
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/809814.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Scorpius_Malfoy/Albus_Severus_Potter
  Character:
      Albus_Severus_Potter, Scorpius_Malfoy, James_Sirius_Potter, Harry_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Post_-_Deathly_Hallows, Post
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-20 Updated: 2013-12-08 Chapters: 11/? Words: 23400
****** The AS/S-verse ******
by beetle
Summary
     James is the worst brother in the world, Albus is mortified, and
     Scorpius is, of course, there because he chooses to be.
Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, by six years. Canon compliant.
     Spoilers, duh.
***** The Untitled Post-Deathly Hallows Epilogue Fic *****
"You are the worst brother in the history of the world. Ever!" Al seethes,
meaning every word.


James grins infuriatingly from his extra height of four piddling inches, and
his extra piddling year. Claps Al on the shoulder--ignoring that his hand is
slapped away--and twirls his Beater's bat like a baton. "You only say that
because you fancy the little prig."


"Shhh!" Al drags James snickering away from the entrance to the locker-room by
one Quidditch-toned arm. If his fingernails weren't so bitten-down, he'd be
shredding cloth and breaking skin. "What a wizard tells his brother over
smuggled Firewhisky is sacrosanct--"


"Is what?"


"Out of bounds, you Quaffle!" James is one of the few people who can make Al
lose his temper. Conversely, Lily's one of the few people that can soothe that
temper, even make him laugh. Too bad she isn't here. “Much like Prefects should
be 'out of bounds' for your juvenile pranks!”


James rolls his eyes and plucks Al's hand off his arm the way he'd swat a fly.
"Listen, you never got your back up when I played pranks on your scaly little
Housemates before, Prefects, or not. So be honest: the only thing that makes
Malfoy special is the fact that you think he's so pret--"


"Sacrosanct! Sacrosanct!" There doesn't seem to be anyone else in the nearby--
the hardest driving Captain since Oliver Wood, and the best Beater in nearly a
century, James is the first on the pitch for practice and the last off it. Has
been since his second year--but you can never be too careful. All Al needs is
for word of this . . . conversation to get around and his ship is sunk. So's
his tentative, five-and-a-half-years-in-the-making quasi-friendship with
Scorpius. "I can't believe Professor Thomas made you Head Boy."


"Me neither, really," James says thoughtfully, or as close as he'll ever come
to it. In moments like this, he looks astonishingly like Uncle Ron. "Actually,
I think House standards are rather slipping a bit, between you and me--oh, for
Merlin's sake, stop looking at me like that! Accio Series VII!"


"I'll look at you however I want,” Al sulks, ducking James' Firebolt and
shooting him another evil look. As evil a look as his--admittedly wholesome--
face can support. “Not that I had much of a chance with him, but you've wrecked
that. Though I suppose it's a miracle it took you this long to--"


James sighs loudly. "Blimey, you're really in high dudgeon over that poncy
little gi--"


Al's got his wand out and poking James in the chest before he can finish the
word. "He's not poncy, and he's not a git! You're the git, you--big git!"


James makes a face and rolls his eyes, bat and broom held up in surrender.
"Alright, alright--put it away, Salazar, before you take someone's eye out! His
Nibs is perfectly fine. I left him trussed up in the Great Hall."


Al blinks. Starts to lower his wand, then prods James in the shoulder with it,
earning an annoyed steady on, bollocks! "You tied him up? Wanker! What else did
you do to him?”


Making a face like he's tasted something bad, James pushes Al's wand away.
"You'll see. Better be the hero while you can--the house elves'll be setting
the tables any minute, now. If you hurry, he'll be swooning in your manly arms
before supper,” he adds with weary resignation.


There are several moments during which Al can't believe it's going to be this
simple. (Not because James really is the worst brother in the world, but
because he's never approved of Al's fascination with Scorpius Malfoy. Has
repeatedly, unsubtly, tried to set Al up with practically every even slightly
bent bloke at Hogwarts who wasn't in Slytherin. Including Aidann Brown-
Finnigan, who's only a Fourth Year, and more than slightly bent. Nance as two
handfuls of pink galleons, might be a more apt description.)


But it really is this simple. James has all but given a promise of non-
interference with, if not tacit approval of Al's choice of potential boyfriend.


Because even though he goes about his brotherly duties in a cack-handed sort of
way, James really is a good brother. Most of the time.


“Er . . . thanks, Jamie.”


James waves away his thanks almost angrily. “I still think he's an utter git,
but if that's who you want, then I wish you joy of him.”


They stand there awkwardly till Lily, and one of the other Gryffindor Chasers
breezes in, giggling like two first year Hufflepuffs. James clears his throat
gruffly. “Well. Go on, then. Faint heart never won fair Malfoy, did it?”


Al hesitates a moment longer, and bounces up on his toes to kiss James on the
cheek. Then he's off and running to the Castle, leaving James to swipe at his
face and grouse about blood not being thicker than House loyalties. 


And Lily to belatedly shout something about needing help with her Arithmancy
assignments.


                                       *



Al may as well have been riding James' Series VII, he reaches the Great Hall so
quickly.


He skids to a stop in the entryway to have a quick look around--he is a
Slytherin, after all, no sense running in like half-struck one o'clock . . .
like a Gryffindor--but doesn't see a blessed thing except for some cheeky girl
sitting in Headmaster Flitwick's chair.


Of Scorpius there's no sign.


All good feeling for his brother is forgotten in that moment. He's been had.


I'm going to hex your hair fuschia for the next five years, James Sirius
Potter, and that's a bloody oath, from me to you.


“I beg your pardon, have you seen Scorpius Malfoy in here?” he calls out to the
girl. Doesn't really notice when she doesn't answer. He's too busy wondering if
James had been telling the truth, but Scorpius somehow managed to throw off
whatever hexes had been cast. . . .


(James has many strong areas--Transfiguration, Quidditch, Defense Against the
Dark Arts, Quidditch, Care of Magical Creatures, Quidditch . . . and of course,
Quidditch--but Charms isn't one of them. Scorpius, on the other hand, is better
at it than anyone in their year, and almost everyone in James'.)


Perhaps James was counting his phoenix before it'd risen. What if he'd
only thought he hexed Scorpius, when really--


“Merlin's Bones,” he swears, stopping dead in his tracks about two thirds of
the way to the High Table, and the oddly still witch in the Headmaster's chair.
He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his robes--though he performs Oculus
Sano on them at least eight times a day--then puts them back on.


Well, I guess the queue to murder James'll be forming behind Scorpius, after
all, he thinks, torn between the appropriate horror, and quite inappropriate
fascination.


He stumbles forward the rest of the way then hops onto onto the dais, stifling
giggles, and other reactions of a more disturbing nature. In short order, he's
kneeling at Scorpius' side, staring into a familiar face made strange, before
he realizes he doesn't know what to say. Confronted by shoulder-length blond
ringlets, pink bows, and silvery-blue robes like something out of the fashion
section of the Witch Weekly . . . he's not sure a phrase exists for this sort
of situation.


Not that simply staring is a terrible chore. Though Scorpius' closed eyes are
layered in awful frosted eyeliner and heavy mascara, the spare, curving mouth
is impeccably incarnadined. He looks both ludicrous and luscious all at once. 


Very, very touchable. . . .


Al doesn't know whether he's leaning up to wipe off the makeup, or steal a kiss
when he hears several distinct pops behind him.


The house elves have set the tables. Their friends and professors will start
arriving soon.


"Oh, bugger. Scorpius? Malfoy? Wake up!" Al tugs on his hair--quite aware that
this does nothing good for his general appearance. He shakes Scorpius'
shoulder, then pats his face gently. This doesn't get so much as a disdainful
glance--not even a bored yawn, and Al kicks himself. Fumbles out his wand,
cursing James and Gryffindors in general. "Finite!"


The ringlets and bows disappear, as does the caked-on makeup. Scorpius' robes
return to their normal black with green-and-silver trim, and their wearer
slumps, letting out a soft breath.


“I ran here as soon as I found out--er, I didn't have any part in this, you
know.“ He stutters to a stop as Scorpius takes a deep breath.


Now the full force of that infamous Malfoy glare will be leveled on Al,
followed by several hexes just for being related to the perpetrator. Now--


Scorpius' eyes open and he blinks a few times, looking around the Hall, then at
Al, who is as one transfixed. He smiles, a gentle, amused sort of thing, that
makes Al's heart Disapparate into his throat.


"Do be so good as to untie my bonds, would you, Potter?" Scorpius holds out his
long, elegant hands; a rather unnecessary length of rope lashes them together.


"Right. Er--Evanesco." Al's voice cracks up into First Year registers and he
blushes. Watches Scorpius rub fine-boned wrists. "You don't seem too put out
about all this, Malfoy."


"Indeed." Pale lashes shutter amused, quartzite eyes, and his smile turns
rather dry. "It's too bad your permanently Confunded brother and his friends
chose now to start this nonsense up. Nevertheless. I could've blocked those
travesties they called hexes before they drew their wands. I'm here
because I chose to be here, for my own reasons."


Is it purely imagination, or does Scorpius' voice--lower, even, than James'--
drop a bit lower? Does the pale, lucid grey of his eyes darken with . . .
something?


Al swallows. "W-what reasons would those b-be?"


Scorpius' eyes flash, and his mouth is still curving and lovely, even without
all the lipstick. "That, Potter, would be telling."


He's flirting with me, isn't he? I'm pretty sure he is . . . only I don't know
how to flirt back. Brilliant. I've been waiting a year for him to give me some
little sign he could even think of me that way, and here I stand . . .
gobstruck. I haven't got James' easy wit, nor Lily's innate fearlessness. So
what on Earth do I have? Why would he even want me? 


He absently offers Scorpius a hand up--and is floored when that hand is
graciously accepted. 


Scorpius exerts just enough pressure to steady himself as they stand, and not
once does that gaze leave him. Not even when they're standing eye to--well, eye
to collarbone. But Scorpius still somehow manages to look up into Al's eyes,
despite being markedly taller. 


“Well, did you enjoy that, Potter?” Scorpius' voice is tight and pleasant--the
way Mum's gets just before she starts groundingeveryone within viewing
distance--and for a horrible moment, Al's certain he means the hand-holding. 


The silence stretches heavily between them and Al drops Scorpius' hand as if
burned.


“W-what? Enjoy what?” He feels a tickle of unease, and wonders if he should
perhaps remove himself from hexing range altogether. To Hogsmeade Village, say.


“Playing the hero, of course. Was it everything you hoped it would be? More,
perhaps?” There are hints of a sneer on the curving mouth, something that makes
Scorpius look eerily his paternal grandfather (someone covered in great depth
in Fifth Year History of Magic).


“Yes--I mean no, that's not why I came here.” Al hadn't thought of it in terms
of enjoyment, just as a convenient icebreaker . . . maybe even something that
would impress. He wanted nothing more than for Scorpius to finally notice him. 


And anyway, Lily's the one who seems to have inherited the Potter hero complex.


Al shakes his head. “Malfoy--Scorpius, you've got it all wrong--” suddenly
there's something blunt-tipped and hard pointing into his stomach, and--


"Petrificus Totalus."


Al doesn't have time to block the curse, or even blink. He can only stare at
Scorpius' fine-featured face in mild surprise, and feel . . . feel. . . .


Like his Y-fronts are getting a bit snug.


Scorpius eyes him with smug satisfaction, and snorts. "Honestly, Potter. Did
you truly think I'd be bowled over by you rushing in, sans white charger, to
save me from the least imaginative prank I've ever been witness to?"


Some of Al's confusion must come through clearly despite having been Petrified,
because Scorpius' eyes narrow angrily, and he pokes Al in the chest with his
wand.


"Just because you behaved like some Gryffindor fathead, doesn't mean I'm going
to swoon at your feet and start singing the Potters' praises like everyone
else.” Scorpius is crystalline and cold--confident and unapologetic: all the
things Al has admired about him since that fateful, awkward History of Magic
section, last year.


It's in that moment that he realizes he's been handling his infatuation all
wrong. Sitting and repining, hoping to be noticed like the proverbial diamond
in the rough. As if Scorpius was a simple, open-hearted Hufflepuff, to be
impressed by nothing more complex than sincere depth of emotion.


Or a half-arsed rescue.


But that's not the way of Slytherins, no, nor of Potters. No one will be gift-
wrapping Scorpius' affections and handing them to Al. James had the right of
it, after all: faint heart never won fair Malfoy. And it never will.


I'm a Slytherin, and I'm in love with another Slytherin. A Malfoy, no less.
It's time I stop waiting and wallowing, and start strategiz--


Scorpius pokes Al in the chest again, as if aware of Al's wandering attention.
"Hear me well: we're not our fathers--and I don't need a savior, if that's all
you want of me, so don't bother applying for the position!"


I don't think you need saving, I just want to show you that I'm worthy of you!


And that would be the infamous Malfoy glare, alright. It's every bit as
magnificent as he'd heard. It pins Al, flays him, castigates him . . . fills
his veins with fire and his stomach with ice before Scorpius ducks his head,
fine blond hair obscuring his face for a few moments. Al can only hope the
bagginess of his trousers and his habitually untucked shirt hides his body's
completely involuntary response to Scorpius' nearness-- 


--can only hope that soft gasp is unrelated to the aforementioned involuntary
response.


Scorpius looks up at Al warily, his eyes gone round with surprise. So much for
hope.


Eternities tick by as they stare at each other in shock and mortification,
respectively. Then, quite mystifyingly, Scorpius laughs a little, a flush
rising to his cheeks.


“That certainly puts a different slant on this whole matter,” he says, sneaking
coy looks between Al's face and Al's . . . deep and abiding shame. “Merlin, I
can't believe I didn't see this sooner.”


At that accidental double entendre, Scorpius colors even more. Clears his
throat, but doesn't bother hiding a cheeky, very un-Malfoy grin.


I am really sorry about this, but please don't laugh at me, Al would beg, if he
could. But he can't. He can only beg certain parts of his anatomy to play dead,
in the interests of self-preservation.


“So, all this--your brother and his asinine friends hexing me, you rushing in
right after to save the day--this is was your Potteresque attempt at . . .
at courting me?” The coy gaze turns cool and appraising. Believable but for the
remnants of that wild flush at each sharp cheekbone. “Well. In that case, I
suppose you get an A for Acceptable. This time. But I shall expect . . . more
discrete attentions from you, in future. No. More. Staged. Bloody. Rescues. Are
we agreed?"


To be honest, Scorpius had lost Al several sentences back--somewhere between
the gasp and the double entendre--but the gist of it seems to be that James'
stupid pranking had been part of some larger, grander plan that Al, himself,
had conceived.


Which is ridiculous, of course. For all that he's a Slytherin, Al isn't
terribly sly. Even James is slyer, most days, and Lily's cleverer out of a dead
sleep than both of them put together.


But Scorpius doesn't have to know that. And Al is certainly Slytherin enough to
be in no hurry to share this unfortunate fact.


Jamie, you Quaffle-headed lummox, you're the best brother in the world! The
best brother ever--


A gentle hand brushes spiky, untidy fringe away from his face--removes his
glasses and places them in his right shirt pocket after carefully folding them.
Those lucent grey eyes are blurrier--then suddenly sharper as Scorpius moves
closer. 


“I take your silence as assent.” The tips of their noses brush--Scorpius' nose
is warm, Al's is not--and Scorpius sighs, angling his face so his soft lips
brush Al's once, twice (press them quite firmly, that second time). After a few
startling, too-brief moments, he sighs again and murmurs: "Now, if you'll
excuse me, Potter, I have to go hex your gormless plank of a brother into next
week."


