Archive of Our Own

"Crap. It's just Dad." Albus rolls his eyes and tosses the chocolate frog card onto the seat beside him.

Scorpius balls his hands into fists to keep from launching himself across the train compartment to grab it. "Al, do you think I could possibly…? That is, I believe I've gone and lost your—" he gulps "d-dad. Um, if you wouldn't mind, that is—"

"What? You want him?" Albus picks up the card and holds it out carelessly.

"Yes," Scorpius breathes. "Erm, that is to say, well, you know I'm trying for a full set, so…" He shrugs. Scorpius reaches out casually and accepts the card from his friend. He studiously does not look at the picture before he pockets it.

But then… Oh god. Bloody hell. Christ. Harry Potter is in his pocket. Harry Potter is in his pocket.

"So, I'll wager you ten Galleons Blakely doesn't get on the Gryffindor team again this year." Albus sits smugly across the way, grinning that patented grin of his.

And Harry bloody Potter sits snug in Scorpius' pocket, right next to his… Scorpius shudders pleasantly.

"Are you okay? You look ill." Albus leans forward.

"No, I'm, I'm perfectly fine. Really perfect, really." Scorpius clears his throat. "Is that the new Quibbler? I'd love to see it, thanks." He grabs the battered, old copy of a Quibbler that has clearly sat on this train for years and opens it nonchalantly across his lap, obscuring what's turning into a perversely massive erection.

His dick strains toward the pocket in which Mr Potter sits. Scorpius can nearly imagine the picture moving about, crossing its manly arms, the left eye winking as though it and the viewer share a lovely little secret. Harry Potter is winking at his prong!

"So, what's new in that rag?" Albus asks.

"Ha!" Scorpius blurts. "Wrackspurts. Bloody wrackspurts. They're on the move again." He clears his throat.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Scorpius grins at him over the magazine and tries to look something other than painfully aroused. He feels like he manages 'embarrassed to be on the verge of puking'. Scorpius starts reading an article on the deep conspiracy at the heart of the Quidditch World Cup, and by the time the train pulls into Hogsmeade, his ardour's dampened.

Scorpius stands and straightens his robes, grateful he's no longer in need of stampeding Wrackspurts to cover for his… problem.

He makes it to the Great Hall without penile incident. He uses techniques he mastered over the summer: thinking about the story his father told him once about Ronald Weasley belching slugs, picturing the portrait of great grandfather Abraxas and that Sickle-sized black mole on his nose with the ten, thick grey hairs growing out of it and tangling together… These work. They work well.

Until Scorpius sees him.

He walks into the Great Hall like a Quidditch Captain. He exhibits a complete lack of self-absorption. It's not about him; it's about what he's about to do, what needs to be done. And right now, that's just eating dinner, but still… His strides are long and confident. He knows exactly where he's going.

He nods a smile at the Ravenclaw table, and three girls melt straight off the bench. He waves at Hufflepuff, and Bernard Dawson and Josh Graves get into a shoving match over just exactly for whom the salutation was intended.

He grins fraternally at the Gryffindor table before he turns to Slytherin… and his gaze goes right to Scorpius. His stride seems to slow. The right corner of his lips turns up. Just the right. And he winks.

Scorpius' prick gets so hard he's afraid he'll break the zip on his trousers.

Except that this has all seemed to happen inside the hormonal chaos that is Scorpius' mind, as he shakes himself and realises Mr Potter is already sitting at the professors' table up on the dais. No telling how long he's been there. The food's already appeared, and Scorpius is only now aware of its delicious scent wafting into his nostrils.

"You sure you're okay, mate?" Albus asks over the bowl of steaming peas.

Unfortunately, the enormous erection was not part of the fantasy. His dick's so big it's practically tenting his already voluminous robes. He could put someone's eye out. At the Hufflepuff table.

"Yeah." Scorpius clears his throat. He spares one more glance for Albus' father, now piling a shocking number of chicken wings onto his own plate. Even the way he stacks chicken wings is… commanding.

Scorpius realises he's biting his lip so hard it stings. He takes a deep breath and averts his eyes from the glorious spectacle that is Harry Potter's supper.

"Yes, I'm fine." He starts shoveling peas onto his plate like his life depends upon it.

Perhaps it does.

Scorpius is very bright. Which makes it all the more ridiculous that he hadn't actually considered that, Harry Potter being the school's new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Scorpius would, necessarily, be in his class.

