Archive of Our Own

Your father is right. There is something about the Potters. Of course, you don't think he means it in the same way that you do. He means that they (or specifically, Harry Potter) are terrifically irritating. You mean that there is something about them that makes you stupid, that makes you take ridiculous risks. You don't know where it came from, but it seems to have been happening forever, right from the moment you first stepped onto the Hogwarts Express, almost shivering with the pure thrill of being completely alone for the first time ever. The thrill transformed itself into a little flare of rebellion or recklessness or something, and you decided to seek out the very boy your family had told you to avoid if you possibly could.

It was meant to be a gesture, really, a little experiment to see whether you could actually get away with it or not. You did get away with it though, with slipping into the boy's carriage and smiling at him. You introduced yourself to him and he did the same (Albus Severus Potter, said in a nervous, husky little voice), and by the time Albus' older brother came back to find him, the two of you had already started chatting keenly about Hogwarts and Quidditch and sweets. The brother, already confident and popular, had seemed torn between staying with the two of you to torment Albus and dashing off to sit with his friends. The friends won out in the end, and the brother gave you a curious stare before backing out again, telling Albus to look out for his cousins.

He hadn't looked out for them, choosing instead to shut the door behind his brother and pull down the blinds. At first you thought he was stiff, standoffish. Then, after a little while you realised that actually, he was terrified. Terrified of being Sorted into Slytherin, twice as scared as you were of being Sorted anywhere else. You had the whole train journey to cajole and harass him until he seemed almost intrigued by Slytherin house, which was probably better than being unable to stand the thought of it.

You went first to the Sorting, just by virtue of your surname. The hat took longer than you'd imagined, but it did announce Slytherin to the Great Hall eventually, and you made sure to smile at Albus as you went past him. There were only two students between you on the register before your new friend was perching on the stool at the front of the hall, squeezing his eyes shut tight as the hat was lowered onto his head. You saw the way his shoulders slumped as he too was chosen for Slytherin. When he reached the table and practically fell down next to you his face was white, his mouth a tight line.

"I suppose it won't be too bad," he'd said after a little while, and you could tell that, as far as he was concerned, the words were a lie. "As long as you're here, too."

"Of course," you'd nodded. "Give us a couple of years and we'll be running this place."

"Yeah," he'd said, with a wobbly laugh, and you'd nudged him in a friendly fashion, something you'd never really done to anyone before. And that was it. In the unspoken way of eleven year olds, you became best friends and from that moment, you've basically done everything together.

And of course, you've realised by now that it's not really possible to be friends with Albus Potter without getting to know his older brother pretty well too. For all that they bicker and fight, he and James are pretty close. They do fight though - explosively. It scared you witless the first few times, because to be honest when you were a first year, second years seemed huge, and the second year brother of your new completely inappropriate friend seemed even huger.

The first night, he had hurried over to Albus like he'd been waiting to do it throughout the whole feast, and unleashed what you would now consider to be some gentle brotherly teasing. At the time though, it made you think that Hogwarts might be completely terrible if James decided to take a disliking to you, as well as his brother. Possibly even more frightening was the way Albus, who thus far had been all wide eyes and hushed comments (and faintly green skin ever since the Sorting), told James to piss off. The language was overheard by a passing Professor who took five points from Slytherin, but not before James had responded by shoving Albus and losing the same number for Gryffindor.

The next day you were fairly reasonably apprehensive when James fell into a seat opposite you and Albus at the Slytherin table, helping himself to a slice of toast.

"Alright, squirt," he'd said, nodding towards Albus.

"This isn't your table, James," Albus had replied through gritted teeth.

"Oh, really?" James had asked, looking around in pretend-surprise. "Huh! Fancy that!"

"Go away, James."

"Inter-house unity, little bro," James had said.

"I hate you, James," Albus had said, but it was starting to sound less like opening hostilities and more like a well-worn joke.

"Ah, thanks," James had simpered. "Hello," he'd said to you around a mouthful of toast.

"Hello," you'd offered, still a bit nervous. The apparent friendliness could have been a cunning cover, after all.

"Are you trying to give Uncle Ron a heart attack?" he'd asked Albus.

"Not trying, as such," Albus had shrugged.

"Little bro!" James had said, pretending to be scandalised. "Never knew you were so wicked. I suppose that mangy old hat knows its stuff."

"Shove it, James."

"I'm not enjoying this confident act for your new friend, Al. I may have to beat it out of you," James had informed Al gravely. "Was I right about the hat or what, though, boys?"

"Stank," Albus had nodded, and you were forced to agree. As well as taking a bloody long time to send you to Slytherin, considering Hufflepuff along the way, as well as Gryffindor – and you don't think you'll ever tell anyone that – the hat had been just as smelly as any other ancient bit of cloth.

"Told you so," James had grinned. "Well, alright, lads. See you later."

Your first year at Hogwarts seemed to go absurdly quickly and by the time the summer came around, you and Al were inseparable, and the idea of six weeks with no one to talk to was driving you to distraction. One night, about a week before the end of your first year, he'd crept over to your bed after lights out, buzzing with excitement and full of himself.

"Suppose," he'd said in a hushed whisper, sliding cross-legged into your bed and stealing your blanket, "Suppose this summer, you tell your dad that my dad said I can visit you. I'll tell my dad that yours said the same. They're both so stubborn we'll probably get a week at both houses."

"You think?" you'd asked, wanting to tease him about being sorted into the right house after all. You hadn't bothered though, because your heart was in your throat, hammering away, beating out please let it work.

"Yes!" he'd said, laughter hissing across your face. "No way my dad'll let yours look like the more open minded one."

"Excellent!" you'd whispered. "Shall we owl them in the morning?"

"I want to do it now," he'd laughed and you'd shoved at him gently.

"I think they might spot a lie if we owled them at three in the morning."

"Maybe," he'd acknowledged, settling back against the headrest of your bed and looking at you closely. "Good year, Scorp?"

"The best," you'd admitted freely, not even thinking about it, and not bothering to object to the nickname.

"Me, too," he'd beamed.

Looking back, you think it was that night which cemented things between you, which determined that Albus would always be your brother, your best friend, your first priority.

When you and Al were in your second year Al's aunt, Hermione Weasley, arrived to work at Hogwarts, initially under the title of Director of Muggle Relations. She was meant to help Muggle-borns adjust to Hogwarts, to make the transition from the Muggle to magical world easier. Of course, Merlin forbid that the woman stick to her job. Instead, she had taken a look around the school and apparently announced to the headmaster that she was sickened, simply sickened by the inter-house rivalry that still raged. Her title was changed in your third year to Director of Student Relations, and James seems to be the only one who takes her even vaguely seriously when she goes on and on about inter-house unity.

He joins you and Al for breakfast or lunch quite regularly. At first, you'd found it a little overbearing because James, only a year ahead, was already loud and confident and popular, but he is surprisingly gentle with you, and with his younger relatives - as long as it's not Al, they seem to be immune from his prodding and mocking. He transcends the unwritten rules about sticking to your own house without any visible considerations or qualms. Any of your housemates who object to James joining your table receive nothing more than a quick cutting retort and a well-aimed bread roll to the head. He sits at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables with his cousins at least once a week, and with his Gryffindor friends for two or three of the other days. The rest of the time, he waylays his younger brother with conversation or a letter from home and ends up joining the pair of you at the Slytherin table.

Of course, there is a very real possibility that James is taking the piss. You wouldn't know, because it has always been almost completely impossible for you to tell when James is joking and when he's being serious, mainly because he acts like everything is a joke. You were never sure whether you liked that about him or not.

There are many things that you're not sure whether you like about James. His confidence, for one thing. Not that you are any kind of shrinking violet, but you reserve your real self for those who know you properly, while James seems to spill out all over the place. He takes it as read that everyone is his friend. Not that James is naive. In fact, he is better than Albus at realising when someone is genuinely being kind, and when they are angling for news, good or bad, about the great Harry Potter.

You get your fair share of those too, whether it's the odd few who are morbidly fascinated by your father's past, or the more frequent ones who are disappointed that he's not languishing in Azkaban, and your reaction varies between telling them to bugger off and hexing the more extreme ones silly. Al deals with the Potter groupies by getting uptight and snapping at them, but James will either make ridiculous claims - he's actually got two heads, you know? He keeps the spare one in a box. And he's part centaur. Yeah, you know what part. It's hereditary, by the way - or dismiss the issue entirely - you don't want to talk about him, I'm far more interesting - and still manage to maintain that faintly irritating air of joviality.

Albus' little double-cross of your parents worked in first year and has continued to work every year since, so you have spent part of each summer at the Potters' house, along with James and Lily's best friends. The six of you play Quidditch together, go off exploring the countryside, play pranks and tricks on each other. James is always welcoming, but also always distracted by his best friend, a Muggle-born Gryffindor called Tim. Still, he doesn't treat you as though you are the same source of annoyance as he does Lily's friend Annabel - she has a massive crush on James, and has got less and less subtle about it every summer since she was fourteen. So that's James. And he's always been around on the periphery of your life and maybe you did notice, once you were a bit older, that he was very good looking. In all honesty, James being attractive was a lot less traumatic than the earlier realisation that men, rather than women, were attractive. There is no denying that James is cool, that he is funny and clever, and really fucking hot.

But Al has always been your best friend. It has been like finding the other half of your brain. You clicked with him straight away on the train, when you were both tiny, and he's been by your side ever since, really. Your father taught you well about loyalty and trust, and how they can only ever really exist within your own family, but Al is family. You know that you could tell him anything, and not fear his reaction at all. The only time you've ever been worried about how he'd respond was when you told him, at the start of fifth year, that you were gay. Into the silence, you'd stuttered, is that okay?

"Of course it is," he'd shrugged. "Just as long as you're not after my brother."

"What?"

"What?"

"James is gay?"

"Only a bit," Al had scoffed, rolling his eyes as if you'd just asked whether the sky was blue.

"A - are you joking?"

"He is..." You can still remember the way that Albus cast his eyes around as though looking for inspiration. He obviously didn't find it though, because he was forced to conclude cheerfully, "My brother is the gayest gay that ever did gay." Then he had narrowed his eyes and given you a sharp look. "Why are you so interested, anyway? I swear to Merlin if the two of you ever even so much as look sideways at each other I won't know who to kill first."

"Don't be stupid," you'd said a bit distantly, but you couldn't help thinking. You'd noticed by then - as had most of your fellow students, mainly those with working eyes who weren't related to him - that James is extremely good looking. And, apparently, gay.

"For the record," Al had said a bit awkwardly. "You could do an awful lot better for yourself. My brother is an idiot."

"Duly noted," you'd nodded.

"Right. Well. Let's go, then."

You realised all over again in that moment that Albus is the best friend you will ever have, and although there might have been a few illicit fantasies, the funny, clever, Quidditch-god older brother would never be worth putting that at risk. You don't put your family at risk. Not for anything.

But then, damn the fates or whatever else, you were made Slytherin Prefect in your sixth year. You didn't realise really, over the summer, what that might mean. Because James is Gryffindor's seventh year Prefect (for the third year, every time since his fifth, and that's pretty rare these days), and what it means is that for the first time, you have to spend time with James when Al is not there to remind you of where your priorities should lie.

The fact that Al isn't there somehow makes it easier for you to acknowledge that James is not just good looking or handsome, but a veritable wet dream. He is a good head taller than you, and you're not that short. He's broad shouldered, clearly muscular and fairly bulky under his robes, which is unusual given that he plays chaser, and plays it well. He has these amazingly warm brown eyes, and a mass of almost curly dark hair, and his creamy, freckled skin looks impossibly soft.

And not only that, he's funny. He makes you laugh, which is something not a lot of people can achieve. In your first Prefects' meeting, you find yourself having to hide a smile in your hand because he keeps shooting you these little looks in response to things the Head Girl - a Ravenclaw called Hannah who takes herself and her duties far too seriously - says or does. A well-timed quirk of his facial expression is enough to set you off, so when Hannah is halfway through a speech about the dangers of prefects setting a precedent by breaking rules themselves and James mutters,

"Heaven forefend," in a completely deadpan voice, you can't help snorting with laughter, and you earn yourself a series of thoroughly dirty looks, except from James who raises his eyebrows and smiles for a split second before carefully wiping his expression clear before anyone else sees. It strikes you suddenly that James might just as easily be taking the piss out of you as he is out of Hannah, and you can't help stiffening a bit.

Once the meeting is finished, you hurry off, mainly because you are not used to second guessing yourself and feeling like a fool over something that someone else has done. You're only a little way down the corridor when you hear footsteps behind you. Ignoring them, you carry on walking.

"Hey, wait a minute," a voice calls, and you turn, almost reluctantly.

"Oh - hello, James."

"Alright?" he smiles.

"Fine, thanks. And you?"

"Good, I'm good. I just wanted to say congratulations on the Prefect thing."

"Oh, thanks," you say, unable to help a smile, feeling pleased and flattered almost in spite of yourself.

"So, listen, I switched the rounds."

"Er - "

"Not yours, mine. That 'Puff they paired me up with is so boring. I'm going to do mine with you this week, if that's okay?"

"Only the Head Boy or Girl can switch the rounds," you tell him.

"Eh, technically," he shrugs, moving his head side to side in a motion he must have picked up from one of his parents because Al does the same thing. You've come to realise that it means 'ah, fuck that'. "That alright with you?" he prompts

"Of course," you nod.

"Cool," he grins. "I can show you the ropes."

And he does. You come to realise in the weeks that follow that there is a lot more to him than Quidditch and good looks. He knows the school like the back of his hand for one thing, and he is more generous to any rule-breakers you find than you would have been. It's easy to see why everyone likes him so much. Those couple of weeks make you worry, because you have not felt like this before. You've always thought it was a ridiculous word, but you come to realise that you have a full-blown, out of control crush on James Potter. You feel like you're scrabbling for control when you're around him, as if his bright smile and smart-mouthed comments are able to send you reeling.

You rationalise that as long as it's just Prefects' meetings and rounds, it's not as though the crush will amount to anything, or really interfere with your life. But it stops being just that. Once you have spent that amount of time together, he seems to seek you out at unexpected times. You suppose that he's starting to consider you a friend in your own right, rather than just the best friend of his little brother. And that's...good. Well, in all honesty, it's frustrating as hell, because you don't want to be his friend. You want to pin him to the nearest flat surface and do things that will leave his pouty lips and messy hair even more noticeable than usual.

You have wanted people before, of course (and there have been a couple of decidedly experimental, firmly one-off flings), but not like this, it seems. Not so fervently. Not so passionately. Maybe it's just because you know you can't have him. Al's brother. Off limits. It's as simple as that, or it should be. But he makes you feel different. He makes you feel awkward. One time, in the library, he even makes you blush, and that is not an easy accomplishment.

"Hey," he says, from behind you again, and you want to make a comment about his habit of sneaking up on people. If it were anyone else, that would be exactly what you'd do. As it's him, though, all you can manage is,

"Oh, hi," tipping your head back to look at James.

James, who is dark haired and boisterous and popular and has the warmest brown eyes you have ever seen. And is, apparently, gay. If there was even a half chance, you wouldn't be able to believe your luck. As it is, it seems like the universe's idea of a bloody joke. It makes him sexy and funny and clever and popular. So far so good, if a bit sickening. Then it makes him gay, which is pretty perfect. However it also sees fit to make him the older brother of your best friend in the world, the one and only person you definitely wouldn't step on to get what you want. Life is cruel.

"So," he says, sliding into the chair opposite you and craning his neck to read upside-down the title of the chapter you're working through. "How's things?"

"Fine," you say. "Good. You know. Good. Fine," you repeat, suddenly painfully aware that you are stammering and babbling and generally acting like - well, like exactly what you are. A stupid kid with a stupid crush. Your parents should have drowned you at birth, you conclude. Saved everyone the embarrassment. Ridiculous. You never feel this way, and even if you did, you wouldn't be putting your complete awkwardness on such open display. That moment simply didn't happen, that's all, you assure yourself.

"Well. That's good," he says, giving you a half-smile that could just as easily mean you are a complete idiot, Malfoy, as anything pleasant. He taps his forefinger against the tabletop a few times and you try not to watch the movement.

"How are you, James?" you ask, and that's good, that's better, you seem to have regained control over your brain and mouth by now.

"Good," he beams. "I saw Al earlier; we're going to go flying after he gets back from Magical Creatures. You want to come?"

"Alright," you nod. "Thanks."

"So, Prefect-ing," he says. "How's that going? Enjoying the abuse of power?"

"Oh, yes. I'm building up quite a cult of personality," you tell him.

"What you should do," he says, leaning forward over the table conspiratorially, "Is pick a different firstie every couple of weeks and tell them to go and get you a drink, or a book from the library, or something. See how many obey."

"...Are you joking?" you ask, because sometimes, you still can't tell without Al to translate for you whether James means what he's saying or not.

"Of course I'm joking!" he laughs. "We should try it, though. What's the use in having peons if you don't make their lives hell?"

"James, first years are not our peons," you laugh, shaking your head at him.

"Right," he agrees regretfully. "Not yet, anyway."

A few weeks later, after another Prefects' meeting, he catches up to you again and falls into step beside you.

"You know you don't live in this direction?" you say after a while, when you are halfway down the stairs.

"Shortcut," he shrugs.

"From all the way down here?"

"No," he admits. "I need a favour."

Embarrassingly, you feel a little flutter when he says that. Merlin's beard, the favours you would do for him...

"What kind of favour?" you ask.

"The Ancient Runic kind," he says. "I am in serious danger of failing spectacularly, and Al says you're top of your class, so – "

You shouldn't. You really shouldn't get yourself into the situation of spending more time with him than is absolutely necessary.

"Bit embarrassing asking a student in the year below for tutoring, isn't it?"

"Only if the student in the year below isn't on course for an O. Also, only if you're a complete snob. Oh, wait..." he says slyly.

"Shut up. Alright," you hear yourself say, and you could kick yourself, really.

"Seriously?" he asks, coming to a halt.

"I said, didn't I?"

"Brilliant," he says, and gives you another one of those smiles. Merlin, if you could smile like that, if you could make the recipient of your smile feel like the only human being in the world worth smiling at, you would use it to get a lot more than an Ancient Runes tutor.

So your sixth year continues like that, spending more time than is sensible or manageable with James bloody Potter. Meanwhile, Al suddenly discovers girls, at least a year after girls first discovered him, and you can't help feeling just a little bit pushed aside. Not that you've ever wanted anything romantic with Al - the very idea turns your stomach a little bit, in all honesty, and you're sure it'd do the same to him. It's more that he suddenly has less time for you, because he is chasing after one girl or another. Not that he has to chase too hard, of course. Al has inherited his father's looks to the same degree as you have inherited yours, and there are countless people who find the Harry Potter look attractive. No, it's not that you're jealous, as such, just that it takes some adjusting to Al not being around all the time.

It also takes some adjusting to spending at least an hour one-on-one with James every Monday afternoon, explaining the finer points of runic translation. You never thought you'd have the patience to teach anyone anything, but James is surprisingly easy to get along with. He grasps things quickly, and asks questions that make you think. For a while, you think that maybe you're getting over this ridiculous fixation, because you can manage those Mondays a bit better as time goes by. You start to realise that, alright, he might be fucking gorgeous, but he's not some unreachable, untouchable kind of perfection. He's just an almost eighteen-year-old boy, and actually, as he's one of the youngest in his year and you're one of the oldest, he's only a few months older than you are. Just because the rest of the school goes tongue-tied around him for one reason or another, it doesn't mean you have to.

You should have known it wouldn't be that simple and events come to a head at the Halloween ball. You knew it was a mistake to leave the theme of the ball up to the Hufflepuff Prefects. Not that their ideas were always completely terrible, but they did tend to get over excited, to come up with mad schemes that would take stupid amounts of effort to set in place. So it's Muggle themed, Merlin help you, which has meant frantic scrambling around for appropriate music, food, and worst of all clothes. You wouldn't have thought that would be the worst part about it, barely thought about the clothes in fact. Your own are a fairly standard cop-out combination of dark grey trousers and a pale blue shirt. Some people seem to have misunderstood the general idea and are dressed up like something from the 1920s, which gives you a bit of a laugh until you catch sight of James across the hall.

Salazar's fucking balls.

He is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt which, really, is nothing compared to the way he is wearing them. Or, more honestly, the way he is filling them. Even from across the room it is obvious that he has, very possibly, the world's most perfect arse. And the t-shirt - Merlin's beard, the t-shirt looks old and worn thin, stretched tight across his broad shoulders. When he turns around, you realise that there is a faded black picture on the front and above it the words Sex Pistols. You have no idea what that means, but fuck. James Potter wearing a t-shirt with the word 'sex' on the front? Impossibly, ridiculously, stupidly attractive.

You turn away hurriedly, looking around for Al, but see him in a corner, whispering sweet nothings to the latest in a string of pretty, giggly girls. There will be no help there, obviously. Bloody hell.

So much for the fixation dying away, you realise, as you walk aimlessly through the crowd. Stupid Muggle theme. Stupid Muggle clothes. Robes might be awkward at times, but at least they ensure that disturbingly perfect arses are kept covered where they can't do any harm. And after the debacle in your third year, the teachers keep such a close eye on the punch bowl that you can't even sneak a bit of Firewhiskey to calm yourself down.

And then, for some ungodly reason (probably because the fates loathe you) you feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to see him standing there in his stupid stupid stupid t-shirt, with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Alright?" he nods.

"Fine," you say, and it's such an effort to keep your eyes on his face instead of letting them wander over his body as they want to.

"Listen, Hannah's been bending my ear about doing a quick scout around for any dastardly rule-breakers. You coming?"

"Yeah, alright," you hear yourself say. You really don't know what it is about James bloody Potter that makes you so stupid.

"Cool," he grins. "Come on, then."

Almost immediately outside the Great Hall, you see a pair of Hufflepuffs in an alcove, smooching enthusiastically. James clears his throat loudly, and they leap apart like scalded cats. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing while James gives them a fairly mild telling off and tells them to be a bit more subtle.

You wander together through the corridors together, and you decide not to comment on the fact that he seems to be drifting away from the more obvious places, where people congregate during dances like this.

"You went to a lot of effort with that outfit, huh?" he asks suddenly, nudging you.

"Well if I could have gone home, I would have raided the extensive Muggle wardrobe my father keeps."

"Yeah, right," he laughs.

"Bloody Hufflepuffs," you grumble.

"I meant that you look good," he says casually.

"You, er - you too," you nod. "The shirt's a bit - "

"Yeah," he laughs. "It's my godbrother's, but he's such a lanky fucker I had to change the size. I think I might have gone a bit over the top."

"Maybe," you acknowledge, and he grins.

"Here," he says, pulling a silver flask seemingly from nowhere and waving it towards you.

"What's in that?"

"Butterbeer," he says, his look of wide-eyed innocence only just not believable.

"Butterbeer and?"

"Bit of Firewhiskey," he admits. "Hey look, if we have to spend the night prowling around looking for people snogging in corners, a stiff drink is the least we deserve."

You take the flask numbly from his hand. Snogging? Stiff? Is he trying to kill you? You take a quick drink, and feel the burn in the back of your throat. You suspect that the butterbeer to Firewhiskey ratio might be a bit different from what he implied.

"Tell you a secret?" he offers, and you nod, handing the flask back to him. It's always good to know a secret. "Didn't really need a tutor."

"Is that right?" you ask, glancing at him for long enough to see that he's looking at you steadily, before you look away again.

"Yeah," he nods. "I like you, Scorpius."

You bite your tongue for a minute, because there are so many different possible interpretations of that. He's stopped walking, you realise, and you turn to look at him, see that he's watching you almost as carefully as you're watching him. Maybe not that many interpretations... And why not, you wonder. Why not believe that he means what you want him to mean?

"You're not too bad yourself," you admit graciously and he laughs, shaking his head. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way he ends the laugh on a little sigh and looks at you... You wonder if this is what the Muggles call Dutch courage, and you lean forward, intending a soft, testing-the-waters kind of kiss, but his hand closes around the back of your neck, his fingers long and warm. The kiss becomes anything but gentle as he closes the distance between the two of you. He tastes of butterbeer with a twist of Firewhiskey, and his lips are as soft and perfect as they look. His tongue, when it glides over your lips seeking entrance that you grant readily, is hot and slick and clever, and you make an involuntary little noise, which he swallows down greedily. His hands settle on your waist, a lot more gently than the way he is assaulting your mouth, and you find yourself wishing he would grip you tighter, yank you closer until you can't feel anything but his body.

With a great gasping breath, James turns his head aside. His breathing is ragged and you decide to just go with the fucking moment and slide your hand up the warm skin of James's back beneath that damnable t-shirt.

"What - what - are you...?"

"Oh, be quiet, Potter."

"Wait, Scorpius, just - "

You can't bring yourself to think about Al right now and you know that must be the objection James is about to voice. I know how to shut you up , you think a bit wildly and pull James tighter against you, pressing the palm of your hand to the increasingly obvious bulge in his trousers.

"Nnnn - " James groans around his bitten lower lip. He's staring down at you with wide eyes and huge pupils. You don't dare take the risk of speaking so just concentrate on making short work of undoing James' button and zip. "Fuck, wait - "

You groan in frustration, fully expecting to be pushed away, so it is a pleasant surprise when he grabs your wrist and drags you towards the nearest doorway. He nudges the door open to reveal an empty classroom and before you can blink you find yourself slammed into the wall, James's hand groping roughly at your hip and thigh.

"Yes, that - " you breathe, choking off into silence when you feel James' thigh against the growing ache between your legs, an answering hardness pressed against your own leg.

"Fuck - fuck, you drive me mad..." he groans.

"Shut up."

"No, you - " James gasps, his hands thudding onto the wall on either side of your head, his breath coming in hot waves over your face as he nuzzles along your jaw line. "Fucking - pretty boy Malfoy," he breathes and, alright, it's not the first time you've heard that. It is the first time that it's caused a secret little thrill rather than a flush of annoyed embarrassment.

"Jjj - " you breathe, but it is more a gasp than any coherent attempt at saying James' name.

"Oh, you like that?" James says, laughing shakily, and biting round the shell of your ear before answering his own question. "Oh yeah, yeah, you like that," he says, with a particularly forceful thrust against you. "You gonna let me make you come, Malfoy?"

"If you think you can, Potter," you drawl, allowing your hands to wander down to his arse to pull him closer, and oh yes, that arse is just as perfect, just as squeeze-able as you have imagined.

James laughs into your hair, two shaky huffs of air before he makes a noise in his throat and dips his head closer, still haphazardly driving his hips into yours.

"Scorp - "

"James - yes - "

James fists one hand into your hair and tilts your head back, kissing you thoroughly, if a bit messily. He groans into your mouth, and you shudder at the sensation, letting your legs fall wider apart, letting yourself slide down the wall until you're basically straddling his thigh. Undignified, you think, in a voice a bit like your father's, and damn it why are you thinking of your father, however tangentially, at a time like this? Ridiculous. Unbec –

"Oh look at you," James whispers, lifting one hand to cup your cheek, incongruously gentle against the hard, perfectly calculated movements of his lower body. "Just look at you – getting all hot and bothered for me..."

You know you should be saying something, even if it's just to tell him to shut his stupid mouth but you can't, so you just turn your head to capture the tip of his thumb in your mouth. He lets you suck on it for a second, lets you run your teeth over it before he draws it back out of your mouth, swipes the now wet pad of his thumb across your lips before kissing you again.

You are really worryingly close and you try to take a deep breath, try to get yourself under control but it's impossible with his hands messily untucking your shirt to roam across your back, and his mouth closing on yours, his tongue dancing around your own, and Merlin, the fact that you can feel his cock against you, that you can tense your muscles and feel him react to the added pressure. No, you realise, suddenly horrified, there is no clawing back control now. There is no way that you're not going to come, because you've fancied him for a really long time, and he is everywhere. The feel, taste, smell of him is all around you and it is completely overwhelming. Sure enough, it only takes a few more calculated movements for you to lose it completely, and you tear your mouth away from his to bite his shoulder through the soft material of his t-shirt as you shudder against him.

You should be embarrassed. You should, possibly, hit him? No, maybe not that, you reflect. But Salazar's breath, you just came. In your stupid Muggle trousers, no less, and if you weren't still tangled up in him you might have a less-than-metaphorical go at kicking yourself. For a few bloody minutes, you'd had it. Him. James bloody Potter groaning and shaking, pressing a ragingly hard cock against your thigh, and then you went and ruined it by going off in your pants like a bloody kid. Fuck. Now he seems to have cottoned on and has gone totally still against you and bugger, he is probably going to laugh...

Or - not laugh. No, not laugh, you realise. That noise in your ear is not one of amusement, in fact it's probably closer to desperation, you realise. How brilliant is that? All you have to do to have James Potter falling apart at the seams and shaking and sighing and pleading is to let him make you come in your trousers like some witless 'Puff. Hard life...

He kisses your neck and wraps his arms around your waist.

"You just - just - oh, Scorpiusss - " he makes a brief noise of frustration before pulling back to look you in the eye for a second. "Your name is a fucking mouthful at a time like this, you know," he laughs, nuzzling along your jaw. "Help me out, eh, mate?" The desperation in his tone doesn't match the gentle way he kisses you then, bottom lip then top before licking his way into your mouth. It's almost sweet, and again not matched by the deliberate way he takes one of your hands in his, guides you to his jeans which are still undone from your earlier assault. That makes it so easy to slide your hand inside like this, and then after a second's worth of the heat of him through soft cotton, to shove your hand clumsily into his underwear like that.

You wrap your hand around his cock and he falls against you with a desperate little noise before resting his hands on the wall behind you, and you realise that he wants you - or maybe just this, but who cares, right? - so much that he can hardly stay on his feet.

"Now who's - who's hot and bothered?"

You mean to ask it coolly, laughingly, but he whines when you swipe your thumb over the weeping head of his prick, and the noise makes you stutter, finishing your question around a rather unmanly gasp. You stroke him slowly, delighted by the idea that you're able to tease him like this, and you turn your head to press your teeth against his neck, greedily inhaling the taste of his skin.

It only lasts a few moments before he grabs your wrist to hold you in place and drives himself back and forth through your fist a few times. He buries his face in your neck and the noise he makes when he comes is not far off being a sob. He breathes shakily into your ear, rests his whole weight onto you, and you are so taken with the feeling that it takes you a while to realise that he spilled himself on you.

"Look at this fucking mess, Potter," you say, trying for irritated but only managing to sound blissfully strung-out.

"Sorry," he says, sounding thoroughly unrepentant.

"Hmm..." you mutter dubiously.

"Scourgify," he says, tapping your shirt, and you vaguely wonder where he was keeping his wand. Then he tucks his fingertips into the belt of your trousers and tugs forward sharply, pressing the tip of his wand inside your clothes.

"Watch where you're pointing that thing!"

"Scourgify," he whispers again, and you wriggle at the sensation. He pockets his wand before his hands, still a bit shaky, go to his jeans to zip and button them. You can't help noticing that he hasn't moved away from you yet, and you can still feel the faint warmth rising through his now thoroughly rumpled t-shirt. "That was - "

"Probably really stupid," you finish for him.

"I was going to say unexpected. Brilliant," he rushes to add with a sudden bright grin, "but unexpected."

"Oh," you say, unsure what to make of that blinding smile so close to you. "You realise that...more people than I can count would kill one or both of us if this ever got out," you remind him.

"So it won't get out," he says a bit impatiently. "No big deal, Scorp."

"No one's called me that since I was thirteen," you point out.

"Well." He seems to cast about for something to say, a faint frown playing across his face. "Like I said, your name's awkward. Listen. Seriously though, that was - very - I mean..."

James is obviously trying to say something, and you unexpectedly feel the need to rescue him from his own incoherence. Maybe you can blame that on the afterglow.

"It was very good, James."

"Yes. We could - do it again," he suggests. "If you'd like."

"That?" you ask, raising one eyebrow.

"Well... That, or something similar," he amends. You can't help laughing and have another one of those mad Potter-related flares of rebellion.

"Alright."

"Yeah?"

"Why not?" you shrug, and he winks at you before glancing at his watch.

"Shit, it's getting late. Come on, we'd better go."

"Right," you nod, but you don't move for a minute and nor does he, just hovering in front of you, looking at you like he can't quite believe what you've been up to. Then he makes a noise that might be a snort of laughter before he places his hand gently on your face, thumb running over your cheekbone before kissing your forehead - forehead! Like you're some kind of kid - and ducking out of the room.