Another fleeting-brush kiss, and Al is alone, listening to the click of
expensive dragon-hide boots striding purposefully out of the Hall.


If he could close his eyes beyond blinking, he would. Brand into his brain the
nearness of Scorpius, the warmth of his breath, the feel of his lips--the near-
taste of them on a shared breath. Elegant fingers on his face. . . . 


Merlin, what would those fingers feel like everywhere else?


He's still fighting down the natural involuntary response to that--
with very limited success--when he hears it: the sounds of the first
chattering, hungry students making their way into the Hall.


In that moment he quite hates James, who is, in fact, the worst brother in the
history of the world.


Ever.
***** Geek *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the prompt "You have absolutely no idea, do you?"
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e by five and a half years.
"You have absolutely no idea, do you?" 

"What?” Albus looks up myopically from his tome on Arithmancy, squints in a way
that's highly undignified--he probably has no idea where he left his glasses--
and makes his nose crinkle, his freckles stand out. 

The golden, library lamplight turns his bottle-green eyes a warm, sparkling
hazel that Scorpius has yet to grow bored of.

“That you're--” beautiful “--a, what's the Muggle term? 'Geek'?”

Albus grins. It puts a dimple in his right cheek. “Accio, glasses.” 

He doesn't seem the least bit surprised when they fly out of Scorpius' shirt
pocket.
***** The Close of the Courtship *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "close".
Chapter Notes
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e by six years.

“Wanna see something brilliant?”


Scorpius looks up from Lone Auror: An Angharad Awbrey Novel. Takes in Albus'
shining eyes and flushed face, and smirks. “The sheer volume of studying you do
is affecting your memory, Potter: I've already seen it.”


Albus' brow furrows, nose wrinkling in that infernally adorable way. There's a
spray of freckles across the bridge--visible even from across the room--the
only concession made to Weasley blood in terms of looks, besides a slightly
too-wide mouth.


“No, not that . . . though after, if you want--” a blush camouflages the
freckles.


“Perhaps. Now show me what's so brilliant.”


Albus nods, sneaking a cursory glance around their dorm room (they are, for
once, alone), closes his copy of Advanced Rune Translation, and sets it aside.
Unfolds his legs, and kicks off his shoes: like his hands, his feet are
curiously out-sized, as if he's yet to grow into them.


He shudders once, hard, his eyes widening as if he's about to sneeze, and--


--a great Tawny_owl staggers maladroitly on the bed. 


Mildly agape, Scorpius automatically offers his arm. The owl launches
gracefully onto it with a restrained, steadying flutter of large wings. It must
weigh upward of one stone. . . .


He eyes the owl, and it eyes him. Then it makes a querying KEW-wick? sound.


“You were quite right, Potter,” Scorpius replies softly. “This is--you are
brilliant.”


The owl cocks its head at a should-be-impossible angle, diamond-hard
intelligence shining out of its dark eyes. It sidles up Scorpius' arm, never
diverting that gaze, and when it's close enough that Scorpius is nearly
crossed-eyed, it does something the Malfoy Eagle owls never do: 


Nibbles his nose. Fondly.


Laughing, Scorpius strokes its feathered breast, and the owl shivers, hopping
off his arm--


Albus lands next to him with a bounce and a grin, one discarded feather
drifting slowly between them.


“So,” he says, shrugging twitchily, absently plucking the feather out of the
air with the unerring speed and accuracy that would've made him a skilled
Seeker, had he been inclined. “Changing's dead easy. Changing back is . . .
not. I can't focus as well, and sometimes . . . I don't want to change back.” 


Scorpius places a gentling hand on Albus' knee. “How long have you been an
Animagus?”


Albus colors a little, twisting the feather in his fingers. “Middle of Fifth
Year.”


“Impressive. I take it you're Unregistered.” When Albus gives him a haughty
sort of glance, Scorpius laughs again. “What do your parents think?”


That glance falters, and Albus brushes the feather down the back of Scorpius
hand--smiling a little when the hand captures his own. “They don't know. No one
knows . . . except you.”


Hiding his surprised pleasure is a struggle Scorpius isn't sure he wants to
win.


When Albus moves in close to kiss him--slowly, solemnly, turning his hand in
Scorpius' to press the feather between them like a token, a promise--Scorpius
finds that, for once, he's alright with losing.

***** Homecoming *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the awdt prompt (from, like, a month ago) "just stand
     there--and don't speak, sweetie".
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, just before their Seventh Year. Part
     of the AS/S-verse, a sort of prequel to ficlet A Certain Kind of
     Fool. Can be read as a standalone.
"'Just stand there--and don't speak, sweetie.'” Scorpius mutters in a passable
imitation of his mother's voice. “As if I'm some idiot child."


He glares pointedly at a group of brats staring into the picture window
of Madame Malkin's at him. He's miserably satisfied when they scurry away like
startled rats, soon lost in the exodus of students and parents hurrying back
and forth through the Alley. 


And why shouldn't they run? Sighing, he turns away from the window. Flings
himself onto the one tasteful sofa in the entire lounge, and sets his face in a
mask of detached approval for the moment his mother comes swanning through the
changing-room curtain. I certainly look enough like Dear Death Eater Granddad
to strike fear into the hearts of Muggle-born ankle-biters everywhere. Which is
why I so look forward to these jaunts to Diagon Alley. . . .


Though it was his choice to accompany his mother on her appointment, and head
off budding fashion disasters--he'd penned a brief note to Albus last night,
one in which he mentioned being in Diagon Alley all afternoon today, if Albus
wanted to maybe meet for a butterbeer. . . ? and received no response, so it's
not as if Scorpius has anything else to occupy his time--he now wants nothing
more than to seclude himself in his rooms, and be left alone to brood until
it's time to go to King's Cross Station.


And once on the Express, he can utterly misuse his powers as a Prefect, and
wheedle/ intimidate a car all to himself, just he had at the end of the year.
Hopefully, he and Albus can renew their ties in the same delightful fashion. .
. .


Such thoughts make him grin in a way most unbefitting a Malfoy. The Greengrass
grin, according to Father, and the only thing that serves to make him look less
like a relative of whom everyone is loathe to be reminded . . . according to
Mother.


The relative Scorpius has just spent a stultifying and pointless summer trying
his pointless best to avoid, in the most pointless region of Spain.


All rather pointlessly.


Albus doesn't care that I look like Lucius, he thinks, quite unaware that the
wide--cheeky, according to Albus--Greengrass grin has changed to something even
less befitting a Malfoy: a small, smitten smile. To him, I'm simply Scorpius.
Simply his. . . .


That's assuming Albus still wants him, which, time and distance
notwithstanding, may be a lot to assume. Teenage boys are known neither for
constancy nor length of memory. And is it really so beyond that pale that
Albus--with his gamin, earnest looks and lively green eyes--met some handsome,
intelligent (always intelligent, as Albus can't abide fools, no matter how
pretty) boy over the summer and . . . and. . . .


And rambling, almost-weekly letters to each other, though reassuring whilst
apart, hold no power to soothe with reunion imminent. There's less than a week
until school starts (less than a week since Scorpius and Cassiopeia returned
from visiting their grandparents in Girona, but more than a month since Albus,
and the Granger-Weasleys returned from Australia), and he'd gladly put a stake
in summer's black heart to see Albus just a bit sooner. To have this awful
waiting and wondering over with.


Wondering if Albus was as puppyishly faithful as Scorpius had been: not so much
unable to notice other boys, but unable to help comparing them unfavorably with
someone he missed even more than he missed being able to freely practice magic.


Wondering if there were slips of the body and heart to be forgiven and, if
there were, the infamous Malfoy pride put quite aside, knowing he would forgive
them. Anything to have Albus smile at him--not that every-man Weasley grin, but
the small shy smilethat's purely Albus. That makes his mouth curve prettily and
his eyes light up. . . .


"Loin des yeux, loin du coeur," he mutters ruefully, though he knows it's
unfair. A steadier, more faithful heart than Albus's isn't to be found in
Wizarding Britain, Scorpius is certain of it.


Well. He was certain, in June. Certain of both their hearts instead of merely
his own.


He sighs softly. Perhaps it's crazy, and silly--perhaps he's thinking more like
a Hufflepuff than a Slytherin, but he can't imagine a future without Albus by
his side, even though the odds that he will one day be living such a benighted
future are high. . . . 


Scorpius's father has made it more than plain that he's counting on Scorpius to
continue his tradition of what Muggles call 'damage control'. Or if he is
incapable of that, at least not inflicting further damage to the family before
he can provide more dynamic heirs. 


But those Malfoy heirs aren't likely to happen anytime soon. Possibly never, if
Cassiopeia doesn't outgrow her boys-are-all-quite-stupid-and-disgusting-but-
for-you-Scorpius phase.


Even so, she's far too clever to insist on keeping the millstone of the Malfoy
name once she marries. Between his father--and infinitely more so, Dear Death
Eater Granddad--the name hasn't been simply dragged in the mud, it is mud, in
polite society. Not so bad as it was when Scorpius was a child (he hadn't a
single friend his own age until Second Year), but he's had to work twice as
hard to get half the respect of his teachers and peers, three times as hard to
earn any sort of trust. And despite what Albus believes, Scorpius could get Es
in all of his NEWTs, and still not have a snowball's chance when it comes to
the only career he's ever wanted.


"Because Malfoys don't become Aurors, love. Someone as smart as you must surely
know that," he says, wishing Albus were there to argue with him, his voice--
which Scorpius has yet to hear raised in anger--soft and certain, saying
everything Scorpius has ever wanted to hear, but is too much of a Slytherin at
heart to believe. . . .


(Albus is a poor liar, worse than a Hufflepuff, even. He turns a splotchy,
awful red and begins to stammer. His eyes get shifty, and he incessantly
polishes his glasses with his tie. And though he never does any of these things
when they talk about Scorpius putting in for Auror training, that unshakable
Potter faith in the people he cares about, and the Weasley near-pathological
loyalty to the same makes his opinion completely unreliable about such things.


He seems to automatically think Scorpius is fully capable of doing anything and
everything he sets his mind to, which is. . . .


. . . bloody annoying, is what it is. Exhilarating . . . but annoying.)


Suddenly, the homesickness and loneliness he's been fighting rises to an
unbearable pitch, and he can't imagine spending another three days at that
drafty mausoleum he calls home, with its disabled traps and woebegone ghosts .
. . it's abandoned secrets and bitter paintings. All he wants is Albus. To see
the light of the Hogwarts Library turn those changeable eyes into a hazel that
glows with contentment whenever they rest on him. To hold and be held until the
past two months are nothing but a dim memory.


He silently curses his grandparents (why the sudden interest in them, the
grandchildren they barely know?) and Girona; and Albus's aunt and uncle, and
Australia. Curses Time, itself, for putting an entire summer between their last
kiss and the one that's still waiting for them. 


He closes his eyes and imagines removing Albus's glasses, tilting his head back
just so: gazing into deep green eyes, and kissing feather-soft lips that are
always a tad chapped, a tad bitten. Imagines his kisses returned reverently, a
little shyly, then becoming another thing entirely, once a little time passes
without interruption: wanton and urgent. A surprising, overwhelming intensity
of passion that's hidden from the world, from everyone but Scorpius.


Although they've never actually progressed beyond snogging and very heavy
petting (except for that last . . . good-bye on the train ride to King's
Cross), he can easily imagine making love with Albus. They've spent enough time
jammed into unused broom closets with a faltering Lumos lighting their rather
frenzied, mostly clothed trysts--he's spent too much time . . . committing to
memory the way Albus's sturdy, compact body feels to not have a pretty good
idea of what that body will feel like on him, in him, around him.


Such distracting ideas he's been having, and all summer long. . . .

On the first Hogsmeade Weekend, I'm getting us a room at the Three Broomsticks,
and we're not leaving until Monday morning. And since I'm seventeen now, no one
can say a bloody thing about it . . . though Albus's birthday isn't until
November . . . bollocks, I'll have to sort something out before then.


Suddenly aware that he's no longer alone, he stifles a sigh and doesn't open
his eyes. It'll make lying easier and get them home faster. Instead of
brooding, he can spend the rest of the afternoon wanking. It wouldn't be the
first time. "You look ravishing. Father will be beside himself, of course."


"That's . . . comforting, though he's not the Malfoy I was hoping to see," an
achingly familiar, but equally uncertain voice says from the entryway to the
waiting lounge. Scorpius's eyes fly open, and for a moment, all he can do is
gape at the tall figure hesitating at the lintel;


at the distressed red and black Weird Sisters tour shirt that clings to wide,
sharp-bladed shoulders and pipe-cleaner legs that seem to go on forever, in
black jeans;


at messy hair grown out beyond hope of styling, framing a square, stubborn-
jawed face wearing a pair of glasses--stylish, by the Four Founders--that
Scorpius has never seen before;


at the height that seems to beggar Scorpius's own modest five feet ten inches.
Really, it's the height that shows the Weasley blood more than anything ever
has . . . is throwing Scorpius for a loop. Makes him blink repeatedly and rub
his eyes.


"You're not Mother," he says, and is immediately certain it's the stupidest
thing he'll ever say. Yet the response he receives, rather than ridicule, is a
grin; it sits strangely the tanned, somehow unfinished face.


"Well-spotted . . . though I have to say that's the strangest greeting I've
ever received." Eyes as green as envy linger on Scorpius appreciatively, making
his cheeks burn under such a frankly admiring, nakedly yearning gaze. "Bloody
hell, it's impossible, but you're even more beautiful than I remember."


"Much like a Chateau Margaux, time only improves me." Scorpius can't help
staring, feeling terribly nonplussed. The familiar and beloved has been
rendered strange. Even the formerly out-sized, square hands seem oddly in
proportion, now.


But, ye gods and fishes, who knew there was half a foot of growing left to
achieve that?


That big, blameless grin falters a little, the warmth leavened with concern.
"I, er, shot up a bit over the summer," he says, belaboring the obvious with a
nervous laugh--even his laugh is different. Deeper, older. "I know I look a
scarecrow, now, all elbows and knees and angles, but . . . I'm still me. Still
your Albus. Always yours."


Everything Scorpius ever wanted to hear, and nothing anyone's ever said to him
before. Nothing he ever expected to hear, being who he is. And certainly not in
this different voice.


He stands up and slowly approaches this gangling, weedy young man claiming to
be his Albus (Scorpius's Albus was most definitely a boy, as in boyfriend, and
the-boy-that-I-love. This person in front of him is very nearly a man). 


He stops a few feet away, narrows his eyes when a particularly aggressive ray
of sunlight slants off those sleek, quirky glasses, and moves just a bit
nearer. And a bit more. Till he can reach up and remove them. 


After a moment of a hesitation--eyes averted--he folds them carefully, and
places them in an inner pocket of his robe, next to his wand. It's something
he's missed doing all summer, this ritualized prelude to their kisses.


Taking a breath, Scorpius looks up into anxious eyes that are rendered
translucent by sunlight and sun-darkened skin--How many times must he have
burned and peeled before finally tanning?--and is caught, as always, by the
heart that beats so openly in them. 


"Please . . . say something, Scorpius. I've missed you so much. . . ." Albus'
voice cracks up into a slightly higher register. His brow furrows, his nose
wrinkles, and without the glasses, the changes Time has wrought are even
plainer. But those eyes . . . Albus's eyes had this endearing habit of always
lighting up whenever they saw Scorpius.


The one thing, it would appear, Time hasn't yet sunk its claws into.