Scorpius walks through the door to the classroom, and Harry Potter is standing at the other end, his black, fitted robes contoured to his hard body. There is a mischievous smile on his imminently snoggable lips. An invisible wind runs its caressing fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair.

"What fresh hell is this," Scorpius whispers to no one.

"What?" Albus replies.

Scorpius gulps. "Nothing." His cock has gone as hard as a five hundred year-old oak under both Duro and Engorgio spells.

Scorpius walks slowly and bow-leggedly into the room. What a wonderful start to the day. Truly.

He finds, through trial and error, that if he doesn't look at Mr Potter, his dick flags just slightly. Which doesn't mean Mr Potter's voice alone isn't enough to keep him on the verge. It is. But as Mr Potter instructs them on making a solid base of their lower bodies when duelling an opponent, Scorpius lets his gaze lift to the rafters, studying the way certain dust motes drift on the air currents.

"Mr Malfoy, for instance."

Scorpius' head snaps around. "Ye-uh-wha--? Sir Mr Potter Sir?"

"Note how he's standing with his legs well apart," Mr Potter proceeds, walking over to where Scorpius has been surreptitiously giving his engorged cock space. "The wide stance and slightly bent knees provide not just for stability but for spring when you need it. Right, Mr Malfoy?"

"Guussdfsdgh."

"Er, yes. Well. Keep up the good work, Scorpius. See if you can match the technique you show in your form with your wandwork."

"Ggshh."

"What kind of wand is that, by the way? Elder, is it?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Hmm. Draw it, would you?"

Scorpius' cock takes that opportunity to leap upward and point directly at Mr Potter's face. With shaking hand, Scorpius pulls the other branch of hard wood.

Mr Potter takes it from him, their fingers brushing momentarily. Scorpius leaks a little into his pants. Mr Potter is frowning down at his wand, turning it this way and that in his strong, capable, I'll-make-a-man-out-of-you hands.

"Core of what?" he asks.

Built up spunk.

"Veela hair, sir."

"Interesting. Don't see much of that. Temperamental. Does it act up on you much?"

"All the time," Scorpius breathes.

Mr Potter holds his wand upright and says distractedly, "You can come out of your duelling stance now, Scorpius."

"K." Scorpius stays in his cock-alleviating partial squat.

"Eleven inches?"

"Whu-uh?"

Mr Potter gestures a bit with the wand. "It's around eleven inches, yes?"

Scorpius gulps. "Yes."

Mr Potter gives him that slanted, boyish, pleased smile. "Same as mine."

A ripple of pleasure runs the length of Scorpius' tense body. "I know," he moans. His eyes are rolling a bit and his lids have become droopy. Abraxas Malfoy's nose hair, for fuck's sake!

"Well, here you are." Mr Potter hands him back his wand.

"Th-thank you, sir."

Harry Potter turns then and strides back toward the front of the class. His arse upon retreating is the most magnificent thing Scorpius has ever seen in his life. How does anyone walk around with that arse and not have their own hands permanently affixed to it at all times, feeling and groping, and squeezing it with every stride?

It's that moment that Harry Potter, his professor, his best friend's dad, his every single wet dream, throws back over his shoulder, "And Mr Malfoy, be careful where you point that thing."

Scorpius gasps, tries to turn it into a laugh, and blushes to his scalp. He's so flummoxed that when he goes to holster his wand again, he fumbles it. In his haste to get a grip on it, he accidentally swishes, violet sparks erupt from its end – which is unfortunately turned toward his own face – and before he knows it, Scorpius is falling to the ground and losing consciousness as he goes.

Scorpius remembers summers with Albus at the Potter house. Mr Potter wasn't yet Defence professor. He was still an Auror then, and he wasn't around all that much at first. Scorpius only recalls him on the periphery from first through fifth year. He remembers Al's mum still being around then. He remembers the summer of fifth year when there were a lot of tense silences, and in the middle of the night, some arguing they weren't meant to hear.

All of that's a bit hazy. Scorpius only spent a couple days here and there.

But then his own mum and dad started arguing and worse. That's the summer, after sixth year, last summer, that Scorpius went to the Potters' for two whole weeks in July while his mum and dad tried to sort it out and, ultimately, failed. Or got tired of trying. Or whatever it was.

Last summer is when Scorpius remembers Harry Potter coming home every night in that Auror uniform, tired, his jaw stubbled, his face transforming into a smile at seeing his kids.

Scorpius remembers Harry Potter stripping off his Auror coat, slinging it around the back of a kitchen chair, and starting dinner, asking how everyone's day had been. He remembers how attentive Mr Potter was, how kind and generous, even though there would be dark circles beneath his eyes and a sadness lingering there as well.