You spend the following weekend in Slytherin with Al, listening to him talking about a Ravenclaw girl called Lisa. You put up with his ramblings in a way you never have before, because you feel, in all honesty, horribly guilty. You manage to avoid James all weekend, and then, on Monday morning at breakfast, you can feel him watching you, but he doesn't cross the Great Hall or do anything really, other than just watch. It's the same when you see him again at lunch, and then Al hurries off to his Magical Creatures class without noticing a thing, leaving you with a free afternoon, a Transfiguration essay, and James' eyes boring into you. Eventually he leaves with his Gryffindor friends and you finally relax, lingering at the table for a last cup of tea.

You can't blame what happened on being drunk, because you'd only had a mouthful of his bloody concoction, and as far as you know, he didn't drink much more than you did. And that's problematic, because it leaves you with only one conclusion - that maybe he wants you the same way you want him. That wouldn't be a problem, shouldn't be a problem, but there is Albus to consider. And more than that, there is your father. He might have accepted Al as your friend (and secretly quite like him), and he might have (unexpectedly) accepted your sexuality, but you really can't imagine he would approve of you doing this with a Potter even once, let alone repeatedly. And you did both raise the possibility of doing it again, which - alright, you really, really want to, but it's an almost criminally stupid idea.

You try to reassure yourself with the thought that it was probably just words, probably just the post-orgasmic version of good manners. Suddenly the tea tastes bitter in your mouth and you push the cup away, grab your bag, and determine not to think about it anymore.

"Hello," says a voice from behind you when you are about halfway to the library, and your breath catches in your throat for a moment.

"Bloody hell, Potter."

"Nice to see you too," James says, falling into step beside you. "Where are you going?"

"Library."

"Oh. Why?"

"Because I have a free period and a Transfiguration essay," you tell him.

"You have your free and you're going to the library?"

"That's what they're for, James," you point out.

"No, that's just why we have them. They're for feeling smug that everyone else is learning, and taking advantage of the fact that the Professors are all occupied."

"Is that right? What are you doing, then?"

"I thought I might go flying."

"Well," you say, maybe a bit sharply but you're sick of this nothing conversation. And in all honesty, you have no idea how to act around him now. And you haven't forgotten that he kissed you on the forehead like a patronising wanker. "You go and fly, and I'll go to the library."

"I was suggesting that we could do something," he says, and you look at him curiously.

"No you weren't."

"Well - I meant to," he shrugs, looking completely unruffled. You don't know whether you like that a lot, or really hate it, but you find yourself looking at him out of the corner of your eyes in the silence that follows. He really is quite stupidly good looking. Tall and broad shouldered, dark haired, clear-skinned and brown eyed, and he just looks so - comfortable, somehow. In his own skin, or with the world, you're not sure, but somehow.

You're both still walking towards the library, but slower now.

"What are you doing?" you ask him eventually and he looks at you directly, confused and then almost irritated.

"I'm sorry, I thought you wanted to have some fun," he shrugs. "Let's just forget it, eh?"

He starts walking a bit faster, and you know he'll take the next left to go down the nearest flight of stairs and out to the Quidditch pitch. Fuck.

"Let's not," you say, catching up to him, and he looks at you with raised eyebrows. "Let's not forget it."

"Yeah?"

"Why not?" you shrug, and he smiles brilliantly.

"C'mere," he says, motioning with his head and you let him lead you off to another empty classroom, excitement building.

It goes on like that for weeks, months. It's worryingly easy to fall into a pattern with him. You always see each other on Monday afternoons, when Al is in Magical Creatures, and you and James both have frees. For a few weeks that's all it is, but then he starts waylaying you at other times, when you're doing rounds, either together or separately, or when you're supposed to be studying in the library. The increase in frequency doesn't seem nearly as big a change as the first time that it happens anywhere other than in a deserted room with the debris of lessons scattered around.

You've only been back from the Christmas break for a fortnight or so and you're on your way to meet him in the library for a so-called tutoring session when a first year Slytherin girl comes up to you holding a piece of paper.

"JamesPotteraskedmetogiveyouthis," the girl says in the jumbled rush of first years everywhere

"Thanks, Melanie," you nod, and she scurries off wide-eyed. You unfold the paper which turns out to be a perfectly ordinary note about a perfectly ordinary Prefects' meeting, apart from the post script. It is written right at the bottom of the page, so small you can barely make it out.

PS. Find me. Worth your while...

That's just bloody typical of him, really. For a moment you wonder – and you're honest enough to admit that it's purely hypothetical – how he would react if you just went to the library and got on with your day. Merlin's pants, Malfoy, he wouldn't give a damn, you tell yourself fiercely. And neither should you.

Nonetheless, you head outside. James seems to consider that a sunny day is a beautiful day, even if the temperature never gets above freezing and the snow has thawed just enough to re-freeze into sheets of glass on the grounds. Sure enough when you are sliding around on the front steps and cursing him softly under your breath, you hear him call out.

"Very graceful, Scorp."

No threats you can make seem to dissuade him from calling you that and you look about until you see him perched on a nearby wall.

"I hope your arse freezes to that wall, Potter," you grumble, edging down the stairs and across to him.

"No you don't," he laughs.

"Do. We need some new gargoyles around the place."

"Gargoyle, Adonis," James shrugs. "Thought you lot were cultured enough to tell the difference."

"Fuck off," you grouse, finally making it over to stand in front of him with your arms folded. "What do you want?"

He hops off the wall to stand in front of you, and there really isn't enough room between the two of you - no way would anyone observing this fail to think, at the very least, that you are standing a bit too close.

"What do you think I want?" he asks, edging his hand towards you and then seeming to think better of it and twiddling with the sleeve of his robes.

"Your one track mind makes this game a lot less fun," you tell him lightly, huddling into yourself to try to stay warm.

"You want to, then?" he asks, a bit over-eager, maybe, but what the hell, it's flattering.

"Obviously not here, Potter," you say as scathingly as you can manage, trying not to shiver in the cold.

"Well, obviously. Library?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"No, I suppose not," he concedes. "Prefects' bathroom?"

"Better not. I think Marcus has got a free."

"Marcus?"

"Prefect. Ravenclaw. You do rounds with him once a week, James," you remind him.

"Oh, right! Bugger. Er – well. Gryffindor's usually pretty empty at this time of day."

"Pretty empty?"

"Dorm's always completely empty."

"Well - "

"Scared?" James asks.

"You wish," you laugh, still grinning when he leans in and kisses you lightning fast.

"Now are you scared?"

"Now I'm pretty pissed off," you lie. "Move it, come on."

You turn away towards the steps but he squeezes you around the waist.

"Don't be pissed off," he says beseechingly, and you can feel him breathing on your hair, Merlin that is weird. He is completely and utterly weird.

"Get off, Potter," you say, shrugging him away and glancing around nervously. "Don't touch me like that out here."

"Merlin, what a prude," he snickers. "Come on, then." He sticks fairly close on the way up the steps, but makes sure not to touch you. He looks at you with the hint of a smile. "You're very snappy today."

"I don't like the cold," you tell him, not even sure why you feel the need to explain. He tuts at you and taps you with his wand, casting a gentle warming charm. "Thanks," you say, at the same time as he speaks.

"Idiot - oh, sorry, I mean - that's alright."

You barely notice the walk up to Gryffindor tower, because he is so busy regaling you with tales of the Gyrffindor team's fairly disastrous new keeper. You do notice that the common room is only mostly deserted, but that no one questions James as the two of you head for one of the flights of stairs.

And you were right, he is acting weird. He locks the door with a wordless spell while you shrug out of your robes and drape them over a chair. He sits you down on his bed, taking your wrists in his hands before kissing you slowly. He moves back a little and starts undoing the buttons on your shirt, keeping his face close to yours, running the tip of his nose over your cheek.

"Cold nose," you object and he spreads your shirt across your shoulders.

"Mmm," he mumbles, burying his nose in your neck.

"Agh - " you choke out, shivering in the cold air as he whips your shirt away.

"Cold?"

"I just told you that!"

"Here - wait a second," James says, standing up, pulling you to your feet. He dispenses with the slow game of undressing you, tugging you forward by your trousers to kiss you again. He shoves them down your legs and you kick off your shoes, watching as he whips the sheets down on his bed. You pause for a second, but dive into the sheets after a moment.

"Are these heated?" you demand, gathering them tightly around you and relaxing. "Bloody Gryffindor favouritism..."

"House Elves and Potters," James shrugs, undoing a few buttons before pulling his shirt over his head. "You know how that is."

"Lucky bastard."

"I know," James grins. "Budge up, come on."

Almost reluctantly, you release your hold on the sheets and brave the swirl of cold air before his body slides along yours. His fingers and toes are cold, but the rest of him is so hot.

"Well," he says settling down close alongside you. "This is different."

And it is, lying down in a little cocoon of warmth with him while his hand wanders over your chest and his lips linger on your neck. He walks two fingertips across your ribs and up your side. Unable to bear thinking about it, you roll onto your side to face him, pulling him close and pressing your thigh between his legs. He kisses you and slides his fingers into your hair before pushing you onto your back and leaning over you.

"How many times d'you think I can bring you off before people start getting back from class?"

"James!"

"What?" he laughs, his fingers wandering over your thighs. "Alright, how's this: however many times I can make you come now, that's how many consecutive days you have to suck me off."

"Are you joking?"

"No."

"Do you have to make everything a competition?" you ask, genuinely curious.

"Why, yes," he grins. "Since you ask. I find it helps."

"Helps what?" you demand.

"Just helps," he shrugs with a grin. "You know, in general."

"You're an idiot," you inform him, but you can't help laughing.

"So they tell me. Are you game, Scorp?"

"Well - alright. No spells," you add hastily, because it really wouldn't be beyond the capabilities of his wicked little mind to have found some ridiculous spell leaving you with a month's worth of blowjobs to give him.

"Nope," he grins, rolling on top of you, hovering slightly until he lines up your pricks perfectly and settles his weight on you with a satisfied hum. With one hand worming between your bodies, he strokes both of you as well as he can. "A little help?"

"Oh no. I believe the terms of the agreement were that you make me come," you point out.

"You're such a brat," he says, but he laughs into your neck around the words before abandoning his own prick to stroke yours smoothly, his grip tight enough to have you groaning into his mouth when he kisses you. His thumb slides over the head of your cock slick-smooth, and he sucks on your lip. You decide not to think too deeply about how he is acting, and to think even less about the way that it makes you feel.

It's three times in the end, and James comes up with three days' worth of excuses to help you fulfil your end of the bargain. Maybe this does improve when you make it into a competition, because you have an awful lot of fun with him. He goes out of his way to make you smile, and when you're alone together he is completely attentive, not to mention talented.

Al takes up with Lisa on a more serious, permanent looking basis in around April, and it makes it a lot easier for you to sneak off and see James. Weekends are the best, because there are only two other seventh year Gryffindor boys, and they are both easy for James to persuade or bribe into being absent until late afternoon. It still takes some guts for you to walk into the Gryffindor common room, but James has a curious little dash of Slytherin cunning mixed in with his Gryffindor impulsiveness, and you don't think you've ever been spotted by anyone who would mention it.

You can't remember ever having this much fun. James is enthusiastic and passionate, and seems to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in reducing you to an incoherent puddle. And, alright, there are downsides, but they're not really bad enough to make you consider stopping. It's things like this, though: you realise you're having to stop yourself looking round when anyone says his name. When he sits with you and Al for breakfast on an occasional morning, he smiles at you too warmly, too secretly, too much like the way he smiles when you're alone together. A few times, you've heard yourself talking about him, saying 'James says...' or 'James did...', and you worry about that too. Do you do it a lot? Are you obvious?

And then there's Al. He knows you're tutoring James for Ancient Runes, has known from the start, and his only response has been to take the piss out of his brother for needing help from someone in the year below. You cling to the fact that he still does so occasionally, because if Al knew, or if he even suspected, he would say, you are sure of that much. So yes, there are downsides and once or twice you have come a little too close for comfort to getting caught. But why should you stop? You like it. You don't want to stop, and it is not as though anyone is taking advantage of anyone else. You are just having some fun...

With someone who happens to be your best friend's brother. But you don't really think of it that way, anymore. It's not as though you're in denial about the fact that they are related, but you don't think of James as Al's brother anymore. You're not quite sure how you think of him, or what you think of him, but you want him, and you see no point in denying that to yourself. Or to James, in fact, seeing as he has had irrevocable proof of your desire more times than you care to count.

One sunny Saturday morning a few weeks before James' N.E.W.T.s are due to start, Al announces he's going to Hogsmeade with Lisa, and your thoughts immediately turn to James. He agrees to stay indoors with a put-upon sigh as though you're keeping him from something wonderful and forcing him to do lines, rather than to have some fun. When you turn around from locking the door to the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, you catch him staring out of the window at the bright blue sky and chuck a pillow at his head.

"Something you'd rather be doing?" you ask, and he laughs.

"Is it a blond thing?" he asks, turning away from the window. "Or a pale thing?"

"What?" you demand, folding your arms across your chest and glaring at him as he walks across the room to you, still grinning.

"Your complete aversion to direct sunlight," he says. "Or - maybe you're part vampire?"

"Growing up with your brother and doing this with you has given me an entirely healthy terror of freckles."

"Funny, you seem to like the ones on my shoulders," he says, and you hide your discomfiture. How does he know that?

"You're such a - "

"Yeah, shut up, now," James demands and for once, you do as he tells you, looking up at him and wrapping both arms around his waist. His raised eyebrows and slightly curled lip say, well?, just as clearly as though he'd spoken the word and you snap yourself conscious from the reverie of staring at warm brown eyes through thick black lashes. He presses closer and lowers his head just as you raise yourself onto tiptoe to meet him halfway and kiss him passionately. You nip at his lower lip and let him walk you back towards his bed. He pushes at your shoulders and you sit down heavily on the edge of the mattress. He just stands for a moment looking down at you but then he pulls his white t-shirt over his head and drops it on the floor and your mouth goes dry.

It doesn't make any sense that he seems to have more of an effect on you every time you see that perfect skin of his. You aren't entirely sure what you're doing together anymore. It had started - and you still aren't sure exactly how, other than a mutual moment of madness - out of convenience and a sort of mutual respect or acceptance. And, alright, your ridiculous crush on him might have played a role. Now though - you don't know for definite, but a convenience shouldn't make it hard to breathe, surely? The sight of a convenient body stripping naked shouldn't make your hands shake, and mutual respect shouldn't be enough to snatch the words from your throat.

You raise your palms to James' back, pressing into the warm skin under your fingertips to steady your hands, and guide him gently forward until he gives in and kneels astride your thighs. He hovers frustratingly out of reach until you tighten your grip and fall back onto the bed, taking him with you, letting his greater bulk push you down into the mattress. His hands come to rest on the pillow, one either side of your head and he looks down at you for a long moment as though he wants to say something. Instead, he bends his neck and kisses you fiercely. Given some of the things you've done together, it shouldn't be so satisfying just to kiss him, to feel his tongue slick against your own, to both hear and feel him whisper nonsense into your mouth. It is though, it is satisfying, and more than that. You feel like you could just do this for hours, just kiss his soft mouth and touch his warm skin. With that thought in mind, you run your hands up James' back, just barely touching him. Then down again, pressing more firmly, feeling the give and resistance of his muscles this time, murmuring appreciatively into his mouth.

"Mmm, Scorp," he purrs and you tighten your grip but he wriggles out of your hold and kneels above you, his eyes flickering between his hands and your mouth as he undoes your trousers and tugs them down with a little assistance. You kick them off your legs and sit half upright to pull your shirt off and toss it into the corner of the room. By the time you turn back to him he's shucked his own clothes as well and is kneeling on the bed waiting for you.

You're expecting one of the flying leaps he's so good at, so when he just holds out one hand towards you, you're a bit taken aback. You set your hand in his though, and let him pull you close, unable to completely stop a flinch of surprise when he cups your cheek in his free hand. He searches your face for a long moment before he kisses you, and you can't help wondering what was looking for, or if he found it.

The kiss is slow and gentle and sweet, as though this is the first time you've ever touched each other. A bit odd, maybe, but you go along with it because you don't think you've ever kissed someone quite like this. Completely naked for a start, but exchanging only those long, slow kisses, with no movement towards anything else. It's as though, in spite of everything that's on offer to you – and what's on offer is undeniably gorgeous – kissing is now somehow an end in itself. It's not a prologue to any kind of main event, it's not something you do to stop yourself screaming the bloody castle down when you come. It's just something you do because it is good all on its own.

He does stop the long string of kisses after a while, moving back to look at you, a strange half-frown, half-smile on his face as though you are amusing and confusing and a tiny little bit frightening all at once. His hand finally drops away from your face, but not before two fingers trace the line of your jaw, and trip a path down the side of your throat. His hand finally comes to rest on your hip, and he shuffles a little closer.

You lean forward this time, and you can't help pressing a bit harder into this kiss, running you hand roughly through his mop of dark hair. He sighs at that and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you down to the bed with him, and he tugs you over to lie half on top of him. You run a hand up his chest and as you kiss him once more you brush your thumb over his nipple. He arches closer with a groan at that, and you take the opportunity to deepen your kiss, searching in his mouth for an unsullied taste of him. He groans again and tightens his arms around you, kissing back just as eagerly for a minute before he turns his head away, hands still groping at your back as if to reassure you. He seems to deliberately slow his breathing, and his hands fall still at the small of your back before he rolls you over easily until you're both lying on your sides, facing each other. He leans in, and it seems you're back to those slow, lingering kisses, but you decide not to object because, well, in all honesty, it's extremely nice.

His hand moves over your side and across your chest, and you can't help smiling into the kiss as he slides his leg in between yours and runs his hand down your side, closing his fingers around your hip for a moment. You tangle your fingers into his hair in response and lean forward, kissing him again as his hand slides around from your hip to circle your cock.

"James - "

"Shh," he breathes, kissing your neck and curling his free hand around the back of your neck and running his thumb through the fine hairs at your nape. "Mmm," he murmurs, pressing a line of kisses down your throat and across your collarbone before he draws back a little and presses his forehead against yours to look down between your bodies at where his hand is setting up a slow stroking rhythm. You watch with him for a moment, groaning when he squeezes and twists his hand and reaching for his body with your own hands. You stroke each other slowly, and he keeps going still and backing off just as you are on the edge, kissing you down from your high and calming you until you can breathe steadily again.

"You're a complete tease," you tell him, after the third time you've nearly come.

"I want - " he says around another kiss. "I could keep doing it for hours..."

"Fucking hell, I couldn't," you laugh and he snorts, pressing his face close to yours and kissing your cheekbone, your temple, the paper-thin skin under your eye.

"Race you," he offers, nuzzling his nose down the side of your face and you laugh, nodding. He presses his forehead to yours again and you both turn your eyes downwards, your own gaze locking onto the sight of your hand moving over him as his hips judder and jolt minutely back and forth. He presses his free hand to the small of your back and you move your hand faster, feeling the hot wash of his breath against your face as he pants for air.

"Harder," you groan, and he complies, his hand all but flying along your length now, his eyes squeezing shut as he presses his forehead harder into yours.

"K - kiss," he stutters out. "Gimme a - " And you lunge forward, capturing his mouth again, and pressing your eyes tight shut as his fist tightens around your cock, his thumb pressing slickly against the head and you breathe in against his mouth as you come with colours bursting behind your eyes. You keep moving your hand sluggishly now, and he kisses you over and over, slow and hot, his tongue returning again and again to trace the shape of your lower lip before he spills himself over your hand and you both fall still.

He kisses you twice more before giving a massive, blissful sounding sigh and rolling over to flop onto his back. You slump down onto your front and for a minute you let yourself bury your face in his pillow and breathe in, absorbing the smell of him. His fingertips trace a line down your spine and when you start to sit up a few moments later, he reaches out and grabs your arm, pulling you back down.

"Stay for a bit," he requests, and you find yourself nodding, laying down next to him again and smiling as he pats your back twice. He seems to be content with the silence, and so are you until you take a sidelong glance at him and see that he is watching you unabashedly. After that you start groping around for something to say.

"You'll be finished with school, soon," you observe, glancing at him again.

"Yeah," he nods. "You jealous?"

"Of course," you say with a small smile. "Are you going to play Quidditch?"

"Yeah," he says. "Cannons first, probably."

"I beg your pardon?" you demand incredulously, because he is bloody good. Certainly too good for the Cannons. "Do tell me you're joking."

"Shut up, they're not that bad," James says defensively, shoving at you.

"I could probably get a game for the Cannons if I turned up with a broom less than ten years out of date," you tell him, capturing his hand mid-shove and squeezing it to soften the blow.

"Well," James shrugs. "It's a family thing, you know."

"But - Al makes it sound like most of the major clubs in the league are after you."

"Really? He's exaggerating," James says, shrugging again. "Just a few of them."

"And yet you're going for the Cannons."

"Probably," he stresses. "I haven't decided anything yet."

"Well, who do you want to play for?" you ask, out of idle curiosity more than anything else. You sit up and summon discarded clothes from around the room, separating yours from his and dropping his onto his chest.

"I'm not that fussed, to be honest," he shrugs. "Just want a career out of it, you know?"

"And the best place you can think of to start this career is with the Cannons?"

"Well – "

"Alright, of the teams who've expressed an interest, which would you rather play for?"

"Tornados," he says, and he starts wriggling into his jeans but it seems it's just all too much effort because he slumps back down onto the bed with the zip still open.

"So play for the Tornados," you shrug, and he laughs and throws his t-shirt at your head.

"If only everything was that simple, huh?" he asks, nudging your back with his foot.

"Most things are, if you phrase the relevant facts in the right way," you tell him, tossing his shirt back, and he laughs again.

"Are you giving me Slytherin lessons now?"

"You seem to need them."

"Maybe... I could teach you to be a Gryffindor instead," he suggests.

"Think you've done that pretty well this year," you tease him. "'Reckless and stupid', that's the House motto, isn't it?"

"That's right. And 'sneaky snot-nosed brats only' is yours."

"Right in one," you nod, laughing when he grabs you by the waistband of the trousers you've just done up and yanks you forward so you fall into another kiss.

"We should be more reckless," he says, or you think that's what he says, but you don't really take that much notice until he moves away and looks at you seriously, his full lower lip caught between his teeth. You match his stare for a long drawn-out moment and you know it's petty to be so annoyed when you crack first.

"Alright, what?" you demand.

"What, what?" he asks and you frown at him.

"Why are you being all coy?"

"I'm not being coy, you idiot. I just - when I leave," he says uncertainly. "What - what'll we - I mean, I suppose we won't be seeing each other anymore."

"Oh," you say, stumped. "I hadn't really thought about it," you tell him honestly. "If - if you want, I suppose."

"If I want what?" he asks.

"To not - I don't know," you shrug.

"Scorpius?"

"...James?"

"This seems - different lately," he says warily, and relief floods you that he said it first.

"It does," you say, as neutrally as you can manage, not sure where the fluttering uncertainty in your throat has come from.

"I want," he says, taking a narrow glance at you. "I'd like to see you still," he says. "If you want."

"But - " you say, biting your lip. "I'm not saying no but, how? We'd see each other - what? Every couple of months?" you ask, trying to ignore the unexpected plummeting feeling in your stomach at the thought.

"I - I suppose," James says, looking troubled.

"Right," you nod, closing your mouth tightly for a moment. Then you look at James and, gently as you can, ask, "For this?"

"You...don't like this?" James asks warily.

"Of course I like it, stupid," you say, as scathingly as you can manage. "It just seems that if this is all it is, it's a bit ridiculous for you to go from Tutshill to Hogsmeade every couple of months."

"Chudley," he corrects. "Probably. Wait, what are you saying?" he asks.

"I'm saying - " you look away from him, because it seems to be the only way you can keep your voice level. "That if this is just a fuck, then I'm sure we could both find something a lot closer to home, come next year."

"Is that what you want?" he asks. "Is that what we're doing here? Just fucking?"

"I – I'm not sure," you say honestly, and it takes quite a lot to admit that.

He's clearly a true Gryffindor, because he barely pauses before he speaks.

"I'd like to carry on."

"Me too," you admit.

"We could just do it properly," he offers, and you're not quite sure what to make of that so you just keep quiet for now. "I mean you could be my...boyfriend, or whatever," he says as though he's (rightfully) embarrassed by his own words.

"Oh, I could, could I?" you ask archly, and he flushes delightfully.

"I didn't mean it like - "

"Lucky me, eh?"

"Stop dicking about," he says. "D'you want to or not?"

"I'd rather be your whatever than your boyfriend," you tease.

"Shut up. I meant – you know what I meant."

"Do I?" you ask. "You don't seem to."

"Well, I - I don't know," he protests. "I've never done this before!" You hike an eyebrow, not sure what he means by that. "Not like this," he says, waving a hand between the two of you for emphasis. "Not where it needs words," he finishes, not meeting your eyes.

"We could – carry on," you fill in, unable to stand much more of this painfully awkward line of conversation, and he nods.

"I could...write you letters," he suggests, and you raise an eyebrow. "Shut up," he says. "I've never known anyone quite as completely fucking infuriating as you."

"You're not doing yourself any favours with that kind of talk," you point out.

"Scorpius," he says seriously, and you relent.

"We can carry on," you say again. "And you can write to me from Tutshill."

"Chudley. Probably," he corrects you, and when you take a look at him, he's biting his lip as though he's trying to hold in the smile that's nonetheless evident on his face.

"We'll see about that."

"Why are you so set on the Tornados, anyway?"

"I'm a fan. Our third chaser's terrible. You're not."

"Oh, I see now," he laughs. "I see what you're doing here."

"That's right," you nod, letting him kiss you again, telling yourself that this doesn't change anything, doesn't even really mean anything. All it is, really, is a way to guarantee that you'll see each other at least a few more times after he graduates. It's not as though you're entering into some sort of long term arrangement, and...well, while doing it properly might mean you can't do things with other people, it's not as though you have been, anyway. You've nothing to lose by agreeing to a request that changes nothing. Besides, what it comes down to is that you want to. You really, really want to.

It does change one thing, though. He contrives to spend more time with you, and not just when you are doing things. When you're studying in the library - honestly studying, not waiting for him - he occasionally parks himself opposite you with a pile of books. He'll grin at you, maybe nudge your foot under the table a little more than is appropriate, but generally get on with his work in relative silence.

The other thing is that his N.E.W.Ts start, and apparently there are some things that fluster even the unflappable James Potter, because he is distinctly different for those couple of weeks. He's quiet and distracted and once, he corners you while you're on your rounds to drag you into a classroom, and you feel an increasingly familiar stab of excitement. However, instead of a quick fumble, or even just a kiss, he boosts himself up onto a table and pulls you closer to stand between his legs. He puts his arms around your waist and his forehead on your shoulder and just sits there for a long moment.

"What's the matter?" you ask eventually and he shrugs, leaning back on his hands.

"Nothing," he says. "Just – I have an Astronomy exam to fail in three hours, and I wanted a hug."

"You wanted a hug?" you ask, unable to completely clear the smirk from your face in time. He does it for you though, and very effectively, with his next words.

"Actually I wanted to fuck you through the nearest flat surface, but I'll take what I can get," he says, and then looks as though he's surprised himself.

It's not like you haven't thought about it before now, and quite extensively too, so you can't work out why his words have such an immediate and intense effect on you. You lick your suddenly dry lips, and he evidently mistakes your hesitation for reticence or offence or something, because he starts backtracking.

"Not – I mean – I didn't mean to say it like that," he offers. "Sorry."

"No, I just – " you clear your throat. "I haven't done that before."

"Oh," he says, eyes widening just a bit, and you think he actually looks pleased. "We don't have to," he says, and you give him a look. "Right. Obviously. I mean, you know that already, don't you? I just meant that I don't mind if - "

"We can," you interrupt, because as gratifying as it may be to make him babble, it's twice as good to be able to shut him up completely. "If you want."

He blinks a few times and stares a bit incredulously at you. "You - you serious?" he asks.

"Yeah," you nod. "You're reasonably competent at other things so..."

"Reasonably competent," he scoffs. "You can't get enough."

"You've a very high opinion of yourself, Potter."

"Not as high as yours'll be by the time I'm finished with you," he says, with an exaggerated leer.

"We'll see."

"When will we see?" he asks eagerly

"When exams are over?" you suggest. "Give you an incentive not to throw yourself off the astronomy tower tonight."

"Deal," he says. "Exams are over at one on Thursday. Watch your back, Malfoy."

"They're over on Friday at four," you counter. "Transfiguration practical. And then I'm planning to sleep 'til lunch on Saturday, and then there's a party that night."

"Party?"

"In Slytherin. You wouldn't be invited."

"I would be if you invited me," James points out.

"Al would kill me. Or you."

"Both, probably," he shrugs. "I imagine me first, though. He's been looking for an excuse for years, the sneaky little Slytherin."

"Oi," you chastise, pulling on a messy clump of his hair.

"Present company excepted," he says, squeezing his legs around your waist in apology.

"Well actually," you say. "Don't be so quick to discount the sneaky side. Al has asked me to make myself and everyone else scarce on Sunday."

"What? Why?"

"Lisa," you say, as though that should explain everything.

"Ahh, the lovely Lisa," he grins. "Is my little bro going to score? Second thoughts, I don't think I want to know."

"Ah, leave him alone," you say, shaking your head. "Sunday?"

"Sunday," he nods, leaning forward and kissing you briefly.

"You're not going to fail Astronomy," you state matter-of-factly when you move away. "Just remember the big one's called the moon."

"Har-har," he says dryly. "It's a new moon tonight, Scorp, that's the whole point."

"Well, never mind," you say. "You're still not going to fail."

"Thanks," he grins, and jumps down from the table, kissing you once more.

"Go on, go to the library or something," you say, pushing him away and he just laughs, squeezing your hand before ducking out of the room.

You can't help smiling once he's gone and you carefully wipe it clear before you step back out into the corridor to complete your rounds. It wouldn't do to be seen wandering around the school in a blissful haze, especially when, deep inside, you would know (even if no one else would) that tonight at least, he hasn't done anything other than kiss you a few times, and that's all it takes to get you so excited and stupid.

Excited seems to be the theme for the rest of the week. Several times, you catch his eyes on you from across the room and you have to look away because his stare is hot, and you can feel it trailing over you even when you turn your head. You must remember this technique in future, because you barely notice your end of year exams beyond the usual last minute scramble to compare facts with Al, and triple checking your wand movements before Charms.

True to your word, you fulfil the end-of-exam tradition by trekking down to the dungeons with Al after your Transfiguration practical, exchanging jokes. From there you go straight through the common room to the dorms where you each dig out a sizeable stash of sweets and sprawl on your beds chatting and eating and eventually falling asleep early.

Then, on Saturday, Al persuades you to go down to the lake. By mid-morning there are dozens of students on the shore of the lake, some actually paddling in the water. You find the shade of a tree and linger there with Al and Lisa and a few of your classmates.

You hear their voices first, loud and raucous, and occasionally raised in song. They're behind you, and you can't really turn and look. It's one of those things, though. You probably could turn and look; they're being loud enough that you're sure everyone else is looking. If you weren't doing things with James, you wouldn't think twice about looking. As it is you feel weirdly awkward, and you have to judge by Al's expression. He rolls his eyes and deliberately looks away, so you know James must be doing something ridiculous. It surprises you, how much you want to turn and see. Then there is an almighty splash from the lake, and you can't help turning at that, to see two of James' friends with their wands out, howling with laughter as James swims back from several hundred metres into the lake. You snort with laughter and Al pokes you in the back with his toes.

"Don't laugh, it encourages him," he says, and you feel an abruptly guilty flush. Normally you don't feel guilty, as such. You've felt bad, the times you've had to lie to Al, but you usually avoid that by being so careful that you don't have to tell a lie. You make sure he is disinterested, and he will have no reason to ask questions that you'd have to answer with lies.

Now you do feel guilty, but it's for the lies, for the deception, not for the act. You watch as James hauls himself out of the water and collapses onto his back on the shore, laughing and gasping for breath, and you can't help remembering the times you have been the one to make him look that way. You deliberately turn away from the sight, but you can't bring yourself to feel bad for owning those memories of him, breathless, secret, perfect memories.

"What are you doing this summer, Scorpius?" Lisa asks and you smile at her, grateful for the distraction.

"Nothing too definite, yet," you tell her. "I usually spend some time in Italy with my mother's family."

"Oh, are your family Italian?" she asks, looking interested.

"No," you laugh, looking down at your own pale skin. "They moved there when I was a baby."

"Lisa's dad is from Italy," Al tells you, for approximately the seven hundredth time.

"Oh, really?" you ask, feigning both interest and surprise.

"Si," Al says and you give him a curious look. "She's teaching me Italian."

"How nice," is what you eventually settle for, because you can't make the comment you'd like to about how she's teaching him something quite different. Not when she's sitting right there, anyway.