Before doubt can draw another line on the changed, but still beloved face, or
cast shadows in the bright, loving eyes--Scorpius is pulling Albus into his
arms, branding the feel of' him into his body's memory. The scent of him, like
earth and grass and wind, like a hundred pick-up Quidditch matches with his
innumerable cousins--with underlying hints scroll-dust and Hogwarts--onto his
brain.


Scorpius squeezes as tight as he can, and without further encouragement,
Albus's long arms wrap around him just as tight. Some vast gulf within him--one
that he hadn't even suspected, but that lies at the pit of both stomach and
heart--seals seamlessly.


He promises himself that for as long as Albus is naïve enough to think they'll
last, they will never be parted like this again. Never. 


"I missed you so much."


"Of course you missed me, Potter. It's commonly held that absence makes the
heart grow fon--" Scorpius gasps, as his feet leave the ground and he's spun
about, then kissed soundly. No reverence, not even a little shyness, just a
hard, wet, greedy kiss that tastes of sherbet lemons and peppermint humbugs. 


"I'd heard, but never believed until now," Albus laughs breathlessly, an odd
sort of hitch in his voice that makes Scorpius's heart clench and his stomach
settle decisively.


Suddenly--far from cupping Albus's face gently and tilting it up for a kiss--
Scorpius is nearly on tiptoe, pulling Albus's head down by his ears. His hands
rove ceaselessly over Albus's back, and one slips under the Weird Sisters t-
shirt. The other settles in the right back pocket of the low-slung trousers.


Albus's hands are likewise snaking into Scorpius's robe, taking up similar
positions, callouses snagging on expensive fabric, and this is better than
anything they've ever done or anything Scorpius has ever fantasized about. It's
absolutely perfect. Never-bloody-mind that they're in front of a picture window
where passing throngs have an excellent view of them snogging. 


Never-even-bloody-mind that his mother and Madame will eventually decide
they've murdered good taste to their satisfaction, and emerge. . . .


Scorpius moans and breaks the kiss, relinquishing the back pocket to brush
Albus's untidy fringe back off his forehead, laughing when it flops right back,
nearly obscuring his eyes. But Albus just watches him solemnly.


"I'm a bit scruffy," he says finally, not quite apologetically. "Haven't had a
chance to get it trimmed, and I might not do, I don't think."


Scorpius looks him over intently, finger-combing a few unruly snarls and
grinning when the hair spikes up like an offended kneazle. "It takes a bit of
getting used to, but I like it," he declares. "Makes you look dangerous and
sexy."


Albus blushes deeply enough that it shows up through the tan like a beacon.
"Makes me look like a daft git who can't be arsed to comb his hair in the
mornings, which is true enough, most days." He leans his forehead against
Scorpius's and sighs happily. "When I couldn't find you I was afraid I'd missed
you altogether. Or that you'd decided not to come, after all."


Being this close after so long is headier than champagne, and Scorpius is
almost dizzy with it. "Why--why didn't you reply to my owl?"


"I've been grounded for nearly a fortnight, now. Mum and Dad wouldn't let me go
farther than Ottery St. Catchpole, and only so Gran could run me ragged with
chores." His face still gets that adorable, sulky-pinched look when he's been
thwarted. "I wasn't allowed to use the family owls, and watched too closely
to become one . . . I wasn't sure you'd still come to the Alley."


"Yes, well. I had errands to run,” Scorpius sniffs as haughtily as he can
manage. And he can manage quite a lot. “Consider yourself lucky, Potter."


“Believe me, I do,” Albus says in the low sort of voice one could easily
imagine whispering very sweet--very dirty nothings in one's ear. If, that is,
the speaker could ever be so persuaded. 


That very un-Malfoy grin stretches Scorpius's face and he doesn't care. "You're
lucky, and I have a weakness for lucky men. That's settled. Now, exactly how
many growth potions have you consumed since last we saw each other? I seem to
recall you were still two inches shorter than me."


Albus slides both hands to Scorpius's waist, a pleasant, possessive weight. "I
must've been brewing and drinking in my sleep. What little sleep I got, that
is. Could barely rest, for the growing pains. Poor Aunt 'Mione was in fits
trying to keep me clothed the whole month we were abroad, and when we got back,
Uncle Ron kept telling Dad he ought to have a talk with the postman,
whatever that means . . . but sod all that.” He leans in to press his lips to
Scorpius's temple. “Tell me what thoughts put that lovely, wicked smile on your
face before. . . ."


Letting himself be swayed in Albus's arms, Scorpius feels that same smile
return to his face, and revels in this embrace, as if no time has passed. "I
was thinking about how we said good-bye on the Express, and about how perfect
and wet your mouth is.” He looks up into Albus's face, hands sweeping lightly
over the warm, smooth skin of his back.


“I was also thinking that if you were here with me, I might cast aside all
propriety, and return favor. For starters.” Albus's eyes flutter shut as he
groans bloody hell, licking his lips. 


It's such a good idea, Scorpius follows suit.


"You're really evil, you know? Turning otherwise docile young men into raging
sex-fiends." Albus leans them against the lintel and pointedly pulls Scorpius
flush against him. “Feel what you do to me?”


Indeed, Scorpius does, and makes no attempt to hide his gratification. “First
Hogsmeade Weekend, Potter. By Sunday morning, our unicorn-Summoning days will
be irrevocably. Over.”


"Er, that's just a myth, you know?" Albus frowns a little, that bookish line
between his eyebrows deepening. "About unicorns, and v-virgins--"


"Do try a little harder not to miss the point I was trying to make, dearest."
Scorpius latches onto a prime bit of real estate just below Albus's jaw, and
not just to head off a lecture on Magical Creatures he couldn't have cared less
about even in Third Year. "I've spent so much time imagining what I'd do to
you, with you, when I finally had you all to myself. I thought I'd die of
wanting you . . . but I suppose the having of you can wait a little longer.” 


“It can?” Before Albus can do more than moan unhappily, Scorpius has removed
himself to a more discrete distance. Sits down again and arranges his robe,
before smiling his most placid afternoon-tea smile. A glance at the picture
window shows neither urchins nor their parents peering in at them, thank Merlin
for small favors.


“For now, I'd much rather hear about how terribly you missed me, and what
mischief you did to get so severely punished that you weren't even allowed to
answer my owl." He pats the spot right next to him playfully.


"What I did to get so severely punished?" Albus asks jaggedly, trying and
failing to adjust his trousers to adequately hide a most satisfactory response
to their truncated reunion. "Well, since getting back from Australia, I've
played more Quidditch than I have in my entire life before, just to take my
mind off you. When that didn't work, I researched making an Unregistered
Portkey. Then I tried blackmailing James into teaching me to Apparate--” 


“For blackmail to work, the blackmailee has to have a sense of shame and/ or
guilt. Or two working brain cells to rub together,” Scorpius notes
sympathetically, and Albus nods.


“Yes, I learned that the hard way. And when neither of those plans worked, I
went back to Quidditch. Broke several bones--my right arm twice. Still couldn't
stop thinking about you. In fact," Albus laughs ruefully, and makes his way
over to the sofa. When he sits, Scorpius notices with a rush of desire that
there's a rather livid love-mark just to the left of his Adam's apple. "Hmm.
That lack of concentration on the matters at hand may be why I had so many
stupid accidents. But any distraction from this interminable summer was a good
one, I suppose.


"When I broke my arm the second time, Mum banned me from playing Quidditch for
the duration, and I spent so much time moping about that James and Teddy
dragged me to the Hogs Head for 'cheering up', and . . . between the Morris-
dancing, and the Firewhisky--and the goats--the wandless magic only happened
because I was completely rat-arsed! Thanks to the team effort of the worst
brother and cousin in the world . . . and if that sneaky cow from
the Prophet hadn't wrote that bloody article--” Albus heaves a sigh and gives
Scorpius a sheepish half-smile. “After nearly two weeks, Mum finally decided I
learned my lesson sufficiently to be granted early parole. And the first thing
I did was come to the Alley to find you."


It takes a few seconds to incorporate that breathless gush of information--
Morris-dancing? Goats? What on Earth. . . ?--Scorpius shakes his head. "I knew
there was a reason I didn't like your plank of a brother.”


"Oh, there are many other reasons not to like James. Nearly seventeen years,
and I'm still adding to the itemized list on a daily basis." Albus shrugs, then
brightens a bit. "Speaking of the Quaffle-headed Wonderboy, he's having a sort
of celebration this afternoon. He got signed by the Cannons, and--"


"The Chudley Cannons?" Scorpius smirks. "And this is cause for a celebration,
in his opinion?"


"Apparently." Albus rolls his eyes. "But he's happy--it never did take much.
And you should see Uncle Ron's eyes tear up at the very mention . . . bloody
unnerving. Anyway, James is throwing a party, and you're cordially invited."


"Cordially?" Doubt; cushioned, then stolen when Albus leans in for a chaste,
but lingering kiss.


"Yes, cordially." Off the disbelieving look he receives, Albus clears his
throat. "Alright, he said, and I quote, 'oh, fine, bring that Malfoy git, if
you're still so over-the-bloody-moon about him. But if he hexes anyone, you're
both out on your arse.'"


"How charming." Scorpius brushes Albus's hair back from his face again, busying
himself with making sure it stays, this time. "And naturally you are still
over-the-bloody-moon about me."


"Naturally." Albus looks down at Scorpius's chest. Underneath the robe, vest,
and linen shirt, is a single tawny-grey feather, with a fine electrum chain
strung through the shaft. Both chain and feather were gifts from Albus; gifts
Scorpius has never taken off.


Albus's fingers brush the exact spot on his breastbone where the feather rests,
and Scorpius shivers, feeling laid bare and surprisingly alright with that.
Since it's Albus doing the . . . laying. "I'll never be less than absolutely
over-the-bloody-moon about you, Scorpius."


"In that case, you should know that I remain enamored of you, as well, and for
the foreseeable future," Scorpius adds around something that feels like his
heart. Such a ridiculous, Hufflepuff sort of sentiment, but seeing Albus light
up is worth a tiny, quiet bit of internal embarrassment. 


He places his hand in Albus's, smiling when it's squeezed fervently. "Well
enough then, Potter. Let's go, before my mother remembers I exist."


                                       *



". . . only on the reserve team, at the moment, but according to him and Uncle
Ron, DeValera's due to retire in a year or two, and James'll be a shoe-in for
her spot." Albus smiles a little, tugging Scorpius into the Leaky Cauldron as
the entrance to Diagon Alley grates closed behind them. "I'm actually quite
proud of him. The Cannons are bloody awful, but if he can help bring them even
a few wins--and if any Beater can, it's Jamie--he'll be one of the most sought
after players in Great Britain. Almost Slytherin of him, really."


As they step into the Leaky Cauldron, Scorpius keeps his opinion to himself:
that James Potter isn't clever, merely thick-headed. At some point, someone
mentioned in passing that no one player could redeem the Cannons, and this is
James's typical Gryffindor way of accepting a challenge that was neither posed
nor cared about.


As the back door closes, Scorpius blinks until his eyes adjust, then drinks in
his surroundings. He's never been in the Leaky Cauldron before, and despite the
few things he's heard, it's clean enough, though shabby and small. The whole of
the ground floor seems to be significantly smaller than Scorpius's bedroom, and
the wooden surfaces are a fragile, silvery grey from years of cleaning, though
the furniture itself looks sturdy enough. 


And there's certainly a lot of it, for such an economical space--most of it
filled with ordinary-looking folk and their parcels; witches and wizards
stopping for refreshment before going about their business. 


Many of them recognize Albus, hailing him by name. Albus responds in kind,
though briefly. There are more than a few curious glances cast at Scorpius, at
his hand held unmistakably in Albus's.


It takes everything he has to ignore the equivalent of a biological imperative,
and smile instead of sneer. But he does, and receives a few friendly nods in
return.


More quickly than he would have thought, they're out of the common room and in
a small antechamber that's almost completely taken up with a large, ancient
fireplace: the Floo-point. 


Scorpius retrieves Albus' glasses--makes sure his wand is still where he left
it--and carefully places them on his face.


"I was just about to ask. Thanks, love." Albus grins and busses his cheek,
Unsurprisingly it turns into an careful, but protracted snog until some roaring
din sounds outside, in Muggle London. Scorpius nearly flies out of his skin and
Albus obligingly pulls him closer.


"Dragon?" Though he's fairly sure, from his Muggle Studies class that dragons
aren't a part of Muggle London.


"Close. Muscle-car, with a glass-pack muffler." Albus grins, his eyes shining
even through his now foggy and smudged lenses. "Will your mother worry when she
realizes you've gone?"


"I only went along with her because I was going to the Alley, anyway. She'll
just assume I got bored with waiting and Floo-ed home to sulk," he says, not
adding that he might have done, if for totally different reasons, had Albus not
appeared.


But the raised eyebrows say that Albus may have already sussed that out.


"You're too smart for your own good," Scorpius tells him waspishly. But even
waspishness is good for a fond kiss on the forehead from Albus. He's such an
agreeable paramour.


"I'm not especially smart. I just notice things, and remember them," he
dismisses, and on this, Scorpius has learned it's better not to argue. Despite
being sorted Slytherin, Albus has some distinctly Potter-ish notions about
everyone having equal potential intelligence, differing only in opportunities
for learning and method of retention.


For such a wonderfully keen intellect, Albus can be very naïve . . . but
Scorpius finds that naivete refreshing, and rather sweet.


"Should I do something about my clothes?" he asks, looking down at his rather
formal grey and black robe, and matching, custom-tailored, three quarters
length, single-breasted wool suit, with chirugeon's cuffs and a double-pleat.
Not exactly appropriate attire for whatever Quidditch pitch or pub James Potter
has chosen to hold his party in. 


Scorpius looks up at Albus, and for the life of him can't understand the small
smile on his face. "What? Are they too formal, or will I . . . blend in?"
Though that's a horrifying thought, considering the awful, Muggle-style rags
James and his cronies often wear.


Albus runs a finger slowly down the trim of Scorpius's robe. "You'll
never blend in, Scorpius, you're far too gorgeous and special for that. But
what you're wearing is more than fine, it's--oh, er . . . there's one other
thing I forgot to mention about the party. . . ."


He frowns, but lets Albus maneuver them both into the huge fireplace. "What
other thing? Potter--is your brother's little soiree being held at the Hog's
Head? Because if it is, you may escort me back to Diagon Alley immediately, and
I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express--"


“No! It's not at the Hog's Head, it's--” Albus bites his lower lip, and casts a
wandless, absent Sano on his glasses before fumbling for floo-powder out of a
small, cracked bowl. "The party's at the Burrow, and . . .
myparentsaregoingtobethereandmostoftherestofmyfamilyandtheyallsortofwanttomeetyou-
-the Burrow!"


Albus grabs Scorpius's arm and throws down the floo-powder, luckily before the
devil, you say! escapes Scorpius lips, and sends them someplace he wants to go
even less.


Far too soon, they're stepping out of another large fireplace, and into a cozy
sitting room, made even cozier by dint of being crammed with worn, comfortable-
looking chairs and mismatched sofas. Everywhere are pictures of freckled
redheads: adults, children, all grinning or winking or waving. A veritable sea
of Weasley. 


(His father once recounted a nightmare that sounded very much like this, only
the redheads had all been riding Hippogryffs, for some reason.)


Scorpius rounds on Albus, who's almost grey under the tan, his eyes wide and
hopeful. “Er, surprise?”


“Surprise?! You lanky, myopic swine, how dare you ambush me, like this? What on
Earth were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all?” Scorpius demands,
throwing up his hands. “I'm going back to Diagon Alley. Owl me when you're done
being completely insane.”


