And they're lucky no one is around because suddenly they're falling through the darkened doorway of an empty classroom and tearing each other's clothes off and the harsh, knotted wood of a teacher's desk is scraping her back as Scorpius tells her he loves her without words. She's always been that bit more vocal than him, and it shows as she murmurs, "Love you, oh God, love you, love, love, l-love you..." and leaves eight half-moon scars on his shoulder blades.
And he whispers into the dainty curve of her ear, "Friends, Weasley?"
And she can't help but chuckle.
And so goes the beginning (and sort of the middle) and to Rose, the end.
(She thought being happy would stop her hands fumbling idly with blades and nails and sometimes, desperate times, broken quills or ink bottles.
But maybe she's not happy.)
(There's a crooked S carved into her thigh. She hopes he doesn't notice.)
(They make love in broom cupboards and empty classrooms and she always makes sure it's dark.
If his fingers stray over raised scars and knotted skin tissue, he doesn't say anything.)
She is just seventeen when he shuffles up behind her on a Saturday morning in the common room, she still in Gryffindor red pyjamas and he in his winter cloak.
"Aren't you coming to Hogsmeade? We're already late as it is!"
But he's a smart boy, is Scorpius. He knows the answer before she even turns to glare at him.
"Rose. You're pregnant, aren't you?," he asks, because he knows and she knows he knows.
"How...?," she mutters. But the answer is written in his eyes. He watches her; always has. He probably knows her better than she knows herself.
(Or so she thinks.)
"I don't want it, Scor. I don't want a baby."
And it's probably the first thing she's ever said that leaves him speechless.
"Push, Rose! C'mon, you're almost there! C'mon!"
She's sweating and crying and panting and groaning and-
"I never wanted this," she sobs and she knows she's breaking her mother's heart.
She gives one final push, and with all that she has, Rose Weasley gives birth to a Malfoy.
Scorpius kisses her forehead and tells her he loves her and that she's never been more beautiful.
He's wrong though. She's never been more ugly, never felt more wrong. Because she's sure that no other mother has looked on their child with disgust and revulsion, or secretly hoped that something would go wrong.
She's broken and heartless and if he could read her mind, he'd kill her just to put her out of her misery.
She is eighteen when Scorpius leaves her. He tells her, "I'm sorry, Rose. But you've changed. You're...different. And I don't think it's safe to be around you right now. Still love you, Rosie. Always will. But you need help."
Pity is pooled in his eyes and Rose swallows the vomit that rises to the back of her throat.
And when he leaves, taking her little girl, Rose reopens the fading scars on her wrists. With each slash she spits out bitter thoughts.
"This is not what I wanted with my life."
"This is his fault."
"I was never meant to be a fucking mother."
"I love you, I love you, I hate you..."
She's choking on her own tears. Her arms are shining red and her flesh is burning with searing slashes.
And, "I'm sorry," she thinks.
She's dead before the last tear falls from her lashes.
(And that's the end of RoseandScorpius, the end of Rose, the end of it all.)
He finds her not an hour later.
His own voice is like an outside force that tears at his eardrums as he collapses in a broken heap next to her. His hands are wet with her blood and his tears and he screams at her until his throat is raw and it doesn't even occur to him to call for help.
Because he's a clever lad, our Scorpius, and just like that he knows it's way too late.
So he pulls her close; her empty, pale shell. He counts her freckles, stark on such pale skin. He kisses her lips and her cheeks and her closed eye lids. He wraps his arm around her and she's still warm. Warm enough to be sleeping.
He does his best to pretend she's dreaming of him, and his sobs echo in the silence as he clutches at his last hopes of happiness, ruined with the final slash of a deadly blade.
And he reaches for her even though she's in his arms, doing his best to touch all of her, every little petal on his Rose, before they take her and let her rot.
His fingertips brush her stomach. There is a familiar hardness there. And he knows, he knows straight away, and he cries harder and hugs her tighter and he never wants to let go.
But he has to, eventually.
And as they pull her stiff fingers from his, he whispers, "Friends?"
She doesn't speak or move or blink, and he knows then that she's really dead.
He remembers her snarky words, her pretty blush, her infectious laugh and her eyebrow raised in anger. He remembers her crap jokes, her pale skin, her ginger hair, her opinions that burned brighter than anything he had ever seen. He remembers Rose and he remembers them together.
And he does his best to forget a husk of a lost little girl cut to ribbons on a stained bathroom floor.
"Rosie. Never been religious, you know that. But I hope you can hear me, somehow. I love you, I love you. I do. S-so much. Are you listening, Rose? You- you should have told me. I could have helped.
We didn't d-deserve this. We should've gotten a happy ending. And maybe we still will, eh?
I'll see you again, Rosie. Goodnight, love."
And this is a story of boy loses girl.