"Oh god," Al mutters, and you wonder for a moment if you didn't sound sincere enough. The you realise that Al and Lisa are both looking over your shoulder, and you turn your head just in time to see James jogging up to the three of you.

"Hi!" he says brightly, stopping between you and Al. He leans over his brother and shakes his head, showering Al with water from his hair.

"James!" Al protests, kicking James' ankle. "Piss off."

"'Congratulations on finishing your N.E.W.T.s, brother dearest, I am so proud.' 'Thank you, Albus, I'm glad dad messed up the contraception spell, you're not totally rubbish.' How difficult would that have been?" James says.

"Well done," Al says grudgingly, and you can't help chipping in.

"Yes, well done," you nod, and James gives you the briefest flash of a smile.

"Thanks, lads. Doing anything this weekend, baby brother?"

"Yes," Al says. "And before you ask, none of your business."

"Ahhh," James nods. "What about you, Blondie?" he asks, turning to look at you. "Got a girl stashed away somewhere?"

You could murder him, you really, really could. You could hate him, if you didn't already...not hate him.

"No," you say.

"Ah. Never mind, eh? Hey, Al," he says, turning back to his brother. "Make plans for the second weekend of the holidays, alright?"

"What? Why?"

"Annual Awkward Reunion," James says, and Al shudders.

You look away to give them some semblance of privacy, but you know that story anyway, or at least the basics of it, learned from Al, rather than James. When they were younger there had been an almighty family bust-up, something to do with the godbrother, a cousin, and a break-up (or a jilting, apparently, depending on whose version of events you believe). As a result of the ensuing schisms and rows, there was only ever a complete family gathering once a year, and the date is kept among the adults as long as possible so the kids can't wriggle out of it. The animated way Al tells his convoluted family stories is always guaranteed to make you laugh, even if the details sometimes escape you - it is such a sharp contrast to your own, tiny, self-contained little family.

"How'd you find out when it is?" Al asks James.

"Good old Uncle Charlie," James says, and you can hear the grin in his voice, even if you aren't looking.

"Brilliant. Scorpius?"

"Hmm?" you ask, turning back.

"Second weekend of summer. You free?"

"As far as I know," you nod.

"Brilliant," Al says gratefully. "You can be my alibi. What about you, James?"

"Not sure," James shrugs. "Last minute appointment to view a flat, maybe?"

"Canny," Al nods. "Given how much mum and dad want your sorry arse out of the house. What about Lil?"

"Already told her. She's going to some Muggle thing with Annabel's family."

"Nice one," Al says, nodding again.

"Won't your parents notice if you all miraculously have plans?" you ask.

"Nah. Mum thinks getting away with stuff is part of growing up, and dad's mostly just clueless, bless him," James shrugs. "Right, we're going to Hogsmeade," he says, nodding towards his friends, who are still messing around on the shore. "See you later." He looks at Al as he says those last words, but you can't help thinking he's talking to you.

By the time Sunday finally comes, you are more than ready for it, and only partly because of James and all the promises he's been making with his eyes. Partly you just need to get out of the bloody dorm and away from Al's twitching and muttering about bloody Lisa. For all that you're best friends, Al is intensely private about certain things, even with you, so he's not actually said that he's planning to deflower his blushing Ravenclaw today, but even if it hadn't been obvious in the nervous way he's been talking about this day for weeks, the bunch of flowers you caught him hiding behind his bed curtains this morning would definitely have made you certain. You're pleased for him, of course, you just really don't want to hear about it. So once you've finally reached your limit, at about ten in the morning, you head out of the common room and decide to head for the library.

Of course, you know the Potters have an invisibility cloak. You've seen Al disappear under it countless times, have even done the same yourself on a few occasions, but you still can't help a yelp of surprise when James' disembodied head appears in front of you in the corridor just along from the entrance to your common room.

"James! For crying out loud!" you protest, but he's already laughing.

"Oh - oh, your face," he wheezes.

"Shut up," you snap. "And put that thing back on properly, I am not getting caught up in the fall-out of someone seeing your bloody head floating in the corridor."

"Alright, alright," he says, and there's a flurry of movement before he's completely gone again.

"How long have you been loitering outside our common room?" you demand.

"Long enough," he says.

"Stalking me?" you enquire.

"Waiting for you," he corrects. "It's caring."

"It's frightening." you inform him. Although not, you reflect privately, as frightening as the fact that you are willing to do something so irritating as holding a conversation with an invisible person. Salazar help you, but there is just something about him you cannot resist.

"Anyway," he says pointedly. "I think I found somewhere for us to go."

"Yeah?" you ask, unable to deny that your interest has been captured. "Where is it?"

"A few flights up," he says. "Just follow me."

You glare at where you think he's standing and say, as scathingly as you can manage, "You're invisible, James. How am I meant to follow you?"

"Oh, right," he says. Then there's a ripple in the air and the cloak is hanging half off him. "Come here," he says, gesturing for you to join him under the cloak.

"It's too small - "

"Trust me," he says, reaching out and yanking you forward, swishing soft material over you just as a three girls come around the corner. He puts one hand over your mouth and silently walks you back towards the wall, and the girls continue without ever pausing in their conversation.

"Did this thing just grow?" you whisper, once the girls are out of earshot.

"You tell me," he says, giving you an over-the-top leer.

"Pervert. Did it?"

"Yes," he admits after a pause. "You mustn't tell anyone though, not even Al. If dad finds out we've been experimenting on it he'll go mad."

"We?"

"Me and Teddy. Oh - he's my godbrother. And your some-sort-of-cousin I think, actually."

"And you experiment on this thing?" you demand, half-turning away from him to examine the cloak properly from the inside.

"We're careful," he says, and standing this close you can feel his half-shrug. When you turn to look at him incredulously, he amends that to, "Well, Teddy's careful. Come on, let's go."

"Wait," you say, and slide your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him, long and slow, until he's panting against your mouth, one of his hands fisted in your shirt.

"Gonna - Gonna drop the cloak," he warns breathlessly, and you give him a last hard kiss on the lips before moving away a little.

"Where is this place, anyway?" you ask, taking hold of the cloak and helping him to keep it in place over both of you.

"Just a little room I found," he says. "It's off a side corridor, and it doesn't have the usual dampening spells on the door so I can set wards and stuff."

The room turns out to be little more than a large, empty storage room, housing a single large armchair and a small table. You can imagine this as some forgotten Professor's little hideaway from students and faculty alike, and as he locks and wards the door, you turn to look at him.

"We're not doing it in a chair," you object.

"We've done things in chairs before," he points out.

"Let me rephrase that. You are not fucking me for the first time in, on, or bent over a chair."

"Right. Okay. Of course," he nods. "Hang on, then." A few minute's worth of wand-work later, he has transfigured the armchair into a double bed.

"Not bad," you concede.

He takes your hand and pulls you to sit down on the bed next to him, starting to kiss you somewhere along the way.

"What d'you want to do?" he asks, surprising you.

"I thought we were going to..."

"Well yeah, but - which way round d'you want, is what I'm getting at."

"Huh?"

"Merlin's beard, Scorp, get it together. Are you getting fucked, or am I?"

"Oh - " you groan, unable to hold back the noise. You've genuinely never thought about that, just assumed he'd want to do it to you first, but oh, the idea of it... "Can - I can fuck you?" you check.

"If you want," he says. "Whatever you want. Provided we get on with it," he adds heavily.

"I think - I want that," you stammer out. "I want to fuck you."

"Right," he nods, cupping the back of your neck and drawing you into a quick kiss. "Get your kit off, then, and stop looking like I'm about to hex you."

"Oh, shut up," you grumble, annoyed that he's not only noticed, but also chosen to comment on your faltering.

"I'll be quiet," he says. "Just - here, let me."

His hands go to the buttons on your shirt, parting the first few before you push his hands back towards him and undo your shirt yourself. You drop it onto the floor for want of anywhere better to put it, and his follows quickly, tossed over your shoulder. He wriggles out of his trousers as well, but before he throws them aside, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a tube of lubricant, which he hands to you.

"Always prepared, eh, James?"

"Are you joking? I've been thinking about this all week," he admits, and you can't help smiling at that. He smiles back and kisses you just once, on the lips, before laying down, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at you, his legs falling open.

"Have you - before?" you ask, looking down at him for a moment, almost struck dumb by his utter ease and confidence.

"A few times," he shrugs, and you nod, relieved. Enough experience to help you out if you get stuck, but not really enough to complain that you're not doing it right. Hopefully.

"What now?" you ask,

"Whatever you want," he says again, and it should probably bother you that he doesn't seem to have a single qualm about saying that to you. You're a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake. He should at least be concerned that you might be plotting how to use this to your advantage. You're not, but that's hardly the point. He should wonder, at least.

You kneel with one leg on either side of one of his thighs, lean down and kiss him, hot and wet, unable to stifle a gasp as he tugs you closer, his hands roaming across your back. You lie down on top of him and he tightens his arms around you, arching lazily up against your weight. He moans and drags his blunt fingernails down lightly over your sides, making you shudder against him. You kiss his jaw, nip a little trail down to the base of his throat and lick at the hot skin above his pounding pulse. He tips his head back into the pillows and the movement makes his Adam's apple stand out clearly so you lick at that as well, sucking on it, and he wraps one hand around the back of your neck, holding you against him.

You are already so hard that it aches, just from this, and from the knowledge of what's going to happen later, and you can't help resting your weight more firmly against him, your hips rocking just slightly. His hands go to your hips almost instantly, pulling you down harder and just holding you there, his fingers digging into your skin as he thrusts up against you. When he kisses you next his lips are wet and slick against yours and he lets out a sigh into your mouth that makes you groan before you let him pull you down against him again. He parts his legs as he does it, bending them at the knees, and you end up in the cradle of his thighs, sliding your hard cock along his and drinking in his gentle, needy sounds. He rubs his knee against your side and tangles his fingers in your hair, exerting gentle pressure to make you turn your eyes upward and look at him.

"Hmm?" you ask, resting your forearms on the bed on either side of his head.

"Ready?" he asks and you nod.

"Oh - yeah, I think - just - "

"What?" he asks, turning his face to nuzzle along your jawline.

"How do you want - how should I - "

"Oh, right!" he says, almost absurdly cheerful given the circumstances, and pushes at your shoulders until you're kneeling between his legs again. Then he hooks an arm under his own knee and pulls his leg up towards his own chest, exposing himself in a way that makes you groan. "Like this, for now," he says and you nod dumbly, reaching behind and around yourself, trying to work out where the hell you dropped the lubricant. When your hand stumbles over it you clutch it almost too tightly and he strokes his free hand down your thigh, soothing.

"You know this bit, right?" he asks, and you take a sharp glance up to see if he's teasing. His face is open and relaxed, his eyes wide and guileless. That's not always a guarantee that he's being serious, but you believe this time that he's not taking the piss, and you nod. "Onwards, then!" he cracks and you pinch his thigh in an effort to make him be quiet for a minute.

It's futile though, as he gives what amounts to a running commentary while you hastily slick your fingers (yeah, a bit more, sort of spread it – no like – warm it up a bit, yeah? God, you look so fucking sexy. Hurry it up, eh? Mmm, just - ). He does eventually shut up, for a moment at least, when you press a finger into him, covertly watching his face. His eyes close for a second and he breathes out, shifting a tiny bit. When his eyes open again they seek you out and there's a split second where it's written all over his face that you have him, completely and utterly. You move your finger, curl it, and his eyes drift half closed again before he snaps them open and quirks a brow at you.

"You'd better have short nails."

"Of course."

"Right. You probably get a manicure from a house-elf," he teases.

"Fuck off. I use a spell."

"You – for – " He slaps his free hand over his mouth and you realise that he's trying – and failing – to hide laughter.

"Shut up! You're not meant to be laughing now."

"Why not?" he asks. "It's meant to be fun. S'nice to laugh. And anyway you use a manicure spell."

"What? What? That's normal!" you protest, but you have to fight a smile. "Normal people do that!"

"How is it still mostly a secret that you're completely bent?" he asks, still laughing.

"Given our respective positions, I think I could ask you the same thing," you remind him, curling your finger again inside him, your free hand pushing back on his leg.

"I - " he says, and then bites his lip, his eyes fluttering closed. "Mmph. Another one, go on," he nods and as you comply he wriggles closer, wrapping his other leg around you. "Put your back into it, man," he requests jokily, and you look up, uncertain. "I mean do it harder," he says. "Move your fingers more."

You do as he says, trying to ignore the slick sounds that result because that is just too much, too sexydirtysweet. He makes a grateful noise, so you are obviously doing something right. The next thing you know, his own hand is sliding down the back of his leg, one of his fingers pushing alongside yours as you press into him.

"Fuck," you choke out, and he laughs breathlessly.

"Mmf. Push a bit - yeah, forward, like that," he says, his hand cupping around yours and pushing your fingers deeper into him. You only sort of know what you're looking for, but you definitely know when you've found it because he makes a noise you've never heard from him before while he arches off the bed against your hand. "God, right, just – "

His words end on a strangled groan because now you know what you're doing it's almost too easy to press and retreat and nudge and stroke and rub and it's only a minute or two before he is writhing around on the bed, his hair wild, his eyes dark. There's something deeply, strangely satisfying in this, in making him moan and gasp and shudder and the way he shifts his finger to curl it around your own inside his own body is nothing short of mind-blowing.

"Fuck, alright, hurry up," he pleads.

"Huh?" you ask as his words jolt you back to awareness of the world beyond your fingers and the way his body is squeezing them.

"Another one," he says. "Just a bit more."

"Yeah?" you ask, and he pushes himself half upright to kiss you breathlessly before falling back into the sheets, arms spread wide now, and his head tipped back. He's breathing hard and when you press in a third finger he groans and fists his hands in the sheets.

"Oh – oh – are you okay?" you ask warily, turning your head to kiss his knee.

"Yeah," he says slowly, around a long exhale, gradually lessening his grip on the bed and reaching for you again, his hands grazing over your chest before falling to his sides again. You move your hand more carefully now, until his face loses the slight bit of tension it was holding, and he rubs his leg against your arm again.

"Ready?" you ask, and he nods with a long drawn out murmur of assent. When you slide your fingers out of him he makes a quiet little noise of pleasure, and now that you're no longer distracting himself with his body, the full force of your arousal blindsides you.

"How - now what?" you ask, and you don't really care how desperate you might sound. Apparently neither does he, because he sits up with his legs splayed around you, grabs you by the back of the neck and kisses you in a hungry clash of soft lips and hard teeth and slick tongue. When your mouths part with a low, wet noise, he presses his face into your neck, gasping against your skin, his hands squeezing your sides.

"Like this," he says after a moment, turning onto his hands and knees, facing away from you. You groan, run your hands up over his arse and the small of his back to trace the clean trail of his spine, hardly able to believe the sight he's presenting. Merlin, he is completely fucking flawless.

"Like this?" you ask. "Really?"

"'s easier," he says, and you move behind him, kneeling on rubbery legs. "Bit more lube," he instructs. "On both of us." You start to reach for it, but something about the tilt of his hips or the tension in his arms makes you stop to look, really look at the sight of him waiting for you. It is just too much and you fall against him, pressing your forehead to his shoulder blade.

"Fuck," you breathe, leaning over him and kissing his back. "Oh, I want you so fucking much."

"Oh Merlin, when you talk like that..." he says shakily.

"Shh," you beg, unable to stand hearing him complete that sentence in that husky, broken-open voice.

"Get on with it then," he pleads, and you slick him and then yourself as quickly as you can, almost unable to bear the pressure of your own hand, biting your lip to hold in a whimper. "Christ. Fuck. Hurry up," he begs.

"Shut up," you say through gritted teeth and he makes a huff of laughter before he feels you lining yourself up against him, and that prompts a wobbly intake of breath instead. You push forward and encounter only solid resistance for a moment until he presses back against you and you slide into him with a little lurch. He lets out a sharp cry and you freeze momentarily.

"James?"

"Fine," he gasps. "Good, just – bigger than it looks."

You can't work out, through the haze of lust, whether to be flattered or insulted by that comment. Instead you move your hands from his hips to his lower back, stroking as soothingly as you can, tracing the perfect triangle of freckles above his hip.

"Are you alright?" you ask, your voice breaking around the question. "Can I – "

"Fuck, yeah," he interrupts. "I keep telling you, get on with it."

No matter what he says, you can't bring yourself to be anything other than careful as you push yourself deeper into the impossible heat of him. You press yourself forward slowly, rocking into that incredible tightness until you are fully seated inside him, your hips pressed up against the swell of his arse. You think you're doing fairly well in terms of maintaining control and some semblance of dignity until he speaks in a ragged, husky voice.

"Fuck, yeah... Feels so good, Scorp."

"James - " you say, and there's a bit of panic in your voice that you try to hide.

"Fuck me," he says, letting his head drop down between his arms. "Go on, do it."

"James - "

"It's okay," he says, bringing one hand back to trace his fingertips over your thigh. "You can - "

"No, fuck - oh - James, I can't - "

"S'okay," he says, reaching back to brush his fingertips over your thigh. "You can. Go on."

"No, I mean – " you bury your face in his back, thoroughly frustrated. "I can't." If you move, that will be it, game fucking over, and you'll probably die of the embarrassment right here, on a transfigured bloody bed in a glorified bloody storage cupboard. Not happening.

"Oh. Ohhh," he says, obviously amused, turning his head to look back at you. "That's...gratifying."

"You are a complete idiot," you say, or at least that's what you want to say, but you lose the sentence to laughter half way through, leaning against his back as he joins in your mirth. Somehow that tiny movement makes him stop laughing on a gasp and then he groans thickly.

"Go on," he insists. "Fucking hell, you're driving me mad!"

"Sorry, just - "

"Bit too much? Yeah, I get that. Think you can move without embarrassing yourself now?"

"Shut up!" you protest.

"Make me," he fires back instantly, his voice low and serious. You groan and press a kiss to his spine before experimentally shifting your hips, pulling a little way out of his body before sliding back in again with another groan. "Mmm, that's right," he murmurs, arching his back to press back against your movements. "Again like that, go on."

You comply wordlessly, because you couldn't gather the brain-power to speak even if you wanted to. This is almost nothing like you'd imagined. It is hot and tight, and you were right about that, of course, but you were not prepared for the way his body clings to you, draws you in, and squeezes around you. All you can do is try to keep breathing, and to establish some sort of rhythm as you move inside him.

You notice that he keeps angling his hips in a certain way, and when you respond by pressing harder he makes this incredible noise. It's somewhere between a breathless gasp and a hoarse shout and it makes your whole body shiver. The suddenly his body lurches forward, and you realise he's propping himself up on his elbows now, in a way which presents his arse to you perfectly. You can't help yourself moving harder, faster, because he is just amazing, this is amazing, his body is -

"Fuck, oh - harder," he begs unexpectedly and you tighten your hands on his hips, bite your lower lip ragged and fuck him harder, sweat stinging your eyes as he arches his back and presses back against you more forcefully.

"Is that - " you gasp out. "I'm - I don't - "

"It's good," he assures you. "So good, so good. Please touch me."

"Oh yeah," you groan, shifting one hand around from his hip to slide over his cock.

"Mnph," he grunts, almost falling onto his face, and you wrap your other arm around his waist as you stroke him, feeling the way he wriggles and strains against you. When he comes all over your hand, the way his body tightens and clenches spasmodically around you is unlike anything you've ever imagined and you press your face into his back, managing a few more ragged thrusts in and out of his body before you're coming as well, white spots darting across your field of vision as you strain every muscle in your body for more.

For a few long seconds you stay frozen like that, the only sound in the room the mingling of your panting breaths with his. Then you gather yourself enough to pull carefully out of his body and fall down onto your back next to him, just as he allows himself to sink down onto the bed, turning his face towards you, blowing hair out of his eyes with a puff of exhalation.

"Good - " he says breathlessly. "Good first effort."

"Sh - uhh - shut up," you wheeze and he turns onto his side, running one hand down your back.

"Only joking," he admits. "That was fucking brilliant."

"Uh-huh," you agree, stretching out again and settling deeper into the mattress. You half-doze for a while, due partly to feeling completely wrung out, and partly to his hands trailing smoothly over your body in such an oddly relaxing way. He makes a quiet humming noise as he kisses your shoulder, and you feel the vibration against your skin, reaching up to curl your fingers into his hair. Your hands feel clumsy and too large, and you stroke them gently through messy, sweat-damp strands until he falls still.

"Tornados, by the way," he says suddenly a little while later, and you blink.

"Tornados what?"

"Don't be thick, Scorp. I'm going to play for the Tornados," he announces, falling down onto his back again, looking up at the ceiling.

"You are?" you ask, unable to help a grin. "All these Slytherin lessons must have paid off."

"Must have," he says with a laugh. "I'm meeting the chairman in Hogsmeade tonight with my dad to sign the contract."

"Congratulations," you nod, and he beams at you.

"Well, you were right. I want to have a career. I want to play for England. I need to get myself out there properly, not waste three seasons farting about at the Cannons."

"Good. You'd better win my team the league, you know."

"I'll work on it," he jokes. "Although I'll need to get out of the reserves first."

"Details," you scoff.

"I uh - I had an interesting conversation with my dad the other night," he says, and you can't help tensing. He wouldn't. Surely he wouldn't talk to his dad about this? What normal person talks to their dad about this? "About the Quidditch, I mean," he says casually, and you hold back a sigh of relief. "You know how – I don't know, I think all parents say they want their kids to be happy – "

"Benefit of all that liberal post-war parenting," you interrupt and he rolls onto his side to face you again, nodding. He reaches down and tugs a sheet up over you both before he continues.

"But you have to work out what they actually mean by that – how they want you to be happy, I mean."

"Right," you say slowly, because he's acting as though this is all terribly important, and you just can't see it yourself.

"Well, my dad – his thing is all about – you know, being your own man and living the life you want, not the one other people want for you, or the one that's handed to you on a plate."

Weirdly, you think it's the intimacy of this moment that makes you reply where you'd usually keep quiet. Never mind what you've done today, or before today, it's this, lying here barely inches apart, looking at him looking back at you, which makes you indiscreet and careless.

"My dad's said similar things," you tell him.

"Yeah?" he asks, seeming surprised.

"Yes. I imagine he puts a heavier emphasis on the part about not letting people make decisions for you than yours does, but - " you shrug. "Similar things."

He makes an interested noise and noses in to kiss you softly before pushing you onto your back and fitting himself in close along your side.

"What time d'you have to leave?" he asks.

"Not yet," you say, even though you're not sure what time it is now, and he curls one hand around your ribs, kissing your jaw before going still, his eyes closing. "I can stay long enough for a bit of turnabout if you're not too worn out," you tease, and he opens his eyes again pretty rapidly at that.

"Yeah?"

"I think you should show me what you were making such a fuss about, yes," you nod and he smiles again, this one blissful and slow to form.

"Definitely," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Oh, I should definitely show you."

He kisses you again and again, his mouth barely moving away from yours in between, his lips clinging to your own while his hands rove gently across your body.

"Yeah," he sighs at one point, shifting back just far enough to look you in the eye. "You're so fucking great."

"James?" you breathe, moving your hands across his shoulders and down his back.

"Mmm?" he murmurs.

"Show me," you tell him, and he does.

For a while it's awkward, but there is something about his delicate explorations that you can't help enjoying. Then it hurts, in spite of his best efforts, but then there is something else, something really brilliant, and you suddenly find yourself clutching at his sweaty back and messily kissing any inch of his skin you can reach. You've never thought, never imagined that anything could possibly feel this good. Even earlier, being buried inside him, even that was not akin to this kind of complete, near-excessive pleasure, and you have to close your eyes because he looks just amazing like this. His eyes are wide and earnest, pupils huge, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth like he's concentrating on something genuinely difficult and massively important. When you crane upwards to kiss him, you can feel the little marks his teeth have embedded in his lip, and you run your tongue over them, greedily swallowing down every noise he makes.

Afterwards he lays himself down half on top of you and showers your face with little kisses, muttering breathless words that you don't quite understand, his hands fluttering over your heaving sides. You give into it without question, turning towards him and pressing your face against his neck, practically clinging to him while you wonder why you can't get your breath back no matter how hard you try.

Later, when you are finally able to think again, you would like to believe it's the sex which causes such a rush of tender emotions, but you know it's not that, it's him. There is something about him, something you don't understand but can't help liking. He has a little bit of that same Potter magic as Albus and Lily, and you don't think any of them realise how much they draw people to them. It's not the money and it's not even the name really, it's some inner core of self-assurance, and you're not sure where they get it from. James' appeal goes beyond even that though. It's something all his own, some kind of warmth and modesty and a lazy charisma that you sometimes think he barely notices.

You lose track of time like that, lying in his arms with his fingers brushing through your hair and down the back of your neck. You must sleep for a while at least, because you open your eyes with a yawn to find him watching you, his eyes bright.

"Mmm, h'lo," he says, kissing your cheek.

"Alright?"

"Mmm," he nods. "Just woke up."

"Me too."

"I saw," he says, nodding again.

"What's the time?" you ask, and he shrugs, kissing the side of your throat.

"Don't know. Don't care. Time is an illusion."

"Very deep, Potter."

"That's me," he nods. "Profound."

"Profoundly crazy," you suggest and he laughs.

"Only about you, pretty-boy," he says, and kisses you before you can object to the name. When he finally moves back you poke him in the ribs as retaliation and he catches hold of your hand as you lie down by his side.

"Think we've missed lunch?" you ask idly.

"Probably by miles," he nods cheerfully. "We can go to the kitchens if you're hungry?"

"Not really," you shrug, and he grins, curling into your side again.

You doze again, and when you finally get up to leave the room later, your body is aching pleasantly and you still feel sweaty and sticky in spite of the cleaning spells. You're reaching for the door handle when he stops you with a hand on your shoulder and turns you around. He looks down at you seriously for a moment and then shakes his head like he can't think what to say. He kisses you instead of speaking, soft and gentle and chaste.

"That was..." he says before trailing off, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone.

"Yeah," you nod, and he takes a deep breath like he's going to speak again, but he just shakes his head once more, kisses you gently and takes half a step backwards, his palm still pressed softly against your cheek.

"Listen, if I don't get to see you before the train tomorrow," he says, "Then - you know, have a good summer."

"You too."

"I'll see you, though," he says determinedly and you look at him.

"For a week," you nod. "As usual."

"Not what I meant," he says with a grin.

"Huh?"

"Oh, you'll find out," he says, looking insufferably pleased with himself and kissing you again. You hook your arms around his waist and he cups your face in his hands as you kiss. His fingers slide into your hair as he moves away and he presses his forehead against yours for a moment. You don't really want to leave the room. In fact what you want is to re-transfigure the armchair back into a bed and drag him over to it so you can exhaust yourselves all over again. Instead you kiss him once more and then step away, opening the door and peeking out into the empty corridor.

"Right," you say in a hushed voice, ducking out of the room and getting the shock of your life when he steps out into the corridor behind you and kisses you once, quick and hard.

"Couldn't help myself," he says with a wink as he moves away before squeezing your forearm once and haring off. You watch him go, and can't help smiling to yourself.

It's only when you get back to the dungeons that you realise you're still grinning, and even then, only because you see the dreamy, completely satisfied look on Al's face. You hope it is not the same as the one on your own, but you're worried that it might be, and you consciously sober up a bit. What's left of Sunday afternoon passes quickly, as does the leaving feast, and before you have seen James again or even really had time to think for five minutes, it is Monday morning and you are loading your trunk onto the Express with Al.

The two of you spend the journey back to London together like you always have, cleaning out the sweet trolley. When Lisa arrives about half an hour into the journey you make as tactful an exit as you can to do a quick patrol of the train. You pass a compartment just in time to hear a loud bang and several surprised yells. As school is technically over, you're tempted to just keep walking. People have started poking their heads out into the corridor to look though, so you don't really have a choice. There's smoke coming out from underneath the door anyway, so you push it open. Waving a hand in front of your face to clear the murk a bit, you realise that the four decidedly sheepish faces belong to James and the rest of the seventh year Gryffindor boys. James is standing on the seat, trying to waft smoke towards the window with a book and freezes comically when the door opens.

"No one on fire?" you ask, and receive a chorus of 'no's. You cast a quick air-cleaning spell and look at James like you think he's an idiot. "That's why we have wands, Potter."

"Oh, is that why?" he shoots back, jumping down from the seat, and you recall that the last time you saw him using his wand was for two hasty Scourgifies after you'd fucked each other senseless.

"One of the reasons," you hear yourself say, and he snickers, while his friends just look perplexed.

"See ya," he says as you close the door.

When you get back to the compartment you're sharing with Al, Lisa is gone and he looks at you curiously.

"What was that noise?"

"Your brother," you say casually. "And his friends. Random explosions."

"Bloody idiot," Al scoffs. "What did they explode?"

"Didn't stop to find out," you shrug and he laughs, almost in spite of himself.

"Ugh, summer," he groans a little while later.

"It won't be that bad," you tell him. "Get your Apparition licence next week and we'll be sorted."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think I've worked out how to alter the wards on a localised area of the grounds to let you through so whenever the coast's clear..."

"Really? Should have been a Ravenclaw," he teases.

"Not nearly boring enough," you remind him and he gives a shrug which perfectly expresses how close a call that is. "Tosser," you say lightly and he smiles.

"Where are we?" he asks, and you peer out of the window.

"Pretty close, I think."

He groans again.

"You're even more anti-summer than usual, Al. What's going on?"

"Oh, bloody James. He's been completely impossible recently, haven't you noticed?"

"Er - no."

"I think it's the bloody Quidditch. He signed for the Tornados, you know?"

"Yeah?"

"He's walking around like he's the reincarnation of Merlin, or something."

"I hadn't noticed," you say honestly. You wonder if it's just the Quidditch making him happy, and vaguely hope that it's not.

"I hope he moves out soon," Al grouses.

"I love being an only child," you comment. "Really love it."

"I can but dream," Al says, peering out of the window. "Bugger. I see the station."

"Right," you nod, standing up and stretching, reaching for your trunk.

"I need to go and find Lisa," he says and you roll your eyes. "Don't be like that; I'm going to introduce her to mum and dad."

"What?"

"Oh, don't," he pleads. "Bloody James again. He told them about her and mum's having absolute kittens."

"What does Lisa think about this?" you ask, wobbling a bit as the train judders to a halt.

"I - er - " Al says cagily.

"Ambush, is it?" you laugh, and he nods.

"She's going to go spare, but mum'll kill me otherwise."

"Good luck," you say, almost sincerely and he shoves at you, making you topple over your trunk onto the floor. "Oi!" you protest, kicking out at him. He reaches down a hand and hauls you to your feet and you pile off the train.

On the platform, Al finds Lisa and you try not to laugh at his chivalrous act when he staggers under the weight of her trunk for a moment before thinking to cast a lightening spell. You all crane your necks to find your parents, and you finally catch sight of your dad, standing predictably far away from the Potters. You and Al exchange quick hugs and you wish Lisa a nice summer. As you head off you can just about hear Al's, "Lisa, sweetheart, I was wondering if you'd like to..."

And then a few seconds later, much clearer, Lisa's, "What? Oh hang on a minute! Albus Severus Potter, let go of my wrist! Give me back my trunk!"

Your dad turns towards the noise and catches sight of you, starting to thread his way through the crowd. You are not far from him when someone barges into you from behind, upending your trunk. The lid bursts open, and you curse, sure you had locked it earlier. A bag thuds down, adding its own contents of books and quills to the mess.

"Gosh, sorry!" James says brightly, and you turn in time to see him sliding his wand back up his sleeve, and trying to look shocked.

"How strange," you say blandly. "I could have sworn I locked that."

"Here, let me help you," he says, dropping to his knees and sorting through the mixed pile of your belongings.

"Very subtle," you whisper as you bend down to help him, and he glances at you from under the hair falling into his eyes.

"Couldn't help myself," he breathes. "Will you owl me?"

"I - " you glance up to see your dad about four people away and getting closer.

"Please."

"Fine, alright, whatever," you nod, finally grabbing the last of your stuff from the pile in his hands.

"No, say 'yes'," he insists, tightening his grip on your books, and you can feel your dad's eyes on the pair of you now.

"Yes," you whisper and he lets go. You drop your things into your trunk and lock it again as he straightens up. When you stand, he nods to you casually.

"See you, Scorpius. Mr. Malfoy, sir," he adds, turning to your dad.

'Creep,' you mouth and James flashes you a smile.

"See you, James," you say and follow your dad down the platform, waiting to see if he will pass comment. He doesn't and you've got no way to express how completely grateful you are for that.

"Good year?" he asks instead and you nod. "Exams alright?"

"Mostly bearable. Potions practical was a bit tragic."

"You are such a disappointment," he says flatly and you laugh.

"It's nice to be home, dad."