He turns to the mantle--eurgh! More grinning redheads--but before he can get to
the bowl of floo-powder nestled between a photo of Albus's sister and some gap-
toothed young cousin, his hand is caught and pulled away. “Let go of me,
Potter, or I'll make you regret it.”


“No, Malfoy.” Scorpius flinches. Not that he would ever tell Albus this, but he
hates being called by his last name, especially when it's Albus doing the
calling. “Look at me, Scorpius. We've been, you know, together since before
last Hallowe'en. Nearly a year. Don't you think it's time we met each other's
parents?”


“No, I do not!” Scorpius blurts out without thinking, only to see genuine hurt
flash in Albus's eyes. He sighs and moves in close, his voice dropped to a
whisper. “Potter. Albus. I--you make me happy. So happy that I want to tell the
whole world that I . . . well. You know. But given our respective places in
society, that same world will be less than thrilled that the child of the
savior of the Wizarding World is dating the male child of a former-Death
Eater.”


The hurt in Albus's eyes turns to anger. The burning, righteous kind that's
always made Scorpius wonder if he should've been sorted Gryffindor, after all.
“You know I don't care what anyone thinks--”


“But I do, Potter. I have to. I'm a Malfoy. That name still holds unpleasant
connotations, whether you choose to acknowledge them or not. Consequences you
can't begin to understand, and that I frankly hope you never do. You've never
been lonely or friendless or afraid because of your name. Never been shunned or
spat at or ignored because of it.” Scorpius looks away from the sudden
understanding on Albus's face, in his eyes; it's too gentle and loving to be
pity, but . . . nearly unbearable for all that. “You can do a lot better than
that, than me. I know it, the world knows it, and if they knew about us . . .
they'd badger you and hassle you until you realized it, too.”


Albus shakes his head, untidy, over-long hair flopping in tandem. “That will
never happen.”


“The hell it won't. It's inevitable. You're the smartest person I've ever met,
and even though it's taking you awhile, the time will come when being with me
won't be worth the sneaking around, and censure when we're eventually found
out, and. . . .” Scorpius takes a deep breath and tries to smile. Judging from
the look on Albus's face, he's not making a go of it. “I'm trying to keep that
day as far off in the future as possible, alright? So, please, ma lumière--let
me go. It's for the best.”


Albus opens his mouth as if to argue, then shakes his head again. “You're
wrong,” he says softly, squeezing Scorpius's hand. “You've no idea how wrong
you are. I just wish you had a little more faith in me. But I guess . . .
I don't know what it's like to be a Malfoy. I don't know what you've had to go
through having that name, or all the hurts you've suffered because of it. But
there has to be something that'll convince you that nothing anyone says or does
will change how I feel for you?”


“There isn't,” Scorpius admits, in a rare moment of bare-bones honesty. Such a
question deserves nothing less. Albus deserves nothing less, but the last thing
Scorpius wants is to make him upset. “Though this will almost certainly change
in future, when it comes to me, you are, at present, incapable of thinking with
anything other than your prick. Or worse, your ridiculous heart.”


"You like my ridiculous heart."


"And your prick as well, I hope that's tacitly understood."


That gets a laugh, which in turn lightens the atmosphere between them. Albus
cups Scorpius's face in both his hands and gazes steadily into his eyes. “Both
prick and heart belong to you, and always will.” He brushes their noses
lightly, deliberately--owl kisses, they call it--then their lips, in a more
conventional sort of kiss.


No, there's nothing Albus can say, but each and every kiss, whether hard and
hungry, or slow and soft, does it's not inconsiderable best to level the
remains of Scorpius's resolve. "I should be getting back to the Alley. . . ."


"Or you could stay. . . ?" The words are transmitted more by breath and motion
than by sound, so lowly are they spoken. Scorpius can taste Albus's hope on his
tongue, and wonders if Albus can taste his regret just as well.


“Mon coeur, je t'aime, je t'aime . . . I can't. . . .”


"You can--"


A throat is cleared from across the room and, startled, Scorpius pulls away. He
turns toward the sound, expecting to see a freckled, grinning, Weasley face
emerge from a narrow doorway. Instead, a pale face and dark hair, attached to a
man that could be Albus's double, but for his height (lack thereof) and age,
steps into the sitting room. 


"Buggering boggarts, it's--” Scorpius squeaks, and is cut off before he can
add Harry-bloody-Potter! by Albus's foot landing squarely, painfully on his
own.


Familiar green eyes tick from Albus's face, to Albus's foot on Scorpius's, to
Scorpius's wide-eyed, grimacing face, then back to Albus's . . . without once
losing that pleasantly neutral expression. "So, how was the Alley, kids?"


"Er . . . rather less of a madhouse than usual, but still, I'm glad I got all
my shopping done early, this year." Albus sounds only mildly chagrined, as if
he has no idea who he's chatting with so cavalierly. As if he hasn't just
pulverized every bone in Scorpius's foot. "Has the guest of honor put in an
appearance, yet?"


"James took Gillian Clearwater for a drive, a little while ago. Ostensibly to
get some air and show her around town." A subtle shrug of familiarly broad
shoulders, and those green eyes--eyes that saw Lord Voldemort fall not once,
not twice, but three times--are so, so much like Albus's that, to Scorpius's
horror, he's strongly, mortifyingly attracted to his boyfriend's father.


At least until those Dark Lord-Slayer eyes tick back to him; then he's just
quietly terrified.


"You must be Scorpius, then," the Dark Lord-Slayer, Harry Potter says, and it
doesn't sound like a question or a condemnation. But it does make him hyper-
aware of Albus's hand still in his, especially when Harry Potter steps forward,
his own hand held out to be shaken.


It takes a long moment for Scorpius to realize that he won't have to let go of
Albus's hand (which he has a white-knuckled death-grip on) to make his manners.


"Yes, sir, Mr. Potter, um. Sir." He goes on shaking well after he's finished
speaking--it's like shaking Albus's hand: large, calloused, but careful--until
Harry Potter frees his hand with a fleeting, wry sort of smile. The same one
Albus gets when some misguided First Year gets stammer-y about "the son of
Harry Potter". Then he runs his hand through silvering hair in dire need of
trimming and styling, and he's just Albus's dad: an ordinary, still confusingly
attractive older wizard in jeans and a Holyhead Harpies jumper that's so old
the player featured on it--another redhead, sharp-featured and pretty, with a
look of fierce, pursed-lip concentration that's identical to Albus's--doesn't
even move anymore.


"I'd ask you to call me Harry,” Albus's dad says, “but few people ever seem to,
except this rowdy lot." He nods at the Weasleys photos adorning every available
surface.


All those Weasleys are still intimidating, even if Albus's dad isn't--not
exactly--anymore. And without any clue how to stop himself, Scorpius does what
he always does when he's intimidated: draws the tatters of Malfoy pride around
him like a cloak, and searches for something to pick at scathingly. Which isn't
that difficult, considering his environs.


Then Albus's arms are sliding around his waist, and he's being pulled close
again before he can do more than briefly squawk his protest at displays of
affection in front of a parent.


"Behave," Albus murmurs in his ear, taking the opportunity to kiss it, as well.
Then he says, much louder: "Dad, I'm going to introduce Scorpius around, before
James gets back, alright?"


Mr. Potter makes a face. "You know Jamie--always late, but never never. Oh, and
Mum and Uncle Ron got started trying to de-gnome Grandma Molly's garden for
some reason, and it's . . . not going well. You'll be stepping into a small-
scale war-zone," he warns.


Albus snorts. "At least Aunt 'Mione and Uncle Percy had the sense to stay out
of it, this time. The rest of the family's in the Orchard?"


“Everyone except Uncle Charlie and Oliver, who I'm about to fire-call. And fair
warning to you both, Gran's on tenterhooks about meeting 'Albus's young man.'”
Mr. Potter grins, and it's nothing like Albus's grin--more like an amused
quirking of the mouth and quick flash of teeth. "It's a pleasure to finally
meet you, Scorpius."


"Likewise, sir. Er--Harry?" At the the upward curve of smile and eyebrows,
Scorpius falters, wishing the sitting room weren't so abominably hot. "Um. Mr.
Potter. Sir."


"Right. We'll just be outside," Albus says, gently but firmly guiding Scorpius
past Mr. Potter--who's really quite short for a hero, andstill dismayingly sexy
for a dad. . . .


Scorpius is steered into the sea of mismatched furniture and through
it. Albus's grin greets him from the photos that line the walls, and he
realizes that he's not just in love with a Potter, he's in love with a Weasley.


Father's going to shit sickles, when he finds out. . . .


As they approach a twisting, structurally unsound-looking staircase, Albus lets
out a breath, the hand on Scorpius's waist slipping 'round to rest on his
stomach. "That went very well."


"You think so, do you?" Scorpius turns and pushes Albus against the wall under
the staircase and glares up into his eyes. "You're an arse, Albus Potter!"


"Well, I knew if I told you ahead of time, you'd just freak out, and act all .
. . how you act when you're intimidated!"


"I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about," Scorpius huffs then
blushes when the almost contrite look on Albus's face becomes stern disbelief.
"Fine. But I didn't have time to prepare and I looked a right prat in front of
your dad."


"On the contrary, you were amazing." Albus pulls him close and brushes the tips
of their noses. It's impossible to stay angry after an owl-kiss . . . that
quickly turns into a real kiss that's just as sweet. "He liked you, I can
tell." 


Scorpius sighs and leans against him, letting his legs be bracketed by longer
ones. Normally this sort of full frontal contact would be nothing short of
inadvisable. Here and now, it's a much-needed reassurance. "You really think he
liked me?"


"I know he did. He's a good judge of people, and so'm I. So's the rest of the
family, for that matter."


"Oh, suffering snidgets--there's still your mum to meet, isn't there?"
Remembering that determined face glaring at him from Mr. Potter's jumper,
Scorpius sighs, hiding his face in Albus's shirt. “AK me, right now.”


"I'll admit, Mum can be a bit . . . overprotective. But I think she'll like
you, too,” Albus murmurs into his hair, running soothing hands up and down his
back. “Better than she likes garden gnomes, anyway."


"Brilliant, Potter. Thanks.” But a brief laugh escapes him. “You do realize
that I'm a Malfoy, hence no one likes me."


"Loads of people like you--I like you, you big girl's blouse, which is the
entire point of bringing you here." Albus chuckles, turning Scorpius's face up
to his own again. Even in the dim hallway, his eyes are sparkling and bright.
"You're smart, and funny, andinfuriating, and beautiful and . . . I love you.
Mum knows that, and that's half the battle won, right there. Once she--once the
family sees how wonderful you are, they'll all fall in love with you, too."


Scorpius's heart skips several beats and it's a very good thing he's got Albus
and a wall to keep him upright. "Lies . . . all lies to make me feel better."
Though he does, and it must show, because Albus captures his lips in one of
those wanton, surprising kisses. And this one involves more than a few
inappropriate-for-this-setting caresses. 


But just when Scorpius's propriety--and, incidentally, his nerves--have gone
the way of the Augery, Albus breaks the kiss. “Later, around sunset, we'll
commandeer a blanket, hike a little up-river, and I'll finish what we just
started. That's a promise.”


"Merlin, it'd better be,” Scorpius breathes, and laughs, opening his eyes.
Albus's are dancing and deep at the same time. “Not that I'm complaining, but
you didn't used to be this bold, Potter.”


“I didn't used to spend two months without seeing you or touching you.” Albus
runs his thumb along Scorpius lower lip with the singular concentration he
brings to all his studies, then traces the upper. “C'mon . . . everyone's dying
to meet you.”


“You've gone mental, as it were, if you think I'm currently capable of meeting
your family with any amount of poise, when such a lovely promise hangs over my
head,” Scorpius purrs, wishing he could Apparate them directly to his bedroom.
He's already a quick hand with Divestio.


"Let's see . . . it's either go meet my family, or stay here and explain what
we're doing under the stairs, breathless and disheveled, when my Dad walks out
of the sitting room. Or when Mum comes in to wash her hands--”


But--his abused foot forgotten--Scorpius is already dragging a laughing Albus
down the narrow hall; toward the open door at the far end, and the Weasleys on
the other side. “Laugh it up, Potter. We'll see just how funny this is when
it's your turn to meet myfather.”


Scorpius glances back, expecting to see expressions ranging from displeasure to
outright disgust--the usual response of someone presented with the option of
meeting a Malfoy--flit across Albus's face. But what he sees is the same
smitten smile that he himself had been guilty of earlier.


“I can't wait,” Albus says as they emerge into golden, mid-afternoon sunshine.

***** James Is *****
Chapter Summary
     The title says it all. Written for the slashthedrabble prompt
     "straight".
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, just before their Seventh Year.
James is. . . .


James . . . is many things. First-born, favorite (though in more self-
reflective moments, he knows this to be untrue). 


James is self-reliant. Mischievous--occasionally prankish . . . but
trustworthy. Responsible.


James is . . . a considerate boyfriend--for the two seconds a girl can capture
his fickle attention (Gilly Clearwater's surprisingly held his for several
months, now).


James is the new Beater for the Chudley Cannons reserve team, and James will
be the youngest captain in the history of professional Quidditch.


(James is a strong believer in personal destiny.)


James is overprotective--a true Gryffindor, heart and soul, when it comes to
the welfare of his family. Especially his siblings.


James is watching his little brother--younger brother, Albus is always the
first to point out the gap in their ages as negligible--tug Scorpius Malfoy
firmly away from a gaggle of flirting female cousins, before leaning in to
brush loose, shoulder-length platinum hair behind Malfoy's ear to whisper. . .
.


James is surprised to see that Malfoy colors rather fetchingly, even in the
lurid light of sunset; his mouth curves coyly, and just so. When Albus gestures
at the blanket tucked under his arm then nods almost imperceptibly toward the
river, that coy smile becomes a grin that can't decide whether it's wide or
wicked. Malfoy's hand slips into Albus's, and they discreetly make their way
out of the Orchard.


James is noticing this, as is everyone else. But unlike them,
James isn't smiling--doesn't find their closeness and self-absorptionjust
darling, no. . . . 


James is consumed by something a good deal less fuzzy and indulgent. 


James is very powerfully envious. This rare, darker streak runs deep within
him, but wider than a country mile. Growing, as his brother, and his brother's-
-they're not lovers, not yet, not if James is any judge of such things--
boyfriend are limned in, dwindle into garish wester-light.


James is doubtful that Malfoy feels as strongly for Albus, as Albus does for
him--nevermind that Albus has smiled more in the past ten months than he had
his entire life before that;


nevermind that when Malfoy watches Albus (and is equally unaware that he, too,
is being watched) his pointed, austere features soften, become . . . human.
Warm. Lovely;


and nevermind that Malfoy seems miles away from the pompous, effete prig James
had first noticed back in Fifth Year. . . .


James is not given to an excess of inappropriate emotions, yet he finds himself
filled with covetousness and regret.


Anger and want .


James is in the midst of his own celebration--today, the reserves; tomorrow,
the captaincy!--and unable to celebrate.


James is. . . . 


“Son?”


. . . suddenly looking into his father's stern green eyes. Albus's eyes.
“Gillian's making her good-bye rounds. Why don't you see her home?”


“Right, I . . . right, thanks, Dad.”


His father nods thoughtfully, starts to say something else, but James is
already shouldering through clusters of relatives, not looking back at the
gaudy sunset. For James is many things, but most importantly--


--James is straight.
***** A Certain Kind of Fool *****
Chapter Summary
     Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompt # 167, Eagles song
     titles. "Certain Kind of Fool".
Chapter Notes
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e by six years, part of the AS/S-verse.
     Can be read as a standalone. Set in beginning of Seventh Year.