Scorpius remembers one night especially, taking his dessert into the living room to listen to the Wireless with Al. He remembers taking his dirty plate back into the kitchen and finding Mr Potter there cleaning up. He remembers the softening at the corners of Mr Potter's mouth at seeing him.

He remembers, "Scorpius. Here, let me take that." Those strong, sure, tired hands touching his as they passed the plate between them.

He remembers, "Are you okay?" and Mr Potter offering him a place to sit while he set the dish in the sink for later and poured himself a Firewhisky. Scorpius remembers the bottle already being out on the counter.

"Oh. Yeah. I'm fine, Mr Potter."

He remembers, "Harry. You can call me Harry."

Scorpius remembers choking on the name, unable to force it past his lips. His hands had gone numb and cold. He could barely breathe.

He remembers Harry Potter sipping his drink, likely his second or third, and slipping another button free on his shirt. He remembers Harry Potter walking over to where he sat, blinking down at him… his nearness, the smell of his aftershave, and one of those wonderful hands touching his head, so warm. It didn't tousle his hair like you'd expect from such a gesture. It smoothed Scorpius' hair back off his face.

"I'm glad you're here," Mr Potter had said, two rough fingers barely tickling his ear before he turned and walked out of the room.

Scorpius remembers the shiver that ran through him. He remembers wondering why Mr Potter would be glad: Because Al's mum was gone? Because he knew about Scorpius' parents and wanted to offer some kind of safe harbour for the kid with the only divorced pure-blood parents in history?

Or was he glad for himself?

Was he glad Scorpius was there, as impossible as that seemed, for himself?

Scorpius remembers feeling like a ponce, realising that could never actually be the reason. But in the weeks since, that hasn't seemed to matter.

More than anything he's remembered how Mr Potter smelled, spice and whiskey and clean sweat.

He's remembered his touch.

And he feels like he's been aching for it ever since.

"Dude."

This is a weird dream.

"Duuuude."

Really weird.

"Dude. Are you okay, dude?"

Scorpius blinks open his eyes to a very white, very shiny ceiling. He turns his head on a very soft pillow to find a very blurry person on the next bed over.

"Dude, did you Stun yourself?"

Shane Warwick, the American transfer student, slowly solidifies in Scorpius' field of vision.

"Man, you went down hard, bruh." Shane holds his hand up in the air for unknown reasons. "Come on, man, don't leave me hangin'."

Scorpius hesitates but then holds his own hand aloft in a similar fashion. Shane grabs it, hard. It's really more of a slap. Then he jerks Scorpius back and forth, smiling hugely.

"Me, I took a Bat Bogey, BAM!" He smacks himself in the forehead, and the sound of it cracks through the room. Scorpius startles. "Right between the eyes, bruh. That chick, what'ser name? Rose Weasley? Shit! I mean, she only got me 'cause I was staring at those hot tits. Man, those are some hot tits. You seen 'em, Malfoy?"

"You are an exceptionally despicable person."

"Aww, rad! Thanks, bruh!" He whips his shoulder-length hair from his face. "Say." He smacks Scorpius hard in the shoulder. "'Sup with you? You musta Stunned yourself super hard, man, to end up with Pomfrey. Or, wait. Are you sick or somethin'?"

"Yes. Dragon Pox. Highly contagious."

"Oh. That blows, dude." Shane scoots away on his cot. "Like, get better, dude. Yeah. Just… see ya." He scrambles away and out of the hospital wing as quickly as he can, slipping once on his way out the door.

Scorpius sighs in relief that lasts only a moment. He lies back into the softness of his sick bed and blinks at the ceiling. He wishes he were ill. That would make what he needs to do a whole lot easier.

He has got to get out of Defence.

He's been released from the hospital wing, and now he's pacing his dormitory while everyone else is at lunch.

He wants to be a Healer. Does he really need Defence Against the Dark Arts? Just because he'll be healing a lot of Auror injuries, does that necessitate him knowing precisely how they got them? And, yes, technically, he needs the NEWT, but what if his Potions, Charms, and Herbology are all O's? Maybe he can scrape by with an Exceeds Expectations in Defence if he attends only one class per week. He'd certainly exceed any expectations should he do so and not Troll out!

Maybe he just needs to take a short leave of absence. Yes, yes, this seems more reasonable. It just took him by surprise to have to see Mr Potter like that, to have to endure that renewed smile, that confident step, those tight robes, the embarrassment of being instructed under penile duress.