"It's good to see you, son. Do you think you can Apparate home from here?"

"Of course!" you smile.

"Right, then. You mother is waiting. She has cake."

"Good old mum," you laugh. "Does she not remember how they feed us at school?"

"Salazar only knows," your dad shrugs, then turns on the spot and Apparates, grabbing your trunk from your hand at the last minute. You follow him a second later, arriving neatly in the entrance hall at the Manor.

About a fortnight into the holiday, Al arrives for a week, avoiding the family dinner with obvious glee. You pass the time flying around, exploring the grounds, and Apparating to random places, celebrating him getting his licence. He drags you off into Muggle London one time, and you spend the day getting lost and laughing at the weird Muggles down by the river.

A few days after Al goes home, you get an owl, and are expecting it to be from him. Instead, it is from James. It's just a rambling letter about looking for flats, and being bored, and maybe training with the first team in a few weeks time, even if it does start off in typical mad James fashion (in huge capital letters: 'you said you'd owl me! Breaker of promises!!!'). You reply the next day and you're somehow surprised when, a few letters later, you find yourself agreeing to meet him in Diagon Alley at eleven in the morning in two days time.

You've realised that now you're seventeen and at home, it is fantastically easy to have a genuine private life, and you barely bother making up a decent excuse for the house elves. In Diagon Alley you loiter outside the Apothecary as arranged, pretending to look in the windows. It's when you've resorted to browsing the new cauldrons that you feel someone step up behind you.

"It's me," James says quickly. "Don't react, don't turn around, I'm wearing the cloak."

"What're you up to?" you ask curiously, almost under your breath.

"Being discreet," he says. "I thought you'd appreciate it."

"Yeah," you admit gratefully.

"Let's go through to the Leaky, and we can Apparate."

You nod and head through the growing crowd to the pub. In the empty yard he whips off the cloak and grins at you and you see that he's dressed in Muggle clothes again, jeans and a t-shirt. He looks pleased (and faintly surprised) to see you, and grabs hold of your hand.

"Hi," he says. "Let's not hang about, eh?"

"Good idea," you nod.

You feel the tug of side-along Apparition and brace yourself, reaching out with your free hand to clutch at his t-shirt. You arrive in a small, warded Apparition area, surrounded by trees and you glare at him.

"You have got to be joking."

"Don't be such a whiner. Come on, follow me," he says, keeping hold of your hand and leading you through the trees to a narrow road.

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere in Suffolk," he shrugs.

"Right," you say slowly. "So where are we going?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Just out. Lunch, maybe?" he suggests and you nod, not bothering to take your hand out of his as you start to wander down the road together. "Oh wait, I forgot!" he says, turning abruptly.

"Forgot what?"

"This," he says, and kisses you like it's been months, not weeks, since the last time. His hands clench in the front of your robes to pull you tight against him and he kisses you until you're entirely breathless, backing off a bare inch to smile down at you. "Mmm, that's better," he nods, before taking your hand again and heading down the road.

About half an hour later, you reach a little Muggle town and he pulls you off the road to tug your robes off. On his advice you're wearing grey trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt under your robes, and he grins at you, undoing the top button on your shirt.

"Just once," he says, "I'd like to see you looking scruffy."

"You wouldn't," you assure him. "You'd go right off me."

"Doubt it," he says cheerfully, shrinking your robes and handing them back to you. You shove the now tiny scrap of material into your pocket before he grabs your hand again, leading you back towards the road.

Further towards the town, two teenage girls walk past you heading in the opposite direction. It takes you a moment to realise that the way one leans in to the other to whisper in her ear probably has something to do with the fact that you and James are still holding hands. Your gut reaction is to pull your hand away, but almost as if he's read your mind he passes his thumb over your knuckles gently.

"It's a Muggle town," he says quietly a moment later. "We don't know anyone here. No one knows us. So just - let's just be bloody normal," he finishes, and then kisses you without a pause. It shouldn't be so different to kiss him openly, outside in the sunshine when you can hear other peoples' voices in the background, but it is. It feels exciting and terrifying all at once, and no matter the irrationality of it, you are a bit worried that you will feel a tap on your shoulder from your father, or his father, or Albus.

"See?" he asks when he moves back. "The sky didn't fall."

"Noted," you concede and he grins brightly.

"Come on, then," he says. "Lunch and a few beers?"

"I can't go home drunk," you protest.

"Not drunk," he says. "Anyway, I do a mean Sobrietus, don't worry about it."

"Alright," you relent and he grins, tugging on your hand again and leading you down the road. Halfway through the little town, you come across a small pub.

"This alright?" he asks and you nod. "Looks like there's a garden round the back," he adds, and you make your way through the pub and out the back. Sure enough there are picnic tables set up around a small grassy area, in front of a little children's playground. There are two little boys playing on the swings, and two women, probably their mothers, sitting at a bench. Other than that, the garden is empty, and you pick out a table half in the shade and half in the sun and sit down on the shady side.

"Vampire," he says lightly as he sits opposite you in the sunshine and nudges your ankle under the table.

"I don't have any Muggle money," you say a bit awkwardly, fiddling with the edge of the plastic coated menu.

"My shout," he says, waving a hand idly. "I'm a gentleman, me. What would you like?"

"Umm..." You cast your eyes over the menu, finally settling on fish and chips.

"Me too," he grins. "My favourite," he adds, pushing himself up from the seat and running his hand up your arm as he heads back into the pub. You tilt your head to watch him go and he turns back before he ducks inside, winking at you. You look down at the table, hiding your smile, and deciding not to bother trying to work out what's going on today. It's a pleasant summer day and you're spending it with someone you find extremely attractive. That's all you're going to think about, not his obvious, barely leashed excitement, not the fact that the word date is echoing around in your skull.

He's back soon with two tall glasses of Muggle beer, and he sets them down on the table before falling into his seat again, sliding one of the glasses towards you.

"I think you're corrupting a minor," you say, taking a sip and he smirks at you, eyes sparkling over his own glass.

"Muggle laws are made to be ignored," he shrugs. "And anyway, I can knock up an excellent fake ID in about five seconds if needs be."

"Well, aren't you clever?" you tease and he leans forward to catch your eye just as his foot sneaks up the side of your calf.

"Extremely," he says, and you smile down at the table again, watching out of the corner of your eye as he traces a random pattern in the condensation on his glass. "Wish I could get away with going on the swings," he says, glancing over his shoulder towards the playground.

"Why would you want to do that?" you ask, genuinely curious.

"Because - " he shrugs, apparently giving up. "It's just fun. Haven't done it since I was a kid."

"Did you just hang about in Muggle playgrounds as a child?" you tease.

"Yeah," he nods. "Mum and dad used to abandon us for days at a time," he jokes. "Don't tell the papers, eh?"

"I'm composing the owl as we speak," you say dryly and his foot nudges yours under the table again. As you open your mouth to ask whether he's found a flat yet, a hassled looking waitress arrives with your food, and the question goes out of your head until much, much later. You can barely keep your own name in mind after a solid twenty minutes of watching him lick salt and vinegar from his fingers, let alone focus on inane questions about housing.

He pushes his plate away with a satisfied sigh and leans over to grab a handful of chips from your own plate. You poke him in the back of the hand with your fork and he turns wounded doe-eyes on you.

"You're a bottomless pit," you observe and he pats his stomach, grinning at you.

"This is why I have such impressive stamina," he jokes, and you quirk an eyebrow at him.

"I remember," you say quietly and he actually colours a bit as you catch his eye, giving him the most heated look you can muster. It's ridiculously charming, that little flush across his cheekbones and you grin at him.

"Another beer?" he asks and you nod.

You drink a couple more glasses of beer each and you have to put your foot down firmly to stop him dragging you over to the swings when the mothers leave with their sons. In the back of your mind, you feel it's decidedly strange to spend time with him like this - out in the open, for one thing. Just talking, for another. Flirting, for yet another. Once, while he's raving about Quidditch and the Tornados, he leans over the table and grabs your two of your fingers, shaking them to make his point. When he lets your hands fall to the table you don't remove your own but instead curl your fingers around his. He glances down at your hands, joined on top of the table, but doesn't miss a beat in his story, other than to shoot you a warm, private smile.

"Probably time to go," he says regretfully a while later, glancing at his wristwatch.

"I suppose," you nod, and he tugs on your hand to pull you to your feet. As you walk away from the pub and back out of the little town, he slings his arm around your shoulders and breathes a kiss into your hair.

Later, after he's lead you off the road and into the trees towards the Apparition point, he stops you with a hand in the middle of your chest and looks at you seriously for a minute.

"I - had a really good time with you today," he says quietly.

"Me too," you admit, and he grins widely before kissing you, soft and slow. You sigh into his mouth and press yourself closer, feeling his arms curl around your waist to pull you against him. He kisses you again and again, one hand moving up from your waist to cup your cheek in his hand and tilt your head to a better angle. You let him do it and return his kisses, nibbling on his lower lip in a way that you've learned is guaranteed to leave him breathless and desperate. Sure enough he parts your mouths with a deep breath a few moments later, hands going to your hips to hold your lower body firmly away from his.

"Stop," he says breathlessly, nuzzling along your jaw line. "We have to stop now."

"Why?" you ask.

"Why d'you think?" he laughs. "Bit worked up."

"No, I mean why do we have to stop?" you clarify and he blinks down at you.

"What, out here?" he asks, looking shocked and wickedly delighted all at once

"Why not?" you ask. "Quick Disillusionment Charm and - mph!"

He kisses you hard, a bit desperately, his hands roaming freely over your body, fingers tugging your shirt up to dance across your lower back. You shift your own hands to his arse and pull him in tight against you, leaning back against a handy tree and pulling him with you.

"Do - do the charm," he says, turning his head aside briefly before pressing his face to your neck.

"That a yes, then?" you ask.

"It's a hurry the fuck up," he corrects, and you laugh, pulling your wand from its concealed holster. You cast a couple of quick charms, that will cause people, wizard or Muggle to become thoroughly disinterested in the little area around the two of you. You lean back against the tree and look at him expectantly for a second before he groans and reaches for you, his fingers undoing your belt with practiced ease.

Given the circumstances, you're not expecting anything more than a hasty exchange of hand jobs, so it's a surprise when he kisses you once more before going to his knees among the plants and dirt. He winks up at you and noses your shirt aside to kiss your stomach before shoving your trousers down to mid-thigh. He wraps his hands around the back of your legs and pulls you forward, his mouth sliding over you. You hear but don't feel the back of your skull thudding against the tree as he starts bobbing his head. As soon as you let out a long groan he pulls away and sits back on his heels to look up at you.

"Can we do this again?" he asks, and you splutter.

"What the fuck, James?"

"Can we?" he persists.

"What - what are you - "

"This summer," he explains. "Can I see you again this summer?"

"James - " you protest, and you want to explain that it'll be awkward, hard to organise.

"Please?" he asks, shifting his hands to skim his thumbs over your hipbones.

"Fuck, alright, just - "

"Mmm, thanks," he says, nuzzling at the top of your thigh before moving his mouth back to where it was earlier. After he's just thanked you while he's on his knees at your feet you can't withstand the hot wet perfection of his mouth for long, and before you're really ready for it, you're coming, trying not to rip out handfuls of his hair.

He surges to his feet straight away and kisses you, gasping against your lips and pressing his erection against your hip, the heavy material of his jeans dragging against your skin. He turns his head aside after a minute and breathes raggedly, desperately, against your cheek.

"Shh, shh," you breathe, pushing him back with one hand while the other goes to his waist, flicking his trousers open and sliding your hand inside his underwear.

"Fuck," he sighs, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

"That's some kind of blackmail, you know?" you ask him, as casually as you can manage.

"What?"

"Pausing mid-blow job to hassle me into meeting up with you," you say, and let your hand fall still in retaliation.

"Oh - bugger," he says, his shoulders slumping a bit. "I didn't mean to be pushy," he says, kissing your jaw chastely. "You don't have to."

"Don't be ridiculous," you scoff, turning your head to kiss him properly. "Don't be so - "

"Scorp," he pleads between kisses, and you relent, moving your hand over him again, getting a heartfelt groan and a sloppy kiss in response. With your free hand you clutch the back of his neck, pressing your forehead against his and closing your eyes, the better to hear his desperate groans.

When he comes he bites your lip and as he slumps against you he kisses the mark, breathing, sorry, sorry. You laugh breathlessly, run your hand through his hair and kiss him again. Your trousers are still around your thighs, you can feel the bark of the tree scratching at your back, and something small with more legs than you care to think about is crawling down your arm, but you don't care. You couldn't care less, in fact. When you are with him, everyone else, along with every single thought in your head seems to disappear completely.

"That was definitely one of your better ideas," he says a little while later, reaching down to tug your trousers back up and zip them closed.

"Mm-hmm," you nod.

"Dirty little bugger really, aren't you?"

"You're not in a position to complain," you remind him and he laughs.

"I wasn't complaining," he says, kissing your forehead and glancing at his watch again. "Fuck, it's getting late," he groans.

"I'd better - " you say and he nods.

"Go on," he says. "I'll stay a minute and take down the spells."

"Alright," you nod, and take a step backwards. It feels wrong, walking away from him, and you want to fling yourself at him and kiss him again, again and again. If you did that though, there'd be no telling what time you'd finally get home. You half turn to Apparate but he grabs your upper arm and turns you back around.

"See you soon," he says firmly, and you nod. "Today was good, right?" he asks, almost hesitatingly. "I mean - you enjoyed it?"

"Of course I did," you say, frowning slightly. He sounds almost nervous, which is not a tone you associate with him at all.

"Right," he says, with a broad smile. "Okay. Good. Go on, get out of here."

"I'm gone," you say, and then prove yourself a liar by leaning up and kissing him once more, just quickly.

"Bye," he says, breathing the word out against your mouth.

"Bye," you echo, stepping back and Apparating before you can change your mind again.

Back at home, you hurry off to your room until dinner, because you feel as though one look at you would be all it would take for anyone with eyes and a brain to work out what you've been up to. In your room, you check your appearance, and resize your robes, leaving them hanging across the back of a chair, and try, just try to calm down. It's as though, for some odd reason, every time you see James, he stays in your head for longer and longer afterwards. You find yourself smiling at the memory of things he said, or even just at the memory of looks he's given you.

It doesn't take much persuading for you to meet him again. And then again. And then again. You go to Muggle towns, because he knows that you are wary of being spotted by people that you know. Once or twice, it seemed to bother him that you couldn't go to Diagon Alley, but you put that down to his devotion to Fortescue's ice-cream sundaes. Certainly Muggle ones don't come close.

You see him at least once a fortnight, and write to each other a few times in between each meeting. You might not know exactly what you're doing together anymore, but it is still fun enough for you not to think too carefully about it. No matter what you're doing, no matter if sometimes it feels a bit serious, you want to do this with him, even if 'this' is just a walk around an unfamiliar town and a few hasty kisses.

After a few false starts, you successfully modify the wards in a corner of the grounds and Al manages to come over a couple of times a week. You make a joint decision that you're both of age now, and there is no need to wonder what will happen if you go out to Diagon Alley. Sure enough, you are sitting outside Fortescue's one day when Al's dad walks past, and all he does is wave.

One night, you go to a concert with Al and Lisa, and although you have to studiously ignore their smooches every now and then, it is an absolute blast. Maybe you drink one too many Firewhiskeys and maybe you wonder what it would be like to be there with James, but that's just idle curiosity. All in all, you don't think you've ever had a better summer.

When the week arrives of your visit to the Potters' house, it seems that you only realise a few days before how completely awkward it has the potential to be. You tie yourself up in knots about it more than you have about anything for years. What if he is obvious? What if he forgets himself and squeezes your hand, or kisses your forehead like he does when you're out together?

As it turns out you needn't have bothered, because he is perfectly restrained. He's out of the house a lot, looking for flats, apparently, and when he is there, he maintains a polite distance. Until Thursday afternoon when Al has retreated upstairs for a shower and you are waiting for him in the sitting room, skimming The Prophet. You hear someone come into the room and look up to see James leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"This is driving me mad," he says casually and you glance around nervously, faintly surprised to realise that you're alone together for the first time all week.

"What is?" you ask, setting the paper aside.

"What do you think? The fact that you're right here and I'm not allowed to - "

"James!" you hiss, and he waves a hand casually.

"Lily and Annabel are in the garden, mum and dad won't be home for ages, and Al will be in the shower for at least another fifteen minutes," he says, and you give in easily.

"Alright," you nod and he grins, bounding across the room to throw himself down on the sofa next to you with such force that you're bounced into the air. He slings his arm around your shoulders and leans against you, peering over to look at the newspaper.

"What're you reading about?" he asks, kissing your temple.

"New Quidditch signings. Tornados have an interesting prospect, apparently."

"Oh, the Potter boy," James laughs. "Right. I hear he's not too bad."

"Not terrible," you acknowledge.

"I also hear he's pretty handsome."

"I hear he thinks that, too," you tease and he pokes you in the ribs.

"I hear he's not the only one," he laughs and you half turn towards him, pushing his hand away from your stomach. "Ticklish, Scorp?"

"No," you say promptly.

"Hmm," he says, looking intrigued. "I may have to investigate this at a later date."

"I'll chop your hands off," you threaten.

"You wouldn't. You need these hands."

"Don't. I have my own."

"Mine are better," he says.

"Practicing your ego for the Quidditch pitch, oaf?"

"Ah, you know it's true," he laughs, and gives you a quick kiss on the lips before settling back, hooking one of his legs around yours. You let his arm around your shoulders tug you closer, and slouch down a bit to lean against him. "What're you doing when you get home?" he asks.

"Going to Italy," you say regretfully, because you know exactly what he's hinting at, and the idea of a few more illicit meetings before you go back to school is definitely appealing.

"Oh, okay," he says. "When are you back?"

"Two days before school starts."

"Oh..." he says slowly, turning to kiss the top of your head.

"I know," you sigh, and his fingers edge delicately under the sleeve of your shirt. Awkward as Muggle clothes might be sometimes, you are not going to be the only person in the house wearing robes, and you wonder if that was actually a good decision or not. "What if someone comes in?" you ask warily.

"We'd hear them before they got here, it's fine. Just relax, eh?" he requests gently and you nod, shifting around to kiss him. His fingers curl briefly through the hair at the nape of your neck and just as the kiss starts to heat up he backs off.

"Might not hear them if we're doing that," he says and you laugh, settling back into the circle of his arm, fiddling idly with his fingers. "I'll miss you," he says suddenly.

"Huh?"

"When you're in Italy," he elaborates. "And then back at school. I'll miss you."

"You'll be training with the big boys soon," you remind him. "You won't have time to miss me."

"I'm sure I'll find some," he says seriously, and you feel another one of those unexpectedly tender sensations blooming in your chest.

"Me too," you admit, and he squeezes your hand.

"Yeah, I'm sure you can spare me five minutes or so," he says, nudging you.

"Maybe even ten," you allow and he laughs quietly, before falling silent.

It's only a few minutes later that you hear doors opening and shutting upstairs, obviously Al getting out of the shower and going into his room. He sighs into your hair and steals a lingering kiss before standing up. You get to your feet and kiss him again, harder this time, your hands tight around his upper arms. When you rock back on your heels after a few too-short seconds he looks surprised and pleased, and the look doubles a moment later when you speak.

"Owl me," you tell him. "At school."

"Of course," he grins. "Just you try and stop me," he adds, running one finger down your nose and kissing your forehead.

Your seventh and final year at school is strange. It flies past, as everyone warns you it will, but individual days drag by so slowly. The lessons feel twice as long as usual, even though they're not. You and Al have wondered if the staff are performing some slightly illicit spells to stretch out the hours and fill your brains with yet more useless facts. You're a Prefect again this year, to your surprise, and in all honesty, mild irritation, given the amount of work you have. The N.E.W.T.s are a blot on the horizon, but neither you or Al are the type to discuss exams more than a week before they begin, so you both live inside a peaceful little bubble, and have banned Lisa from so much as mentioning them.

You find yourself liking Lisa more and more as the year goes on. She's less shy with Albus, and less shy with you as a result, and you've come to realise that she has quite a wicked sense of humour. The two of you gang up on Al a lot, and a few times you have tested each other on Arithmancy while Al looks on bemused. You can tell that he's pleased the two of you get along, even before he corners you one evening and makes a rambling, vague kind of speech from which you conclude that he wants Lisa to be an extremely long-term thing. It's sweet, really, the way he is about Lisa, all devoted and over-the-top, and even if you find all that stuff slightly daft, you're happy for him.

One of the only major downsides at school is bloody Potions. Although you're a competent enough brewer, the subject has never been your strongest. You know that your high grades elsewhere are largely due to your writing style and that's all well and good in a subject like History of Magic, or even Transfiguration, but Potions requires exact and precise information, and your abilities largely lie with arguing a case. There is not much room for argument in Potions, other than in the odd theoretical essay, and you know that it'll take a lot of work for you to achieve more than an A in the class. You only took it because your other classes are so far on the theoretical side that you will look like an idiot without at least one practical N.E.W.T. to your name.

The other downside is that James is not there. You're sure you'd be a lot less stressed if that particular outlet was still available to you. James is true to his word though, and regularly writes you letters, funny letters, which he is sensible enough to send at odd hours of the day so no one remarks on your suddenly frequent correspondent. He's also subtle enough to use post office owls if his letters are going to arrive when other people are likely to be around. He has his own owl, a frankly terrifying beast which happily flies around the corridors of Hogwarts, often catching you when you're on your rounds. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to realise that James probably times most of the letters to arrive then, when you are alone. When you do realise, you're weirdly touched by it. Sometimes the letters are long and rambling, and sometimes they are half-coherent little notes, and you genuinely enjoy receiving and replying to each one of them.

You'd never have imagined, before, that someone could flirt through a letter, but he absolutely does, and his joking tone is achingly familiar. It makes you miss those stolen moments even more. He is as endearing on paper as he can be in person when he decides to turn on the charm, and he has excellent Quidditch stories now that he's training with the first team on a regular basis. The Tornados' policy is to rotate each reserve player in practices with the first team. It means that each first team player gets an occasional break from training, and the coaches get a real idea of the reserve players' progress. It seems to be going well for him, even though, half-sarcastic 'I am a star, a God among men, an unadulterated miracle on a broomstick' type comments aside, he is actually quite modest about his Quidditch skills.

One Friday, after a depressingly brief (to your sense of self control, anyway) bit of cajoling on his part, you agree to meet him in Hogsmeade so he can Apparate you to his flat for the weekend. You've already laid the groundwork by shuffling your Prefect duties and telling Al you're going home for the weekend. While you're all too aware of the ways your tenuous deception might fall apart, you force yourself not to think about it as you sneak down to the village after dark to meet him in the alley behind Honeydukes.

At first sight, the alleyway seems empty, but suddenly there comes a low whistle from the shadows. You step towards the source of the noise and then there is a flare of wand light and you find yourself looking at James and almost swallow your tongue, because he is wearing a muddied Quidditch uniform, complete with boots that cling to his calves. He looks so sexy it makes your knees weak.

"Hi," he says, and you smile.

"Alright?" you ask a bit weakly.

"Fine," he says. "Ready to go?"

"Yep," you nod, and he steps into your personal space, slipping an arm around your waist.

"I've got my Apparition licence, you know," you tell him. "You could just give me the co-ordinates instead of side-alonging me all over the place."

"Where's the fun in that?" he purrs, pulling you closer.

You tighten your grip on the bag you're carrying just as he tightens his grip on you and Apparates you both. He's kissing you as soon as you arrive, his hands clutched in the front of your robes. You give in to it eagerly and grab at him in return, pressing yourself tight against him, kissing him deeply.

"I like the uniform," you say as you finally part and he laughs.

"Dirty bugger. Late night training," he explains. "I had to come straight from the pitch or I'd have been late."

"You won't hear me objecting," you shrug and he nods.

"Good to know - for future reference and all that. I er - " he ducks his head and looks at you almost bashfully, not quite able to contain a smile. "The coach said I might get a first team start in a few weeks if I keep my game up."

"That's brilliant!" you enthuse, and he smiles properly, the smile that lights up his whole face. "Jenkins is well past his best, hasn't scored more than fifty points together for a whole season and - "

"I never knew," he laughs. "Never knew the extent of your Quidditch obsession."

"It runs extremely deep," you admit with a smile.

"And goes beyond the sight of me in my uniform?"

"A little bit beyond that," you shrug. "Although you do look completely edible," you add and he laughs, kissing you again.

"Right. I need to take a shower," he announces as he steps back.

"Oh. Alright," you say, a bit disappointed at the apparent change in direction, and he cocks an eyebrow at you.

"Join me?"

"What?"

"You heard. You coming or not?"

He kisses you once more and then turns away, pulling off his robes and tugging at his Quidditch jersey, revealing his broad back. You shake yourself and follow him after a moment, and by the time you get to the bathroom (following the long trail of discarded clothes) he is already naked and soaking wet, and covered in soap suds.

The little room is starting to fill with steam as you shrug out of your own clothes and step into the cubicle behind him, sliding your arms around his waist.

"Oh! Hello," he says, starting a bit as you touch him.

"Hello," you say, nosing into the wet hair at the back of his head, herding him forward a bit so you can duck under the spray, and then yelping at the heat.

"Sorry," he laughs. "I like it stupidly hot."

His shower is some sort of Muggle contraption, and he reaches out and jabs at a button on a white box. The heat relents a little and you duck your head under the torrent of water, shuddering at the sensation. Over the sound of the pounding spray, you hear him laugh and turn to look at him curiously.

"You've gone all pink," he says and you roll his eyes.

"Idiot," you inform him, and he steps closer to you, digging his hands into your wet hair and tilting your head up to kiss you.

"I didn't think you'd come," he says when he moves back, and you shrug.

"I said, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but I thought you'd find a reason to - You know what? Never mind."

His fingers wind into your hair again before you can ask what he means, and he kisses you once more, hot and soft, water from the shower slicking your mouths.

"You can't," he breathes, nudging you up against the wall of the shower and kissing you again. "You can't imagine how much I've missed this."

"Don't be so bloody soft," you chastise, squeezing him closer, and he laughs, all lazy smile and sparkling eyes, and you can't resist dragging him down into another kiss.

"Soft, huh?" he asks, nuzzling along your jawline and into your hair, his hands on your shoulders. "Why does that sound like a challenge?" he asks, and you laugh, turning your head to kiss him.

"Because it was. Come on, prove me wrong."

He groans and kisses your throat, your shoulders, your collarbones, before his hand slides down your side to your waist to pull you against him. You can tell in the way that he's slow and careful in his movements that for whatever reason, he is deliberately holding back, purposely being gentle, nearly sweet. He's still getting hard, though, and the fact that you can feel it happening makes part of you want to rip away that self control and feel him all over you, against you, inside you, but you go with it instead, letting him pull you back under the water with him. You shiver at the swirl of air against your chilled back and he moves his hands gently across your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses along your jaw.

You slide your hands up over the swell of his biceps and across his shoulders to loop around the back of his neck, leaning up into his slow kisses. You feel his fingers twine into your hair again and he strokes his other hand firmly down your side.

"This – " he says, breaking away to kiss your neck, muttering his next words to your skin. "This was really not what I was planning," he says, almost apologetically.

"No?" you ask, turning your face to crush him against you, your hands squeezing at his shoulders, distantly wondering what he was planning. "Funny. It's almost exactly what I had in mind," you observe and he laughs, kissing you again.

"I've – mmm – missed you," he says softly between kisses and you falter. He apparently senses your confusion because he kisses you again, harder this time, and then edges bare inches away. "Let's go to bed," he says, and then amends that to, "Let me take you to bed."

You want to tease him for being such a bloody girl (or treating you like one) but the words die in your throat when he nuzzles into your neck, sucking droplets of water from your skin. He switches off the shower a moment later and steps out of the cubicle, grabbing a towel from the rack. When you step out after him he whisks the towel around you and uses it to pull you closer. You decide to forgo drying off and press your body against his, kissing him as demandingly as you can. He makes a soft murmuring noise and drops the towel, wrapping his arms around your waist and walking you backwards and out of the bathroom. He hardly stumbles on his way to another, larger room, and you barely notice your surroundings before he's kissing you again.

"C'mere," he says as he parts your mouths, reaching for your hand and backing up again, leading you towards a double bed. Your patience snaps and you push him down onto the edge of the mattress, straddling his lap and kissing him.

"Fuck," he groans, when you move on to plant biting kisses on his jaw. His hands squeeze at your back, and his hips struggle to move, to press his hard cock against you. You moan into his skin and push against him, and he falls unceremoniously onto his back, taking you with him to sprawl over him. You kiss his wet, open mouth again, shifting to line your hips up with his and thrust against him. He spreads his legs under you, bending his knees to put his feet flat on the bed and grip your hips with his thighs. His hands slide down to cup your arse and pull you in tighter against him, and the noise you make then is not far off a whine.

"Fuck, this is..." you mutter against his jaw. "Feels like it's been ages."

He turns his head again to nudge you into another kiss, his hands clenching and relaxing on you in time with your haphazard thrusts against his body.

"I wanted – " he gasps out between kisses. "Properly, you know?"

"Huh?"

"I wanted – oh, oh God – wanted you to fuck me."

"Later," you promise instantly and he groans. "I want it too," you breathe and his face suddenly goes very still and attentive, even though he keeps moving against you, with you. "A lot. Since – ohh – since about five minutes after the last time actually."

"Yeah?" he asks, and there is something in his voice, prompting you to go on.

"Of course. And I'll know what I'm doing this time," you promise.

"Didn't hear me complaining last time, did you?" he asks and you laugh, shaking your head against his throat.

"This time - this time I'll make you forget your own name," you tell him, and it would probably sound more threatening if you could catch your breath.

"Please, please - fuck," he groans, his whole body going tight under you, and you know it means he's right on the edge, so you press down and grind against him. Sure enough he meets your deliberate movements with rough, sloppy ones of his own, and it's only a few moments before he's crying out, slicking your increasingly ragged thrusts with his come.

"Uhh - ohh - " he groans against your neck, his hands clumsy as they stroke up over your back. "God - you too," he pleads. "I want you to - " and that is it, he doesn't get to finish his sentence because you kiss him again, teeth clashing before you hone in on his lower lip and suck at it, your hips jabbing down against his as you shudder your way through your orgasm.

He lets out a deep breath and his shaking hands finish their journey up your back to tangle his fingers in your hair. You're hardly aware of him stretching out his legs until you settle against him again, letting the gentle pressure of his fingers pull your head down to rest against his collarbone.

"Mmm," he murmurs a moment later, turning his head to kiss your hair. "Definitely, definitely left it too long."

"Yeah," you agree, and he makes another contented humming noise, stroking his fingers down the back of your neck.

"Oh, that was..." He says a little while later, tightening his arms around you and then kissing your scalp. "Mmm, brilliant," he finishes and you laugh, nodding your head against his chest.

"Yeah," you mutter, then shift slightly to lie at his side. He takes the opportunity to reach over and grab his wand from the bedside cabinet. He waves it and you feel the slight tingle of a cleaning charm. After a brief pause he dries off the sheets and both of your bodies as well. He curls himself around you and sighs happily into your hair. You walk your fingertips over his side before falling still. Ten minutes later he still doesn't seem inclined to move and you decide again to just go with it. There is a definite sense of luxury in being able to relax afterwards, and you can't deny that the warm press of his body against yours is more than nice.

You close your eyes before you smooth your hand over his back again, settling down into the sheets. His fingers tighten around the side of your ribcage for a moment and he lets out a blissful sigh against your skin. You're on the verge of sleep when you feel him shifting around. You crack one eye open to find him looking at you.

"Bit creepy," you comment, and he laughs for a moment before sobering up and looking at you again.

"What are you going to do after school?" he asks curiously and you blink at him.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I - " He shrugs. "Don't know. There's just a lot I still don't know about you, I suppose."

"Hm. Well, I want to be a journalist."

"Oh, please tell me you're joking," he says, sitting up suddenly and looking down at you. The look on his face is much the same one Al had worn when you told him in fourth year, and for the same reasons, you'd imagine.

"Not the kind your father has such well-publicised spats with," you hasten to add.

"What other kind is there?" James frowns.

"The serious kind," you point out flatly. "The kind that actually report news and politics, rather than gossip."

"Huh," he huffs, as though he doubts such people exist. "Well, for the record," he says in a lighter tone of voice, "No comment."

"Like I'd want to interview you. Just another brainless Quidditch player."

"You will pay for that," he says.

"Really?" you ask flatly.

"Yeah. At a later date though, I'm pretty knackered."

"You're terrifying," you tell him. "I have every faith that that wasn't an idle threat."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Yes. Slytherin."

"So I suppose you'll be going for one of the summer internships at The Prophet?" he asks.