It takes a certain kind of fool to bear up under the trials of teenage life.


His lips moving absently, one such fool pores over a textbook, completely
oblivious to the eyes on him (even the professors are watching as if expecting
a sordid floor show in the middle of supper). Pristine glasses are perched near
the end of his nose, one twitch away from the bowl of soup that's being
methodically emptied with no more attention than he gives anything that isn't
his studies or his boyfriend.


Said boyfriend pinches his arm savagely.


“Ow!” Albus exclaims, spraying a mouthful of soup on his book. He gapes at
Scorpius. “Have you gone completely mental?” 


Scorpius inclines his head toward the room at large. “Have you?” he hisses,
leaning in to do so, aware of the expectant murmur that ripples through the
hall. It takes all his training, and every ounce of the icy Malfoy blood in his
veins not to hex them all, Albus included. “It's your bloody fault they're
staring at us, Potter, or don't you care?”


Albus looks around curiously; almost everyone goes back to their meals, or
pretends to. Albus nods and smiles genially at the ones who don't.


He then aims that smile at Scorpius, who could cheerfully transfigure him into
a near-sighted newt. He's even reaching for his wand when Albus leans closer.


“I love you, Scorpius,” he says softly, and the wand is forgotten because
that's not a phrase Malfoys hear often--and certainly not from Potters . . .
even this one. “And no, I don't care who knows.”


Scorpius's heart slams painfully against his ribcage, but he'll be Kissed
before he shows it to this lot. “The whole world knowing you love me is
different than the full-color proof of it splashed across the front page of
the Prophet!” 


(Complete with the headline Potter Princeling Caught Canoodling With Pureblood
Poppet!)


“It was only a snog . . . and, er, a bit of a grope.” Albus grins wickedly in
remembrance. “What--afraid your parents'll send you a Howler?”


Scorpius huffs. Squares his shoulders. “Malfoys don't get Howlers, Potter.”


“Malfoys also don't care what the hoi polloi think, as I recall.” Albus's eyes
dart to Scorpius's mouth, and he slowly closes the distance between them for a
lingering kiss. The chattering Hall falls into silence. . . .


Suddenly the kiss, and that pin-drop silence is broken by the familiar OOH-
hu of an eagle owl.


"Shite!” Scorpius immediately hides his face on Albus's bony shoulder, though
hiding will do no good. 


This is confirmed when he looks up to see his father's personal owl, Xerxes,
winging their way. 


“Merlin's left bollock!” he moans as Albus's arm slides around him
comfortingly. 


“Blimey. I thought you said Malfoys don't get Howlers?” A trembling red
envelope lands in Scorpius's salad, and Albus prods it warily with his spoon.
The agitated twitching intensifies, and Scorpius hides his face once more as
the envelope unfolds itself.


“Occasionally, even I can be wrong, Potter.”
***** The Persistence of Slytherins *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "habit". Scorpius has a habit
     of underestimating them both.
Chapter Notes
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, around Yule of their Seventh Year.
“We . . . should talk.”
 
If my mouth weren't currently occupied, I'd laugh, then ask you if you're
joking. As it is, such an inane statement hardly seems excuse or reason enough
to skive off such a pleasant task.
 
When I don't answer, your fingers rake through my hair tenderly. I
let my fingers bite a bit deeper into your thighs, and raise my eyes to meet
yours. As always, I'm startled by that green, like a handful emeralds left in a
near-lightless place.
 
“About . . . your plans . . . for the future.”
 
What plans would those be? I query, with a slight raise of my eyebrows and a
low, unfurling hum that makes your eyes roll back before fluttering shut. I
smile my victory around you. This, then, marks the end of nonsense about
futures and plans: the way your hand clenches in my hair. The controlled thrust
of your hips stuttering into a faster, more selfish rhythm. . . .
 
Yes, all these are signs that I've yet again diverted this annoying belief of
yours--that a Malfoy could be an Auror--into the Aether.
 
I swallow reflexively around you--around words that'd do no Earthly good. 
 
I do so hate it when we row.
 
You moan my name, and it seems muffled by the linens around us. On the highest
shelf, my wand glows with a steady Lumos.
 
(We discovered early on that your magic tends to be wildly erratic and volatile
at the moment of climax. Shortly thereafter, we discovered that linens aren't
flame retardant.)
 
I breathe through my nose and relax my throat. Soon, crisp black curls tickle
my face, and I hum around you again, letting my eyes slip shut. All the easier
to drown in the taste and scent of you, musky and clean--better by far than the
herb bundles the house elves leave to keep the linens fresh.
 
“You're right. No point talking about it . . . already forged your signature .
. . sent your application off,” you pant, a smug hint of smirk in your voice.
 
That little admission forces a startled exclamation up my throat that almost
has me gagging around you. Your eyes fly open, lovely and vacant. “Fuck,” you
sigh softly, hand clenching tight and hips jerking forward hard once, twice, a
third time as I instinctively pull back to catch the taste of you, bitter and
familiar on my tongue. 
 
Whether from that taste, the helpless hitch of your voice, or a silly, stupid
glimmer of what-if, I'm . . . I'm . . . oh, my Love. . . .
 
And then you're pulling me up, fumbling at my placket with eager hands, but
I've already found my release.
 
Your fierce, possessive eyes meet mine before you're kissing and licking the
taste of yourself off my lips.
 
Oh, my Heart, my Only--my Everything . . . why are you such a high-handed
controlling little despot?
 
“Because I love you,” you breathe into my mouth, like life itself, and I--
 
I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud.

***** Making Friends With Darkness *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "wounds/wounded", and for
     vinniebatman.
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Post-DH/e, eight years. Part of the AS/S-verse, set
     one year or so after this ficlet. Possible squick, you've been
     warned.
You're the wind. You're sunshine and sky.


I suppose that's not surprising, since wind, sunshine and sky are my favorite
things, and you're easily my favorite person.  


Being with you is like . . . flying.


Those careful, intelligent hands--large enough to palm quaffles: you'd have
made a cracking Chaser--pull me down on top of you, and those long, pipe-
cleaner legs wrap 'round me like Devil's Snare.


You sigh against my cheek, then once again in my ear, heavy and humid. Your
body arches up suddenly, your prick hot and hard against mine . . . Merlin . .
. how have I gone so long without having you like this?


Exactly.  Like.  This.


My face is pressed to the damp hollow between neck and shoulder--I've barely
two fingers in you, and you're keening: now, now . . . oh, Merlin, now.  I'm
helpless but to obey. (I'd march straight into perdition just a for a taste of
you, but to be enveloped in this incredible, impossible heat . . . in you?


You're home, to me, Al: everything that's right, and true, and mine.


Because you aren't his, despite what you both think.  You're mine, still mine,
like you've always been--like you always will be.


I love you, so how could it be otherwise?)


No matter how badly I want to watch my prick sliding in and out of you, watch
your body take it and beg for more, I have to see your eyes . . . see them
focus on mine. See you smile because you see me, at last. The first, and
probably only person to ever do so. 


I love you with everything that I am.


"Yes, like that. . . ." you hiss, flinging your head back into the pillows. 
For a moment, you stand out in relief so sharp, I could count every rib, see
every hair, chart every urgent spasm. “Scorpius--”


The moment ends--damn you for saying that name, chanting it while painting our
bodies in spatters of white that wound like bullets--burn like acid, eating
away skin and flesh, heart and hope, even as I pour myself into you with a
despairing yell.


Merlin, I'm crashing, not flying. Not fucking, but fucking up: like attempting
the Wronski Feint in Second year, then waking up in the Hospital Wing. Only
there's no you. No worried, red-and-green Christmas eyes waiting for me, no
squeaky-stern voice berating me for being such a Gryffindork--


I bolt upright in my own bed to sticky, clinging sheets; to darkness, and a
terrible, gnawing loneliness that doesn't ever end because even if you saw me,
you'd never, ever forgive me.


I run unsteady hands over my face, cast a half-arsed Scourgify, and lay back
down, pretending your arms, warm and relaxed with sleep, have sought me out.
That I can wrap myself in the sweet, imagined light of your love, and finally
hear James, murmured fondly in my ear. . . .


No. Better to make friends with the empty, suffocating darkness: experience has
taught me dawn won't be any brighter.
***** Seeker *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “wound/ wounded.
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Post-DH/E one year. Set at the end of James's second
     year, Albus's first. A prequel to Making Friends With Darkness.
“You really are the quintessential Gryffindork, aren't you?”


It's the first thing Jamie hears when he comes to in hospital. The first thing
he sees is his little brother.


His very angry little brother.


Well, incensed would be the word Al would use. He's rather fond of the large
ones--to make up for his lack of height, Jamie secretly thinks.


“What happened?” He glances around, though doing so is effortful, and makes the
room spin. So he's quite surprised when Al punches him in the shoulder with a
bony fist. “Ow! Wanker!”


“You didn't pull out of a Wronski Feint quick enough, is what happened!” Al
seethes, and Jamie notices he isn't wearing his glasses. His green, green eyes
are dancing incensedly in a sea of irritated red . . . like Christmas. “You've
a concussion. It'll be another day before you're let out, and at least another
week before you're broomworthy--”


“A whole week!”


Jamie also notices that Al glares just like mum . . . his entire body seeming
to vibrate with the force of it. Well, what little body there is: he's such a
runty, tiny thing. Quite unlike Jamie, who's already as tall as most Fifth
Years, and as sturdily built.


Al sighs, and lays his hand on Jamie's. It's cool, dry, and the only thing on
him that isn't small.


“James--” he starts earnestly. (He's always been such an earnest, solemn boy.
After ten months, Jamie still thinks the Hat went temporarily barking when Al
was actually Sorted Slytherin). “You know you don't have to keep playing
Seeker--or play Quidditch at all?”


Suddenly, Jamie isn't sure he's the only one who's concussed. “What're you on
about? Me? Not play Quidditch?” 


Al snorts. “What was I thinking? Yes, you're brilliant at it: fast, intuitive,
willing to take risks. But you must know that you'll never make captain chasing
a snitch.”


. . . Jamie can't remember the crash, but he also can't imagine it hurting
worse than this. . . .


He rolls onto his side away from Al, though it makes his head throb harder.
Closes his eyes to stop the renewed spinning, and the tears . . . bloody
concussion. “This isn't Charms, Al; you're out of your depth.”


The bed shifts slightly as Al sits. “Gryffindor'll be needing a new Beater next
year, and I'm sure Teddy and Uncle George'd be falling all over themselves to
teach you everything they know. With that blighter, Planky, as captain,
Gryffindor'll need all the edge it can get.”


Jamie laughs, watery and derisive. He recognizes a tentative--temporary--
detente when he hears one. After all, Al's never one to initiate chats about
sports. 


“Planxty's not that bad.” Planxty is, in fact, a shite captain, but captain
nonetheless.


That comforting hand settles on his shoulder. “Perhaps not. But you'll be loads
better.”


They debate Planxty's merits, or lack thereof, until Madame Pomfrey doses Jamie
with something that smells like tripe, but tastes like apple butter.


As the thudding stops, Al's soft voice follows him into velvety, dreamless
darkness.
***** Promise *****
Chapter Summary
     Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “promise”.
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Post-DH/e by six years. Set in the summer after
     James's Seventh year. A companion piece to the ficlet "James Is."
"Your nephew's mad," Oliver declares, watching James captivate a crowd of his
friends.


"Oh, I don't know. He looks to be doin' alright, to me,” Charlie murmurs, and
Oliver follows his gaze to where the Malfoy boy is standing--straight-backed
and obviously overwhelmed, surrounded by Weasley women, each with that master-
interrogator look on her face. No doubt that if not for Al's arm around him,
the poor boy'd be halfway to Wiltshire, by now.


Oliver remembers that feeling far too well, nearly a decade on.


"He's not the nephew I meant. James--the most talented Beater Gryffindor's
produced in . . . ever--has signed on with the Cannons! Madness!"


“Not everyone wants to play for United, Oliver." Charlie sweeps the toddler
that's just latched onto his leg--Ron and Hermione's youngest, growing like a
weed--up into his arms for a kiss and a hug, not minding the sticky little
fingers that weave themselves into his hair.


"There's a huge bloody difference between not playing for United, and playing
for the Cannons!”


Two pairs of bright blue eyes glow with amusement, and Oliver feels ganged up
on. "That scary vein at your temple is throbbing, love."


“Love, love, loooooove!” Rory bounces happily, nearly spilling himself out of
Charlie's arms.


“Is not,” Oliver mutters, glaring at man and boy, neither of whom pay him any
mind except to laugh. “Be serious!”


“But it's so much easier to let you be serious for the both of us.
You're awfully good at it." Charlie leans in and kisses Oliver's temple fondly.
"Honestly, if I pricked your finger right now, there'd be arterial spray on the
grass. Steady on."


"'Steady on'? This is James's entire life! His whole future!"


"No, this is James's career which, as we both have learnt, isn't by any lights
an entire life or whole future."


"Really?” Oliver glances at James, still engrossed in entertaining his friends.
“He eats Quidditch, sleeps Quidditch--by Merlin, he'd breathe it if he could!
He can't keep a serious girl because Quidditch puts them all in the back seat.
He's so wrapped up in his own promise that he's missing out on everything, for
a team that's not even worth the sacrifice, when all's said and done! He's--"


"The spit and image of you at eighteen?"


James and all his friends laugh, and Oliver sighs, turning to face Charlie.
“Aye. And we both know how my life turned out."


Yes . . . a failed marriage and a strained--at best--relationship with his
grown children.


"Oh. . . .” Charlie and Rory grin the same Weasley grin, topped by shining
eyes, ginger hair and freckles. “I don't think it turned outtoo terribly.”


Rory reaches out, crowing something that sounds like Unc' Ovver. . . !


Smiling (just a little), Oliver takes the grimy, squirmy little squirt from
Charlie. Kids smell like sugar and dirt no matter whose they are. “Perhaps not.
But the Cannons? Your nephew is mad, you know that?” 


Charlie's lips twitch. “At least he comes by it honestly.”

***** The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are *****
Chapter Summary
     James turns to Albus for a little clarity. Title shamelessly stolen
     from Alan Watts.
Chapter Notes
     Disclaimer: Didn't do it.
     Notes/Warnings: Set Post-DH/e, by eleven years, following the "James
     Is" and "Promise" ficlets by nearly three years.
"So, at exactly what age did you decide having a prick up the arse daily was
for you?"


At first, Al is only capable of blinking and gaping--sleepily, at that. Then
sentience struggles out from behind the fog, and a cavernous--slightly
frightening, truth be told--yawn splits his face. He hunkers down in front of
the floo and sighs. "Let's see . . . about the same time you decided having
Erumpent shit for brains was for you, so pretty early on. Arse. Why the fuck
are you fire-calling me at four a.m. on a Wednesday, asking me about my sexual
orientation?" 


"Figured you'd be home, didn't I? And I can't believe you kiss our mother with
that mouth!" James's flickering, fiery image shakes with crackling laughter.
"One side, prat, I'm coming through." 


His head disappears then reappears--accompanied by the rest of him. 


Only years of putting up with James's antics (he's even more of a catastrophic
mess than their father, when it comes to flooing. Though he took to Apparating
like a fish to water) prepares Al for James's solid body barreling into his
own, bearing them both to the floor with a resounding thump . . . the sound of
Al's head hitting the hard wood floor. 


Sadly, he doesn't see stars. All he sees is James's dark eyes and infernal
grin. Trebled.


As if one of the blighter isn't plague enough.