That arse.

What if he just needs a week or so to get himself under control? Maybe there's a potion for this. He's good at Potions. He can find something to take the erectile edge off. He just needs a few days is all.

He can get out of class for the next few days if he plays his cards right.

Albus!

He needs Albus' help. Not that he'll volunteer the reason or anything. He can come up with a good enough reason that doesn't pair 'your father' and 'my cock' in the same sentence. And Albus is brilliant at Potions. There's no one better.

Yes, he absolutely needs Al's expertise. Of that, Scorpius is sure.

It's with this in mind (and likely a rather maniacal look on his face, judging by the people he passes on the stairs who skirt around him warily) that Scorpius hurries down to the Great Hall.

He spots shaggy dark hair and half-runs over to the Slytherin table. He grabs Albus' wrist and whispers, "Come with me. I desperately need to talk to you alone."

He then tugs Albus out of the Great Hall, through the entrance hall, out the doors, and down the steps of the castle only to turn and find that it's not Albus' wrist in his hand at all.

"Dude. Whassup?"

"Bloody hell."

"Man, I'm, like, totally honored, yo."

"What?"

"That you came to me, man. That you're all, 'desperate' and shit."

"I—"

Shane leans in conspiratorially. "So what is it, dude? It's those tits, right? Can't stop thinking about 'em, right? Am I right? Right?"

"Oh my god."

"That's what I'm talkin' about, dude!" Shane lifts his hand on high.

Scorpius' wand is at Shane's throat before he's completely thought through the implications. "She doesn't need me to defend her. If you knew anything about Rose Weasley, you'd know she could take you in a fight blindfolded, while eating, and without a wand. But if I hear you mention any part of her body to anyone at any time again, I will kill you. And my father was a Death Eater."

Merlin, did he really just play that hand?

But Shane blanches, and right now, that's all that matters.

"Now, get out of my face."

"You came and got me!" Shane wails, somewhat appropriately, Scorpius realises.

"Go!"

Shane runs back up the stairs.

Scorpius holsters his wand, lets out all his breath, and runs his hands through his hair. And that's when he hears it: Albus' voice, his laugh, coming from around the side of the castle. Because yes! He has a free period after lunch, and he likes to go and be an idiot with his wand for an hour every day or he gets cranky.

Scorpius smiles and takes off at a jog around the side of the building. Which is when it hits him, in Albus' joyful voice: "Confundus!"

Things get a bit peculiar after that.

In fact, Scorpius doesn't much remember anything for what feels like it could be a great swathe of time.

He's not exactly sure how he got to Mr Potter's office, for instance.

Or why his father is here.

Or why they're shouting at each other.

"Albus would never knowingly—"

"I wouldn't, Mr Malfoy." Oh, it's Al! Al's here, too. Scorpius opens his mouth to say hello to his friend, but Al keeps talking. "I was aiming for Blakely, I swear!"

"Albus."

"Sorry, Dad."

"So, you let your son run amok with his wand—"

Scorpius winces because, wow, his dad is way too close and way, way too loud.

"Run amok with his—Malfoy, this is Hogwarts. They're all running amok with their wands!"

"This school has gone even more downhill than in my day."

"Your day."

"Yes, and I'll tell you something else, Potter. I—"

"No, Dad." Scorpius finally finds his voice. Although it feels like his tongue is tied in a knot and his brain is fizzing a bit. "The teachers here are great. They're… great. Like, Mr Potter. Mr Potter's so great. Really great. He's wonderful and smart and strong and—"

"Scorpius, shut it," Albus says. His eyebrows are up a bit, and he's looking at Scorpius like he's trying to warn him against something, but for the life of him, Scorpius doesn't know what.

"Still, it was your son who brandished a wand at mine and now—"

"He didn't brandish it at me. I was…" Scorpius screws up his face in order to think. What had he been doing? "I was… running. I ran into the spell as Albus cast it. I think."

"You were running," his dad says.

"Yes, I was… jogging."

"You were jogging."

"Yes." Scorpius clears his throat. "I was jogging." Then after a long silence, "I jog."

"See?" Mr Potter says.

"See what?" his dad drawls. "That your son cast on an unarmed person? Charming."

"Oh, like you haven't done as much under this very same roof and on purpose, Malfoy!" Mr Potter suddenly stands, his chair screeching back.

"Dad," Albus warns.

"Your son obviously learned it from you, or don't you remember putting me in the hospital wing, Potter?"

"Okay, you were not unarmed, and," his voice dips, "I've apologised to you for that or have you conveniently forgotten?"

