FIC; Fire
I wrote a story for my friend Molu!
Molu's one of those people that you seem to instantly like. We met on fanfiction about... hm, 3 years ago. She had a Dashboard Confessional quote, as well as a Springsteen one on her profile. We were both immediately in love with each other's tastes and so began our friendship.
Three nights ago was her birthday, and for it she asked for an Al/Scorpius fic - so not my style. But I tried, and instead of coming off light-hearted and happy, it ended up really depressing and well... very me.
Sorry Molu dear. I hope you still like it :)
Happy Belated dearie!
Fire. As in the Augustana song.
You suppose there’s a very good reason why he drives you this crazy. Your dad would probably argue that it’s in your blood, that Malfoys were made to piss of Potters, just like the sun was made to rise every morning. But it’s more than that.
When you’re both lying in his Ravenclaw bed late at night, him loosely playing with your fingers as you count the spots on his ceiling, there’s still this, this force in your stomach, making you feel electrified and dynamic like, like there’s something inside you, something turning your insides round the twist.
Maybe he gets it. Maybe he doesn’t.
You have what he calls an open relationship, some term he found in some smutty story in his fourth year. You’re not exactly sure if yours is the same as Betty and Dave’s was in Witches in Love, but it probably isn’t because no writer would ever write something so horrible down on paper.
You might not understand the finer details but you’re pretty sure this open relationship business is some kind of slow, painful death.
You see him walking around all day with Peter Hickman or Grace Richter or Lysander Scamander and your insides scream like nothing else. Not even when you’re caught up in a kiss with him, grabbing his precious little Malfoy hair in your hands do you feel so alive, on fire.
He’s yours, only yours, which is something he doesn’t want to be. You can see it in his eyes when you’re alone together and you fear it like nothing else.
Why doesn’t he want you the same way you do? Doesn’t he feel it, this magnetic bit of sorcery, the magic that zaps between you when you trail your fingers down his pale chest in the late hours of the night? How does he escape the connection that becomes deeper than love when he looks you straight in the eye as you delve inside his body?
It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t get better. You become a sixth year and he’s still there, still around for a tumble after hours but that’s it, that’s all it’ll ever be, all you will ever be to him.
It’s the same but also really different. He seems almost desperate when he fucks around with you, scrabbling away at your clothes and sticking that insistent hand in your hair, because for some reason he can’t get enough of it. He’ll twist and pull and yank on it until you’re screaming at him in pleasure and pain, eyes flashing into his bright grey eyes that never seem to be staring back at you.
He’s still walking around with beautiful girls and boys, but it seems to have slowed down, and the only time you see him snogging anyone anymore is at dinner time, his hands slow on the person’s back while you watch his eyes flick over to the Gryffindor table where you and your family sit.
If you didn’t know better you’d swear he was doing this all for you.
But you know better so you don’t let your hopes up.
Three weeks into sixth year you realize there must be some kind of twisted karma for the green eyed Potters, because the same day your father owls you the news of your parent’s divorce is the day he doesn’t meet you after dinner for a quick snog in the Prefect’s bathroom.
You can’t understand it, but you’ve barely cared because you’re hurting and you’re sitting down with Hugo and Rose and Lily, trying to piece together the shattered bits of brain you have left.
The next day he doesn’t even look at you and you notice.
And by the third night - the third night you’re numb and useless and trying desperately to feel something, anything at all except the bitter, childish feeling of being torn apart by your own family - he finds you.
You’re set on fire before he even speaks and so you bound across the room, capturing his robes in your arms and clutching at his cold beauty, at everything you’ve fallen for in the past year or so, at his witty little quips and his fragile mind and the way he looks at the floor while he walks so he doesn’t curse his mother with a broken back and his obsession with cats and-
He’s stopping you now, pulling away with an anxious look, darting back and forth to take in your dormitory. It’s empty, not a soul in sight, but he still slithers back a little, away from you and your arched brow.