"Well. Aren't you the worst landing pad ever created? You make a better coat-
rack than a cushion." James grins, seemingly content to lay atop him like a
large, rather dim-witted hound.


A drunken dim-witted hound, Al amends, catching a whiff of his brother's
breath. Hardly the first time James's showed up in the middle of the night,
thoroughly pissed, though it happens slightly less since Al moved in with
Scorpius six months ago.


"You're incorrigible--and a danger to others." He shoves a laughing James off
him and sits up, rubbing the back of his head. No lump. At least not yet.


"Oh, we both know you've inherited mum's hard head. You're fine, Albie." James
sits up to muss Al's hair obnoxiously, only to laugh harder, when Al smacks his
hand away and shoves him again. 


He hates that bloody nickname.


"I'm seriously considering having you blocked from our floo," he says, but
James merely flops back on the floor and sighs. His normally stylishly tousled
hair is simply tousled. His normally stylishly rumpled clothes merely rumpled.
And his shirt is buttoned wrong.


It's occurred to Al to wonder why, after a night of drunken tom-catting, James
more often than not winds up on his doorstep instead of in his own bed, but
he's yet to come up with a logical answer. To that, or the question on the
minds of many: why on Earth can't James be faithful to the girlfriend he claims
to care so much for.


I don't know how she puts up with him. How any of them do. It's truly amazing
he hasn't been hexed prickless by now, Al thinks, watching his older--hah!--
brother wheeze hysterically at the backs of his eyelids.


"Idiot," Al sighs, getting to his feet and offering his hand. It's several--
sporadically giggly--minutes before James can be arsed to take it, staggering
when Al pulls him to his feet without assistance. He drapes his arms around
Al's neck and hugs him as if they haven't seen each other in weeks. His face is
hot and damp on Al's bare shoulder.


"My . . . aren't we full of fellow-feeling this fine morning?" Al pries this
oddly clingy brother off him, and steers him toward the couch, somehow managing
to bark his shin on the coffee table, whereas James, in all his inebriated
glory, weaves gracefully around the heavy, baroque furniture Scorpius favors.
The flickering dimness of the room seems no hindrance to him at all.


(James is, it's to be noted, the most talented Beater to hold a bat in the past
one hundred and ten years. His natural talent is enhanced by his childhood's
Seeker grace and speed. 


That grace and speed have yet to be compromised even in his most pathetic
moments. Like this moment is shaping up to be.)


When this picture of young, masculine grace flops down onto the sofa, he
immediately makes to put his feet up. "Nuh!" Al barks. "Trainers off--mum
raised you better than that! And Scorpius'd have your spleen if he saw you just
now! Mine, as well!"



Rolling his eyes, James kicks off his trainers--one lands upside down on the
pristine coffee table. He swings his legs up onto the couch and reclines
amongst the wine-colored, velvet cushions with a hedonistic groan, seeming to
be immediately comfortable, no shifting or wiggling. It's a trick Al has yet to
learn--is not likely to learn, considering the way Scorpius glares if he
even thinks Al is thinking about laying on the couch, trainers or not.


"Do make yourself at home, won't you?"


James's response is an amiable two-fingered salute then a goggle-eyed double
take in the general vicinity of Al's boxer briefs.


"You're not dressed," he notes somewhat breathlessly--still winded from the
tumble through the floo and all that ridiculous giggling, no doubt.


"Well-spotted, Jamie. Guess what else I'm not: awake! Nor am I particularly
ambulatory, thanks to Scorpius." Al shuffles to his leather recliner, one of
many Muggle mod-cons Scorpius claims to disdainfully tolerate--such as their
refrigerator, home theater system, and microwave--and eases himself down with a
wince. “So you can imagine how thrilled I was to be summoned by your dulcet
bellow.”


James eyes him with murky disapproval, his mouth thinning to an ungenerous
line. "I really didn't need to know that, and--for Merlin's sake! Put some
clothes on!"


Al's eyebrows shoot up. "I was on the verge of a long and restful sleep--
something that's in short supply, lately--when you so considerately started
shouting bloody murder from the floo. You're lucky I could be bothered to pull
on pants."


At James's mullish silence, Al mutters, “fine. Vestus Raimentum,” and is
suddenly wearing raggedy knee-length cut-offs and a faded Screaming Trolls t-
shirt, on which the Trolls in question caper only sluggishly. 


Thus caparisoned, he crosses one bony ankle over one knobby knee. "Are your
precious sensibilities appeased, then, big sister?"


"Almost." James makes a brief flicking gesture with one hand, and Al yelps as
his hair untwists, unknots, and falls around face and shoulders. Into his eyes,
but not before he sees James smirk. 


(It's bad enough having an older brother who knows he's magic's gift
to everyone--worse when that brother can bear this out with sheer strength of
magical will, and a little-known ability to perform wandless, wordless spells.
Some of them fairly high-level.)


After a few speechless moments, Al pushes back thick dark fringe--swearing
vehemently and slouching back in his recliner when it flops forward again.
"You're a right hairy pair of bollocks, you know! It'll cost me five galleons
to have that charm reset!"


"Here's two knuts worth of sound advice: save yourself five galleons," James
says solemnly, then grins. "Honestly, you looked ridiculous. Like the drummer
for a Weird Sisters cover band. No one else has the stones to tell you, but
me."


"None of the Weird Sisters ever had dreadlocks," is Al's huffy reply. He picks
up a lock of hair and lets it drop disgustedly. He won't have time to get it
redone for at least a week. "And Scorpius liked them just fine."


"Scorpius is shagging you, little brother. He couldn't care less if you spelled
your arms purple and called yourself 'Maureen'." James snorts and sinks back
further into the cushions. His eyes are a bit more focused, but half-lidded and
unreadable. He's got five o'clock shadow that's fast approaching midnight, and
looks quite rakish in a magazine heart-throb sort of way. Or like someone
playing the role of a cocky, streetwise young Auror in a WWN serial. "Speaking
of insufferable gits, where's yours? Still asleep?"


"He's not a git, nor is he insufferable. He got called out for something
training-related, and likely won't be back 'til this evening," Al says more
ruefully than he means to, and James . . . for a wonder, doesn't take the piss.
Merely tilts his head back and closes his eyes.


"Best get used to that, hadn't you, Albus?" he says softly. "You remember how
it was when we were little, and Dad was still a field Auror. Four nights out of
seven he never got in before we were in bed, and the other nights he never got
in at all."


"I remember," Al murmurs, leaning back himself and pinching the bridge of his
nose. The world sharpens briefly, before slipping back to it's usual fuzzy
blur. He really should Accio his glasses. "It's not that I'm not glad Scorpius
is doing what he's always wanted, it's just . . . I thought that after school,
we'd be together all the time, you know? Spend our days talking and our nights
shagging, then wake up and do it all over again, but--between his training, and
my bloody apprenticeships, I see him much less now than I ever did at
Hogwarts."


And thinking of school brings with it pangs of homesickness he's never felt for
the Burrow, or even the house he grew up in. Hemisses school, misses his House.
Misses watching the sunset on the lake while holding hands with Scorpius.
Misses all the strange nooks one could find to hide in, or snog in--well, get
caught snogging in, to be precise. For Slytherins, he and Scorpius had been
amazingly bad at sneaking around. . . .


"It's not that bad, is it?" James is pinching the bridge of his own nose. Most
likely staving off an epic hangover, rather than cursing his perfect vision.
“At least you are getting to shag without having to sneak around, like at
school. For Snakes, the two of you were bloody awful at being discrete--or so
I've heard. Now, you've got a flat together, warded against prying eyes, no
Prefects to cost you House points--”


Al sighs. "Yeah, it's . . . great. Really wonderful. Sort of. . . .” He's never
been one to talk about their relationship with anyone besides Scorpius, but . .
. say whatever else one might say about James, no one can keep a secret better,
or for longer.


And it's not like I can talk to Scorpius about this. It took so long to
convince him to go after his dream--was such an uphill battle, what would it
look like complaining now that we've both finally gotten what we wanted?


James still hasn't opened his eyes, is taking measured breaths through his
nose. Al takes that as a sign to continue. "Tonight was the first time in weeks
we've both been home, and in any state to do more than cuddle and fall asleep.
And it was brilliant . . . until a Ministry owl swooped in halfway through the
second time, all shrieking and startled." Al laughs a little, though at the
time, watching Scorpius hop about, trying to pull on his trousers and shoo the
owl--who was determined to get a reply and a treat before leaving--he'd nearly
been ready to howl in frustration. "I don't know who was more traumatized,
Scorpius, or the poor owl."


Now he has James's bright-eyed attention, of course. Though he and Scorpius
have been making an effort to get along since that much-publicized Wizards'
Duel last year--after which it'd taken Al nearly washing his hands of them
both, and Dad threatening to toss them into Azkaban for a few days to cool off
to achieve even minimal civility--they're still barely tolerant of each other. 


And certainly, they both still like to see the other get knocked back, and make
no real effort to hide the mean-spirited joy they get out of it. So no doubt,
James is picturing a squawking, indignant Scorpius, and a frightened owl--both
flapping about in embarrassment and bad temper.


Yes, there's a distinctly interested light in those dark eyes that cannot come
from contemplating anything wholesome.


James suddenly clears his throat and looks everywhere but at Al, which only
confirms Al's suspicions. 


"Look, you're nineteen. There's no such thing as 'enough sex' at your age. Or
at twenty-one--or even at however old Dad is. There will probably never be
enough. You just have to find a way to get what you need, when you need it.
Sleep less, study less. Jump His Nibs as soon as he Apparates in. If he says
he's too tired to shag, offer to do all the work. Beyond that . . . I don't
know what to tell you. Shift some priorities, before they shift you."


“I suppose.” Al doesn't bother to say that he's done all those things--on the
rare occasions he has a dram more energy than Scorpius. And it works, but . . .
Al simply doesn't have the energy that often. And when he does, either their
careers intrude, or their families and friends. Or both.


Case in point.


"And anyway, how many apprenticeships do you actually need, to do--whatever it
is you're planning on doing with yourself?" James grabs and fluffs a cushion
before shoves it under his head. In the process, three more fall to the floor.


The tiny, perpetually fussy Scorpius who lives inside of Al's head has an
aneurysm.


"Er . . . I plan on a Mastery of Magical Theory with special emphasis on
Arithmancy . . . that's two apprenticeships, right there. And now the
Ministry's hounding me to take an internship in the Department of Mysteries . .
. but I'm not going to." Not yet, anyway. Though the temptation to accept--if
only for an hour, to be let loose to wander in dark, musty halls littered with
dark, ancient magic. . . . "My apprenticeships are fairly intensive. If I don't
slack, or run into anything unforeseen, I should have completed them in three
more years, and achieved my Mastery in a decade total."


James whistles, blinking away a habitual glazing of the eyes that happens when
anyone starts talking about studies, or work that doesn't involve chasing one's
arse about a Quidditch pitch. "Merlin's blessing on your ambition, but I'll
admit, Al, I don't see why you're so mad for theory when practice's so much
more . . . interesting. Even I wouldn't turn my nose up at an internship in the
Dee of Em."

James wouldn't see, fond as he is of immediate results and instant
gratification. Al, however, never lets his reach exceed his grasp. He'll walk
into the Department of Mysteries as a Master in his chosen fields, and ready to
run the place . . . or not at all. “I've chosen my career path very well, never
you fear.” Al smiles. “And I know once Scorpius and I've got our lives sorted,
there'll be plenty of years for talking, and shagging, and traveling, and--oh,
all kinds of things. Patience and proper planning brings a pretty payoff, you
know."


"Not hardly!" James scoffs with sudden and inexplicable bitterness that's very
quickly hidden with a pasteboard smile. 


Before Hogwarts, and even during their first few Years there, reading James was
an easy thing. Like every other Weasley, he wore his open, unfailingly loyal
heart on his sleeve. Not so, recently. And over the past few years--especially
after Al began spending most of his free time with Scorpius instead of with his
sibs and cousins--Al has somewhat lost the knack of James-reading.


What, he wonders suddenly, could James, of all people, have to be bitter about?


"If there's one other thing I know, it's that the exact opposite is true--
waiting and hoping nets you nothing but missed opportunities. You've got to
seize the day, strike while the iron's hot." James's smile loses some of that
strange falseness, becomes genuine. "But try telling Albus Potter that, and
compare it to banging your head against a brick wall."


"As if you aren't twice as stubborn for half the reason!" Al serves James's
two-fingered salute right back to him. "So, my least favorite sibling, what
really brings you to my flat pre-dawn? Shall I expect Hit-Wizards to break down
my wards at any second?"


James's smiles slips, becomes apprehensive, just as his eyes skitter off to all
corners and everywhere but Al. "Cheeky. Can't I take an interest the life of my
dear little brother, and--alright, fine, fine," he says before Al even has a
chance to express his incredulity. Casts him a sideways, almost wary glance.
"So, I might've . . . had it off with this bloke, and--"


"You're joking!" Al barely recognizes his voice somewhere behind that high-
pitched squeak. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, then
opens them again. James is now gazing straight at him intently, lacking the
(almost always inappropriate) good humor he's known for. 


And everything--his clothes, his hair are disheveled in that tell-tale way that
Al had already noticed . . . no, this isn't one of James's pranks. "Bloody
hell! Might've, or did?"


James searches his eyes for a few long moments then lays his head back down,
pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Did."


"Bloody fucking hell." Al shakes his head and tries to settle his churning
stomach. "Merlin, was this tonight?"


"A few hours ago, yeah . . . I was at a Muggle club, and. . . ." Another pinch,
and James doesn't sound as if he's sure he's bragging or regretting. "I was
dancing with this girl, and he cut in, and . . . I let him. By the time our
third song was over, we were in this dark corner, and . . . the mouth on him,
Albus! Merlin's bones--"


"Stop! No details! La-la-la! I'm under a stone-ears jinx! La-la-la!" Al jams
his index fingers in his ears--and closes his eyes for good measure. Doesn't
open them till an expensive cushion hits him square in the face.


"Don't be such a baby," James says waspishly. "I listened to you moan about
that git, Malfoy, so just shut up and pretend that I'm having an identity
crisis, and that you're not a selfish, immature little sod, yeah?"


Why don't you come over here, and make me? is very nearly Al's reply, but he
counts to ten slowly, under James's glare and finally pulls himself together.
"Well. Congratulations. I hope you used Prohpylaxis. Or at least one of those
condom-things."


"I'm not a complete imbecile, thanks." Though the look on Al's face surely says
otherwise. James sighs. "Yes, I was careful, alright? I was
casting Prophylaxis before you had hair down there. So I don't need a lecture
on preventing STIs from my little brother, please and thank you."


"You need something, or you wouldn't be here, damaging my psyche. Identity
crisis, did you say?" Al lets his eyebrows say what he thinks of that. "There's
nothing wrong with liking cock, you know. I'm quite fond of it, myself. Well,
one cock, in particular."


James makes seasick face. "Spare me. And feel free to stop saying 'cock' at
anytime."


"Cock, cock, cock, huge, gigantic cock," Al deadpans, just to see how much
further the level of maturity in the room can plummet.


Not too much farther, going by the look on James's face. "It's for these
helpful bromides that I turn to you, dearest brother."


After a few seconds of stubborn sneering, they both grin--then laugh, and the
tension that'd been between them is gone. Al pushes his hair out of his face
yet again, suddenly and completely forgiving James for his most recent petty
transgressions. "Look, I meant it, you know. If you like co--er, being with
other blokes in that way, there's nothing wrong with that. No one's had much of
a problem with me, after all."