"I—" Dad starts.

"Not to mention this was an accident. And a Confundus. And that your own son, one of the finest students in his year and in the whole school, for that matter, can take bloody good care of himself when he's not, well, jogging apparently. They're friends, or has that fact escaped you as well?"

He goes on, but Scorpius has ceased to hear the content of Mr Potter's speech. All Scorpius hears is the bold strength in each word flung across the desk at his father. He sees the powerful stance, the contemptuous gesticulations which merely call attention to the beauty of his hands.

Scorpius sees how his shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, and his pulse point thrums rhythmically. His eyes flare with heat.

Suddenly, the room melts away. It's he and Mr Potter in a clearing of a forest, the sun shimmering on Mr Potter's wayward hair. Mr Potter sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. There's the crunch of dead leaves, of a branch, then Mr Potter smiles, reaches out, and strokes an invisible animal.

He holds out his other hand. "Scorpius," he says. "Fly with me."

Mr Potter mounts the Thestral, and with one capable hand, he pulls Scorpius up in front of him. But he doesn't seat Scorpius faced away; he's got Scorpius straddling his own lap even as Mr Potter straddles the beast.

"Up!" he commands, and they take to the skies.

Scorpius grips Mr Potter's shoulders for support, the world dropping away. Mr Potter smiles at him and draws him close. "Hold on," he whispers as they soar. He whispers something else, and Scorpius' clothes melt off his body. He gathers Scorpius to his hard heat. He murmurs in Scorpius' ear, "I'm going to take you now, boy."

Pleasure ripples through Scorpius. Mr Potter starts unfastening his own flies, preparing to unleash—

"YES!" Scorpius wails.

He's somehow sprung to his feet. And he's not in a clearing in a forest or about to be deflowered by a randy Mr Potter while flying Thestral-back.

No, he's standing in Mr Potter's office, his "YES!" still rings in the silence, and they're all staring at him: Albus from his chair, wide-eyed; his father from his seat, his lips parted as though he'd been about to say something; and worst of all, Mr Potter himself, still standing behind his desk, but instead of his focus being on Scorpius' dad, it's now on Scorpius, and there's a slight frown of concern darkening his features.

Oh my bloody god.

"And by 'yes' I mean to say that you're both right. In a way. And uh, I'm fine. And I think, well, I think that perhaps I should just go lie down. And then I'll be fine. Really. May I be excused, please?" he squeaks.

His father nods at him curtly, and Mr Potter clears his throat and sits down behind his desk again. "Al, see that he gets safely back to the dormitory."

"I don't think the boy who did this to him should—"

Albus interrupts. "Mr Malfoy. He's my best friend. I would never hurt him on purpose."

Scorpius' chest tightens at how regretful and earnest he sounds. To Scorpius' surprise, his dad relents. "Very well. Perhaps I… overreacted somewhat. You've been a perfectly decent guest in our home, and I have not forgotten that." He folds his hands on his lap and stares hard at Mr Potter like he wants him to explode. "And Scorpius has spoken very highly of—" He seems to have to force the next words out, "—the lot of you."

Scorpius allows one more look Mr Potter's direction. Their gazes meet. That pulse point in Mr Potter's throat still thrums away. Scorpius' own pulse beats to match it. He swallows and lets Albus draw him out the door.

By nightfall, Scorpius' confusion has worn off completely. So has his will to do more than lie prone on his bed, his head lain on his arms, and stare out the window.

"What are you doing?" Albus asks him.

"I'm experiencing torpor."

"Oh. Fun." He sounds like he might be rolling his eyes. "Say, did you hear? I guess your dad and mine shook hands in the entrance hall before your dad left. A bunch of people saw it. I heard they smiled at each other, though I'm not so sure I believe that. They're so weird, yeah?" When Scorpius doesn't respond except to blink, Albus barrels on. "Look, are you coming down to dinner then? If not, I can smuggle you up some stuff."

"Not hungry," Scorpius sighs.

"Right, but you will be later, I reckon." He lays his hand on Scorpius' shoulder. "Meat pies. They're easy to make off with."

"Thanks," Scorpius says, though his mouth is partially disabled by the press of his arm into the side of his face.

"Cheer up, mate. It can't be that bad." Albus gives his shoulder a hearty squeeze and then bounds from the room with the others.

"If only you knew," Scorpius murmurs, draws the drapes closed around his bed, and rolls heavily onto his back.