"Yes," you nod. "I've got the application forms back at school, I just need to send them off."

"Ever-prepared, eh?" he asks, and you shrug noncommittally. "You haven't sent it yet?" James asks, turning onto his side to look down at you curiously. "I thought you'd be the type to do it straight away, give them longer to absorb your brilliance."

"Yeah," you say, shrugging and fixing your eyes absently on a point over his shoulder, not really wanting to get drawn into this. However, he slides his hand across your stomach so that his fingers can drum out a rhythm against your ribs and you find yourself opening your mouth to explain. "I probably won't get it."

"You think?" he asks, sounding surprised.

"Mmm."

"You mind if I ask why not?" he asks gently, and you're quite surprised to find that actually, you don't mind as much as you'd thought you would.

"Name."

"Huh?"

"Malfoy. Doesn't exactly go too well with The Prophet's new liberal ethos."

"Oh," he says, fingers drumming against your ribs again. "That's shit, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Is that - d'you - I mean, does that happen a lot?"

"Well - " you shrug. "Dad always did his best when I was a kid, so not much then. And it's different at school, we're young enough that most people largely ignore it. It's just - the people who run The Prophet now were there. They saw - everything."

"That still - that shouldn't - "

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks down at you. He's frowning and chewing on his lower lip, and he looks like he's caught between being pissed off and thinking hard. You weren't really expecting much of a reaction, and you're not entirely sure what his means so you keep quiet.

"Do you ever get grief at school?"

"Not - " you start but he interrupts you quickly.

"You said they largely ignore it."

"Right. So I largely don't get any grief."

"But - that's - fuckers. What d'you do?"

"Walk away," you shrug, and he looks at you dubiously. "Walk away and then hex them from behind a suit of armour a few days later," you admit and he grins.

"Still," he says noncommittally a moment later. "What kind of friend is my stupid brother, anyway? Why hasn't he beaten them up for you?"

"James. I don't need anyone to beat someone up for me. Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not - Just - that's really unfair."

"Lots of things are unfair," you remind him. "Like the fact that some people get a job that doesn't involve any brain input at all," you say, poking him pointedly in the thigh.

"Quidditch is extremely mentally taxing," he says, reaching down and capturing your hand, fiddling with your fingers. "But - School kids are one thing, but - is this rubbish really going to effect your career?"

"Maybe," you admit, shrugging again. "If it comes to it, I can just help my dad run the estates."

"But you don't want to," he protests.

"Not yet." Shaking your head, you push yourself up to sit next to him, leaning against the headboard. "Listen, James," you say, nudging him and turning your head to catch his eye. "This really isn't something you need to worry your pretty little head about, alright? It's just life."

"But - "

"James," you interrupt flatly. "This was definitely not on my agenda for the weekend."

"Nor mine," he admits, laughing and dispersing some of the tension that's built up. He grabs your hand again and lifts it, kissing your knuckles. "One last thing?" he requests and you nod with a long-suffering sigh.

"Go on, then."

"Lily's Godmother runs The Quibbler," he says eventually, then looks at you almost warily. "I'm just saying."

"The Quibbler?"

"I'm just saying. It's not all Snorkacks and Humdingers these days. There's some halfway decent stuff in among the craziness. That's all. I'm just saying."

"Right," you say slowly. "Well let's leave it there, then."

"Right," he says, squeezing your hand. "Sorry."

"What? Why?"

"I - don't know," he shrugs. "You don't seem to like - I feel like I just dragged all that out of you," he goes on, looking uncomfortable.

"I'd have lied if I wanted to," you tell him after a little while and he slings his arm around your shoulders with a sigh, kissing your temple and tugging you roughly against him.

"Do you have any training this weekend?" you ask, partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire to change the subject.

"Nope," he says, with a satisfied sigh. "Not 'til Monday morning."

You settle closer against him and he tightens the grip of his arm around your shoulders.

"I'm hungry," he says abruptly a few minutes later. "Are you hungry?"

"Er - "

He grabs your hand and hauls you off the bed.

"C'mon," he says. "Let me give you the grand tour."

The flat is only a modest two bedroom affair, but his enthusiasm for it is evident in the way he hustles you from room to room, proudly proclaiming that he painted this one the Muggle way, or took that photograph himself. You get the impression, though, that the current tidiness doesn't reflect its usual state. Sure enough, he finishes his 'grand tour' with,

"And this is the cupboard where I shoved everything I couldn't find a place for. Don't get too close, okay? It might burst at any minute." You step away from the cupboard and nod at a similar one on the other side of the hall.

"And that one?"

"Quidditch stuff," he shrugs. "Right. Food. D'you fancy a bowl of cereal? Or something more?"

"Cereal's fine," you nod, and he leads you back through to the kitchen, rummaging for bowls and milk. You can't stop your eyes lingering on the perfect shape of his bare arse as he moves around the room. When he hands you a bowl of cereal (kids' cereal, you note, the kind with the chocolate flavoured snitches) you can't help laughing as you take it.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," you shrug. "Just never eaten cereal in the nude at..." you crane your head to see the clock, "...almost eleven at night before."

"Ha. Well in my opinion, you should do a great many things in the nude, at all hours of the day," he says firmly and you roll your eyes at him, getting a wink and a little smile in return. "This is nice," he says a while later and you glance up quizzically, wondering if he means the cereal or something else. "I mean - I like you being here," he adds.

"Yeah, it's nice," you grin, looking at him slyly and adding, "Girl."

He gives you a look of mock outrage, then flutters his eyelashes at you. You laugh unexpectedly, dribbling a bit of milk, and he throws a roll of tissue at you.

"Extremely suave," he comments, and you glare, pressing a wad of tissue to your mouth. He polishes off his cereal and lets the bowl clatter into the sink. While you watch from the corners of your eyes, he fills a glass with cold water and drains half of it in one long gulp. You drop your spoon with a rattle and step up behind him, kissing his shoulder. He tips his head back at a weird angle to quirk an eyebrow at you smugly.

"Couldn't resist, eh?" he chuckles, and then gasps when you pinch his hipbone. "Actually," he says, turning round and looking at you teasingly, "That reminds me. You did make certain promises earlier, didn't you?"

"I think I did," you admit.

"Can I presume you intend to make good?" he asks, and you laugh at how endearing he is when he's being completely ridiculous.

"I absolutely do," you promise, and he beams.

"Well then," he says, leaning forward to kiss you once, sweet and teasing. "Shall we?" he asks, nodding over your shoulder towards the bedroom.

"Let's," you agree, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him down into another kiss, this one longer and hotter, as you try to tell him with a kiss about all the plans you have for him, and all the things you want to do to him. As it goes, you don't need to tell him what you want, verbally or otherwise, because he seems to sense it unerringly, and when you get back to the bedroom he pulls you down with him and just completely surrenders himself to your whims.

It's frankly amazing, the way he seems to come apart under your hands, the way he looks at you as though you're the only thing he's ever wanted, as if he trusts you completely and without question. It's amazing, but it's a bit terrifying, too. For the first time, you think you know how he feels when he forces himself to be all slow and careful with you, because the impulse is there for you too now. It's something about the combination of vulnerability and absolute lucidity on his face - as though he has made a conscious decision to give in to anything you want.

You feel the weight of that like a responsibility, and strive with everything you have to make good on your promise. Judging by the way he whines and wriggles (and then after that, by the way he clings to you, refusing to let you move so much as an inch away as he breaths harshly against your skin) you think you've succeeded. Certainly, you know that the sight of him gulping desperately for breath as his hands stutter across your back and he pulls you closer, breathing please please onto your skin, will stay with you for a long time.

Even after he's got his breath under control, and it's started going deep and steady as though he's drifting off, his grip on you doesn't let up. You resign yourself to the not entirely unpleasant thought of falling asleep tangled up in his arms and legs, with his sweaty hair in your face, and his heart thrumming out a steady rhythm under your hand.

He falls asleep before you do, and you're not entirely sure how you know to pinpoint the moment. You can tell though, precisely, even before he lets out a rumbling snore and you have to suppress a groan. A bloody snorer. Not so perfect after all.

"Huphh," he sighs and you glance at his face to see that he's still asleep. "Hmmmf," he mutters and then falls silent, snores tapering off into the occasional tired grumble. You can't help a tiny huff of laughter at his sleepy noises, and once you are sure he's fast asleep you rub your fingertips lightly across his chest, over soft, warm skin and crisp, dark hairs.

Something settles in your stomach, something warm and scary, like a bigger version of what you felt earlier, as though you are responsible for something you don't even understand. You fight the feeling for a moment but it only makes it worse and you start to wonder if you'll ever get to sleep. He sighs again, his arm sliding down your back a little, and you make a conscious decision to give into this weird, heavy warmth. Once that's done, it feels like only a matter of moments before you're blinking your eyes open, closing them quickly against the early morning sunshine pouring through his bedroom window.

You've never woken up next to anyone in the morning before, and it's a strange experience. As you start waking up properly, you become aware of a stripe of heat across your back. You crack an eye open again and realise that it's James' arm, that in fact he is curled around you, his forehead pressed against your arm, one of his legs tangled around yours.

You don't breathe for a second, just bite your lip and stay as still as you possibly can until it becomes clear he's not going to wake up just because you have. You let yourself relax slowly, and it occurs to you that this is the first time since he suggested the idea that you've thought there was anything weird about the idea of sneaking out of school to have – no other words for it – a dirty weekend with your... What? Your best friend's brother, that's what. Merlin's beard...

Still, you're not really inclined to move, and eventually you stop being so acutely aware of every tiny point of contact between his body and yours. At some point in the night he must have dragged the sheets up over both of you because the cool cotton is a sharp contrast to the almost uncomfortable heat of him pressed against you. You find yourself weirdly curious and crane your neck to look at his face. He looks younger in sleep, as most people do, and there is a warm flush across his cheekbones. There are freckles on his nose, lighter than the others on his face, so pale-golden as to be almost invisible, and he has the longest eyelashes of anyone you've ever seen, male or female. You wonder why you never noticed this before, on any of the dozens of occasions you have been this close or closer to his face. After a while, when you have almost become used to the feeling of him lying against your side he stirs a bit, mumbles something, and tightens his grip on you. His face presses into your neck as he sighs, and you can feel his lips shifting against your skin.

"Hey," you say, poking him in the side. "Hey, wake up."

"Mmmph?"

"Wake up."

"Huhz? Wha'sis?"

"Wake up and stop pawing me unless you're going to do it strategically."

"Hmm, strategic pawing," he says around a yawn, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him, kissing you with sleep-warm lips. "Good morning."

"Mmm, morning," you reply softly, smiling against his mouth. He trails his fingertips lazily up and down your spine while you kiss, almost light enough to make you shiver.

Eventually you shift to lie at his side, and he twines your fingers together idly, running his thumb over your knuckles.

"Sleep well?" he asks and you nod. "Good. What'd you want to do today?" he asks after a moment.

"You," you say jokingly and he laughs, squeezing your hand.

"Plenty of time for that," he says, with a suggestive glance at you. "We can go out for breakfast first if you want?"

"Yeah, alright," you nod, and he grins, pushing himself up and kicking the sheets away.

"Come on, then," he says. "Get moving."

"You're keen," you observe, taking the opportunity to watch him padding about the room gathering clothes to wear.

"The sooner we go, the sooner we get back, right?" he points out, winking at you, and you laugh, grabbing your discarded trousers and hurrying off the claim the bathroom before he can. You wash, brush your teeth, and then wander through to collect your bag. It's still lying in the living room where you dropped it last night, and by the time you get back to the bedroom, he is there, dressed and ready to go. As you button your shirt you catch him watching you.

"What?" you ask, adding because he lives in a Muggle area, "Will they think I look weird?"

"They'll think you look like a posh kid, so..." he shrugs. "No harm done."

"Fuck you," you inform him serenely, only to realise that you've mis-buttoned your shirt. He snorts with laughter and moves towards you, batting your hands away and undoing the top three buttons of your shirt, lining them up properly. He pauses before doing the buttons up again and looks at you contemplatively, one corner of his mouth curling in a familiar smile.

"How hungry are you?" he asks, tugging gently on your collar to pull you into a soft kiss.

"Not especially," you shrug, thinking that you know where this is heading, and you certainly like the direction.

"I have the ability to make toast," he announces.

"I'm impressed," you tell him dryly.

"Oh, be quiet, for once," he says, looking amused and exasperated all at once, and pulls you in for another kiss that is anything but soft, fingers making short work of the last buttons on your shirt. His hands move along your ribs, across your stomach and up over your chest to brush your shirt away. You shiver, but from the touch of his fingers, rather than the rush of cool air over your skin, and press yourself closer to him, your own hands going to work on the clothes he only put on ten minutes ago.

You end up eating what he rather grandly calls brunch, and you call toast, scrambled eggs and pumpkin juice about half an hour later, and that seems to set the pattern for the weekend. Every time you decide to go somewhere, and start making yourselves look presentable, one of you will find a reason to waylay the other and make them a good deal less presentable. Admittedly, the first time was his fault, and you like to believe that set a precedent and led to your own behaviour.

The next time is Saturday evening and, granted, this one is entirely your fault. Having decided to go out for dinner ('somewhere classy. To match your shirt,' he'd quipped) you both make an effort to smarten up a bit, and he leaves the bathroom door open while he goes to shave. On your way from the bedroom to the living room, you pass the bathroom and for some reason, the sight of him tilting his head back to draw the razor up his throat awakens something in you. You step into the room and press yourself against his back, hooking your chin over his shoulder.

"Whoa, sharp implement in hand," he says warningly.

"So put it down and use a spell," you suggest.

"I prefer doing it this way," he says firmly.

"Oh well," you shrug, moving your hands around his sides and across his stomach before slipping them into the front pockets of his trousers. "Don't let me stop you."

The razor clatters into the sink and he orders takeaway curry about an hour later. In the end, you barely leave the bedroom until extremely late on Saturday night, in spite of his repeated offers to go out – for a meal, or to a pub, or for a walk. You're lying in bed together, talking quietly when he suddenly sits up with a look on his face like he'd been hit by lightning.

"I know where we can go!" he says.

"We don't have to go anywhere," you tell him. "Especially not this time of night."

"No, it'll be brilliant! Come on, up! Clothes! C'mon!"

"It's almost midnight," you protest.

"C'mon, please. I'll feel rubbish if I lure you out of school and we don't go anywhere."

"Oh, alright," you groan, pushing yourself upright and fending him off one-handed as he tries to drag you to your feet. "Down, idiot."

"Brilliant," he beams, getting up and practically bouncing around the room, grabbing your clothes and throwing them towards you. "Here, put this on, too," he says, handing you a thick black sweatshirt, and pulling on a similar one himself.

"What are you up to?" you demand, his haste infecting you as you scramble into your clothes.

"It's a surprise," he says. "Come here a minute," he says, and you follow him out of the bedroom to the cupboard in the hallway that he'd said held his Quidditch stuff. You'd expected boots, robes and a couple of brooms but he opens the door with a flourish to reveal a collection of at least a dozen classic brooms, and nothing else.

"Bloody hell, James! This is a bit extravagant, isn't it?" you ask, trying to tot up the value of the brooms in the cupboard, and quickly losing track.

"What? Oh, no. I didn't pay more than ten galleons for any of them. I buy them from junk shops and fix them up."

"Really?" you ask, impressed in spite of yourself. You reach out and take a Nimbus 2000 from the collection. This close, you can see the little imperfections, and the signs of careful repair. The balance is perfect, though, and that's usually one area where repaired brooms suffer. "This is really good," you tell him and he pauses in his rummaging to look over his shoulder at you with a smile.

"Thanks," he says. "Ready?"

"Think so," you nod.

"Right, come here then," he says, looping his arm around your waist.

"We're not flying there?"

"We're flying when we get there," he says, and you raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "You'll see," he says cheerfully.

"But - "

"Stop it," he tells you firmly. "It's a surprise, okay?"

"Alright, alright," you relent, getting a tighter grip on the Nimbus and readying yourself for the jolt of Apparition.

It feels like a very short jump before you land cleanly on a fairly soft surface and his hand moves to your elbow, steadying you carefully. It's dark enough that you can barely make him out before he flicks his wand and sends a soft beam of light into the air. It splits into several little jets and they zoom off in different directions, gradually illuminating a pitch of grass, tall goal posts and unmistakeable rows of pale blue seats. You almost choke on the realisation that you are in the Tornados' ground, after hours, completely unsupervised. The urge to run around like a kid and see everything you possibly can is almost insurmountable but you force it down and turn to look at him. He looks like he's caught somewhere between smug and nervous and you shake your head wonderingly.

"! Is this - are we allowed to be here?"

"Probably," he says with a shrug. "I work here, don't I?"

You laugh and can't help giving him a quick, tight hug.

"This is brilliant," you grin, turning away from him to look around. You've been here before of course, watched countless matches from the stands, but there is something different about actually standing on the pitch. It's pretty much a childhood dream, you admit to yourself.

"Want to score a goal?" he suggests.

"Seriously?" you ask, blinking at him.

"Yeah!" he grins. "I can do a spell to muffle the posts, just in case, but I don't see why not."

"Excellent!" you beam, and mount your broom immediately, zipping off to fly a lap around the pitch. You hear him laughing before he's out of earshot, and can't help grinning in response as you fly past the lights he conjured. They have turned into several small orbs of light, bobbing in the air at around the level of the tallest goal post.

By the time he catches up with you, he's found a Quaffle from somewhere and has it tucked under his arm.

"Quick game of one on one?" he asks and you look at him dubiously.

"That sounds like a nice, fairly matched game," you point out and he rolls his eyes.

"I'll go easy on you," he promises, tossing you the ball.

"Right," you say doubtfully and he laughs.

"Go on. Open goal," he says, and you nod, turning your broom towards one set of goalposts and flying off. You're aware of him following you and laughing when you keep edging closer to the posts, not wanting to take the risk of missing. As it turns out, you needn't have worried because he appears from nowhere between you and the posts, plucking the Quaffle effortlessly from the air only seconds after it leaves your fingertips.

"That's going easy?" you demand, as he flies in a loop around you and throws the Quaffle back to you.

"Alright, just teasing," he says, and flies off to hover behind the third post, ready to catch the ball when it goes through. You score easily, the goalposts letting out only a quiet clang, and he plummets downwards fast enough to make you wince, grabbing the ball and turning at an impossibly tight angle to swoop upwards and veer off in a wide loop. You chase after him and get the feeling that he deliberately drops his speed and manoeuvring down a notch to let you catch up to him. You jostle against him as you both fly in a tight circle back towards the goalposts. Glancing ahead, you reach over and hit the ball from underneath, sending it flying up out of the circle of his arm. He gives an outraged shout and turns to watch as you make a slightly clumsy grab for the Quaffle and head for the goal posts. You score again and he retrieves the ball once more. He scores twice in quick succession and then you score once more before drifting away a bit.

"Come on, then," you call out to him. "Wow me."

He laughs and nods, hefting the ball in one hand and drifting back a bit from the posts to score from a distance. As soon as the Quaffle leaves his hand he is flying at breakneck speed, in time to catch the ball before it's halfway to the ground. He repeats the cycle several times, getting ever more daring in the moves he makes. At one point he even lets himself slip from the broom, clinging on with his fingertips to catch the Quaffle in the palm of his other hand. It seems as though he barely catches the ball, just lets it slide over his hand and continue in a slightly different direction, now heading straight for the goal. As soon as it leaves his fingertips he swings himself back onto his broom as though it's the easiest thing in the world, and you can't help feeling a bit smug that you're getting your very own showcase performance. He finally comes to a stop in front of you, flushed in the face, his hair wild.

"Very impressive," you tell him dryly, but you mean it wholeheartedly. He was brilliant even at school, easily outflying and outscoring team mates and opponents alike, but it's obvious that he's benefited from the professional training at the Tornados.

"Ta," he grins. "You want to head back?"

"Alright," you nod, casting a last long look around the stadium. He edges closer on his broom until your knees are nudging and then leans forward and kisses you.

"Had fun?" he asks, and you grin at him, kissing him again, reaching forward to tangle one hand in his thick sweatshirt.

"'Fun' doesn't even come close," you tell him and he laughs. "Honestly," you insist. "I've wanted to do this since I was about five."

"Good," he smiles. "Good, that's - okay. I need to go and put this away," he says, hefting the Quaffle in one hand and circling away. "Meet you back on the ground."

You nod, and while he flies off to return to Quaffle to wherever he filched it from, you take the opportunity to do another quick lap of the pitch, pushing the Nimbus as hard as you dare. You'd never have realised that the broom had been drastically restored. It flies like it's still got all its original bristles and spells. When you finally take it down towards the ground, he is waiting for you, watching your descent.

"You're a good flier," he says. "We should do this more often."

"Yeah," you agree, and his little performance has it fresh in your mind that he is a professional player, and he thinks you're a good flier. You can't help returning his broad smile with one of your own.

"C'mon, then. Let's go," he says, waving his wand again and causing the lights to disappear. You step up to him and put one arm around his waist. He look down at you and cups your face in his hand for a moment before kissing your forehead. "I love watching you have fun," he says with a little smile and you flush a bit, casting your eyes down, not sure if maybe he's teasing you for being so completely delighted at being in the stadium. "Hey," he says, his fingers sliding under your chin to tilt your face upwards. "I mean it."

He kisses you properly at the same moment as he Apparates. When you arrive back at his flat, you laugh and call him a flash git, and he grins down at you, relieving you of your broom and returning them both to the cupboard. When he returns you've curled up in the corner of one of his sofas and are trying not to yawn.

"C'mon," he says, leaning against the doorframe and looking at you. "Let's go to bed, I'm knackered."

"Me too," you admit, dragging yourself to your feet and following him out of the room. You tug off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and slip back into bed. He does the same and slides in next to you, snuggling in close against you, his hand slides over your stomach and up to your chest.

"Thanks," you murmur.

"My pleasure," you hear him whisper, and you think you vaguely feel him running his fingers along your jaw just as sleep claims you.

You don't wake up until mid-morning on Sunday, and James is not there. After a moment, you register noises in the flat and get up to investigate, pulling on the first thing you find, which turns out to be your trousers from the night before. Half dressed, you walk to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. You pause in the doorway to watch in growing amusement because James is making toast, singing along enthusiastically to the Muggle radio, swaying his boxer short-clad hips in time to the music.

"Hello," you call eventually and he turns around, his face falling.

"Bugger. Hi."

"Don't worry. You don't look even slightly ridiculous, honest," you lie and he laughs.

"Coffee?"

"Black, no sugar," you nod and he pours you a cup, holding it out to you. You cross the room to take it but he doesn't let go of the handle until you turn your face up to kiss him.

"So, what're we doing today?" he asks and you shrug. "What time do you have to go?" he asks reluctantly, as though asking the question will make the hour approach faster.

"Late afternoon, I suppose," you say regretfully and he glances at the clock.

"That's enough time to go out for lunch, if you'd like?" he offers, and you nod. "Good. There's a pub down the road that does excellent roasts."

"Alright," you nod, taking a swig of your coffee, and smiling appreciatively. "Nice."

"Good," he says, nodding to a plate piled high with buttered toast. "Help yourself, by the way," he tells you, and you reach for a slice of toast, demolishing it quickly, finding you're uncharacteristically hungry. "All that late night flying," he observes as you reach for another slice and you can't help grinning at the memory.

"That was completely brilliant," you tell him and he laughs.

"You may have mentioned that at the time. It was hard to tell through the girly screams of excitement."

"Shut up, you," you tell him and he smiles at you. "You mind if I take a shower?" you ask, and he shrugs.

"Course not. Yell if you need anything."

"Right," you nod, draining the last of your coffee and heading to the bathroom.

As you step out of the shower ten minutes later, you realise that you can hear him singing along to the radio again, and you can't help laughing as you towel yourself dry. Back in the bedroom you find that he's been through and made the bed, generally tidied up a bit. A pair of your trousers are folded neatly at the end of the bed, along with underwear and an overlarge red and black t-shirt that you suppose must be his. You pull the clothes on and walk back to the living room to find him sprawled on the sofa.

"Oh, well, look at that," he says as you walk into the room.

"At what?"

"My experiment was successful," he says jokily and you quirk an eyebrow at him. "See, last night, as soon as you put on that old sweatshirt of mine, I just wanted to peel it straight off you again. I was wondering if it'd be the same if you wore something else of mine."

"I see," you say slowly. "And?"

"Oh, yeah," he nods, getting to his feet with an indefinably predatory look in his eyes. "Yeah, definitely the same."

He beckons you over and you cross the room while he flicks his wand at the Floo, locking it against unannounced visitors. He takes your hand to pull you closer, giving you a long, slow kiss, his palms moving gently over your back, the material of his own t-shirt bunching under his hands. When he moves back he gives you a quick, mischievous smile before expertly undoing the button and zip on your trousers, shoving them down to mid-thigh. You open your mouth to make a comment about whether it was worth putting them on in the first place, but he puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes you down to the sofa, shutting you up extremely effectively. You look up at him for a moment and his hand shifts to trace two fingers along your jaw, and over your lips.

"James," you say against his fingers, and he smiles, brushing the back of his fingers over your cheek before he goes to his knees in front of you, awkwardly tugging your trousers and pants down further before he lets his hands fall to your thighs, pushing them apart and shuffling closer to you. You can't quite hold back a little moan of anticipation and he looks up at you, a wicked little smirk on his face. He bows his head and you bite your lip and close your eyes, sure that the sight of what he's about to do will be too much for you, only to have him kiss the inside of your thigh instead.

"Bloody tease," you chastise him, passing your hand over his messy hair.

"Not teasing," he says against your skin. "Thorough."

Thorough? That sounds ominous. Sure enough, he takes his time, kissing up the inside of your leg, over your hip and across your stomach. Occasionally his kisses are mixed in with little bites, tiny flashes of pressure against your skin. By the time he finally moves lower to take you into his mouth, you are little more than a puddle on the sofa. Thorough is one word, although another way of putting it would be merciless, and yet another would be totally fucking maddening , and you can't help groaning, almost shuddering under his hands.

You feel like you're falling apart with every long slide of his lips down your shaft, every time his fingers trace down your thighs, every time his hair brushes over your stomach. Under any other circumstances, that little drag would probably tickle but on your flushed, over-sensitised skin it causes a further hot flash of excitement, and you choke out a breathless plea, your hands fluttering over his hair as you try to resist the temptation to grab hold and drive yourself deeper into his mouth.

"This - " you breathe as he suddenly backs off. "This definitely qualifies as teasing."

"Maybe," he admits. "A little bit. The good kind of teasing, right?"

"If by 'good', you mean 'completely bloody infuriating', then yeah, not bad," you say and he laughs a bit breathlessly. His fingers press into your thighs, stroking firmly, almost massaging for a moment, before his hands settle, and he gives you a wicked look before diving in again and you can't help curling your fingers into his hair this time. He makes a noise which could certainly signify encouragement and you're unable to resist a shallow roll of your hips. He groans again and you realise as you look down that one of his hands has moved from your leg and is working furiously between his own.

It's that, you think, that finishes you off - The idea that he likes this so much it makes him groan, that he likes it so much he can't help touching himself. Afterwards, he pitches forward, his head pressed against your chest, breath tickling your skin and you raise your hands dumbly to his hair again, sliding your fingers through it gently, untangling the knots you put there in your desperation. He tips his head up to kiss you after a moment and you groan all over again at your own taste on his lips.

He gets up on distinctly shaky legs and slumps down on the sofa next to you, looking around for his wand and spelling himself clean. He slings his arm around your shoulders and tugs you to his side, kissing your cheek and then sighing contentedly into your hair. You let yourself lean into him, sliding an arm around his waist, your other hand reaching up to tangle with his fingers where they're hanging from your shoulder. He lets out a long cool breath and kisses your scalp again, wrapping one of his legs around yours. You wriggle away after a moment to tug your trousers up but can't resist falling back against the warm solidity of his body.

Now you know what the sight does to him, you keep his t-shirt on when he gets up a little while later to make more coffee. You drink it sitting together on the sofa, chatting idly about Quidditch and music, the ridiculous new misuse of magic rules, anything that pops into your head. In the end, you are so distracted with each other that you only just make it to the pub in time for lunch orders, and it's well past three by the time you get back to his flat.

"I, uh - I should probably..." you say, as he drops his keys into a dish on the windowsill, telling yourself that not wanting to add the word 'go' is completely ridiculous.

"Yeah," he says, taking half a step away and putting his hands in his pockets.

"I'll just change my shirt. I left my bag in the bedroom so - "

"I'll get it," he offers, and turns on his heel, leaving the room before you can say anything. You're left standing in the living room and wondering where the hell all this sudden awkwardness has come from. He's back a minute later, your bag in one hand and one of your shirts in the other.

"Found this," he says, holding it out to you.

"Oh, thanks," you nod, reaching for it. You tug off his t-shirt and ball it up, throwing it at his head. To your relief he laughs as he catches it and some of the tension seems to go out of the room. As you start buttoning up your own shirt he crosses the room with your bag, setting it down at your feet and grabbing the unbuttoned halves of your shirt to pull you into a kiss. You give into it willingly, winding your arms around his neck and parting your mouth against his, coaxing his tongue into your mouth with gentle pressure from your own. His hands fall to your waist, fingers tightening and relaxing in an intoxicating rhythm.

"I really - mmm - really have to go," you say, carefully removing his hands from your waist, only to have them fall on your shoulders and pull you into another kiss.

"Not yet," he says, his voice low and warm, his arms wrapping around you to pull you closer. "Once more, mm?"

"James..." you protest, but without much passion.

"I want you so much. Once more," he says between kisses, pulling gently at the hem of your shirt. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod, sliding your arms around his waist to let your hands creep up under the back of his t-shirt.

"Yeah," he says again, his voice a low rush this time as he traces his fingers down your shirt, the buttons you managed to fasten before his approach seeming to spring open at a single touch. You move one hand down from his back to the top of his arse, pressing him gently closer. He looks down at you and his eyes seem darker than usual, a hungry look on his face as he leans in to kiss you again.

"Wait," you murmur, ducking back a little to look at him seriously, because all of a sudden you know exactly what you want from him. "Bedroom," you instruct firmly and he nods, grabbing your hand as you both hurry through the flat.

In the bedroom you waste no time getting rid of your clothes and he does the same, waiting with an almost uncertain look on his face until you close the distance between you and push him down onto the bed. You stroke your fingers along his collarbone and up his throat to curve around the sharp corner of his jaw. He cranes his neck up to kiss you and you part his soft lips with a swift pass of your tongue.

"Will you fuck me?" you ask him between kisses and he gives a huff of laughter.

"There's a tricky question," he smirks and you laugh with him before leaning in to kiss him again, nipping at his lower lip and getting a lovely startled noise in response.

"Will you?" you persist and he laughs again, pressing his head back into the pillows and looking up at your with bright, sparking eyes.

"You've twisted my arm," he says, running his fingers down your arm to circle around your wrist.

"Cheeky bastard," you mutter, distracted by the warm skin of his neck under your lips.

"You love it," he says, and there is a silence before he presses up against you and you both roll onto your sides. He nudges one of his legs between yours and kisses you again and again, leaving you breathless enough, even before he whispers, "Turn over."

You groan and kiss him one more time, turning onto your front, but his hands skim over your sides and he nudges at you until he has you on your side again, your back pressed against his front. He has the fingers of one hand twined in your hair as he kisses across your shoulders, his free hand stroking down your chest to your stomach and then further down to tease over your growing erection. You press against his hand as best as you can, aching for greater friction, more pressure. He mutters something against the skin behind your ear, and noses through your hair.

"Hmm?"

"Leg," he says, his hand sliding down over your hip to your thigh, guiding one of your legs up and forward. He keeps it there with one of his own, knee pressing into the back of your thigh. He takes his sweet time in preparing you, seeming to delight in every opportunity he has to make you cry out. It's not long before you completely lose sight of the fact that you're going to be back much later than you were intending, and you press yourself against him as commandingly as you can.

He lets out a helpless, broken sounding sigh as he pushes himself into you, and you carefully tilt your head back towards him, trying to avoid breaking his nose, because that would definitely put a dent in the proceedings, and Salazar knows you are not ready for this to stop anytime soon. He nuzzles into your hair and breathes open-mouthed kisses against your scalp, moving firmly but so slowly inside you that you think you'll go mad.

You try everything you can think of to get him to move faster, from pressing your hips back against him to giving full voice to the moans and pleas that normally drive him wild. He just clamps his hand onto your hip though, and kisses your neck in a way that feels tightly controlled before he says, trying to laugh,

"I know what you're up to, you know. Stop it."

"Oh, please - " you breathe, and his fingers spread wider on your hip, his grip relaxing as he strokes over your skin. "Please..."