"Yes, well, half the family, me included, had you figured for a poofter from
birth. Besides which, you're Albus. You're allowed to be different from every
bloody other Potter and Weasley that went before you." But he winks, and that
takes the sting out of it. "Albus without the weird wouldn't be any kind of
Albus at all."


"Er . . . thank you?"


James waves his hand dismissively. "Anyway. That's why I need you to tell me
how you knew you were queer, and when."


Al scratches his wrist; winces as he encounters shallow gouges left by a rather
enthusiastic Scorpius just a couple of hours ago. "I've always known. Deep
down, in that place where you don't have to think, you just know things about
yourself. I've always known I was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous
oxide."


"Be serious, pillock." But James is obviously holding back laughter.


"Honestly, I never really thought about it, or what it meant. At least not
consciously--not until, well, the middle of Second Year, when I . . . you know.
Started having dreams. Though they were all about Scorpius, never any other
boy."


"The git was your first--and only wank fantasy?" James looks almost personally
offended. "Bloody hell, Albus! Malfoy's nothing special now, and he wasn't
anything special at twelve: brooding, cold, morbid--always hiding behind his
hair as if we all hadn't already noticed he's the spit and image of his
Necromancer, blood-purist grandfather--"


"Lucius isn't a Necromancer, he never was,” Al says quietly, and James's sits
up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.


"Lucius, is it?" Yes, James has that look. The one that says sunrise might find
a Wizards' Duel in this flat. The one that makes him look a lot more like their
father--and more significantly--than Al ever will. "He's a blood-purist Dark
Wizard who trafficked with a Necromancer--nearly saw him in control of not just
the Wizarding World, but the Muggle World, as well. The only reason he turned
traitor to the cause he believed in enough make attempts on the lives of our
parents, and their friends, is because Voldemort was loony enough to threaten
his precious heir--"


"I'm not saying," Al cuts in through gritted teeth. "That Scorpius's
grandfather is an innocent lambkins, wrongly maligned. But neither is he a
Necromancer."


James throws up his hand, his features settling into a neutral mask. "Split
hairs, if you like, Albus, you've always been very good at that. But I'll tell
you--even your bloody boyfriend doesn't like or trust the man, and they're
related by blood. Yet you think you've got him all figured out, do you? Believe
what you will, then, just . . . be careful. If nothing else, he's an
opportunist, and a murderer."


"Jamie--"


James shakes his head once. "Accepting your poor taste in boyfriends is one
thing. But I can promise you, you will not change my opinion of Lucius Malfoy.
So let it be."


"As you like." Said with no little asperity and a dearth of graciousness. And
yes, Al knows he's not being incredibly adult about James's--some might says
utterly spot-on—assessment of Lucius Malfoy. But it rankles that James has
never really believed he could look after himself, or judge people for himself.
And even if he can't, James's own judgment could scarcely be termed an
improvement.


When the awkward silence has drawn out for several minutes--and they've
scrutinized every object in the room but each other--James clears his throat.
"So you've really never wanted anyone besides Scorpius, then?"


It trembles on the tip of Al's tongue to tell James to go screw himself to the
nearest wall . . . but he finds it in himself to be civil. If only because it
makes him the better man, and the more mature brother. "Yes, only him. It took
me a few years to realize that I'd gone and fallen in love, of course, but . .
. there's never been anyone else." 


"No one else?" James is suddenly leaning forward, his eyes as serious as
they've ever been, as if something important hinges on Al's answer.


As if even after four years, he can change Al's opinion of Scorpius.


Al unclenches his jaw, and tries not to grit his teeth in annoyance. Even Mum'd
come 'round eventually. No one lasted long against Scorpius's peremptory charm.
No one except James. "Only Scorpius."


James hangs his head for a moment, his shoulders sagging. When he next speaks,
his voice is oddly even. "If you've never been with, or wanted to be with
another man . . . how do you even know you're queer?"


Nonplussed, all Al can do is shrug, his anger tentatively melting away as he
remembers the reason for James's questions. "I--I know that Scorpius is male,
and that I've always been attracted to him. Yet if he were to be suddenly
turned into a woman . . . it'd take some getting used to, but I can assure you
I would. The thought of being with Scorpius no matter how he looks is highly
arousing to me. Inversely, the thought of being with anyone who isn't Scorpius,
no matter how attractive, does nothing for me at all. He's the apotheosis of
everything I want in a partner. Anyone else would be a step both down and
backwards."


"Well. Isn't that wonderful." James makes another face and throws himself back
into the cushions forcefully. "But it still doesn't tell me whether I'm queer,
or not."


"James, only you can know whether or not you're gay, but . . . look, did you
bugger the bloke, or did the bloke bugger you?"


James's eyes widen, and he turns such a bright red even Al can see it without
glasses or proper light. "What a thing to ask, for someone who isn't keen on
details!"


Al rolls his eyes ceiling-ward, a rarely heeded prayer for the patience to deal
with his brother. Though finally, after all their lives, making Shameless-James
blush is rather satisfying. "Look, you wanted a quick litmus test for figuring
out if you're queer? Well, most men like to fuck their partner, or to get a
blowjob--that's a fair generalization, right? Even if it's someone you're not
attracted to, you can close your eyes, think of England, and get off. With me
so far?"


That blush isn't clearing even slightly; James looks impossibly gobsmacked.
"Who are you, and what have you done with my naïve, innocent little brother?"


"But not everyone likes being fucked, and certainly not everyone likes sucking
cock. Even if it's someone they're attracted to. So if you did either or both,
and enjoyed it, that means you're really into this person whom you've only just
met, or . . . you're reallyinto cock. I trust you can follow my point to its
logical conclusion without further prodding."


Despite that alarmed-cod look on James's face, obviously that trust isn't
misguided. Watching the sickle drop behind the unusually worried eyes is just a
teeny bit gratifying. And Al is surprised to also feel . . . protective of his
older brother, who's never needed protecting in life, except from his own
instinct for mischief.


Groaning, James bites his lip until he must let it go, or taste blood. "So I
think I might . . . be kinda bent," he says hesitantly, and Al admires him more
in that moment than he ever has, which is saying something.


"Yes, I think you might be kinda bent, too," he agrees gently. James groans
again, pulling a cushion over his face as if to smother himself before lobbing
it over the back of the couch.


"I can't be queer! What would our parents say?" 


"Undoubtedly something silly and unintentionally hurtful, at first. Nature of
the beast, and all." Al smiles encouragingly when James suddenly sits up again,
bracing his hands on his knees. He must really be worried. James never fidgets.
"In the end . . . you're their son. Their first-born. They'll always be proud
of you—rightfully so--and they'll want you to be happy."


James smiles limply. "And to carry on the Potter name and tradition. And to
give thems dozens of grandchildren. And to be like Grandpa James. And--"


"Jamie," Al says softly, halting what looks to be a long, and counterproductive
rant. "What are we going to do about this?"


James's left eyebrow shoots up. "We? Do? I don't see that there's anything
for us to do. I mean, it was a one-off. One, being the operative number. I'll
just have to be careful not to let it happen again."


Al levels his best glare at James. Mum's glare, which is hands down more
unnerving than Dad's. "Leaving aside the fact that you cheated, yet again, on
your girlfriend--a sweeter, smarter, better girl than you actually deserve--you
cheated on your girlfriend with a man!"


That dismissive wave of his hand again, as if the difference is negligible.
Were that the case, James wouldn't be here, now. "Operative word there
being girlfriend, Al. I'm not engaged to be married. Mags and I don't even live
together. She knows that I'm still sowing my wild oats, that I sometimes have
birds on the side--"


"Birds, not blokes." Al tugs on his hair in frustration at that stubbornly
blank look on James's face. "She's got no idea the deck's stacked against her.
That's unfair, James. It's cruel, and cowardly, and beneath you."


"What--I'm supposed to just break her heart, when I don't even know if I'm
bent, just that a bloke sucked me off and I liked it, and I returned the favor
and liked that, too?" James laughs miserably. "Someday, little brother, you and
reality will cross paths, and I don't know which of you will be more
surprised."


Al bristles, but refuses to let James side-track him with insults. "I'm not
saying you have to leave Mags, just that you need to be honest to her about not
knowing what you want, you dozy twonk."


"Well, telling her's as good as leaving her, isn't it? It's forcing her to
leave me!" James looks down at his hands. Clenches them helplessly on his
knees. "I can't turn my whole life upside down over a one-off, Al. I can't.
It'd ruin me in ways I can't even begin to illustrate."


There's a world of hurt in his voice, and that hurt hurts Al for two different
reasons, the most obvious being that he doesn't enjoy seeing his brother in
turmoil. The other being that even after all these years and all his professed
sanguinity with homosexuality, James isn't as accepting as Al had thought. "If
tumbling an entire football stadium's worth of girls hasn't made you straight,
one night, and one bloke doesn't make you gay, either. Not everything in
life has to be either/ or."


Dark, determined, tired eyes meet Al's. "Sometimes it does."


"You and Lily . . . such bloody Gryffindors. What a curse I dodged." Al jumps
up before he says something he regrets. Paces toward the fireplace, torn
between anger and grief that one of the two people he's always counted on to
think the best of him . . . doesn't. Maybe never has. "Just because you think
less of yourself for maybe being queer doesn't mean everyone else will. Liking
men won't make you a moral leper in the eyes of the wizarding world, only in
your own."


When no whining reply about his precious image is forthcoming, Al risks a look
at his brother. Find James watching him carefully, a look of unhappy revelation
on his face.


"Al, you're the best person I know. You know that, right?" A frown that looks
as unnatural on James's face as smiles tend to on Al's. "That I don't think
there's anything wrong with being gay--”


"Oh, is that what all this high dudgeon is about? You feeling perfectly fine
with being gay?"


"I'm not! We can't both be, alright! People would . . . talk," James adds
before Al can ask why? Which doesn't stop him asking so?, and James sits back
with an incredulous laugh. "What do you mean 'so'?"


"I mean, Jamie, people are always saying things about our family: good, bad,
and outlandish. And they always will. Hazards of the name. The wrong thing,
would be to let that talk, or your own blasted pride keep you from what you
truly want." Al walks back to the recliner, and scorns it in favor of a spot on
the coffee table across from James--ignoring the livid Scorpius in his head,
ranting about planting one's arse on a priceless, five hundred year old
heirloom. 


James is watching him with slightly wary eyes, and Al tries not to think that
this epiphany that should make them closer, will force an immovable wedge
between them. "If what you want's a life with Mags, or some other woman--making
a bunch of cute, irritating little Jameses, then go for it and don't look back.
But if it's not, if you're not sure . . . then you need to find out what it is
you reallyneed and want, instead of settling for a default life that you'll
only resent in later years. Get yourself sorted before you wreck Mags's life,
or some other poor girl's--not to mention your own."


"It's easy for you to say, isn't it? You've had your whole life to get used to
this--have always known exactly what you did, and didn't want." The wariness in
James's eyes has turned to anger, but shining clearly out of that anger is
still hurt and desperation. "Some of us aren't so lucky as you, little
brother."


"Well, you're being given a chance to find out who you are now, and that's what
matters! You have to be brave enough to take that chance, or you'll be the only
one responsible for your unhappiness." When James scoffs and crosses his arms
over his chest--the same infamous pose from that cover of Witch Weekly, only
not shirtless--Al leans forward. "Alright. Imagine yourself twenty years in the
future--into a marriage that you never wanted, with three kids you barely know
. . . only to realize you can't go on pretending because you've gone absolutely
mad over your best friend. And you'd do anything to be with him, even give up
the only life you know-- " 


A petulant moue that makes Al want to slap him. "Shut it, I'm not Uncle
Oliver."


"Then stop living his life all over again!"


"It was one night, Albus! One time!" James shouts--bellows, really. He's got
the Weasley bellow. They all have, to Dad's dismay. Especially when put on the
defensive.


But summoning his patience isn't as hard as Al'd thought. He honestly can't
imagine what James must be feeling, since he hasalways known what he wanted, if
not how to go about getting it. But he can imagine that it's quite a horrible,
unsettling thing. Especially for someone of James's normally unquestioning
confidence in himself. "Right. It was one time, but can you promise it won't
happen again?"


James looks like he's about to start shouting again, but then his shoulders
slump and he covers his face with his hands. Runs them back into his messy
hair. "Being with that bloke was . . . educational. But I'm not queer," he says
in a firm, sure voice that doesn't sound remotely like a lie. Still, Al's not
buying it.


"But--but what if you fall in love, Jamie?" James flinches, and Al feels guilty
for reasons he can't put his finger on. And yet again, he's unable to read
James's hooded dark eyes and mood. "What if you meet a man you really fancy,
and. . . ."


"That won't ever happen," James says, too calm and obviously tense.


"But you can't know--"


"Yes, I do. Period, full stop." 


"But how--" Al frowns, his eyes narrowing in realization. "James, is there . .
. someone you already have feelings for?" Merlin, it's not Teddy, is it? The
two of them were thick as thieves since forever, and--please don't let it be
our cousin, that would be far too distur--


Al doesn't notice James take out his wand till it's jabbing him right in the
Adam's apple. He suddenly remembers that, disinterest in his studies aside,
James is intimidatingly fast with a hex or a curse--consistently had some of
the best DADA marks of his Year. Could've had the best if he'd cared to.


Al swallows around the tip of James's wand--ten inches of sturdy, unassuming
holly, almost identical to their father's, only with a dragon heart-string
core, instead of a phoenix feather--and licks his lips nervously. "Is this
your, er, subtle way of telling me to back off?"


James leans a little closer, till he's a smear that reeks of drink and cheap
cologne. Only . . . James doesn't wear cologne, cheap or otherwise . . . eurgh.
"And they say I'm the clever one."


The wand disappears and James sits back slowly. Al rubs his throat, which
throbs in tandem with the back of his head and his shin. "No, they
say Lily's the clever one. I'm the responsible one, and you're the charming
one."


"Obviously we've been talking to different people." James tries to quip, but it
just comes out defensive and faintly embarrassed. "Really, I'll be alright, Al,
I just need time to sober up, and . . . everything'll make sense again. I'll be
in control again."


I doubt that, Al thinks, but merely nods. He doesn't appreciate it when James
tries to tell him how to run his life, and so doubts the reverse would be
welcome. "If you say so. Just—I'm here if you ever need to talk about it, or
vent, or if you have questions--even if they're sex questions that make me
squirm."


"I know," James says, and smiles. "You're the best bloke I know--my best
friend, really. Don't ever think I don't appreciate you, and respect the bloody
hell out of you. But I've made up my mind on this."


And he has. James doesn't take the hard line about many things--Lucius Malfoy
and Quidditch are the only things that come immediately to mind—but when he
does, he sticks by his decisions.


A Gryffindor, through and through, sadly.


"Alright, then. I'll stand by your choice," Al murmurs. And what's truly sad
isn't that James thinks he can choose to not be attracted to his own gender--or
that anyone can. No, what's truly sad is that despite his denials, James is
shaping up exactly like Uncle Oliver. Heading into years--maybe even decades of
an unhappy lie of a life.


Maybe one without a Charlie Weasley waiting at the other end of it.


"So . . . seriously, no one else? Not even that pretty Finnigan lad, with the
big eyes and the walk?"


"What?" Al blinks back wetness that is not tears, and James is leaning close
again, in a cloud of whisky and cologne that should be unpleasantly dizzying,
but is merely dizzying. A bit disorienting. "What're you on about?"


"He was in Lily's year at Hogwarts. Curly blond hair, dark blue eyes, fit--
flash, even in his school uniform. A walk that damn near restored my faith in
humanity. . . ."