Something in his pocket makes a crunching sound. Scorpius reaches in and withdraws it: Mr Potter's chocolate frog card, now rumpled. Scorpius sighs. He draws his wand and smoothes the card back out again. Mr Potter crosses his arms and smiles genuinely.

And it's genuinely hot.

Merlin. He hasn't got any less handsome since Scorpius shoved him in there. And now, worse, Scorpius can hear him saying, in that brilliantly sexy voice, that Scorpius is one of the finest students at the school.

Does he really think that, or was he merely placating Scorpius' father?

No. He'd never placate Scorpius' father.

So, he must have meant it. Or maybe he'd just said it to mollify Scorpius for having jogged into his friend's Confundus like a complete prat.

But Harry Potter is nothing if not honest, right?

He's honest and brave and skilled and kind and funny and fit.

Fuck, he's fit.

The chocolate frog card takes that opportunity to give a little wave, completely unselfconscious, and then Mr Potter plants his hands on his hips.

Scorpius' cock plumps and hardens. No. It surges. It pines, reaching for Mr Potter like some kind of handless arm that seeks only to nudge at greatness.

"Oh god…" Scorpius moans.

Before he knows it, he's fumbling for his wand. He's sweating and trembling. He affixes his drapes closed with a spell and then swishes out a Muffliato in case anyone returns unexpectedly early from dinner.

"Oh my god, oh my god…"

Scorpius shoves down his trousers and pants, and his cock springs up with a mighty bounce of joy.

Joy!

Because of all the things Scorpius has thought to try, this is the one thing he's avoided until present. And, truly, what an idiot. Maybe this is exactly what he's needed: to invite an imaginary Mr Potter to use his body in the heat of the moment and ravage what is left of his will to not wank.

"Oh YES," Scorpius hisses as his hand wraps around his cock.

And it is Mr Potter's hand. That hand that holds his eleven-inch wand and can take down mortal enemies with one fell swipe.

That hand that waves from chocolate frog cards in such a lovely, inviting, fatherly fashion but that stokes the burning embers of Scorpius' hot hot loins all the harder for it.

That hand… that very same… that sifted over Scorpius' hair so gently – "I'm glad you're here." -- and then tucked a strand behind his ear as if Scorpius might too easily bruise or break.

Scorpius shivers. He's worked himself up into a true frenzy now, his hand jerking fast on his prick, his bottom lip clenched between his teeth. He reaches with his other hand for the card… for a glimpse of that ruggedly handsome face, those sparkling eyes that seem to hint that they know this about you, your perversity, your shame, your arousal… and they're all right with it.

Scorpius looks into those absolving green eyes and rolls over. Guilt rushing over him like a great wave, he holds the card… down there. His hand flies on his hard cock. "Ohhhh!" he groans. His hips start jerking back and forth. The hand holding the card in place shakes.

When it happens, he can't help but shut his eyes tight from the force of it.

"Oh FUCK MR POTTER! MR POTTER! Oh MR POTTER! MR POTTER, FUCK ME PLEASE OH GOD!"

He comes. And he comes and he comes and he comes. All over the card, the bed, his hand. Some flies up and strikes him in his own face, and Scorpius flinches but moans, and he keeps going. Coming and coming and coming. Some flings onto his headboard with spunky enthusiasm. Some of it strikes and then drips down his drapes. And as the last ropes shoot from his throbbing cock, Scorpius whispers, "Oh god, Mr Potter. Oh god. Mr Potter. Oh thank you. Thank you! God, thank you!"

He falls onto his back on the bed, panting, chest heaving, dick drooping happily.

Blessed relief!

Blessed orgasm!

And now, finally, blessed silence.

Until…

"Dude. Did you know your Muffliato doesn't work?"

Scorpius bolts up in the bed. He hears the fleeing of Shane's feet toward the door, the cackle of his laughter.

"Wait!" Scorpius shouts, scrambling to pull up his pants and trousers. "Oh my god, Shane, WAIT!"

Scorpius gets his trousers up but not fastened. In that time, the door has already opened and slammed closed. "Merlin shit NO!" He fights with his drapes. "Bloody—!" It takes him long, precious seconds to remember the spell he put on them. "Fuck! Buggering fuckfuckfuck!" Scorpius can't find his wand. It's in the bedclothes somewhere. He turns on hands and knees and starts digging like a Crup. "No! Bloody hell no no no no no no NO!"

He finds the wand but is unsuccessful with his first try at the removal of the spell. His hands are shaking. He casts again and gets the ward to drop, fighting with the drapes again in order to find where they part, and then scrambling out of bed on a croaked, "Bugger!" He works to fasten his trousers while scouting around his bed for his boots.

