1. Boy crushes, Hero Worship, and I am not my father.
Scorpius peered at the Gryffindor table over his Prophet, hoping to catch a glimpse of spiky black hair. Albus Potter had been the bane of Scorp’s existence since puberty struck and left him wracked with hormones he had no idea how to control. Each and every day, he thanked the Gods of Wizarding Fashion for robes; Muggle trousers would have been the executioners of his dignity.
Of course it didn’t help that Scorpius had grown up with a secret celebrity crush on Albus’ father, did it? He couldn’t think of a single rational witch or wizard of his generation (or the last, for that matter) who would possibly deny feeling the same way at least once. Well, except maybe Scorpius’ own father. Grown-up Draco had never been the sort hero-worship anyone, Scorp imagined, especially Harry Potter. Their rivalry was still legend at Hogwarts, as were the nefarious exploits of Draco Malfoy alone.
But, Scorpius knew Albus was no more like his father than he was like Draco. And besides that, his hero-worship-crush days were over. That was mere juvenile nonsense, brought on by awe that someone so important could be so human. No, Albus was not Harry. Albus didn’t have the trademark round glasses of the senior Potter, and his cheeks were covered in faint, brown freckles. His eyes and hair were really the only physical similarities, though this fact didn’t stop people from gushing about how father and son looked so much alike.
Albus, Scorpius had decided, was much more handsome. He’d seen photos of the elder Potter in his school days, and frankly thought he’d been far too scrawny as a young man. Of course, everyone knew about the Muggles and the way they’d treated Harry. Al, by contrast, obviously grew up in a very loving home, and was well cared for. He had filled out nicely in the last few years, and though not bulky by any stretch of the imagination, was well-muscled. Or at least Scorpius imaged he would be under all that black and scarlet fabric.
More than once, Scorpius had mused on what Albus looked like under his robes. What sort of pants did he wear? Y-fronts, or boxers like Scorpius? What colour were they? Was he average, or well-endowed? Did he have freckles on his shoulders? On his legs? His cock?
These were the sorts of musings that had Scorpius thanking the aforementioned Gods time and time again.
Sometimes Scorpius wondered if it were even possible for the Great Harry Potter’s son to be queer, and if he were, would he even consider taking up with a Malfoy. Probably not, on both counts.
Thus, Scorpius was resigned to peering over the top of his paper in a manner he hoped was inconspicuous as hell.
Only it really wasn’t.
2. Miserable old bat.
Scorpius silently wished bloody death upon Professor Holloway. The woman was obsessed with inter-house cooperation, and had forbidden her N.E.W.T.-level students from pairing up with anyone they shared a common room with. Had he known Potions was going to be so trying this year, he’d have opted out. Of course, that would not have set well with Draco, so there he sat, five inches from Albus Potter, trying as hard as he could to keep his brain above his neck.
It should be duly noted that he was very nearly successful.
It would have been much easier if Albus were a bastard, rather than a Nice Boy Who Got On With Everyone.
Things went smoothly for nearly a quarter of an hour, but then Al had accidentally brushed Scorp’s hand as he was reaching for the beetle eyes. Scorpius felt the familiar redirection of blood-flow, both to his nethers and his face, and hoped Albus was too busy measuring to pay him any mind.
He could only be so lucky.
After ensuring his partner that he was merely holding back a sneeze (damn the dust!), their work continued. Rather, Al’s work continued. Scorpius stifled sneezes for the remainder of the class, despite the fact that he was fervently trying to conjure images of his grandmother in her nuddies.
It should also be duly noted that the scent of whatever Albus was using for shampoo overrode those images before they could be realised. Scorpius didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or flee to the toilets for a quick wank.
3. Status Quo means fuck-all, doesn’t it?
Six weeks in to his last year, Scorpius decided that he hated Potions. He’d loved the subject with a passion (almost) unrivalled for the majority of his life, but the last several classes had been Hell on Earth.
He was doing well, of course, but that wasn’t the problem. No, the problem was Albus Severus Bloody Potter. Though the two boys had never really been friends, they hadn’t been enemies either. They certainly hadn’t ever held any sort of conversation other than was necessary to ensure their cauldron didn’t implode or limbs weren’t melted off. That was Scorpius’ Secret Rule: No small talk with the unrequited-love object. It made life easier.
Albus Potter had no use for Scorpius’ rule, however, and began chatting (chatting!) with him whilst they waited for their concoctions to simmer and stew- despite Scorp’s attempts at feigning disinterest. His cock was interested, though, but not in the words that were being spoken, but by the shape and colour of the mouth that was speaking them. Scorpius’ brain was overruled once again, and he had no choice but to contribute to the friendly banter.
Matters only got worse, which Scorpius should have seen coming a mile away.