You can’t ever remember a time when he refused your advancements and you can’t see why now is any different.
It’ll keep you wondering for awhile, as you barely hear from him in days. His eyes are downcast in the classrooms; feet quick in hallways; mouth sharp to rattle off an excuse after dinner. You don’t understand, and you wouldn’t want to, even if
you could.
Late one night, after hoping to catch a flash of silver in the library, you retire to your room. Dominic is throwing a quaffle around, enticing you to join in, but there seems to be this hand cuffed around the flame that he lights inside you, ready to lean over and blow it out completely. You can’t let that happen.
You break into the seventh year dormitories easily enough, tearing immediately through your brother’s things. You find it under a bright green jumper, exactly the right colour to bring out the green flecks in your brother’s infuriating hazel eyes.
When you open it up with the simple enchantment you find something strange. He’s there alright, heading down the fourth floor corridor on the left. You know it well, that area. The best tapestries are there, as are the best closets.
It takes you a second to realize why he’s there at all. But then it hits you and the candle in your heart gives a great glow.
He’s waiting for you. He wants to make it all up to you. He wants to apologize for ignoring, apologize for making you feel even worse in the horrendous time you’ve been having for the past couple of weeks.
You shouldn’t forgive him but you will.
Because he’s Scorpius. And he’s perfect.
You fly down the corridors, past secret staircases and ghosts and talking paintings. It’s like something new has been set aflame inside you, something that makes you mad with want. He’ll always, always make you this way; this eccentric, needy man. But you’ll just have to live with it.
You’re out of breath when you get to the fourth corridor, heart pounding, lungs seizing. Your eyes dart around, trying to locate the right closet on the first try, trying to read his mind just like you’ve always wanted to do.
You hear a noise out of the one to your left, something low and deep, and you know he’s waiting for you, waiting as he strokes himself to be ready. You grin. You step to the left, open the door, and the world stops.
You see two heads: one blond and one dark, twisted black. Two sets of eyes flick up to meet your own.
Pale grey and startling hazel.
Hazel.
end
Molu's one of those people that you seem to instantly like. We met on fanfiction about... hm, 3 years ago. She had a Dashboard Confessional quote, as well as a Springsteen one on her profile. We were both immediately in love with each other's tastes and so began our friendship.
Three nights ago was her birthday, and for it she asked for an Al/Scorpius fic - so not my style. But I tried, and instead of coming off light-hearted and happy, it ended up really depressing and well... very me.
Sorry Molu dear. I hope you still like it :)
Happy Belated dearie!
Fire. As in the Augustana song.
You suppose there’s a very good reason why he drives you this crazy. Your dad would probably argue that it’s in your blood, that Malfoys were made to piss of Potters, just like the sun was made to rise every morning. But it’s more than that.
When you’re both lying in his Ravenclaw bed late at night, him loosely playing with your fingers as you count the spots on his ceiling, there’s still this, this force in your stomach, making you feel electrified and dynamic like, like there’s something inside you, something turning your insides round the twist.
Maybe he gets it. Maybe he doesn’t.
You have what he calls an open relationship, some term he found in some smutty story in his fourth year. You’re not exactly sure if yours is the same as Betty and Dave’s was in Witches in Love, but it probably isn’t because no writer would ever write something so horrible down on paper.
You might not understand the finer details but you’re pretty sure this open relationship business is some kind of slow, painful death.
You see him walking around all day with Peter Hickman or Grace Richter or Lysander Scamander and your insides scream like nothing else. Not even when you’re caught up in a kiss with him, grabbing his precious little Malfoy hair in your hands do you feel so alive, on fire.
He’s yours, only yours, which is something he doesn’t want to be. You can see it in his eyes when you’re alone together and you fear it like nothing else.
Why doesn’t he want you the same way you do? Doesn’t he feel it, this magnetic bit of sorcery, the magic that zaps between you when you trail your fingers down his pale chest in the late hours of the night? How does he escape the connection that becomes deeper than love when he looks you straight in the eye as you delve inside his body?