"Fuck it." He heads out in his socks.

He's through the door when he remembers the state of his bed. He turns back, runs to it, does a quick Scouring charm, and hides the chocolate frog card, sparing a pained last glance at Mr Potter's now-clean, completely non-nonplussed face. "Oh god." Mr Potter waves at him before Scorpius stuffs him under the mattress.

He zooms back out of the dormitory, slipping around corners as he searches frantically for Shane. Not that it's going to do any good. Shane's likely had time to tell four or five people by now. What's Scorpius going to do? Obliviate all of them? Even if he could find them quickly enough for them not to tell four or five more people. Each.

"Have you seen…?" Scorpius asks a random Ravenclaw wildly. At her alarmed look, he turns to a group of three sixth-year Gryffindors, "Shane Warwick, did he come through here?"

"Who?"

Scorpius spots a Hufflepuff girl that asked him out once. He runs and then slides into her. "Melissa?" Fuck, is that even her name?

But she turns, eyebrows raised. "Scorpius? What… what happened?"

"Do you, ah, know the American transfer student? Has he been through here? I, er, I need to find him and kill him."

"Oh. Yeah. I saw him laughing with Zane Zabini. I think they both went downstairs."

All the air leaves Scorpius' body. His head alternately pounds and rings.

"What's the matter?" Melissa's voice comes at him from far away.

Scorpius leans against the wall and slips down until he's sitting on the floor.

"Scorpius? Um, can someone help? Professor Longbottom, I need your help. Scorpius needs your help."

It's the last thing he hears before the beautiful, safe black overtakes him.

"Hey."

Scorpius blinks open his eyes with great effort.

Shiny ceiling. Bright room. He turns his head. Albus is sitting on a hospital bed next to his own. Albus is in hospital? "What happened? Are you okay?"

Albus gives him a rueful smile. "I'm fine. Well, relatively." He sighs. "I will be at any rate. Scor, it's you who's in here, not me."

"You're not here?" Scorpius feels unearthly confused now.

Albus moves to sit on Scorpius' bed. He touches his arm. "I'm here. I'm just not ill. You, uh, you fainted."

"I did?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Albus takes a deep breath. And it all comes back to Scorpius in an instant.

"No," he whispers. "No. No. Albus…"

"Don't get yourself worked up again. Most people don't even believe it. I mean, it's Shane."

"Do… you… believe it?" Scorpius' heart aches within his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to cry or scream or hide or fight.

Albus sighs. "Scor. Half the school has a crush on my dad. It's entirely gross. But I'm somewhat used to it."

"But—"

"No, let me talk for a minute. Before I go and Obliviate myself, that is."

Scorpius can only nod.

"I've known. For a while."

Shame and horror screw Scorpius' face into what feels like a twisted knot of skin and bone. "Albus, I'm—"

"Shut it, I said." Albus gives him a stern look. He sighs heavily again and runs his hands through his hair. "Look. You're my best friend. You're my very best friend, and I… Well, I… Bloody hell, nothing is going to change that. I just… I need a few days probably. To wash my brain of it. To… pretend again that it's less than it is."

"But it is!" Scorpius wails. "It is less than it is, Al. I—"

"Don't. Really, I don't want to talk about this. I just need some space to not talk about it after this. Okay?"

Scorpius nods.

"I'm not asking you to change how you feel. I'm not. I'm just… Look, I'll hex the fuck out of anyone who even looks at you funny, and it's going to be a right shitty few days, I'm sure, but… Well, you're my friend." He squeezes Scorpius' arm gently. "You're my friend, and that's the end of—"

Scorpius lurches up and grabs Albus in a crushing hug. "Thank you."

"Oh, shut it. You big ponce." Albus hugs him back.

"Thank you!"

"Merlin, stop saying words, Scorpius."

"I'm sorry."

"I swear I'm on the verge of Silencioing you." Albus gently shoves him away. "Bollocks, just… Lie there and feel better and I'll see you later, okay?" Albus stands and rubs his hands on his trousers.

"Okay."

"Okay," Albus asserts again. He scratches his neck, turns, and leaves.

Scorpius falls back to the bed. He covers himself entirely with the blankets.

It's bad. Quite possibly enormously, epically bad. But if he hasn't lost Al… well, he can handle any other sort of bad the rest of this cocked-up year throws at him.

Scorpius turns on his side, curls up in a ball, and tries to sleep.