Albus began greeting him as they passed in the corridors. Nearly seven years of polite indifference were thrown into the lake and devoured by the Giant Squid. Well, shit.
4. Sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring. Or Autumn, really, but whatever.
Aside from Albus’ classroom nattering and hallway greeting, he’d taken to smiling at Scorpius. That was not on as far as Scorpius was concerned. It tended to drive up his hopes, and he wouldn’t have that, only for them to be dashed to the ground. And they surely would be, Scorp had no doubts.
He almost would have been able to handle the smiles, if they hadn’t stretched to Al’s eyes. Merlin, but Albus’ eyes were something when they were smiling. Scorpius idly wondered if Al were Irish, and if he knew that song.
Scorpius made a new rule: No eye-smiling back at the unrequited-love object. Mouth-smiles only.
It only took a fortnight for this rule to be shot to hell like the first. Some things simply could not be helped. Damn the prat for being so nice. And worth smiling at.
5. He should come with an 18 rating. Hell, he probably does.
Scorpius’ musings had become slightly more adult, and he was now spending time wondering if Al’s pubic hairs were straight or curly, and whether or not they were as unruly as the ones on his head. Did he bite his lip when he came? What did it taste like?
Was his mouth as suitable for kissing as it looked? What sort of Dark Magic could that tongue of his work?
Scorp liked lying in his silenced bed, his hand up his nightshirt and wrapped around his dick, as he imagined what he would do to Albus if he ever had the good fortune to be in the position to do anything to him at all. He’d been so busy the last two years drooling from a distance that he actually hadn’t gotten around to doing anything with anyone, and was rather worried that when (if, and it was a Big If) the chance actually presented itself, he’d be too petrified to pull the boy’s pants down, much less to suck his cock like he’d fantasised about doing (seven hundred and eighty three times, but who’s counting?).
Scorpius decided that Albus’ cock most likely did have a freckle or two on it, and that would be fine.
He squeezed his eyes shut and came hard over his hand. At least some things didn’t change.
6. Denial, and how to wallow in it.
The five inches of space at their workstation became four, then three. Scorpius wasn’t sure how the fuck he was supposed to slice, measure, and stir without forgetting to breathe when Al’s hands, elbows, and knees wouldn’t leave his be.
Did this boy have no concept of personal space? Perhaps not, Scorpius thought, willing his dick to behave itself. If Albus knew what sorts of reactions his bubble-invasions caused, he’d retreat back to his side of the bench in a hurry.
Except that three inches had suddenly become two, and Scorpius hadn’t moved.
Merlin’s. Left. Ball.
Scorpius would be in St Mungo’s by Christmas if this shit kept up. He mentally Crucioed Professor Holloway for the umpteenth time that month, and set about grinding his coriander. Or was it Oleander? It smelled like soap, and he was almost tempted to taste-test it.
Thirty seconds later, Scorp’s textbook caught fire. Slytherin lost ten points, and Albus lost his eyebrows.
He still looked good, Scorpius noted with chagrin.
7. The plot thickens, then is lost.
Half-term was rapidly approaching, and Scorpius was welcoming the break from his space-invading, libido-enhancing, fit-as-all-fuck tease of a Potions partner.
On the last Hogsmeade Saturday before the Christmas Holidays, Scorp received an unmarked gift. He shook it. He poked it with his wand. He asked the insufferable fifth-year who had been giving him The Eye all term if she had sent it. She hadn’t, so he opened it.
It was a copy of Advanced Potion-Making to replace his charred and mangled one, and a quick glance over to the Gryffindor table confirmed his suspicions. Albus.
Then there was the note.
My cousin is Head Girl, so I talked her into giving your points back. All you have to do is come to Hogsmeade with me. Call it bribery if you will, but I figured that since you’re a Slytherin, you’d appreciate it.Shit. Fuck, even. Holy moly, and everything.
Scorpius weighed the pros and cons of selling his sanity for ten points.
Pros: Too many to list. Cons: Not nearly enough to matter. Except that whole St Mungo’s thing. But who cared? Coherent thought was far too overrated in this day and age.
He nodded his surprised agreement toward Albus, and then pretended to finish his breakfast. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked over just in time to see the last of ten emeralds drop into bottom bulb of the Slytherin hourglass, and ten rubies rise to the top of Gryffindor’s.
8. Shit. Fuck, even. Holy moly, and everything.
Scorpius could deal with small talk. He could tolerate eye-smiling. He could even accept space-invasion, crispy textbooks, and dates bought at the possible expense of the House Cup.
He could not, however, abide Albus stopping kissing him. Oh, no, he would not stand for it!
Hadn’t he suffered enough already?
Chapter Two: Albus Goes on the Offensive
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