It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t get better. You become a sixth year and he’s still there, still around for a tumble after hours but that’s it, that’s all it’ll ever be, all you will ever be to him.
It’s the same but also really different. He seems almost desperate when he fucks around with you, scrabbling away at your clothes and sticking that insistent hand in your hair, because for some reason he can’t get enough of it. He’ll twist and pull and yank on it until you’re screaming at him in pleasure and pain, eyes flashing into his bright grey eyes that never seem to be staring back at you.
He’s still walking around with beautiful girls and boys, but it seems to have slowed down, and the only time you see him snogging anyone anymore is at dinner time, his hands slow on the person’s back while you watch his eyes flick over to the Gryffindor table where you and your family sit.
If you didn’t know better you’d swear he was doing this all for you.
But you know better so you don’t let your hopes up.
Three weeks into sixth year you realize there must be some kind of twisted karma for the green eyed Potters, because the same day your father owls you the news of your parent’s divorce is the day he doesn’t meet you after dinner for a quick snog in the Prefect’s bathroom.
You can’t understand it, but you’ve barely cared because you’re hurting and you’re sitting down with Hugo and Rose and Lily, trying to piece together the shattered bits of brain you have left.
The next day he doesn’t even look at you and you notice.
And by the third night - the third night you’re numb and useless and trying desperately to feel something, anything at all except the bitter, childish feeling of being torn apart by your own family - he finds you.
You’re set on fire before he even speaks and so you bound across the room, capturing his robes in your arms and clutching at his cold beauty, at everything you’ve fallen for in the past year or so, at his witty little quips and his fragile mind and the way he looks at the floor while he walks so he doesn’t curse his mother with a broken back and his obsession with cats and-
He’s stopping you now, pulling away with an anxious look, darting back and forth to take in your dormitory. It’s empty, not a soul in sight, but he still slithers back a little, away from you and your arched brow.
You can’t ever remember a time when he refused your advancements and you can’t see why now is any different.
It’ll keep you wondering for awhile, as you barely hear from him in days. His eyes are downcast in the classrooms; feet quick in hallways; mouth sharp to rattle off an excuse after dinner. You don’t understand, and you wouldn’t want to, even if
you could.
Late one night, after hoping to catch a flash of silver in the library, you retire to your room. Dominic is throwing a quaffle around, enticing you to join in, but there seems to be this hand cuffed around the flame that he lights inside you, ready to lean over and blow it out completely. You can’t let that happen.
You break into the seventh year dormitories easily enough, tearing immediately through your brother’s things. You find it under a bright green jumper, exactly the right colour to bring out the green flecks in your brother’s infuriating hazel eyes.
When you open it up with the simple enchantment you find something strange. He’s there alright, heading down the fourth floor corridor on the left. You know it well, that area. The best tapestries are there, as are the best closets.
It takes you a second to realize why he’s there at all. But then it hits you and the candle in your heart gives a great glow.
He’s waiting for you. He wants to make it all up to you. He wants to apologize for ignoring, apologize for making you feel even worse in the horrendous time you’ve been having for the past couple of weeks.
You shouldn’t forgive him but you will.
Because he’s Scorpius. And he’s perfect.
You fly down the corridors, past secret staircases and ghosts and talking paintings. It’s like something new has been set aflame inside you, something that makes you mad with want. He’ll always, always make you this way; this eccentric, needy man. But you’ll just have to live with it.
You’re out of breath when you get to the fourth corridor, heart pounding, lungs seizing. Your eyes dart around, trying to locate the right closet on the first try, trying to read his mind just like you’ve always wanted to do.
You hear a noise out of the one to your left, something low and deep, and you know he’s waiting for you, waiting as he strokes himself to be ready. You grin. You step to the left, open the door, and the world stops.
You see two heads: one blond and one dark, twisted black. Two sets of eyes flick up to meet your own.
Pale grey and startling hazel.
Hazel.
end