"Shh..." he murmurs. "Or - actually, carry on if you want. M'not going any faster, though."

"Fucker," you mutter and he laughs.

"Yeah."

"That was terrible," you tell him, or try anyway, because just as you start to speak, he slides all the way in and grinds against you, his thumb flicking over your nipple, and your words are lost in a breathless cry. He kisses your shoulder, and you can feel the vibration of his groan against your skin. His hand presses with gentle pressure against your shoulder blades and you lean your upper body forward, trying to give him a better angle. He pointedly doesn't take advantage of it, just maintains that constant, maddening rhythm. You decide that it is long past time you took control of the situation and slide your hand back to grab his hip.

"Stop," you tell him and he freezes.

"What – Did I – "

You feel the sudden tension in him and turn your head as far as you can to nuzzle against his face as you say,

"On your back, Potter."

You feel his groan as a rumble against your cheek as he pulls himself out of you. You let out a little hiss at the sensation and feel the mattress shift as he falls onto his back. Barely pausing for breath, you turn to face him, scrambling awkwardly to straddle his lap. You're so hard that it aches, that it makes you clumsy, and you can feel the ghost of him inside you, a strange lingering stretch. You reach behind yourself and the angle is awkward, but after a few moments of fumbling you're sinking down on to him. He feels hot enough to burn on the way in and as you rock yourself down onto the last couple of inches of him, he cries out your name around a broken breath, his hands settling firmly on your hips. After a brief pause, his fingers tighten, trying to encourage you to move, but you just push down more firmly.

"Scorp - " he protests and you laugh, shaking your head.

"Two can play that game, James," you remind him, rubbing your hands over his stomach and up across his chest to brace yourself against his shoulders. You start working yourself up until he is just inside you and then moving down again, in an imitation of his earlier pace and he groans, looking up at you with eyes that seem to laugh even now.

"You - " he says, and then that's it, he just stops, his lips still parted, his eyes fluttering shut. You don't like that, or more to the point, you do like the feel of his eyes on you so you shift your hips around in a little circle. Sure enough the jolt of pure physical pleasure you feel is accompanied by a smaller (but no less intoxicating) rush when his eyes fly open and fix on your face.

You should have spent far more of the weekend doing this, you realise a bit desperately. You should have done it when you had hours, hours, to learn what feels good, what makes him arch beneath you, what makes your blood sing like you've never known before. In the spirit of that you move your hands from his shoulders to rest on the mattress behind yourself, easily shrugging off his loose grip on your forearms. You lean back, taking some of your weight on your hands and shifting faster this time, shallow little thrusts that make you both cry out. His hands move to your thighs, squeezing in time with the bunching of your muscles. His eyes are positively raking over you now, again and again, from your face, down to where your body is joined with his, and back up again. He's moving with you and then he does something, finds a certain angle or a particular pressure, and your arms almost buckle at the wave after wave of pleasure, radiating out from the base of your spine throughout your whole body.

You lean forward again, and he grabs your hands squeezing them tight as you lose all pretence of exploration or subtlety and just ride him faster, meeting his ever more ragged upward-thrusts as forcefully as you can. He lets out desperate little grunts and moans with each thrust, and you have trouble distinguishing them from your own ragged gasps and pleas. You are torn between your desire to make it last as long as possible, and your absolute need to have more of this incredible pleasure, to force your passion and his higher and higher.

You give in to the drive for instant gratification and work yourself back and forth around the hot, hard length of him. He wraps a hand around your cock and you gasp out several inelegant swear words while you try desperately to maintain some kind of rhythm to your movements. You feel like you're spinning apart from your centre, shaking and shuddering above him while his hands slide on your sweat-slick skin and he pushes his hips up twice more before he cries out and the tension bleeds from his body. You carry on rocking against him as he comes, and his fingers squeeze around you, his hand tightening until you fall from the precipice to spill yourself across his chest.

"Oh - Ohhh," you moan, slumping down over his body, breathing open-mouthed against his skin. You're vaguely aware of him pulling you down onto your side, and then you feel one of his legs sliding between your own again, his fingertips tracing idle patterns on the small of your back while his breath stirs the hair at your temples. He kisses the arch of your cheekbone and plays his fingers across your ribcage.

"I feel like I can't stop touching you," he says, nuzzling at the skin behind your ear, and that's such a completely ridiculous thing to say aloud that you keep quiet even if maybe, just maybe, you feel the same way. His skin is - well, it's just skin, just liberally-freckled, warm, smooth skin. But you can't stop yourself touching it, even now, when you've been doing this for so long it's starting to seem normal. You've wondered a few times over the course of the weekend at just how much you want each other, still.

It is not that you are expecting to get bored - in all honesty, you don't know what you are expecting. But it's as though it always goes one step beyond what you do expect. The first time, you thought it was a one off. Then you thought it would maybe last for a few weeks, a few covert meetings that you'd never mention again. And then after that, you thought maybe it would last until the end of last term, until you stopped being each other's most accessible option. And now...you don't know what now, you don't know how long it will be, and you don't even really know what it is. Whatever it is, or whatever it's turning into, you are not used to this, to feeling desperate for his touch, or feeling like life would be an altogether more agreeable experience if you could just not go back to school.

You consciously try to switch off the unnerving thoughts by raising your head to meet his lips in a long, lazy kiss. He parts his lips with a gorgeous little sigh and curls his fingers into your hair, tilting your head gently to a better angle. You wind your arms around his waist and press yourself closer against him, stroking your tongue against his.

"Mmmm," he mutters a little while later, against your neck. "That was - mmm."

"Yeah," you grin, unable to help a bit of teasing in your tone. "It really was."

After a while it becomes impossible to ignore the fact that the clock is ticking onward, and you sit up, summoning your clothes from around the room. You hear him muffle a sigh and he sits up as well, leaning over the side of the bed and grabs his jeans. They're all he puts on as he walks with you to the living room, his hand brushing against yours as you go, and you can't help sneaking looks at him, wondering if he's going to say something. He holds his silence though, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans.

"Right," you mutter, leaning down to catch hold of your bag.

"Yeah," he says.

"Oh, wait," you say, dropping your bag and crouching down next to it. "Let me give you some money for lunch."

"Don't be stupid."

"But - "

"It was only lunch."

"You always pay," you point out, standing up again.

"Well you can pay next time," he offers.

"But - "

"I promise I'll order finest steak and champagne."

"You're allergic to champagne," you point out, and then wonder when you learned that fact.

"Only a bit," he shrugs. "I'll drink a fifty galleon bottle if it'll make you feel better."

"Idiot," you say affectionately, shaking your head and reaching for your bag again. Before you can grab the handle, his hand intercepts yours and he steps closer to kiss you gently.

"This was...really good," he says quietly, one hand cupping your cheek.

"Yeah," you say, nodding your head and forcing a smile, before wondering why you have to force it.

"This is ridiculous," he says. "Weekends should be longer."

"Agreed," you say, nodding again and he laughs and kisses you once more, his palm warm against the side of your neck. "I - mmm - I really - really have to - "

"Yeah, I know," he says, but it still takes a minute for him to let go and another minute or two for you to stop giving him brief kisses. You can hardly stand the fact that it could be months before you get to do this again. "Go on," he says, putting his hand to your chest and pushing you away gently.

"Right," you nod, stooping down to pick up your bag. "I'm going."

"Alright," he says. "I'll write. And - I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Soon as I can," you nod, and take a last look at him before you turn on the spot and Apparate to Hogsmeade.

When you get back to school, and get around to unpacking your bag later that night, you find a white envelope with your name printed on the front in blocky handwriting, tucked in among your clothes. Grateful that the dorm is empty, and wondering when James took the opportunity to put it there, you retreat to your bed and pull the curtains shut, looking at the envelope for a long moment before you open it and pull out a birthday card. You pause again, because your birthday is in two weeks, but you didn't know he knew that. Inside the flap of the envelope is printed, Sorry, I got excited, couldn't just wait and owl this to you like a normal person, and you snort with laughter. That's true, at least.

When you open the card a photograph falls out, and you pick it up and turn it over to see a fully autographed picture of the Tornados squad. Even Garwood, the notoriously grumpy beater, has scrawled his name. James is mugging furiously in the bottom corner and has drawn a circle around himself, written Look, it's me! across the sky with an arrow pointing to the circle. You laugh at that and turn to the card. To his credit it's not horribly gaudy, just a cartoon picture of cake on the front, the flames on the candles flickering merrily. What he's written inside gives you pause, though:
To Scorpius,
I'm sorry it's early, I couldn't wait.
This weekend was amazing.
Happy birthday.
Yours, James.

It's mainly the end that makes you stop, makes you bite your lip and tap your foot nervously. Because yours can either be quite formal, and therefore quite unlike him, or it can be...terrifying (mainly because it makes you think 'mine'). You find yourself reading it again, and a third time before you shake yourself and tuck the photo back into the card, the card back into the envelope, and the envelope into the hidden compartment inside the lid of your trunk.

You are not accustomed to sweet, but that's undoubtedly what it is. It must take some balls for a rookie chaser to ask Garwood for his autograph, and it seems very like James to get so excited about his grand scheme that he can't wait until your actual birthday. And as for: this weekend was amazing - you can almost hear him saying that, right down to the boyish enthusiasm, and the laugh just below the surface of his voice.

It's still early, only a little after half nine, but you decide to go to bed anyway. You're tired as it is, and your body is aching in a really strangely enjoyable way, in lots of unexpected places. More than that, though, you don't think you could possibly act normally around anyone right now, let alone around Albus. The weekend itself was enough to set you on edge, and even before you opened the card, you were already struggling to believe just how much you hadn't wanted to leave his flat. The card though (mine, mine, mine) proves to be the final straw, and tired as you are, you lie awake for quite a while, looking at the bed hangings and wondering how you can possibly struggle to sleep without him after only two nights of having his body tangled around your own.

The next day, you think it is all going to come crashing down around you, because Al corners you in the bathroom first thing, and he has a look on his face that you recognise all too well as Albus-Potter-In-Possession-Of-A-Fact-He-Doesn't-Think-You-Know. Add to that the fact that he only starts talking once you are brushing your teeth and thus unable to reply, and you know without a doubt that you are in for a very uncomfortable next five minutes or so.

"I have something for you," he says, and you raise an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, a letter," he says. "It came while you were at home."

You make a vague, thank-you kind of noise around your toothbrush and he adds casually,

"From your dad, by the look of it. Bit weird, that, isn't it?"

You just manage not to choke, and lean over the sink, taking the opportunity to hide for a second as you rinse your mouth. You catch sight of Al's eyes in the mirror as you straighten up, and to your indescribable relief, he looks more amused than anything else. You clear your throat and shrug.

"Maybe the owl got delayed."

"Yeah," he says dubiously. "Maybe it did."

There is a heavy silence and then he snickers.

"You're such a fucking liar," he says cheerfully. "I don't mind, though. Doesn't bother me what you get up to in your spare time, you dirty little deviant."

"Al - " you start, intending a fast comeback, but evidently he can read the traces of your earlier discomfiture better than you'd hoped because he looks at you sharply.

"Is everything okay?" he asks. "You're not - I mean - You're not being..."

"What? Taken advantage of? Your queer best friend is not the same as your innocent little cousins, Al. Drop the noble protector bit, eh?"

"Right," he laughs. "As if some bloke could get one over on you. I almost feel sorry for the poor sod."

He shoves at your shoulder and saunters out of the bathroom and you try not to sag in relief, firmly turning your mind to the day ahead, even though that weekend lingers in the back of your mind for weeks afterwards. That's the only reason you can think of to explain why you open the card again on your birthday.

You will never admit that to anyone, but you do it, and you're not sure why. You pull out the photograph, and you laugh at his addition, and you read the card another two times before you snap out of it, utterly embarrassed at yourself. You spend the rest of the night with Al, and a few other people in your year, drinking the Firewhiskey that Al had crept off to Hogsmeade to buy as a present. After everyone else has gone to bed or passed out - or in the case of your dorm mates Jack and Thomas disappeared off somewhere unspecified, either to get more alcohol or to instigate some of the devious little plots they make up together - you find yourself unable to sleep, too drunk to be sensible, too awake to just sit and do nothing.

On a whim, you grab a sheet of parchment and a quill and start writing to James. At first the letter is ordinary, even if you do have to pause over spelling with embarrassing frequency, but as it goes on you find yourself slipping more and more into genuinely filthy territory. Every other sentence seems to start with 'remember when...' or 'next time I see you I'm going to...'and you filch the invisibility cloak from Al's trunk and sneak off to the Owlery before you can change your mind.

When you wake up in the morning, the first thing you do is groan and pull the pillow over your head. Writing it is one thing, but who actually sends a letter like that? The next thing you do is laugh at yourself, because you're fairly sure he'll appreciate it, mildly humiliating or not. Sure enough, his response to the letter comes the next evening and you can feel his shocked pleasure radiating off the page. He signs off with holding you to promise numbers 3, 5 and 6 in particular, J, and you laugh again.

It's not long after your birthday that you realise you're actually missing him - and not just getting off with him. You miss his smart-arsed comments in prefects' meetings, and you miss the way he kisses you afterwards, and you miss the way he used to look at you across the Great Hall as if he physically couldn't keep his eyes off you. You are left with an itchy, vaguely unpleasant feeling that letters are not enough.

Letters are what you have, though, and you still enjoy them - particularly when he occasionally surprises you with his own litany of dirty promises and threats. One night, a few months before N.E.W.T.s start, you are doing a quick patrol of the ground floor east corridor when James' owl swoops alongside you and perches on a ledge. You're still not entirely sure how the bird manages to find you every time, and secretly you find it just a bit threatening, but you stroke your finger over its head as you remove the letter. It gives a quiet hoot and flies off again.

Glancing around, you see that the corridor is empty and lean against the wall underneath a flickering torch, unrolling the scroll.

Dear Scorp,

I got my first team start! Two weekends from now against the Arrows. Here, I will tell you a secret: I am completely fucking terrified. What if I forget how to fly? Or what to do with that weird red ball-shaped thing? See! It's happening already. Merlin's pants.

Anyway, this is only a quick note because I'm going out to celebrate with Teddy and some cousins in a bit. And by celebrate, I mean watch them all get roaring drunk because I can't. I would much rather find some innovative, alcohol free way of celebrating with you.

Miss you. See you soon.
James S. Potter, First Team Chaser! (...Until I fuck it up.)

I want you to try and
If there's anyway you can get to the game, that would be brilliant. Don't worry if not though, I understand.
J.

You decide not to delay replying to such a piece of news, and head back to the dungeons straight away, the letter tucked securely into an inside pocket. Up in the dorm, you duck behind the privacy of your bed hangings and grab a sheet of parchment and your quill. Only then does it occur to you that you're not sure what to say. Your immediate impulse is to say that you are proud, but once you stop to think, you realise how strange that might sound. What right do you have to be proud of his skills?

In the end, after more deliberation than is usual - writing to him is normally perfectly easy - you complete the letter, and use the excuse of a final quick round to sneak off the to Owlery and send it.

Dear James,

That is BRILLIANT. Well done, you. If you forget how to fly you'll be pretty buggered, so try not to do that. That weird red ball-shaped thing gets thrown through the tall hoopy things behind the Keeper you haven't met before. Clear?

Seriously though, I am sure you will be fantastic.

I hope that the drunken revelries weren't too much. We'll have to delay our private celebration for a while, I suppose. Don't let me forget.

I won't be able to make it to the match, but I will be glued to the wireless, I promise.

Well done again,
Scorpius.

Two weekends later, true to your word, Saturday afternoon finds you staking out a space near the wireless to listen to the match. Al claims an armchair in the corner to wait for Lisa and jokes that now he has two reasons to hope the Tornados lose – annoying you and deflating James' big head. You point out that he's a Bats fan, and as such not entitled to an opinion and he gives you a lazy, two-fingered salute. You know that, in spite of the fact that Al and James go out of their way not to exchange a polite word, Al will be rooting for his brother all the time he's pretending not to listen to the match.

You feel a ridiculous little flutter when the announcer calls out James' name, but you studiously don't react, just keep your eyes fixed on the far wall. A moment later you glance over to where Al is sitting, with Lisa perched on the side of the chair, his arm around her waist. Lisa has a Muggle-born's typical bafflement at Quidditch, and you would be willing to bet that he is trying again to persuade her of the game's merits.

The game begins with a shrill whistle and you listen intently, occasionally snapping at younger years to keep the noise down. From the outset, you have a bad feeling brewing about the match. It's always hard to tell over the wireless, but there doesn't seem to be much of a spark to the team. Sure enough, they fall behind quickly and you grumble under your breath, ignoring Al's jeers until they become too much and you're forced to hit him with a mild Babbling Hex. Then, fifteen minutes after the start of the game, James scores the Tornados' first three goals within a ten-minute stretch, putting them level. You punch your clenched fist against your knee in delight and look over to see that Al is smiling in spite of himself.

The Tornados' Seeker, Harriet Carlow, misses the snitch on no less than three separate occasions, and the Keeper lets through goal after goal. In all honesty, and even taking into account the fact that you might just be a little bit biased, James' performance is by far the best part of the match. He gets up to a run of thirteen goals at one point, and seems to be partnering especially well with Stephen Brown, one of the other Chasers.

Unfortunately, the Tornados never really seem to be threatening. The match is generally quite defensive on both sides, but the Arrows are definitely putting on more pressure. Still, when James and Brown manage to pull the Tornados level again, and then ahead by three goals, you feel yourself daring to hope - as you always bloody do - that they might claw back a victory.

The Tornados are actually ahead by ten points when it happens. The commentators start yelling over each other as the Seekers from both teams go into a dive. It sounds as though Carlow is too late though, and sure enough, the Arrows player makes the catch, bringing the match to an abrupt end.

"Oh, fuck!" you wail, unable to help yourself. "Bloody useless cow."

"Excellent example, Prefect," Al teases and, momentarily drawing a blank on any good hexes, you throw your wand at him instead.

There is the disproportionate disappointment you always feel at a Tornados loss, but underneath that, or woven into it is something between anger and regret. If James played as well as it seems like he did, then he definitely doesn't deserve to have his debut match as a loss.

"Bollocks," you mutter, raising your head to see that actually, Al also looks fairly crushed. A little while later, you see him writing a letter to James, half-mocking, half-commiserating, and you wonder if you should do the same. You decide to leave it though, because surely his whole family will either have been at the match, or will be in touch within minutes. Reasoning that there's not a lot you can say that he won't already have heard, you leave Al to his letter and instead take the opportunity to retreat to the dorm and flick through copy of The Quibbler that you managed to lay hands on the other day.

You sent off your application to The Prophet a couple of weeks ago, with the feeling that it was a fairly pointless exercise, and with James' comments still ringing in your ears. You're forced to admit that he might be right about The Quibbler after all. In among the articles on 'extremely rare' (which you take to mean non-existent) magical creatures, or plants, or artefacts, there is the occasional well-written, sharply incisive article about dirty dealing at the Ministry, or malpractice at St. Mungo's.

Up in the dorm, you stumble across an article about covert internal Ministry investigations - the Ministry is so clearly, openly intrusive towards its own staff, and yet the findings of such investigations are never publicised. Careers are made or broken on the basis of them, but the public will never hear the details. You are so absorbed by the three page article that it takes you a few moments to realise the tapping noise on the edge of your awareness is an owl at the window. A quick glance up shows you that it's James' own owl and you scramble for the window before anyone else can come in to the room.

The owl perches on the windowsill just long enough for you to collect the letter before swooping off again. You realise that, allowing for flying time, James must have sent the owl off no more than an hour after the end of the match, and unroll the paper, which is more of a scrap than a scroll. When you read the words, you realise that you were expecting this, or something like it:

Can I see you tonight? Please.

J.

You fold the note and tuck it into your pocket, wondering how easy it will be to sneak away. In all honesty, it doesn't cross your mind not to go, so as soon as you can, you slip out of the common room - easy enough because Al is studying in the library with Lisa this evening. Trusting that anyone looking for you will assume you are on rounds, you make your way as stealthily as you can to the gates. You Apparate as soon as you are beyond the wards, and arrive in the living room of his flat to find him sitting on the sofa staring into space. He looks up at the noise of your arrival and gives you a decidedly half-hearted smile. You sit down next to him wordlessly and he nudges your leg with his knee.

"Thanks," he says, and you lean against him a little.

"S'alright."

"Bugger," he mutters a minute later, rubbing his hands over his face. "I messed that up, didn't I?"

"Not really. It sounded from the wireless like Carlow wouldn't have caught the snitch if it had followed her around for the whole match."

"True," James admits grudgingly.

"It's not your fault if the Seeker has an off day."

"No, but it's my fault if we haven't scored enough goals to compensate for her off day."

"Not entirely - "

"Fine, it's one third my fucking fault," he snaps. "Shit."

You wait for a moment, watching him coolly and eventually he meets your eyes before sighing.

"Sorry. Quidditch drives me mental. I hate losing."

"Me too, in all honesty," you admit. "Well, I hate it when the Tornados lose, I couldn't give a damn about you." You mean to say it flatly, a little bit of payback for him snapping at you, but it comes out wrong. Even to your own ears it sounds affectionate, and he obviously takes it that way too because he hugs you suddenly, pressing his face to your neck and sighing again.

It reminds you of that night during his N.E.W.T.s, and you realise that this is what he's like when he's... Open, is the best way you can find to think of it. Then he was nervous, now he is exhausted and frustrated and probably concerned about his first-team future, and obviously desperately disappointed that this was his debut. It strikes you how much better you've gotten to know him, without even really trying, in less than a year, and the idea sets off a strange warmth in your throat. You slide your hand across his shoulder and up the back of his neck to toy gently with his hair, and he lets out a quiet little noise, slumping more heavily against you.

"The commentator described you as rampant at one point," you say a little while later.

"Really?" he asks, looking up and sounding a bit more cheerful.

"When you had that run of thirteen goals," you nod. "'Potter is rampant in his debut match,'" you quote.

"Well that makes up for it I suppose," he grins, and in another little flash of insight you realise - where once you never knew if he was being serious or not, now you know beyond a doubt that he doesn't mean what he's just said.

"Highest scoring debut from a Chaser sixty years," you say, and he pulls away to look at you.

"Seriously?"

You nod, and he gives you an over-enthusiastic hug, kissing your cheek messily.

"My very own Tornados encyclopaedia," he says. "Listen," he adds, sitting back, "Thanks for coming. You didn't have to."

"Well, you did say please," you point out with a shrug because you're certainly not going to tell him that you never really thought about not coming. "Politeness should always be rewarded."

"Nutcase," he says affectionately. "Do you want anything? Drink? Dinner?"

"I've already eaten," you say, shaking your head. "Listen, I can't stay too much longer."

"That's fine," he says, squeezing your hand. "I need to get an early night anyway, we're starting at seven tomorrow morning."

"Ouch."

"It was that or stay late dissecting the match tonight."

"That sounds worse," you concede and he nods, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

"How's life?" he asks and you shrug.

"N.E.W.T. based."

"Right, of course," he nods. "You seem remarkably calm."

"I save all the panic for an allocated five minute slot a few hours before the exam."

"That's a skill I could do with learning," he says, and you turn your head to smile at him, catching sight of the clock on your way and groaning. "Go," he says, following your line of sight. "Go on, it's fine."

"Alright," you nod. "I'm officially on rounds."

"And if you get caught sneaking in?"

"Oh, Professor, thank heavens! I fell through a hidden trap door and it transported me straight to the main gates, how ever did such a thing happen?"

"That would probably work," he nods.

"In that crazy castle? They could never prove me a liar, I know that much," you say, and he laughs, giving you a quick kiss. You can't resist pulling him closer, deepening the kiss and sliding one hand into his hair, your other arm circling his waist. You flick the tip of your tongue over his lower lip and then into his mouth, against the sharp ridge of his teeth and the soft flesh of his inner cheek. He kisses you back passionately, hungrily, and you are so close to throwing caution to the wind and staying for an hour, or two, or three.

"Mmm, you - " he breathes against your lips. "You make me feel much better."

"Good," you say, a bit breathlessly. "Good. I'm glad."

"I'm glad you're glad," he says, and there's a bit of teasing in his voice that you're relieved to hear. "Thank you," he says, his voice serious again, almost small. "Really."

"James, it's fine. Really," you add and he laughs at you, leaning down to kiss you again, soft and chaste this time, just the press of his closed mouth against yours, and you lean into the gentle pressure.

"Right," he says, pulling back to cup your cheek in his hand. "Go on, get out of here," he tells you, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"You don't make it easy," you tell him, as serenely as you can manage, and he chuckles.

"I'm glad," he teases, and you laugh, tucking your forehead into the smooth skin where his shoulder meets his neck. He nuzzles your hair aside to kiss your scalp and you tip your head up for one last kiss, honestly intending to go now. Instead, as you move away, a thought occurs to you, and you step back to look at him.

"I looked through The Quibbler earlier."

"Oh! And?"

"And - I think I might make some enquiries."

"Yeah? That's great!" he says enthusiastically and you look at him carefully.

"James... How much do you know about the war?" you ask, and he gives you a puzzled frown. "Right, stupid question," you nod and take a breath. "How much do you know about my Grandfather?"

"Not much," James says, after a brief pause. "Mum sometimes - not much. Dad only ever talks about your Grandmother, and your dad."

"Oh," you say, a bit warily.

"Good things," he adds hastily. "Only good things. And he - he doesn't let other people say bad things either."

"Oh," you repeat. "Well. Thanks. It's just - my dad's always tried to be honest with me about it all and - I know that Luna Scamander has no reason to do my family any favours, so don't expect anything, alright?"

"Giving a job to a competent person doesn't count as a favour. You are not your family. And Luna's not like that," he says quietly, firmly, not giving you a chance to interrupt.

Personally you don't believe any of those statements are likely to stand up to close scrutiny, but decide this isn't the best time to get into it. "Well - we'll see, eh?"

"Yeah," he grins. "We will. Now bugger off, before I do something neither of us would regret."

You laugh and lean up to kiss him once more. As you move back he gives you a smile that looks a lot more genuine than the earlier ones. He brushes his knuckles over your jaw and presses two fingers to your lips briefly before you Apparate.

Sneaking back into school is actually much easier than sneaking out, and you're back in Slytherin only twenty minutes after you leave his flat, and before Al has returned from 'studying' with Lisa. The next morning, you get a letter at breakfast, delivered by a post office owl. James sounds cheerier this morning, thanks you (again) for last night, and promises to tell you in great detail about the bollocking he's almost sure Carlow will get in training. Reflecting that such information might actually make you feel a bit better about the defeat, you fold the letter and slip it into your bag.

James makes the first team again several times after that, and you are not the only irate fan to realise that the times he doesn't play are usually the times when they either lose or only manage to scrape a narrow, nerve-wracking victory. James seems endearingly shocked by every first team start he gets though, so you mostly keep a lid on your view that the manager must have been hit with some kind of brain-rotting hex to make him pick useless, over-the-hill Jenkins instead of James.

That's one of the things you like most about James, though: when he doesn't get what he wants, he takes it in stride, and when he does, he is always so pleasantly surprised that he seems to enjoy it ten times more than another person would. It shows in the way he reacts when you are able to write less and less often as school gets more and more hectic. He carries on writing to you several times a week, even if you can only reply to every third letter that he sends. When you do manage it he seems to make a point of telling you how good it is to hear from you, of replying to things you write, throwaway questions and comments that you scribble down in between classes, or late at night when you should be sleeping.

As well as leaving you no time to write to James, school leaves you with very little time to do anything else at all. You feel as though you might as well just move your bed from the dorm to a quiet corner of the library, and cut out all the walking. Sometimes your eyes feel dry and itchy from staring at dusty books or putting in extra hours in one of the spare Potions labs. The only good thing about it is that Al is equally distracted, so you don't feel that you are neglecting him - or that you are overreacting to the upcoming exams. He is anxious to work with magical creatures, but determined to do so outside of the Ministry, and spends most of his free time looking into ways of doing that, or plotting his summer. He's planning a holiday with Lisa at some point in the first half of the summer, before results come out and she starts her healer's training at St. Mungo's.

You find yourself faintly envious of them both, with their easy self-assurance that the only factor in success is their own ability. Despite the reservations you'd had at the time, you let yourself get caught up enough in their enthusiasm that you are honestly shocked by your rejection letter from The Prophet. Not at the rejection itself, but at the fact that it arrives when it does, a full month and a half before you've even sat a single exam. You can't help feeling a stab of black, gallows-humour kind of pride at that. Some sort of record, surely? The letter also verges on complete honesty, which is another surprise. It doesn't exactly say 'Malfoys need not apply', but it does quite clearly imply that your face wouldn't fit. Albus and Lisa are furious on your behalf, which you think is nice of them, but a bit unnecessary.

Al's fifteen minute rant seems positively temperate compared to James' reaction when you tell him by letter a few days later. On reflection, you don't think you've ever known him to get really angry about anything before, apart from the one and only time at school that anybody teased his little sister, so maybe that's why the letter is so disquieting. It's either that or the heat behind the words, behind the frequent misspellings and crossings out, the flagrant abuse of upper case expletives. That he's roused to such an obvious display of emotion by something to do with you - it's unnerving, but also kind of nice. You also find, to your surprise, that you actually quite like the earnest sense of right and wrong that fuels his outrage. It's naïve, and it's incredibly black-and-white, but it's almost touching for all that.

Not long after the letter from The Prophet, you start feeling awkward and stupid, like you can barely drag yourself from one class to the next, and like you don't event want to try. You feel constantly short-tempered and endure quite a few sleepless nights. Normally, when you are in that sort of mood you find that it is best all round if you keep your distance from most people, so you're faintly surprised how little persuading it takes for you to agree to meet James in Hogsmeade.

You sneak out as it gets dark to meet him in the Hog's Head, and while it's worth it in the end, it's bloody terrifying on the way there. Your heart is in your throat and you keep expecting to hear a Professorial voice behind you as you cross through the pub and head up the stairs to the second floor without a pause. You follow the directions he gave you, and when you knock on the door, it's opened before the second knock has died away.

"Hi," you say, smiling at him, noticing that his hair is longer before he grabs your arm and pulls you inside.

"Hello," he says, already sounding a bit breathless, and then he's kissing you, pulling your body tight against him, his tongue sliding alongside your own while the fingers of one hand curl into your hair and he leans his weight into you. A bit surprised, but not at all bothered by his enthusiasm, you wrap your arms around his neck and return the kiss. "God," he breathes into your mouth, then, "Fuck," against your jaw.

"What's this, then?" you manage to gasp out. "Build up of testosterone on the Quidditch pitch, James?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, that's what it is. Mmm - come here - " he pleads, kissing you again like he can't help himself. "How long do you have?"

"Half an hour. Maybe a bit longer."

"Fucking hell," he grumbles, and he pulls away, keeping hold of one of your hands to walk you across the room. You both sit down on the side of the bed and he kisses you more gently this time. "Hello," he says. "Again."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine. How's school? How's everything?"

"Why are you talking about school?" you ask incredulously.

"Because I - I don't want to just - "

"I do," you say and his face splits into a grin.

"Thank Godric for that," he breathes. "Come here." You put your arms around his waist and kiss him, and his hands come up to undo the clasp on your robes, pushing them off your shoulders to half fall onto the floor. You slide your hands under his t-shirt, pressing your fingertips into his muscles, at the same time as you feel him opening your shirt, his hands fluttering over the skin he exposes. "I forgot," he says in between kissing a meandering line down your throat. "Forgot how pale you are."

"And I forgot how much you resemble a Spattergroit victim," you say smartly and he pinches your side as he pulls your shirt off.

"I meant it in a nice way," he says scathingly.

"I'm sure you did," you reply, just as scathing.

"I did. I really did," he says, his voice suddenly low and hot. "Merlin, I missed you. Missed this."

"Shh," you say, because you don't know what else to say. He kisses you again, and with a single push, he slides your shirt off, breaking the kiss briefly to tug his own t-shirt over his head. You can't help the strangled groan that you let out at the sight of him. It has been far too long and you reach for him blindly, pushing at his shoulders until he's beneath you on the bed, all warm skin and wandering hands. You kiss him once and then again, kisses that are hungry because that is how you feel - hungry and breathless and desperate for him.

"Scorp," he groans, turning his head away, his hands pressing into your back. You wriggle out of his grip to slide downwards, kissing a line down the middle of his chest, darting your tongue out to taste his skin and hear his shocked little noises. You can't resist biting at his stomach and he tangles his fingers into your hair, moaning. You kiss the patch of skin under your lips and his fingers loosen, stroking messily through your hair before his hands fall to his sides. You push yourself up a little, just enough to get your hands on his belt buckle. Your fingers are clumsy around metal and leather, and eventually he reaches down to help you.