He makes it through the week. Two bad hexes from Albus to particularly vociferous offenders (though it could never be proven from whence they'd come), and the talk and jokes die down.

It doesn't take much, because Scorpius knows Albus is right. It's a common affliction: Harry Potter Lust. Most everyone probably feels a sense of relief more than anything. 'There but for the grace of God go I', and all that.

It all just fizzles away like a bad Patronus.

So, it comes as a bit of a shock when, after Defence class on Friday, Mr Potter calls for him to stay behind.

There are a few titters and stray whispers as the class files out, but nothing too scandalous. Scorpius knows he's blushing, but at least his fear of the situation keeps his cock from humiliating him further.

"Yes, Mr Potter?"

Mr Potter waits, half-sitting on his desk, one foot planted on the ground, until the last student is gone and the door shuts. "I wanted to talk to you about your wand."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I've been thinking about the Veela hair core and how it might make some of your casting… err."

Scorpius gulps.

"Do me a favour. Try a spell for me." Mr Potter stands from where he's been leaned.

"O-okay. Sir." Scorpius blushes hard and fumbles his wand out. "Which one?"

"Try Muffliato."

Scorpius blanches. His eyes go wider than Galleons, he can feel it.

Oh god.

Oh bloody god.

But Mr Potter doesn't look like he's teasing him. He looks, as ever, kind and caring and… beautiful.

Still. This can't not be what it feels like.

This is very definitely what it feels like.

But though Scorpius cannot help but stand there mortified in front of the man for whom he came with such abandon it nearly shook the walls of the castle – and who very clearly knows it – he's also oddly and deeply… well, grateful.

He gulps again and resituates the wand in his hand. "O-okay. Uh…" He swishes, circles, and jabs. "Muffliato!"

"All right," Mr Potter says and walks up to him matter-of-factly. He takes Scorpius' wand hand in both his own, and Scorpius can't not inhale sharply at the touch. "Try…" Mr Potter adjusts Scorpius' grip so that his index finger lines up with the wand. "There. Now, when you cast again, instead of that last jab, try a down-swipe. Yeah?"

Scorpius looks into Mr Potter's eyes. "Yes. Um, okay."

Mr Potter nods and gives him a small smile. He steps back. "All right, try it again, Scorpius."

Scorpius licks his lips. He swishes, circles, and swipes down. "Muffliato!"

Mr Potter smiles bigger. He rubs his ears. "Say something."

"Um… did it work… this time?" He winces at his own choice of words, but Mr Potter just shrugs and shakes his head. Scorpius smiles.

"Good, Scorpius. That was good. Can you take it off?"

"Oh. Yes." But then Scorpius nods exaggeratedly when he realises that Mr Potter can't hear him. He points his wand and removes the spell. "Yes?"

Mr Potter grins at him. "Yes. Much better."

Scorpius sighs, looking at the ground. "Thank you. I… I really… Uh, thank you. Mr Potter."

Scorpius watches Mr Potter's shoes walk into his field of vision. He can barely look up, feeling safer half-hiding under his own fall of hair. A tingly dizziness besets him.

"If you have trouble with any other spell, you can come and see me. Okay?" Mr Potter's warm voice makes Scorpius feel safe enough to look up finally. Mr Potter's eyes shine with kindness. His smile is crooked and lovely and everything.

Scorpius doesn't trust his voice, so he simply nods.

"Good," Mr Potter says softly. "You're free to go now, Scorpius." He steps back, turning toward his desk, and begins sorting his parchments.

Scorpius takes two steps backward, watching Mr Potter stack his papers, licking a finger to leaf through a batch. Scorpius turns on his heel and walks quickly from the room, closing the door behind himself.

Relief floods through him. He leans against the door for a moment and just catches his breath. The halls are a bustle of activity around him. A group of girls laughs as they walk by. But they're not laughing at Scorpius. Nobody's paying him any mind. Nobody so much as glances his way.

And he's okay, he realises. He's trembling a little, and there are traces of embarrassment still panging in his chest. But they're not debilitating. He won't die of this. In fact, he's smiling. He doesn't feel really all that bad. He feels pretty good. He feels relieved and grateful and… hungry. Merlin, he's starving.

Scorpius straightens his robes and pushes away from the door, taking a deep lungful of air. He makes his way to the stairs and, from the landing, sees a messy mop of almost-black hair near the doors to the Great Hall. Albus happens to look up and spot him. He gives Scorpius a wave. Scorpius smiles and waves back. He skips down the stairs. And he doesn't feel bad at all.