"Aidenn Finnigan? Merlin, no!" Al shudders. As changes of subject go, that was
unsubtle, but effective. "If I had a type, Aidenn wouldn't be it."


James, likely musing on the aforementioned walk--the sort that no Fourth Year
should have had the assets to carry off, but Aidenn had and did--smiles
distractedly, in a way that doesn't bode well for his attempt at
heterosexuality. "What about when I set you up on that date-thing with him . .
. when was it, four years ago, now?"


Al grimaces. "Except for the time he tried to stick his hand down my trousers
at Puddifoot's, he spent the whole date pumping me for information about you."


James brightens a little. "Really? You never said."


"As if that ego needed more inflating." Al yawns mightily, and a wave of
sleepiness washes over him. He was already tired, but trying to untangle
James's sexuality--unsuccessfully--takes a lot out of a person. He can't
imagine how James must feel. "Foolish wand-waving aside, you're in no shape to
be Flooing or Apparating anywhere--especially to Mags's. So it's the guest
room, for you, old sot."


"That's a nice way to speak to your guest." The sparkle is back in James's eye
now, and even though nothing is resolved--at least not for longer than the next
time James finds himself on his knees in a Muggle club--Al is happy that for
once, he may have helped put it there. Anything else will have to be settled in
time, and James himself.


All Al can do, for now, is support James in whatever way he asks, and help pick
up the pieces if ever, whenever.


"You're not my guest, you're my big brother," he says , then grins. "I can
speak to you any way I like." 


"Is that right?" James lunges forward to grab Al by the wrists, and pulls him
to the couch, tackling him and shaking him. Al laughs helplessly, trying to
wriggle out from under James, and only managing to get his tee-shirt bunched
up, and his cut-offs and pants pushed down to a point that verges on indecent.


"Geroff! You stink of that munter's cologne!" His voice has gone squeaky and
wheezy, his vision blurry with tears. But he can tell James is grinning down at
him.


"Oi, remember that time I tickled you till you wet yourself?" James asks,
straddling Al's narrow hips and poising his fingers over unpadded, unguarded
ribs. He's smirking in a way that's meant trouble as far back as Al can
remember.


He hastily pulls his shirt down and crosses his arms over his ribs. "How could
I forget, you Quaffle-headed bully."


"Must've been dead embarrassing even to a six year old. I can't imagine what
that'd do to your ego, now. . . ." Albus's eyes narrow, and he lets loose with
a stream of profanity that makes James's eyes widen appreciatively. "Tsk-tsk,
is that what Malfoy's been teaching you to do with your mouth? And I thought he
had higher aspirations than that. Say uncle, or it's the fingers for you, my
son."


"I'll say twat, 'cos that's what you are--agh! Stop!" Al shrieks, catching
James's wrists as the fingers descend. His face feel hot, and his skin's
tingling in anticipation of the undignified treatment he's about to receive.
“You're a bastard!”


“And you're observant.” James breaks his grip easily and applies fingers to
heaving ribs--though he seems unprepared for Al trying to buck him off, and
nearly falls off couch and brother.


"Merlin's saggy left--" he starts, grabbing the back of the couch and Al's arm
for purchase. "You'd think I was trying to murder you! Honestly--you're
ridiculous."


“Says--the man--who's never--pissed himself.” Al is gulping air, his eyes
squinched shut. Weak giggles keep slipping out and random muscles twitch all
over his body. "Murdering me'd be a kindness if Scorpius ever found out I
soiled this couch."


James grunts, but doesn't attack Al's ribs again. "He must be a spectacular
fuck for you to put up with that level of up-his-own-arse-ness," he says, not
without grudging sympathy.


"Oh, he's a bloody machine when he's not dead tired . . . or when he's not
being startled by random owls," Al agrees, then squints suspiciously. James is
staring off into the fireplace. "That doesn't mean you're allowed to fancy him,
though."


An amused snort, and James's regard settles on him once more, like a blanket.
"No worries on that score. I'm not partial to blonds." He--almost reluctantly,
it seems--gets off of Al, who merely lays there, face still red, ribs still
covered.


"I bloody well hate you, James Potter."


From the other end of the couch, James chuckles. "Aw, I hate you too, little
brother."


"Fuck you."


"Yes, but what would Malfoy say when he found out?" 


"Pervert. You should shower before you go to sleep." Al sits up, and gets a
whiff of himself. He smells like sex and butterbeer, andScorpius. "We both
should."


"What—together?" James seems amused and alarmed all at once.


"Yes, then you can scrub my back for me." Al yawns again. "Berk." 


"Tut-tut, you're only upset because you're adopted. Scourgify." As the spell
runs across his skin like sandpaper, leaving tingling, pinkened skin it its
wake--James really is enviably powerful, and it's a bloody damned shame that he
has no interest in honing that power with study, or at least tempering it with
discipline--he settles deep into the couch. Which is considerably more
comfortable than it looked in Malfoy Manor.


He props his bare feet up on the coffee table, upsetting James's trainer.


What Scorpius doesn't know won't kill Al. Theoretically.


"You're adopted," he says belatedly, rolling his head just enough to watch
James watch him back. "You're really half troll, and half blasted-ended skrewt,
you know. Aunt 'Mione and Mum just spelled you to look like a human boy to keep
you out of a Muggle-style sideshow."


"Sure, they did." James swings his legs up so that his feet dangle over the arm
of the couch, and lays his head in Al's lap, his face turned toward the fire.
"Whatever lets you sleep at night without being eaten alive by jealousy." 


Al grunts distractedly, too startled to for a decent insult. He and James have
only sat like this once . . . in the summer after James's Second Year, when he
finally, finally admitted to having second thoughts about playing Seeker.


They'd stayed up all night like that: James blurting out every foggy-voiced,
Quidditch related fear--and there were many--in the quiet of Uncle Ron's old
room at the Burrow. Al listening, stroking James's hair and occasionally
murmuring support.


But once it was all out--once James accepted that he'd never be the Seeker
everyone told him he was, he'd single-mindedly made himself over into the
Beater no one but Al had known he could be. From that day on, James hasn't
shown a moment of doubt, or despair. Hasn't let himself be vulnerable.
Consequently, they haven't sat like this since. 


He'd forgotten how fine and soft James's hair is, unlike his own thick, coarse
mop. 


Hmm-ing, he runs his fingers through it a few times, and James seems to relax
into the couch. Into Al.


Everything's going to be alright. Al is suddenly certain.


In silence broken only by the merry crackle of the fire, their breathing evens
out quickly. Al's head lolls back into the cushions, his carding of James's
hair slowing to an infrequent stroke.


"Al?"


A low whisper that barely stirs Al from a deepening half-sleep, even though
Jamie feels tense against him, unnaturally still. "Huhmm?"


". . . I love you. . . ."


"Hmm . . . love you, too." Albus renews his hair-carding automatically, not
even stopping when the tension melts away again, and the stillness becomes
random tremors.


"More than Quidditch, Albie. More than anything," Jamie adds in that same
funny, foggy sounding voice from all those years ago. Considering the hours he
keeps and his apparent allergy to weather-appropriate clothing, he's probably
coming down with the sniffles, or some sort of virus. Which means now Al's
going to get it. But he can't be arsed to care . . . much.


"I love you," James says again, quiet, and fierce.


Conscious thoughts are already slipping under feelings of warmth and
contentment. And James really does have such soft, soft hair.


"'S nice, Jamie."


Al's asleep in seconds.


                                       *




"Don't you have a flat of your own to be hungover in?"


It must be afternoon, judging by the overabundance of sunlight. As it is,
James's eyes are gritty, too tired to makes sense of so much light. The
economical whip-crack of Malfoy's Apparation had woken him up, but it was a
near thing.


His head is . . . achey, but not awful. And Malfoy is . . . scowling down at
him rather impressively. It's still odd to see him in Auror Trainee robes, with
the regulation haircut that accentuates his infamous, forbidding face clearly,
rather than hides it. 


"Keep frowning like that, Scorpius, and those tiny lines at your mouth and nose
will wear permanent."


Malfoy's eyes widen, and his hand flies to his face before he can stop himself.
Then he scowls even harder when James snickers. “I don't know what has you so
tickled, James. You look like the wrong end of a sick crup, and you smell like
a whorehouse.”


"Ooh, not very nice to your in-laws, are you?"


A sneer that's more bored, and tired than anything else. Or maybe just more
tired: faint, greyish circles around reddened eyes, bone structure rather too
apparent . . . Malfoy looks like hell. For Malfoy, anyway. "On the contrary. I
find Lily utterly delightful, your parents kind, and your extended family
charming, if a bit exuberant. The only worm--and I do choose my words quite
deliberately--in the Potter-Weasley apple is you."


James thinks that over. Smiles. He'd only cast that Scourgify on Al, so he
wouldn't have to smell this git on his brother's skin. He hadn't bothered to
cast it on himself. If he smells half as bad as his mouth tastes. . . .
“Blimey, you're right, for once. I need a shower."


Malfoy nods facetiously. "I whole-heartedly concur. Don't they have those back
at your flat?"


"Albus lives here, too, you know."


A cold, sickle-sharp smile, and Malfoy shrugs off his robe, tossing it at Al's
recliner. Just by the act of wearing them, he manages to make even the
regulation grey-and-black tunic and trousers look like fancy, high society
togs. “Yes, but he's out at the moment, as even your drink-addleded senses
should've informed you.”


Frowning, James struggles upright to find that Al is indeed gone. In his place
is a formidable pile of cushions. On the floor is a heap of blankets James
must've shrugged off at some point--


Some point after not-crying himself to sleep silently, so as not to wake up Al-
-who'd snored on cluelessly, anyway . . . his hand a heavy, comforting weight
on James's head, his bony leg a better pillow than James has ever had. And will
likely never have again.


He'd tried to stay awake as long as he could, knowing that he'd probably never
get another chance to be like this. To lay there and pretend that this was how
the rest of his life would be: coming home to Albus, falling asleep with him.
Knowing that, no matter what else, this was one person that was not only on his
side without reservation, but would be his and no one else's.


Like back in that summer before Third Year . . . long before James's brotherly
feelings had warped into something more . . . something that infects every area
of his life, even Quidditch. He never plays as hard as when he knows Al's in
the stands, cheering him on.


He doesn't realize he's been staring dejectedly into the blankets until Malfoy
clears his throat discreetly, recalling him to the present. The git's taken up
residence in Al's recliner like a king on his throne. It makes James want to
strangle him.


Malfoy rolls his eyes and sighs. “Merlin, but you're transparent, Potter.”


“So are you. Thus I'm amazed Al can't see what a horrid little guttersnipe you
are.”


“Albus sees me very well,” Malfoy says softly, with a small smile that lacks a
chill or malice, and so sits strangely on his face. “And he loves me in spite
of--maybe because he sees me so clearly . . . so you really ought to make an
effort to get over it, right?”


James's glare skitters off Malfoy, to the long-dead fire in the hearth. His
face feels hot, and not just because of the sunlight. The pile of blankets lays
on the floor like a wish unfulfilled. “Get over what?”


“Hmm. The sooner, the better, I'm thinking.” Merlin, James can even hear the
sneer in Malfoy's deep voice. Hear amused contempt dripping off of every
rounded vowel. “Lest I'm forced put aside dislike for pity.”


All sorts of alarm bells go off in James's mind, but--no. No one knows. Not Al,
not their parents . . . and certainly not Malfoy. He's just got a Slytherin's
gift for making everything sound like an insinuation. “At last, we've found a
common ground: neither of us knows what the bloody hell you're talking about.”


“Oh, don't we?” There's a hint of something melancholy in Malfoy's amusement,
and an almost deferential sort of irony. Both are quickly replaced by Malfoy's
customary bored indifference, but not before James's stomach rises to his
throat, then sinks precipitously. “My mistake, then. Now, if you'd be so good
as to toddle along, so I can cast Fumigus on everything Albus and I own, thank
you. . . .”


“You're a real bastard, you know!” Merlin, even if Malfoy's just being a
Malfoy, and casting aspersions he doesn't believe merely to embarrass and
discomfit--


“I was conceived in wedlock, for your information.” That haughty, upward tilt
of chin that signifies this exchange is over, and Malfoy considers himself the
victor. “Now, if there's nothing else. . . .”


“You'd better keep whatever it is you think you know to yourself, Malfoy!”
James explodes, other, darker words on his lips, words that'd get even Harry
Potter's son penned in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life. But Malfoy--
who is many things, few of them admirable--is damnably fast in a Duel, as James
has learned first hand. So before he can even be proud of himself for not
tossing out Sectumsempra with every bit of will in him, there's thirteen inches
of tapered willow pointed steadily at him.


“Let me hasten to assure: you would lose,” Malfoy says in that same,
indifferent tone. But there's nothing like indifference in his eyes however,
nor in the feral curl of lips over teeth. “And the last thing either of us
wants to do is anything that'd break your brother's heart. So, run along, and
we'll see you at the Burrow for Sunday Brunch, as per usual.”


After a few seconds James looks away, muttering Apparate without the pretense
of reaching for his wand. Lands in his own bedroom and bed with a bounce. For a
long time, he only lays there, his head filled with white noise, his stomach
with rue.


Suddenly, he can smell that Muggle bloke all over him and thinks Scourgify hard
enough to leave his skin irritated and dry. But tells himself that he can still
smell Albus on his skin, a mixture of new parchment, random potions
ingredients, and pennyroyal tea. . . .


A thousand Muggle blokes with vacuum-cleaner mouths wouldn't have a patch on
the sense memory of Al.


He can still feel Al under him again, squinting near-sightedly, askew clothing
revealing pale skin over sturdy bone that could do with some padding. 


James aches at the thought of touching—or tasting—that point of hip, or the
trail of dark hair leading beneath the worn shorts. Of stilling every shiver
and quaver with his own body . . . smothering every giggle with a kiss.


He tortures himself for the better part of an hour, trying to imagine a
response other than disgust and horror, had he leaned down and simply done
either of those things . . . and can't.


His next door neighbor slams a door hard, and he jumps. For some reason, living
in a Muggle neighborhood had seemed like a good idea two years ago. After all,
when they were little, he and Al used to talk about getting an apartment in
Muggle London just as soon as they were old enough. They'd have adventures and
never, ever be apart. . . .


“I've already lost,” he says, rolling onto his side. “You pompous, inbred,
Thestral's arse.”


Never getting the last word with Malfoy is one of many things James finds
unpalatable, but knows he can't change. And it's not even the worst thing,
after all.


The feelings that've held him captive for the past three years is briefly
exchanged for a familiar, near total detachment. This faux-zen has occasionally
made it possible to lose himself in many forms of oblivion, though sleep was
never a tough nut to crack, anyway. And never mind what dreams may come.


There's time enough, tomorrow to start the likely impossible task of putting
this morning, last night, and the past three years behind him. Get on with
living the life that's been laid out for him. The wife, the kids, the whole
works—forget trying it on with another bloke. It'd just be a torturous,
constant reminder of the one person he wants more than anything, but can never
have.


He curls up under Gran Molly's comforter, and blinks tiredly in the gloomy
dimness of his curtained bedroom. Listens to his neighbor rearrange furniture,
or maybe juggle it.


The last thing he sees before sleep takes him isn't reciprocated yearning in
lively green eyes—or even concern in Mags's dark, kind eyes--but knowing
amusement radiating from eyes as warm and grey as iced-over slate.


”You really ought to make an effort to get over it, right?”


Right. 


Scorpius Malfoy: proof positive that even a broken clock can be right twice in
one day.


No more blokes. Period.


Full stop.

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