You leave him to it and start to remove your own trousers but his hands pull you back against him before they're even half way down your thighs and you groan at the contact of skin on skin. You lean down to kiss him, hard, and he moans into your mouth, arching delightfully against you. When you move back he looks flushed and dishevelled and gorgeous, and you press your forehead to his collarbone, feeling his chest heaving underneath you.

"Come on," he whines. "Do something."

"Get - " you break off with a groan, and you're not sure how to say that you want him above you, on you, that you want the warm solid weight of him pressing into you, so you just grip him as tight as you can and turn onto your back. He rolls with you and kisses you hard before planting his forearms on the bed on either side of your head and staring down at you as he grinds your hips together. You moan and wrap one leg around the back of his thighs, angling your body up to meet him.

"Fuck, you are so gorgeous," he says breathlessly and when you close your eyes to avoid his too-close, too-intense stare, he says, "You are, you are," and kisses you.

"Harder," you breathe out, sliding your hands down his back to his arse, feeling muscles bunch and flex.

"Uh - oh god," he grunts, burying his face in your neck. You squeeze him tighter, pull him against you harder and faster, and he makes another helpless noise. You're not sure if what he's pressing against your throat is a kiss or a bite, but you writhe up into the pressure anyway, and his hips shove against yours twice more before he comes.

"James," you beg, and he raises his face from your neck to watch your face through half-closed eyes as he reaches between your bodies and takes you in his hand. He's doing that thing again where he whispers and murmurs under his breath, words you can't make out, and the soft wash of his breath against your face is hot and intoxicating. You turn your head just a little to kiss him, cut off the flow of babble and bite down on his lower lip around a curse as he tightens his hand, speeds up his movements. When you spill yourself he goes still against you, kissing up your throat and along your jaw to your mouth.

"Mmmm," he sighs after a long moment, rolling off you to lie at your side. After another moment, you feel his hand on yours and let him wind your fingers together. He raises your hands into his line of sight and you feel his thumb trailing over the tracery of veins at your wrist.

"How's Quidditch going?" you ask.

"Brilliant," he says, and you don't have to look, you can just hear the smile in his voice. "Training's pretty intense, but it's completely worth it. They're talking about making me the regular third Chaser if I keep myself together."

"About bloody time. Stupid idiots," you grumble, and he laughs. "I usually go to a few games over summer, try to get yourself a regular place by then," you add.

"I live to serve," he says dryly, and rolls towards you, putting his chin on your chest and staring up at you. "Wish you could stay a bit longer."

"...me too," you admit, sliding your hand into his hair to pull him up for another, lingering kiss.

"Next time," he says impishly, "We might even manage to get all our clothes off."

"That would be quite an achievement," you tell him gravely and he snickers, the noise turning into a contented grumble as you drag your fingers through the longer than usual mess of his hair.

"What's all this about?" you ask, tugging gently.

"Oh. Too lazy to get it cut," he shrugs. "D'you like it?"

"Very dashing," you tease, and he grins before shifting to lie along your side again, letting out a satisfied sigh. You let yourself relax for a few long moments, listening to his breathing, before you shake yourself and check your watch. When you look up again his eyes are on you.

"How long?" he asks, and you shrug.

"If I'm caught sneaking back in, I'll be for it anyway. Ten minutes won't make much difference."

"I should've thought," he says. "Could have owled Al for the cloak."

"Too complicated," you venture, and he sighs again, this one sounding a lot less satisfied.

"Need to work on your Gryffindor lessons, Scorp."

"What do you mean by that?" you ask after a tight pause.

"Nothing," he says, rolling in close to you again, kissing your shoulder. "It doesn't matter."

"It's either nothing, or it doesn't matter, James. It can't be both."

"It doesn't matter, then," he says, and kisses you before you can question him any further. You decide to ignore the niggling little worry and surrender to him for the moment, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting him pull you over until you're half lying on top of him.

"So how is school?" he asks a bit later, cupping his hand around the nape of your neck.

"Ugh," you grumble. "Alright. Just busy. And bloody Potions..."

"Struggling?"

"A bit," you shrug. "Can't rely on my natural bullshitting ability for that, can I?"

"Yeah, intelligent waffle only gets you so far in Potions. I could lend you my notes if you want."

"Yeah?"

"Of course. I mean, I wasn't brilliant, but I got a high E."

"To be honest, I'd give my right arm for a passing grade right now, so..."

"No need for that," he says. "I'm quite attached to that arm."

"Yeah?"

"And its fingers," he adds, leering at you, and you snort with laugher. "I'm sure I still have my notes somewhere. At Mum and Dad's probably. I'll dig them out if you want?"

"Alright, thanks," you nod, and you feel his thumb drift through the hair at the back of your neck. A few minutes later you turn your face slightly to kiss the skin over his collarbone, then push yourself up and summon your shirt from the floor where he dropped it earlier.

"Are you leaving?" he asks, sounding disappointed.

"Probably should," you nod, buttoning your shirt and glancing over at him.

"Alright," he says, pushing himself upright. "Hang on a second, let me walk you back."

"Don't be ridiculous, what if someone sees us?"

"I can be very unobtrusive," he ventures, turning an over-the-top pleading expression towards you.

"You look like a constipated rabbit," you point out.

"I was going for kicked puppy," he says and you laugh.

"Don't like dogs. Find a new animal to impersonate."

"So can I?"

"Alright, alright," you say, rolling your eyes and hiding a smile. He leaps out of bed and grabs at his t-shirt, tugging it over his head quickly and fastening his jeans.

"Come on, then," he says, nodding towards the door.

"You go out first," you suggest. "I'll meet you in a couple of minutes."

He blinks at you incredulously and then laughs, kissing your forehead.

"I feel like we're playing Aurors."

"Really? I feel like I'm playing 'don't get caught by the Professors and reported to my father'."

"Good point," he grins. "See you outside."

Outside, five minutes later, you find him leaning in the shadows of the pub. The street is still quite busy so you loop through the alley and around the village along one of the little paths. He casts a Lumos and the soft light is just enough to let you pick your way through the undergrowth. Far too quickly, it seems, you are a couple of minutes away from the school gates and you stop walking.

"Ugh," he grumbles. "I hate this bit."

"I - " you start, something about his words causing a clenching sensation in your stomach.

"Sorry," he says. "Ignore me."

"I'd better - " you say, casting a glance over your shoulder towards the castle.

"Yeah," he says, reaching out briefly and squeezing your hand.

"See you soon," you say, and he nods as you turn away towards the gates.

"Hang on a second," he calls softly and you turn back. Leaving you without a choice in the matter, he takes hold of your wrist and pulls you closer.

"What are you doi – mmm..."

He puts his arms around your waist as he kisses you, and you ignore the risks to melt against him, your fingers going to that messy hair again.

"Go on," he says, taking a step backwards. "Get out of here before I Side-Along you right back home and never let you leave. I'll send you those notes," he adds, and you can't help kissing him again. He groans and clenches his fists in your robes, hauling you closer. He presses his body against yours and you want him, right now, all over again.

"Stop it," you protest, even though you started it this time, and he laughs and kisses you once more before pushing you away.

"See you soon," he says firmly and you nod, turning to leave. A few yards away you glance back over your shoulder and wave. James winks and blows you an exaggerated kiss before Disapparating.

You try to compose yourself during the long walk back to the common room, but for some reason you still feel slightly breathless from that last kiss. Al leaping out from behind a sofa with a smug grin on his face as soon as you slip through the door doesn't help matters.

"Well!" he says. "Well, well, well!"

"Are you stuck?" you ask curiously, while your mind races to come up with some sort of excuse.

"Hey! You don't get to be a smart-arse," he objects. "Where've you been then?"

"Nowhere important," you say airily, and you abruptly feel extremely obvious, as though you're still sweating and rumpled, as though you might have the smell of James all over your skin.

"Is that right?" Al asks, looking extremely amused.

"Mm-hmm."

"What's that?" Al asks, suddenly looking closely at you.

"What's what?" you echo, and realise he's looking at your neck, think of James pressing his face to your throat when he came, wonder whether maybe he bit down too hard, held on too long. "Nothing," you say, slapping your hand to your throat, and you can tell from the way his eyes widen that you've been caught out. There is no mark on your neck. Out-Slytherined by a Potter. And so easily, too. Not a proud day in the family history.

"You!" he says, grinning. "You've been seeing some boy haven't you?"

"I - "

"Don't even try to lie; you know you can't fool me."

"Yes," you admit. "It's not important." And then, because that feels like a lie, you add, "There's no need to discuss it."

"Hmm... Interesting," Al drawls.

"Al - "

"Alright, alright, dropping it."

"Good."

"You should let me know in future, though, I can cover for you."

"Oh - er - thanks."

"Actually," he says significantly, "I was hoping you could return the favour."

"The hypothetical favour which you haven't actually done?"

"Yeah, that one. Me and Lisa were thinking about sloping off to London a couple of weekends from now. You know. Before N.E.W.T.s."

"How'd you talk her into that?" you ask curiously.

"Hey! She's in Ravenclaw because she's smart, not because she's boring," Al reminds you, and you chuckle.

"Sure, Al, I'll cover for you."

"Brilliant!" he grins, and you chase away the flash of guilt by imagining how he'd react if he knew the truth.

Please cover for me while I sneak out of school to shag your brother, you think, and shudder at the very idea. You thank Merlin that Al is an inherently private person about many things, because he lets it drop there, apart from a bit more teasing as you climb the stairs to the dorm. When he ducks into the bathroom you let out a shaky sigh of relief and rub your hands over your face.

That was close. Far too close for comfort, and for the first time you find yourself facing up to the possibility that at some point, Al will find out about all this. In all honesty, you know that you have been lucky to keep it under wraps this long and unlike usual, you have no idea how he would react. Normally you can read Al like a book, can understand his thoughts as easily as you understand your own. Of course, if Al finds out and he really, truly objects, then you know what you'll have to do. There can be no contest between James and Albus, not really, because Albus is your best friend, and James is just - James is just -

Well, bugger. That's where it gets difficult, because James is many things, all of them good. He's gorgeous for a start, the combination of broad shoulders and handsome face, warm brown eyes and incongruously long lashes, hard muscles and soft, chestnut hair just as appealing to you now as it was when you first started noticing him, probably a full couple of years ago now. And there's no getting around the fact that he's excellent in bed. Or on a bed, or against a bed, or anywhere in the general vicinity of a bed. But it doesn't even stop there, because he writes you these letters that make you laugh, and sometimes he says things that make you wonder how he sees all this, how he sees you. Merlin's beard, he's handsome, and multi-talented, and apparently very taken with you and - hell, he even plays for your favourite Quidditch team. It's every gay boy's dream. You never stood a chance.

Still, though, there wouldn't be a question. James might be all those things and more, but Al is still your best friend, the best friend you will ever have, and if you ever had to choose... Well, it's not that you'd have to think twice, because you wouldn't, but you would miss certain things about James terribly. He makes you feel...better. He's fun and sexy, and he makes you smile, and sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at awkward, inappropriate times.

The night at the Tornados' stadium keeps coming back to you in particular - the way the conjured lights shone off his hair, and the long, graceful lines of his body as he darted about on his broom, showing off for you. You can't deny that your memories of him are an excellent distraction from the impending exams, even if thinking about him does make you feel desperate and reckless and bold, and several times you come to the verge of sneaking out of school again.

However, before you get a chance, you realise with a sinking feeling of dread that the exams are only a week away. It seems like the first time you've ever really considered the end of school. Of course, you and Al have been dreaming of that day for years, but when it is almost upon you, just around the corner, you think your own mild sense of dread is mirrored in Al's eyes. You won't miss the tightly controlled timetable, or the inability to go where you want, when you want. But it's been such a big part of your life, and while school might drive you mad at times, at least you know for sure how it works.

Post-graduation, there is a large, looming blankness which you try not to address too closely. Now that you know you won't be interning at The Prophet, trying to make a name for yourself and get a longer-term post, you are almost resigned to working with your dad for a while. You did write to The Quibbler a few weeks earlier and eventually received a reply, extremely casual, saying that 'Luna' was out of the country but would be in touch when she got back. You don't honestly hold out too much hope for that, and even if she does respond favourably, you're still not entirely sold on the idea of working there. While there might be interesting investigative articles, they seem to appear at a rate of about three per issue, with the spaces in between filled with mad, half-incomprehensible treatise on mythical creatures and their bloody breeding habits. For the first time ever, you start wondering if a bit longer at school would be a good thing. Just another few months, maybe. But then you realise that if you stayed at school until your name didn't matter to anyone, you'd be there forever.

If you thought that the year had gone by fast, the exams were practically a blur. The Potions notes that James sent you were useful and you're sure that if you'd had them with you during the exam it would have been a straight O. However, you think you probably managed to scrape a low E, which is as good as you can hope for, really. Other than that, the exam fortnight passes largely without incident, except in the Charms practical when the Hufflepuff at the exam table next to yours bursts into tears, causing her boyfriend to look around and mispronounce his spell, briefly turning his own examiner an unflattering shade of pink, rather than causing a paper doll to dance across the tabletop.

You share the story with a grey-faced Al as you pass him on the way out of the examination room and he forces a chuckle. Charms is probably his weakest point, other than those needed to help subdue certain magical creatures. Al's problem is the same as your own really. You both have an ambition, and you both tailor every aspect of your academic behaviour towards achieving that particular ambition. It'll be effective (for him, anyway) but you are starting to realise that developing a genuine back-up plan might have been a good idea.

The last exam you sit is History of Magic - three solid hours to write three separate essays, and then you have a whole day to kill while other people sit their Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures exams. Al comes back from the latter dusty, slightly singed, with a long thin cut on his face and the light in his eyes that he always gets from close contact with beasts that could relieve him of his limbs. He is a complete madman, you think fondly as the two of you barrel along the corridor from Slytherin common room towards one of the hidden exits on his map, heading to Hogsmeade for supplies for the night's party. The teachers are so relaxed about seventh years' behaviour once the exams are over that there's really no need to sneak along with the map, but it feels more like old times that way.

As you walk, Al slings his arm around your shoulders, more excited than you've seen him in years. You make all kinds of grand plans on the way to the village and back, each more ludicrous than the last (his final suggestion as you get back to the common room is to spend the summer gambling in Muggle casinos, win a fortune, buy The Prophet, and make you Editor). For all the silliness, you do make a few firm plans for the summer: a Lost Weekend somewhere quiet and alcoholic when he gets back from his holiday with Lisa, a few different concerts, things like that.

Your conversation is cut short when you open the door to the common room because the party is already in full swing, even if it is barely eight o'clock, and only just starting to get dark outside. Lisa isn't due to join the party until well after ten, spending the night with her girlfriends in Ravenclaw, and you and Al pass the intervening hours doing shots of Firewhiskey with Jack and Thomas. By the time Lisa arrives, Al is drunk enough to swing her out onto the improvised dance floor, ignoring her laughing protests.

When they get back, Al falls into the chair next to yours and pulls Lisa onto his lap.

"Hi, Scorpius," she smiles.

"Alright, Lisa?"

"Fine. Are you as drunk as this one?"

"Almost," you acknowledge.

"Liar," Al scoffs. "He matched me drink for drink, sweetheart."

"I'm sure."

"He did!"

"I did, actually," you interject. "Apparently I can just handle it better."

"Liar," Al says again, leaning in to say to Lisa, at normal volume but barely millimetres from her ear, "He's lying."

You laugh and reach for another drink, listening to them bicker for a little while before you intercede to annoy Al and end up whisking Lisa off for a dance. You dredge up the faded remnants of the childhood hell that was dance lessons in a bid to prove once and for all that you can handle your liquor better than Al. In all honesty the dance is a bit shambolic, partly because you can't remember your footwork, and partly because Lisa keeps laughing. You find you don't mind too much and return her to Al with an over-the-top flourish, bowing low to kiss her hand. Al shoves you good-naturedly in the side and takes Lisa's hand, leading her off to one side. They have a brief conference and before you look away, you can see her watching him with dubious amusement in her eyes. Given that she is relatively sober, Lisa is the one to make their excuses before they duck out of the common room, Al leaning in to kiss Lisa's temple.

The party is still going strong at nearly midnight when a treacherous little thought pops into your head like it's been waiting for you to think it: There's some Floo powder in your trunk. Imagining the look of surprise on James' face if you were to turn up out of nowhere, you cast a casual glance around the room. Jack is sitting with his arm around Sally Brennan, and Thomas has been gone for well over an hour now, although whether he's with his Gryffindor girlfriend or the Ravenclaw one is anyone's guess. Idly, you imagine what you might do if you had James all to yourself right this minute, and find that the thought is very consuming indeed. Almost without realising it, you stand and pick a slightly wobbly path through the common room to the stairs.

Having tripped on your robes twice on the way up the stairs, you struggle out of them as soon as you get into the dorm, tugging on a white shirt instead. Then, the next thing you know, you're kneeling by your trunk, rifling through its contents messily. The little pot of Floo powder is in the bottom corner and you tuck it into your pocket, gathering handfuls of your possessions and dropping them back in the trunk haphazardly.

From there, it's just a matter of picking your way through and out of the slowly emptying common room and along the corridors. You're at that stage of drunkenness where simply coming up with a plan makes you ridiculously happy, and this particular plan seems like a brilliant one. You are finished with school, you have had a little bit too much to drink, and right now you want a thorough snogging, at the very least.

There is a Muggle phrase your dad of all people has picked up from somewhere: God watches over drunks and small children. It's obviously true, because it takes ten minutes for you to find a suitably out-of-the-way room with a Floo connection, and it only takes another twenty minutes to work out how to unlock it. A carefully aimed Incendio starts a little fire in the grate and you fumble in your pocket for the Floo powder. Throwing a quick locking spell over your shoulder at the door, you cast a handful of powder into the fire, crouch down, and lean your face into the green flames.

The little you can see of his flat is dim, as though lights are on in one of the other rooms, and for the first time you wonder if he might be out, or already asleep for early training in the morning.

"James?" you call, softly at first, and then a bit louder. You're on the verge of giving it up as a bad job when you hear footsteps from his end.

"Wh - hello!" he says as he comes into view, dressed in blue pyjama bottoms and a black t shirt. "What's - "

"Are you on your own?" you ask, glancing back over your shoulder. The room is still deserted for now, but you don't want to hang about.

"Yeah, what's - " he starts again, but you ignore his obvious questions to scramble through and straighten up on his hearth, clumsily brushing soot off your robes. By the time you get there he's right in front of you, looking baffled and almost wary. "What's going on?"

"Hi," is all you say, and then reach for him, your hands cupping his face to slide your fingers into his hair, pulling him down into a clumsy kiss.

"Mmm," he murmurs, sliding his arms around your waist and stepping backwards without breaking the kiss before he falls down onto the sofa, pulling you with him. You land half in his lap and he laughs, nuzzling at your hair. "What're you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," you say, kissing him again.

"Yeah?" he asks, a half-smile playing on his lips.

"Yeah."

"Been drinking?"

"Yeah," you admit.

"Yeah," he teases, and it strikes you as absurdly funny. You pitch forward, off-balance, hiding your face and your laughter in his neck. His hands stroke over your shoulders as they shake, and he kisses the shell of your ear. "I'm glad you came," he whispers and you lift your head to kiss him properly. He slides his palm around the back of your neck, thumb whispering through the hair at your nape.

"So - mmm," you moan, pressing your fingers against the sharp angle of his jaw. "So am I."

"Oh," he groans, lunging forward to kiss you again, hot and messy. "God, I really - "

You cut him off with another kiss, and he slides the fingers of one hand into your hair. You shove your hands clumsily under his t-shirt, your palms aching for the feel of him, for warm skin and firm muscles.

"So gorgeous," you hear yourself breathe into his mouth and maybe you should be embarrassed by that, but you find you don't care. It's worth saying if it does that, if it makes him catch his breath and press you closer. "James - mnn, I - I want you so much."

You push at him gently and you both shift around awkwardly to sprawl on the sofa, him smiling up at you while you feel both completely desperate and massively satisfied. His arms are heavy around your waist while you lean down to kiss his neck, greedily inhaling the taste of his skin. He groans and tilts his head back to allow you better access and you feel the rasp of stubble on your tongue, find yourself light headed at the clean, masculine smell of him. You want him so much, want...what, exactly? You'd had vague ideas, while unlocking the Floo at school, about pushing him up against the wall and dropping to your knees to give him the best blowjob of his life, but in reality you're probably a bit too drunk to try that without gagging, and that's sure to spoil the moment.

Mostly you want this - the hard press of his body under your own, the tightness and warmth of the skin on his neck, the pounding pulse under your tongue. And then he turns his head, and kisses you properly and suddenly that's what you most want, the slide of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth and his hot, hot breath in your mouth while his hands run up over your ribs, fingers squeezing gently.

Dimly, you realise that rather than hauling you closer, he has started to hold you at a slight distance, with a gentle but firm grip. You make a noise of protest and press against the restraint of his hands, aching to be as close as you can possibly get. He turns his face away from yours and you squint down at him.

"Oi. What's - what're you doing?"

"What? Did you actually think I was going to shag you while you're this drunk?" he asks, amusement clear in his tone. "I do prefer a conscious partner, you know."

"I suppose I was more hoping than actually thinking," you shrug.

"Well, tough. It would be some variety of rape."

"Oh, there are varieties?" you ask, sliding your hand down to the waist of his pyjama bottoms.

"Scorp."

"Fine," you sigh, kissing him instead. "Dull. You are so dull."

"Shut it, you."

"Or what?"

"Er..."

"Thought as much," you laugh, wriggling away to sit on his shins.

"Hey!" he protests, bending his legs to send you sliding towards the arm of the sofa. "Hang on," he adds, getting to his feet awkwardly and looking down at you.

"What?" you ask, blinking up at him.

"C'mere, you drunk, sexy fool," he laughs, holding his hand out to you. "Let's go and lie down, eh? Can't get comfortable on that sofa."

"Oh. Yeah, alright," you agree, letting him pull you to your feet. Your head spins a bit and you stumble into him with a little laugh, following him through to the bedroom when you fall down onto the bed with a little bounce and a large sigh.

"Do you want a glass of water, or anything?" he asks.

"Uh-uh."

"Shoes off."

"What?"

"Take your shoes off," he says, and you kick ineffectually at the back of your left foot with the toes of your right until he laughs and you feel him tugging your shoes off, and hear the twin clunks as they fall to the floor. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you look at him from the corner of your eyes as he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you.

"It's really - really good to see you," he says, and you can't help laughing again. He runs his hand over your face, down your throat, his fingers drumming on your collarbone for a moment. "You're so lovely when you laugh," he breathes, quiet enough that you almost miss it. It should set alarm bells ringing, and it would do if you were sober, but on the outside of this much Firewhiskey, you really quite like it. You lean towards him for another kiss and he slides his fingers into your hair again, tilting your head into a slightly less clumsy trajectory.

Lying down like this, it's easy to drift off into a blissful haze, lulled by the warmth of his lips on your own, then across your jaw and down your neck, quiet little kisses that are actually somehow more soothing than arousing. You murmur his name vaguely and he shifts his head to look at you.

"Are you going to fall asleep?" he asks, and you try to nod and shrug at the same time. "Is that a 'maybe'?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alright. Shirt off."

"What happened to preferring a conscious partner?"

"Yeah, that's right. I'm just after a quick grope," he laughs, fingers making short work of your buttons. Seeing the sense in his idea, you push yourself upright and struggle out of your shirt and trousers before falling back on the bed, beckoning him back to you. He lays his arm across your stomach and you turn your face towards him, angling for another kiss. He gives you one, but so soft and brief that you barely feel it, other than as a rush of breath over your lips.

You close your eyes as you feel him wrestle the sheets out from under your body to tug up over both of you and he kisses your jaw again, muttering something you don't hear as you finally settle. The tensions of the exam period seem to melt away as his hand comes to rest on your hip, and one of his legs tangles around your own.

You're asleep so immediately, and so deeply, that the next thing you are aware of is being woken up. It is still dark outside his window and you are tempted to just close your eyes again.

"Hey. Come on. Wakey-wakey," he says quietly, shaking your shoulder. You blink up at him and he grins gently. "You alright?"

"Mmmm... Wha'?"

"I wasn't going to wake you, but I thought you might kill me if I let you sleep 'til morning."

"Uhhh," you yawn, and he hands you a glass of water. "Thanks," you nod, taking a long sip and sighing in relief. "What time is it?"

"About four," he says, and you groan.

"Right. Where's my - "

"Clothes folded and on the chair," he says. "Shoes under the chair."

"It's like having a butler," you joke and he laughs, sliding down next to you and kissing your neck.

"Does sir require anything else?" he asks in a low, husky voice.

"Oh don't," you plead, and he laughs against your skin, pinching your hipbone.

"I made coffee," he offers.

"At four in the morning? You made coffee?"

"Thought you might need it."

"You're a star," you tell him and he laughs again.

"Be right back," he says, squeezing your hand before stepping out of the room. You pull your clothes back on and shove your feet into your shoes, sitting down on the end of the bed as he comes back with a mug in each hand.

"Black, no sugar, right?"

"Thanks," you nod, accepting the cup gratefully and nodding at his own mug. "You drinking that to keep me company, or what?"

"Yeah," he laughs, sitting down next to you and nudging his knee against yours. "Got no training in the morning, anyway."

"Right," you nod and he nudges you with his elbow this time until you glance around to see that he has that strange held-back smile on his face that he only seems to get when he's really genuinely excited.

"Not official yet, but the coach said that I'll start in the next three matches and we'll see how it goes long term from there."

"James!" you grin. "Why didn't you say?"

"You were so pissed I didn't think it would register."

"I was not," you retort quickly.

"Bloody were," he laughs, pressing his thigh alongside your own.

"Anyway. Congratulations," you say, toasting him with your coffee mug. He laughs at clinks his mug against your own, his eyes smiling at you the whole time.

"Thank you," he says seriously, and leans forward to give you a brief, chaste kiss on the lips. You kiss him again, equally chaste but lingering this time before you shift back and drain the rest of your coffee.

"Right," you mutter, leaning down to tie the laces on your shoes and then standing up to straighten your clothes a bit. "Sorry for the unscheduled invasion," you comment.

"Anytime," he says seriously. "You know that, right?"

"Er - apparently so."

He looks at you like you're a bit slow on the uptake, then shakes his head. "So. All finished, then?"

"Huh?"

"School, I mean. Exams go okay?"

"Not too terrible," you nod, and recount the Charms incident to him.

"There's always one that screws up in each batch," he laughs. "Just be glad it wasn't you. How - er - how did Al do?"

You go blank for a moment, because neither of you really talks about Al when you're alone together. It's like an unwritten rule that you both carefully ignore the fact that his brother and your best friend is the same person.

"Fine," you say after a second. "He said he messed up on the Defence practical but we were in the same batch for that, and I didn't notice anything."

"Right," James nods. "Well, I'm sure he did fine."

"Yeah, me too," you nod, still feeling a bit like you're walking on Devil's Snare, and one wrong move, or badly placed word will see you trapped in something you don't quite understand. "I'd better go," you say and he nods, reaching out his hand for your empty cup. You pass it over and follow him through to the kitchen. He ditches the cups in the sink and then turns to face you, leaning against the worktop.

"So, listen," he says. "I thought I'd better tell you: I'll be at the leaving ceremony next week for Al."

"Oh, right," you groan. "Bloody leaving ceremony."

It's a fairly new part of Hogwarts life, the leaving ceremony. It started after the war, when people were desperate to celebrate something that didn't have connections with grief and loss. Before now it has only really entered your awareness as a free morning at the end of the school year when not only the entire staff, but the Head Boy and Girl are guaranteed to be occupied. It is unofficial party time for the lower years, but now you are starting to dread the extremely formal robes and hats, and the guaranteed-to-be-boring speeches.

"Yeah," he nods. "Hell on earth, I know. I'll see you there, though."

"Alright," you say, nodding before stepping up to him and resting your hands on the worktop on either side of his waist and leaning in to give him a quick kiss goodbye.

"See you next week," he says, and you blow him a kiss over your shoulder as you chuck another handful of Floo powder into the fire and step through.

There is a brief moment of disorientation but the Floo you used on the way here is still unbarred, and your locking spell has held on the door to the room. Confident that you haven't been caught out, you bar the Floo again and slip out of the door. Faint light is just starting to peek through some of the windows as you hurry down to the dungeons and then into the common room. It is completely deserted by now, and you walk through and up to the dorm. Al and Thomas' beds are empty, curtains still wide open, and you fall into your own bed gratefully, curling up around your pillow and, despite the coffee, falling asleep again within minutes.

The leaving ceremony is on Wednesday morning, so the next three days are all your own. The seventh years seem to migrate en masse to the shores of the lake and you spend a lot of time there under your favourite tree with Al and Lisa, Jack and Sally, and Thomas and Ravenclaw-girl or Gryffindor-girl (you really don't see a point in learning their names, as none of them have ever lasted more than three weeks). The relief in the air is almost palpable now that N.E.W.T.s are over, and you are surprised by how good it feels to just let your mind be blank and not think of anything. Normally you find that you start going a bit stir-crazy after even a few hours of inactivity, but it feels as though your body and brain are both giving an extended sigh of relief, and nothing is exactly what you want to do for a while.

The leaving ceremony quickly rolls around, though, and Wednesday lunchtime finds you and Al standing side by side in front of a conjured full-length mirror in the dorm, looking despairingly at your robes. They are exceptionally formal, heavy and black, trimmed with Slytherin colours, and bedecked with the glistening outlines of dozens of silver stars.

"We look - " Al says despairingly.

"I know," you groan. "And that's without the bloody hats."

"Oh, fuck the hats," Al grumbles, glancing over to his bed where both of your hats are sitting, ignored for the moment. They are ridiculously ostentatious, even more so than the robes, and there are more silver stars and golden crescent moons than you care to think about. "Can't we just say we forgot?" Al suggests.

"Doubt it. Anyway, they'd only make us go and get them."

"Damn it. Lisa is going to laugh until she's sick."

"I might just be sick. Spontaneously, you know. Actually, that's not a bad idea. Got any of your Uncle's Skiving Snackboxes?"

"More than my life's worth," he says. "Mum'll slaughter me if I try any evasive tactics."

"She'd never know."

"She bloody would," he says morosely, glaring glumly at the mirror. "Merlin's beard," he grumbles. "Come on, we might as well just go and get it over with."

"Look at it this way," you suggest. "Everyone's going to be wearing this ridiculous get-up, and we're bound to carry it off better than most of them."

"You reckon," he says sceptically. "Oh, alright then. Let's go. God, I look like a complete idiot."

Together, you make your way down to the Great Hall, which has been completely transformed. Where the staff table usually stands there are instead tiers of seats arranged in sections for each House, with one long row at the front which is presumably for staff. The rest of the Hall is given over to seats for relatives, and not long after you and Al find your places, people start pouring in. You spot your own parents, and nod to them, and you can't help laughing when Al cringes against you as his family walk in.

"She's waving, isn't she?" he asks, eyes tightly shut. "My bloody mother is bloody waving, isn't she?"

"Afraid so," you nod, and he groans.

"Your family have so much more class," he whispers and you grin.

"That's the problem with New Money," you whisper back and he snickers before the Headmaster gets to his feet and silence descends on the Hall.

The three speeches (headmaster, Ministry representative, and guest speaker from the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers) are as formulaic and dull as you were expecting and they drag on interminably. You are all congratulated on your academic achievements, which you think is a bit rich considering N.E.W.T. results won't be out for weeks, and told that you are the future of the wizarding world, its' newest ambassadors and so on. You and Al exchange several doubtful, incredulous or just plain bored looks, and you spend the majority of the time trying not to look at James who is sitting on his mother's left, looking as bored as you feel.

By the time the speeches are finished, and the names of all the seventh year students and their accomplishments to date have been read out, you have disengaged your brain to such an extent that it takes Al's nudge to make you realise that relatives are filing out into the grounds for the drinks and buffet part of the affair. The Houses are dismissed one at a time and the first thing you and Al both do is reach up in tandem to remove the bloody ridiculous hats, before catching up with Lisa and then heading outside. While Al goes off with her to speak to her parents ('this is what we call revenge, Potter,' Lisa laughs. 'Your mum has nothing on mine') you head over to your own, hugging your mum and shaking hands with your dad before he too pulls you into a hug and whispers that he is proud of you before appropriating a glass of champagne and passing it to you. You share a toast with your parents and can't help smiling at their obvious pride.

"We'll go for a meal after this, darling," your mum says. "We have reservations at the new place in Diagon Alley."

"That sounds great," you nod.

"So, everything went alright?" you dad asks. "No exam-meltdown?"

"Fairly well, I think," you nod, and pass a bit of time telling them about the exams before you glance behind them and notice Lisa leading a shell-shocked looking Al towards the drinks table. "I'm just going to see if Al survived meeting Lisa's parents," you tell them, setting down your glass.

"We'll leave whenever you're ready," your dad nods, and you smile at them both before heading off in time to see Lisa all but wrapping Al's fingers around his glass of champagne for him.

"What happened?" you ask, taking in Al's dumbstruck expression.

"Oh," Lisa giggles. "Bit mean. I got my mum to start talking about weddings and babies, and then Al went this funny grey colour and he's not been right since."

"You're wicked," you tell her and she laughs, nodding.

"You're dumped, is what you are," Albus says, shaking his head and smiling at her before leaning in to give her a little kiss, softening the words. "Bloody woman. Come on, then, my turn."

"What?" she asks. "I've already met yours, the whole point was that this was payback."

"Yeah, but they're right there, look," Al says, inclining his head towards where his parents are standing. "They're lurking."

"Oh, hell," Lisa mutters. "Come on, then. Be back in a minute, Scorpius."

"See you," you nod, waving them off. As you turn your head to see where Jack and Thomas have got to, you feel that strange buzzing awareness of someone standing close behind you and you're almost sure that it's James. Sure enough you feel a brief second's worth of pressure against your elbow from his hand and,

"I want you so much I can hardly think right now," he says into your ear and you stiffen, glancing around to check for anyone within earshot.

"James," you hiss, turning round to face him and taking half a step backwards, to put a more decent amount of space between you.

"It's these posh robes," he laughs. "I just can't help myself."

"Fucking reprobate," you tell him and he shakes his head.

"I love that," he grins. "Love making you look all scandalised."

"Oh, shut up," you snap, but he doesn't, of course.

"So what would happen if I said I wanted to fuck you so hard you couldn't see straight for a week?" he asks curiously and you make a choked noise. "Or if I said I wanted to blow you till you forgot your own name?"

"James," you protest, a bit weakly.

"What if I said I wanted to kiss you?" he asks, suddenly serious. "Right here and now."

"James – "

"'Cause I do."

"Well you can't," you tell him flatly.

"I know," he says. "I'm just making a point. I uh – " he rubs the back of his neck and glances away from you like he's not sure if he should continue. "I have something for you."

"Is that right?" you tease, and he rolls his eyes with a grin.

"No, really. Reckon you can slope off for fifteen minutes?"

"Well – alright," you say, half wondering when giving into him started to become second nature.

"Brilliant. I'll go now, you follow me whenever you can, okay? I'll be on the third floor, east corridor."

"I - alright," you nod, and he grins at you before wandering off casually. Looking around, you see that Al and Lisa are still talking to his parents, Lisa looking a good deal less uncomfortable than Al, who is looking like his plan has backfired on him. Reasoning that you'd be best off slipping away while they are still occupied, you turn in the opposite direction from James, intending to go into the castle by a side door. Before you can get there though, you run into your dad who gives you an openly curious look.

"Potter the elder? You're building up quite a collection, Scorpius."

"Oh. Er. We were talking about Quidditch. He plays for the Tornados, you know?"

He gives you another odd look, and you wonder if you said that a bit too warmly, maybe even a bit proudly.

"I did occasionally skim the sports pages of that damned rag before their latest spectacular error of judgment."

Oh. That. He has been boycotting The Prophet since you got your rejection letter, and for one of the first times, you recognise the schoolboy sulks that your mum teases him about.

"Where were you off to in such a hurry, anyway?" he asks.

"Oh, I left my watch in the dorm," you say, after shifting your arm minutely to check that the fall of your sleeve covers your watch, which is very much on your wrist. "I'm going to pick it up before we leave."

He nods, but looks slightly dubious and you are forced to push down a niggling little worry, because your dad is nothing if not perceptive. Mostly, it seems, when it comes to you.

"Well?" he says. "Go on, then."

"Right," you nod. "See you in a bit," you add, heading for the castle.

You hurry through the largely abandoned corridors, and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, knowing you don't have much time. You slow your pace as you walk along the third floor east corridor, turning your head to peer into rooms as you pass them.

"Oi," calls a soft voice, and you look ahead to see James hovering in an open doorway.

"Hello," you smile.

"Get in here," he grins. "I think I need to congratulate you properly."

"Yeah, I think you do," you agree, as you slip into the room behind him. The door has barely shut before he hauls you forward and kisses you hotly.

"Congratulations," he murmurs and you laugh, letting yourself fall back against the wall and pulling him with you. He allows it for a moment and then steps back. "So," he says. "I got you a graduation present."

"Really? What is it? Where is it?" you demand. "I love presents."

"Here," he says, reaching into his robe and holding out an envelope. You open it and see the pale blue and black of a Tornados season ticket, looking up at him incredulously.

"You - brilliant!"

"Good," he grins. "There's a little bit of self-interest involved in seeing you every fortnight, obviously, but I'm glad you like it anyway."

"Kiss me again," you demand and he does, after making a choked little noise and clenching his hands in your robes.

"Fuck, I've missed this," he breathes, lifting one hand to rake through your hair.

"Messing around in empty classrooms?" you tease.

"Messing around in general," he amends.

"Mmm, me too," you admit and he grins at you.

"Well we're all grown up now. No external influences of any sort on when, where or how often we mess around."

"Sounds promising," you admit. "Naïve and slightly stupid, but promising," you add, before he cuts you off by leaning in for another kiss, this one softer, gentle and somehow kind. "Don't have long," you say regretfully when he moves away. "My parents - "

"Yeah, mine too," he nods. "Although - you know we'll have to tell them at some point."

"...why?" you ask, after a pause in which you mentally flail around for something to say. That particular statement seems to have come out of nowhere, and you stare at him almost anxiously.

"Because I - " he snaps out, and then closes his mouth again. Words seem to fail him too for a moment, and he frowns at you as if it should be obvious.

"It's nobody's business but our own," you tell him, and irony has surely never been more ironic. Because right then the door to the room opens and Al all but falls through, Lisa's hand in his. James takes a smooth step away from you but you know from Al's wide-eyed expression that it's too late for that.

"You - " Al chokes, before he closes his eyes and presses his hand to his forehead in a gesture that you know means he is desperately trying to regain control.

"Al - " you say tentatively.

"Listen, Albus, mate," James says, and you think maybe that's a good start, until he continues, "Don't be a wanker, eh?"

Al purses his lips and looks back and forth between the two of you before shaking his head and turning on his heel, walking back out of the room. Lisa hovers uncertainly for a moment before chasing off after him.

"Fuck. Fucking fuck," James observes eloquently.

"Helpful!" you spit, lashing out because you feel like you have just been punched in the gut. Not now. Not like this.

"Well what am I meant to - "

"Oh my god. He's never going to talk to me again," you say, feeling sick.

"Alright. Just - it could have been worse, eh?"

"W - what? How could it have been worse?"

"They could have come in ten minutes later," James suggests.

"...Are you making a joke? Are you actually trying to make a joke now? Fucking hell!"

"I just - calm down, eh?"

"Calm down? What if he tells your parents? What if he tells my parents?"

"That could be – bad timing. And I would knock his lights out, obviously."

"Timing?," you demand. "You're worried about the fucking timing?"

"Alright, you have your little fit or whatever it is you need to do. I'll go and find my brother."

"And say what?"

"Oh, that it's all your fault? You threw yourself at me? What do you think I'm going to say?"

"I – have no idea," you confess.

"Well," he deflates a bit. "Mostly I'll probably tell him to shut up."

"That doesn't really work."

"I have brotherly powers you know not," he assures you. "Are you coming with me?"

"No. Fuck. Yes," you sigh.

"Good. Decisive. I like that," he nods. "Find it very attractive."

You can't bring yourself to be too bothered by how completely un-seriously he is taking this when he makes a point of squeezing your hand briefly before you leave the room. Down the long, thankfully straight corridor, you can still see Al and Lisa, Al determinedly marching away while Lisa hovers just behind him, clearly either asking or telling Al something.

"Al!" you call, and don't get any kind of response. Your heart sinks even further and you exchange a glance with James, who is finally starting to look as though this might matter.

Al is down two flights the stairs and in the entrance hall before you finally catch up with him and even then, he won't meet your eyes and does his best to carry on walking.

"Albus, wait," James snaps, and Lisa tugs on Al's arm, pulling him to a reluctant stop. He keeps his back to you for a moment, tension obvious in the line of his shoulders before he turns around.

"I cannot believe," Al says in a measured voice, his eyes on you. "I cannot believe you – and him – "

"Lisa, sweetheart, can you give us ten minutes?" James asks.

"Don't tell her what to – " Al starts.

"Actually, I think that's a very good idea," Lisa interrupts. She hugs Al and whispers something to him that makes him frown before she walks away.

"Right, Al – listen," James says.

"Shut up," Al snaps, without even glancing at him. "Scorpius?"

"I – " you say, and then everything seems to stop. You can't – There is just no way to make this look good, and it hits you suddenly how completely mad this whole situation has become. Of all the people in the world, why James? What the fuck have you been thinking? But – but – Is this it? Is this the point at which you have to make a choice?

You know that they are both waiting for you to speak, and you know that there is nothing you can say that they will both want to hear. You can't look at either of them, and apparently this is it – this is the thing you can't talk your way out of. Obviously. Of course it bloody is. How could you have been daft enough to let it come to this?

"Okay, look," James starts, after either seconds or hours of silence.

"Fuck off, James," Al snaps.

"Albus!" calls a new voice, and you curse Hogwarts' anti-Apparition wards for one last time; a risky jump to deepest Africa is definitely a more appealing prospect than turning to look Ginny Potter in the eye. To be fair, Al and James both look equally nauseated at their mother's sudden approach.

"Mum, back off," James barks.

"James, don't speak to me like that!"

"Mum, it's personal," James says, and the word seems unreasonably loud, loud enough to make you wince, and Ginny's eyes shift from him to linger on you for a moment before she looks over at Al and then back to James.

"Personal between you and Scorpius?" she asks quietly, and you abruptly feel sick. Say no, say no, say no, say no.

"Yes," he says in a defeated tone of voice, and you flinch, feeling the word like a blow to your stomach.

"This is - " Al says, obviously fuming. "Can you all please just shut up while I talk to my friend?"

"Al - " you say, dragging your gaze up to look at him, feeling James' eyes on you at the same time.

"Scorpius, just - I mean - how did this even happen?"

"I don't - I'm not...sure," you admit, and you can't bring yourself to glance at James. "It just happened. I - "

"But - of all people, Scorpius. My brother? Really?"

"Al," Ginny says quietly. "This is really none of our business."

"But they - " Al starts.

"Are adults, and are apparently like each other," Ginny says, interrupting her son, and alright, it's a bit weird to be talked about like you're not even there, but she seems to be on your side, so you keep your mouth shut. "Look, I'm sure that Ron thought your dad was mad for wanting to be with his annoying little sister. I know I thought Hermione must have lost it when she agreed to marry my idiot brother."

"Exactly!" Al says vehemently.

"But the point," Ginny continues gently, "is that James isn't just your idiot brother - "

"Thank you, mother," James puts in, and you cough to hide a completely inappropriate laugh.

"You know what I mean, darling."

"I do," James confirms. "And just your brother would have got the point across nicely."

"No it wouldn't, because presumably - hopefully - you treat Scorpius a little less obnoxiously than you treat Al."

"Well, obviously."

"Exactly."

"Listen," you say, breaking into the little Potter-exchange awkwardly. "I - er - I really have to go."

"Scorp, for crying out loud," James mutters, looking at you like you're a traitor.

"My parents are taking me out to dinner, James. They're right over there," you add in a whisper, nodding towards the doors which your parents have just walked through, obviously looking for you.

"Alright, but - " he glares at his mother, who is trying not to eavesdrop, and Al, who is just glaring right back. "Come over tonight," he says in a quiet voice. "I need to talk to you."

"I - "

"Please."

"Alright, okay. I'll see you. Al - I'm...I'm really sorry."

You think you hear James draw breath to make a comment on that, but you turn away, trying to persuade yourself that you're not actually running away. As soon as you take a handful of steps away, you hear all three Potters start talking at once, and you hurry to intercept your parents, who are getting closer by the second.

"Ready to go?" you ask, as brightly as you can, and while your mum just nods, your dad looks at you closely for a moment.

"Everything alright?"

"Fine," you nod, and purposely ignore his quizzical look. "Are we Flooing or Apparating, then?"

"We'll Apparate," your father says, and you try to hold in a sigh of relief. Flooing would have meant turning back towards the Potters, and you can't bear the idea of seeing the look on Al's face, or on James' for that matter. A niggling suspicion is settling on you that you have probably burned both sets of bridges, and you are still honestly a bit shocked at the fact that words failed you, that the easy denial hadn't come. In fact it had been impossible, completely impossible to deny it. More than that, you hadn't wanted to deny it, you just weren't sure what exactly to admit to.

You struggle to keep your mind off Al and James all through dinner, and can't help wondering what they are doing right now, if James is explaining or Al is shouting, or if they have fallen into that deep and bitter silence that is almost as characteristic of their frequent fallings-out as are raised voices and the inventive use of Muggle swearwords. By the end of the meal, your dad is not the only one giving you narrow-eyed interrogative glances, and while you try to enjoy the time with your parents, you are far too distracted, too busy going over the last year in your mind, wondering exactly when things changed so much with James that it stopped being inevitable that, if forced to make a choice, you would choose Al.

At the end of the meal (expensive, and doubtless high quality, but you barely taste a mouthful), you all Apparate home, and in one of those moments of annoying, silent couple-communication your mum slips away leaving your dad to make vague gestures towards finding out what is wrong. This is one thing he is not good at. He may be approachable and surprisingly (given what you know of your family, and the past) accepting of you, but when it comes to discussing things... Well, his usual stance is one of relief that you've turned out the way you have - even if the way you turned out is gay, fairly useless at Quidditch, and with aspirations to work for an institution he openly despises. So when you fob him off with some waffle about feeling strange about the end of school, you can tell both that he doesn't believe you, and that he isn't sure how to pursue it. There's a bit of meaningful eye contact before he gives in with a sigh, shaking his head.

"Brat," he mutters.

"Learned from the best," you joke and he cuffs you gently on the back of the head. "I think I'll go and unpack," you say, knowing the House Elves will have brought all your possessions home from school, and he nods.

As soon as you are get to your room you shut the door firmly and lean against it, tilting your head up to look at the ceiling.

"Fuck," you mutter, rubbing your hands over your eyes. "Fuck."

Damage limitation time. Malfoy speciality, right? you think to yourself, but the thought seems hollow because all you want is for everything to be right again, with Al and with James. You cross the room to sit at your desk and grab a piece of parchment, sitting with a quill held limply in your hand for at least five minutes before you give up without writing a word and push the paper away.

You briefly eye your broomstick, but whether to fly and see Al, or just to fly and stop thinking, you're not sure. You put both options out of your mind though, knowing that you're probably too fraught to maintain a decent Concealment Charm. Knowing that you won't rest unless you at least make an effort to smooth things over, you quickly change into less mortifying robes, and decide that a Floo call to Albus is the best option. At least that way, if you are met with hexes or a well-aimed shoe you can just duck out again. You don't think it will come to that, though. You hope it won't come to that, anyway. You try to tell yourself that you and Al have always put aside your differences in the past, but the honest truth is that you have never really had any differences before. Certainly nothing like this, nothing that could (please please no<) actually turn out to be a make-or-break situation.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you head to the Floo in the second parlour, fairly certain that it will be empty. Sure enough, the room is dark and you light the lamps with a wave of your wand to see as you start a small fire in the grate and pick up a handful of powder. Kneeling before the flames with green powder starting to spill from your hand, you remind yourself quietly that this is your last opportunity to back out.

When you throw the powder into the flames and call out the address, you lean your head forward to see, sitting on the sofa opposite the fireplace, possibly the worst person who could have been there to note your arrival.

"Oh - er - hello, Scorpius" he says, and while it has always been difficult to think of the most famous man in the Wizarding world as Harry, it is infinitely harder when he looks at you carefully and says, "James isn't here."

That neatly answers your question of whether he knows or not, and you can feel yourself flushing red. You kind of want to die, and wonder if there is anything you can say to provoke Mr. Potter ('Call Me Harry') into doing it for you.

"I, er - I'm looking for Albus," you offer instead and he blinks behind his glasses as though he's surprised.

"Oh. Right. He's in the kitchen," says 'Call Me Harry'. "Come through."

"Thanks," you nod, stepping through the flames and then ducking out of the room just as quickly as you can.

You pause outside the kitchen door for a long moment and then knock before going inside. Al is sitting at the table and he tilts his head back to look at you coolly before turning his face away again.

"Hello," he says flatly.

"Hi," you say, feeling like an idiot. Neither of you do small talk. "Can we go somewhere?"

"Garden?" he offers and you nod, following him to the back door and out into the garden. You walk past trees and the night-blooming plants that Mrs. Potter loves so much and eventually Al stops at a fence, leaning his elbows on it to look out over the darkened scenery.

"Well," he says, and you nod.

"Yeah," you say, feeling your tongue cleave to the roof of your mouth again.

"So - are you going to say anything?" he asks, still not looking at you.

"Er - what did James say?"

"No way," he says, shaking his head. "What do you say?"

"I - please, Al."

He sighs unhappily and glances at you. "Basically, he said we could all fuck off until he'd spoken to you."

"Right," you mutter, not sure what to make of that, and a quiet part of your brain that you'd sometimes like to switch off reflects that it doesn't really give you much to work with.

"Just - " he says, at the same time as you say,

"I don't - "

You both stop speaking and you look at him briefly. "Go on," you nod and he gives you another sidelong look.

"James. Of all the bloody men in the world, you pick - "

"I didn't pick - " you start to say and then stop, because you're not exactly sure what you're going to say next. Because of course you picked. You could have backed off that first night, the night of the Halloween ball. You could have walked away from him and his tight jeans and his Sex Pistols t-shirt and his sexy fucking arms. But you didn't. And you haven't since, because you haven't wanted to. You don't want to...

"What are you saying?" he asks warily.

"I'm not - not sure."

"Bullshit," he snaps. "Just - what - I mean - what - "

"I'm sorry," you say, at a complete loss for what else to say. "I just - it just happened, Al."

"No. Bullshit again. It doesn't just happen."

"I know," you mutter, and force yourself to say what you know you must. "I - I'd end it, if you really want," you tell him. "If it'd make you happy." And for the first time, you have to wonder if that's actually true. Would you give up James for Al? Could you? Al gives you a long, searching look and sighs.

"I've never seen you look this miserable at the prospect of making me happy," he says gently. You shrug, determined not to speak. "How long?" Al asks cagily, and you decide not to bother pretending to misunderstand.

"Since Halloween."

"Halloween? But - you were - how did - "

"No, Al. Last Halloween."

"What? But - "

It seems to give him pause for thought, because a prickly silence descends and you take a careful look at him.

"So why the big secret, then?"

"Why do you think?" you ask quietly. "I knew you wouldn't like it."

"Right," he says dryly. "Well, yeah. I think it's a fucking terrible idea, if you want to know."

You didn't want to know, you realise. Or rather, because in all honesty, you already knew, you didn't want to hear him say it. You've always known that Al would hate this and he probably has excellent reasons for that. You buried that ingrained, bone-deep knowledge though, under the burning immediacy of how much you want James, and it's that which makes you feel so suddenly, achingly guilty.

"Merlin's balls," he mutters, like something has just occurred to him. "I thought James was just so obnoxiously cheerful because being a Quidditch star has given him a big head, but that's not it, is it? And he... You've not been sneaking off to meet boys, have you? It's been him the whole time, right?" he asks, and you nod unwillingly. He chews on his lip for a moment and then looks at you sharply. "Hang on a second. You are James' secret bloke?"

"What – what secret bloke?"

"Oh, right... Our Uncle Perce, he's - he tries to remind everyone how bloody liberal he is all the time so he's always asking James if he has a boyfriend yet, and then - let's see, I suppose it must have been the end of last summer, he said yes."

"He - did?" you ask, anxiety settling heavily in your stomach.

"Yeah, he wouldn't tell us anything, though. Said it was still early days and the bloke was very special but a bit prickly, so he wanted to take it slow." He gives you a sideways glance and the hint of a familiar sly smile. "I really should have known."

"I am not prickly," you protest, trying to fight down a smile, because Al is not trying to kill you, and James - James thinks you're special, has thought so for ages. Your boyfriend, you think, trying the word on for size. Your boyfriend thinks you are special. No, you decide. It still sounds completely ridiculous.

"You're only slightly less prickly than Lily," Al says. "And she is completely mental."

"That's the best comparison you can come up with?" you ask. "Your hormonal baby sister?"

"Keeping it in the family," he says. "I know how you like that."

"You're a dead man, Albus Potter."

"You can't kill your own brother-in-law."

"Al," you protest, and he quiets, looking at you seriously.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks after a moment.

"Because I - Like I said, I knew you wouldn't like it. I'm not proud of that, Al, but it's the truth. And anyway it - it wasn't a big thing to begin with. And then it'd been going on so long I couldn't find a way to say it and I - "

"No, I mean why didn't you just tell me earlier today that it was something serious?"

"...would it have made a difference?"

"Scorpius," he says reproachfully. "Of course."

"Really?"

"Well maybe not straight away. But after a few minutes, and a bit of cooling off time? Sure!"

"Right," you say a bit dubiously.

"So you're – he's not just fucking around with you?"

"I – not anymore, I don't think."

"And you?" he asks, studiously not looking at you.

"I - like him," you confess, vaguely wondering why it feels like a complete understatement. "Quite a lot."

"Well," he says, puffing out his cheeks. "Damn. Welcome to the family, you complete fucking lunatic. Anyone who willingly subjects themselves to this madness deserves all they get."

"I have practice," you point out. "Mine aren't exactly representative of the average wizard on the street."

"At least there aren't approximately three billion of your lot."

"That just means all the insanity is more highly concentrated."

"Yeah?"

"Like Potions," you nod, and he laughs, before giving you a mischievous look from the corner of his eye.

"I still can't quite believe you actually find James physically attractive, by the way."

"Really? Want to hear the reasons why?" you tease.

"No! Merlin! You freak. Anyway, I see enough of that in the paper."

"Yeah," you agree, unable to completely hide your smile. Since James' season started improving (and with it the Tornados' prospects), the press has become extremely interested in him. Among the rhapsodising articles on his startlingly good debut season, and exactly how brilliant an international talent he might be five years from now, there is a dedicated core of (largely female) journalists, who adore him more for his good looks than his Quidditch prowess.

"Quidditch groupie," Al teases, and you let the smile take over your face like it wants to.

"Yeah," you admit.

"Disgusting," Al says with a theatrical shudder. "One request?" he asks.

"Anything," you say, because in all honesty you feel pretty pathetically grateful that he is even talking to you, let alone joking around with you.

"Can I come to the meet the in-laws dinner?"

"What?" you demand, horrified. "There will be no such dinner!"

"Yeah, right," Al says sceptically and you belatedly realise that he is enjoying this, the little wanker. "You know James is mum's favourite, don't you? She's probably formulating a list of Probing Questions For A Future Son-in-Law right now."

"Will you drop this 'in-law' crap, please?" you ask, not daring to ask if Mrs. Potter will really be writing a list of questions. You never know with this family.

"But you can get married," he says, and you wonder if actually he isn't okay with all of this, and in fact he's trying to get his revenge by driving you completely mad.

"...what?"

"Legally, I mean. No reason you can't be my brother-in-law, if you're all in love with James, and that stuff."

"I - apart from the fact that we're still kids," you point out, and only after it's said do you realise that shouldn't be your main objection. "Anyway, you know I don't believe in all that mushy nonsense."

"Ah, Scorpius," he says, shaking his head and laughing. "I was only teasing. But you know what?"

"What?"

"Sometimes the mushy nonsense happens whether you believe in it or not," he says, with the air of someone passing on very profound wisdom.

"You - " you start, intending to tell him that he sounds like an idiot.

"Been to see James yet?" he interrupts.

"Er - no," you say.

"You can use the Floo if you want," Al says, and you know that's his way of telling you he really, genuinely doesn't mind, or at least, he isn't actively opposed to the idea.

"Really?" you ask, and he nods.

You both turn to head back into the house, Call-Me-Harry conspicuous by his absence this time, but before you reach the Floo Al grabs your arm and looks at you seriously.

"Listen. If – if he hurts you, I have – you know. Insider access. Also, he's very scared of caterpillars."

"Caterpillars?" you blink. "I did not know that."

"I have all that kind of dirt," Al assures you. "He fell through a cattle grid once, too, got his legs stuck for hours, been a bit scared of cows ever since. And when we were kids he stole dad's wand and turned himself blue. He sings in the shower, as well. Loudly. Badly."

"I, er – that one I did know."

"Oh fuck," he groans. "I didn't need to hear that."

"Sorry. Al?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Thanks."

"Forget it. Just spare me the details, and everything'll be fine."

"Done," you promise, nodding gratefully. "We're - are we okay?"

"We're fine. We're the same as always, just now I have to pretend you're not shagging my brother."

"Al - "

"We're fine, you bloody woman," he insists. "Honestly, mate. I'm sorry I went off on one."

"You're joking, aren't you? I still have all my limbs, I'm calling this a victory."

"Wait 'til you see the state of James," he says, and then rolls his eyes at your expression. "Joke," he points out heavily. "This'll take some getting used to, eh?"

"A bit," you acknowledge.

"I will, though," he says. "If that's what you want."

"I - yeah," you nod. "I'd like that."

"Right," he nods. "That's what we'll do, then."

"Yeah?"

"We're Slytherins, Scorpius. Famed for our adaptability, right?"

"I - "

"Look, I'm not saying it's not weird. I'm just saying that - you're not an idiot. I know you know the problems and if you've sustained enough spell damage over the years to think James is worth the risk, then that's your problem. I'll just - get used to it."

"You - thanks," you mutter again and he gives you a rare, brief hug. You are not really the type of friends to hug and he is a bit stiff as he pats you awkwardly on the back, but you can't help a relieved smile.

"Go on," he nods, pushing you towards the Floo.

"Right," you nod, swallowing nervously.

"Hey," Al calls. "I've never seen James like this before so - you know. Don't look so worried."

Amazed that he is actually offering you moral support, you have to force yourself to refrain from thanking him again and again. Instead, you just nod and help yourself to a handful of Floo powder, trying to transmit your absolute gratitude to Al just with a nod and a smile. You don't have time to get nervous again, or to consider just going home before you are stepping out of the green flames into James' flat.

He's asleep on the sofa when you get there, the fingers of one hand almost skimming the floor, a Muggle book open face down on his chest. He stirs a bit at the noise from the Floo but doesn't wake fully, so you cross the room and drop to your knees in front of the sofa.

"James," you call softly, putting your hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently. "Hey, wake up, come on."

"Hmm? Wha' – ?" he mumbles, sitting bolt upright suddenly, his book falling to the floor.

"It's only me."

"Oh, hey," he says, and you get to your feet again. "I thought you weren't coming," he adds and you look at him carefully.

"I had to - " you start, intending to explain about going to see Albus.

"Don't," he interrupts, looking at you for a moment and then patting the sofa next to him. "Come and sit down, okay? I want to talk to you."

"Right," you say slowly, a bit warily, and sit down.

"Right," he says, echoing you and taking your hand for a moment before dropping it again and tapping his fingers on his knee instead. "Right," he says again, pushing his hair out of his eyes and half-turning in his seat to face you. You realise quite abruptly that he is nervous. You don't think you've ever known him to be nervous about anything before, beyond Quidditch.

"James?" you prompt.

"I just - I thought – you know," he shrugs. "I thought we were doing this – properly."

"I was under the impression that we were."

"Right," he nods. "Only, if that's the case, then why would I have said anything different to Al?"

"What?"

"You – you almost looked like you believed me when I said I was going to tell him it was your fault."

"Maybe," you admit after a cautious pause.

"That – that's not good," he says, looking past you, and tapping his toes awkwardly on the floor. "You know I like you, don't you?"

"I'd assumed you didn't hate me at least."

"Bloody hell, why d'you have to make everything difficult?" he asks, sounding more dejected than genuinely annoyed.

"You're a Gryffindor, you're meant to relish a challenge – "

"Scorp," he says, very seriously, taking one of your hands in both of his this time. "I like you. I like being with you. Even just – like this."

"You enjoy having awkward and increasingly incoherent conversations with me?"

"No! Fucking hell! For some completely insane reason, I like subjecting myself to your company and I – think about you. A lot. When you're not here."

"I see."

"I'm trying to be – nice, here," he says. "You could – something, I don't know. Relax a bit, maybe."

"I'm still not entirely clear on what your point is."

"My point is that even if we're doing this properly then we're still not doing it right because you shouldn't have thought I'd tell Al anything except the truth."

"He - I saw him earlier," you say, in an effort to change the subject, because you have no idea how to respond to what he's saying.

"You did?"

"Yes, I came here from your parents' house."

"How was it?"

"Surprisingly good," you nod.

"Why surprising?" he demands.

"Lots of reasons," you shrug. "He told me ages ago that we shouldn't do this."

"When?" James asks, clearly outraged.

"Ages ago. When I told him I was gay."

"Huh," James grunts.

"Look, just - it's alright," you say, scarcely believing it yourself. "I mean, he's not dancing on the ceiling or anything, and I don't think he wants to know details, but he is taking the piss out of me about it, which is probably a good sign and - "

"Scorp. I don't care," he interrupts flatly.

"What?"

"I don't care how anyone else feels about this."

"But - you - you're the one who said we'd have to tell people!" you protest.

"Right, but not for - not to get their permission," he says, looking at you like you're an idiot. "I don't care if anyone approves or not, it just makes things easier if they know. We're not children, anymore, Scorpius," he says, and his use of your full name leaves you jittery for some reason. "This is exactly what - " he breaks off and looks at you closely for a moment. "We need to know where we stand, so we're both just going to say it, okay?"

"Okay," you echo slowly, wondering if it is still possible to back out at this point, if things all get too messy.

"Right," he says decisively. "I'll go first. Scorp, I fancy the arse off you, and you're also one of my favourite people to be around. And I don't - you know - I don't think about being with other people."

"You - don't?"

"No," he says seriously. "So - how do you - what do you think?"

"I think - " You break off and look away, and you can see him deflating a little out of the corner of your eye. The sight makes something twang in your chest, and you realise that the idea of making him sad hurts. To hell with it, sometimes messy is the only option, and sometimes that is just fine. "I think I like you too, James."

"You think you like me?" he asks slowly.

"You know what I mean."

"Aren't you going to say it?" he asks, but you can see a smile fighting to take over his face.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, but - "

"I think you're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, and I've missed you like mad this year," you admit. "Is that good enough for you, Potter?"

"Well," he laughs, suddenly tugging you close and kissing your forehead. "I suppose it's getting there."

"Maybe we need to work on those Gryffindor lessons," you suggest, and he grins.

"So," he says, looking keenly at you. "Properly properly this time?"

You nod and he grins at you.

"Good," he says smugly. "That means I can get on with my plan."

"What plan's that?" you ask.

"Oh, didn't I mention it?" he asks, shifting to put his hands on your shoulders and hold you at arm's length, looking at you like he's seconds away from either laughing or panicking. "My master plan," he goes on. "I'm going to make you fall in love with me," he says grandly. "Yeah..."

"Is that right?" you ask, bemused. You don't know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't that.

"Mm-hm," he nods, and then looks at you, very serious all of a sudden. "Consider it payback."

"Oh. Oh," you say, taken aback by what you think he means.

You look at him and it's as though he's pleading with his eyes for you to understand, and suddenly you do, and you feel like an idiot for not getting it earlier. He is not exactly subtle, and if you're honest, you know he's been working on changing things between you for a while. All the letters. The sweet, long, kisses. The talking. The secrets that feel like little gifts.

And now here he is, sitting in front of you, looking hopeful and vulnerable, and you think he is asking you to love him. And, you realise, you can't imagine a world where you'd refuse. You can't imagine a life without him in it, but you're not sure how to say that - you're not sure how to be that honest - so you kiss him instead, with all the confusion and passion in your heart, before you sit back in your seat and drop your hand onto his leg, twiddling with a little hole in the knee of his jeans.

"You don't - " you clear your throat and look at his hand where it has fallen on top of your own. "Your plan needn't be too elaborate," you tell him a bit awkwardly.

"Yeah," he says, and when his hand slides under your chin to tilt your head towards him, you watch a slow smile curving his lips as he moves closer. "It basically just goes, 'carry on like we are doing'."

"That'll probably do it," you admit, and his subsequent smile could light up the world.