title: For Evermore (We Were The Last Ones Standing)

author: stonegrad

pairings: Lucius/Albus-Severus, Albus-Severus/Scorpius, Lucius/Draco, and Draco/Scorpius (also Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny)

rating: NC-17

word count: approx. 51,033

warnings: Chan, incest, consensual sexual exploits of the underage nature, semi!public wall!frottage (take that!), a blindfold, rimming, loads of biting, evidence of my serious glove fetish, UST everywhere, first time, some rough love, angst, and a severe lack of anything even remotely close to innocence.

A/N: Not exactly epilogue compliant, per se... the characters are the same, but the storyline is well and truly blown to pieces. Pfft, who needs a perfect Potter family, anyway? Written for the sheer insanity that is NaNoWriMo 2007 – and beta’d by melafinatheblue, to whom you should all grovel and worship, you hear me? Grovel and worship! All the remaining mistakes are mine...

summary: Albus Potter was always going to be different - his family just didn't realise how much...

He’s eight, and you know he’s different - your flighty, coltish son with his nervous smile and his bright, brooding eyes.

Eight, and the sunlight tangles in his tousled head of pitch-black hair as he sighs and looks away from the gathering, out towards the red flare of the horizon; with the strongest traces of a well-concealed boredom finally flicking over his sharp features, angled in the modest, hawkish way of small boys that will become clumsy, lanky adolescents.

He is gorgeous, in that shy, untouchable way…

Certainly not like James, who looks every inch his namesake but seems to channel only Sirius, lounging on the bench beside you with all the unfounded arrogance of his youth and his blood - you have tried to bring him to modesty, but his is not a personality that can be dampened, even by such things as consideration to others.

No, Albus is different - your wild-child, your near outcast of a son. You think, perhaps, that he takes after Severus far too much; there is something slightly wrong in the set of his lips when he smiles, something flashing through the back of his green eyes in an intangible swirl. You know - have known for a while now - that he is a small snake in a den of lions.

You don’t think the others notice; you don’t think he lets them see.

But your relationship is slightly different from the rest - in you, you think, he finds a fine sliver of companionship. Amongst Ron’s annual anti-Slytherin tirades, it is no surprise. Here and now, however, he is detaching himself from the world around him, slinking back into the flawless hallways of his imagination.

“Dad,” he says softly, but doesn’t turn his head to look at you. “Where do the Malfoys live?”

An unusual question, one would think - but your son has always had an uncomfortable obsession with the family ever since getting a glimpse of Lucius Malfoy at the Ministry, organizing the last few miniscule details of his move into the thick of French politics. It had been your last sight of him, too; he had moved to Montpellier three days later, though not, you are told, without paying a visit to his wife’s grave.

He’s coming back, of course - in two weeks or less, to return to the Manor and his son and grandchild. Far too soon to have the wolves back in with the Ministerial sheep, you believe.

“In Wiltshire,” you reply, and smack James upside the head as he yawns into your ear. “Why?”

Part of you knows what he will say - he has a terrible habit of answering questions with yet more questions.

“Have you ever been there?” and now, at last, his eyes flick over to you - bright and bold amidst the tangled fall of his hair. Intrigued and Not. Quite. Innocent.

Have you ever been there? What a question! You don’t remember much - only the cold demand of ‘what is this?’ and the flash of a knife in the dark.

“Yes.”

He nods, apparently satisfied, and leans across the table towards you, dropping his voice. “Was Mr. Malfoy there?”

Such a dangerous, deadly obsession for a boy so young - even you still shudder to think of the subtle, knowing lilt to Lucius’ smile when he bid you good morning in the office before he left. The flirty, ice-cold, unobtainable slide of skin over bone when you saw the sharp curve of his collarbone, the small metal links of the silver chain that hung about it, bordered by skin as white as snow - the slip of leather against your fingertips as you stared up into eyes that flashed silver in the bright Ministry lights.

“Of course.”

He played you - Order, Ministry, and Voldemort.

Played you like an instrument; plucked apart the strings.

Albus frowns, biting his lower lip for a moment before speaking again. “Mum doesn’t like him. She told me he tried to kill her - but when I asked him…”

“What?” you say sharply, cutting him off. “When did you talk to him? Did he try anything, anything at all?”

Paranoid, perhaps… you always are as far as the so-called ‘redeemed’ Death Eaters are concerned, and regarding Lucius Malfoy most of all. He has a natural knack for survival - what better way to exact his revenge from getting away solely by the skin of his teeth, but with the cold, calculated manipulation of your youngest son?

That same boy shifts nervously in his seat, looking appropriately abashed but still resolute. “When I told you I needed to go to the bathroom,” he says quietly - and there, again, is the almost intangible flash of something just behind the childish light of his eyes. “I went to find him, and asked him if he tried to kill her. He said that if he wanted her dead, then she would be.”

You believe him, of course - you can just hear it now, in that soft, low drawl. The quick, dazzling flash of a smile across his lips that you knew wouldn’t be real.

How much would it take for you to inspire genuine emotion on the sharp, angled planes of his face, anyway?

“Yes,” you say grimly, “That sounds like him.”

Albus smiles - that rare, shy smile that makes your heart jump inside your chest; and you can't help it, the words are out of your mouth before you even think about.

"Now, forget about the Malfoys... why don't you go talk to Hugo, ay?"

You watch his face fall as if in slow motion - the nearly betrayed look that flashes in his eyes for a single second as his lips fall back into a thin, tight line; and suddenly, you want to hold him tight and talk to him about the Malfoys for all eternity, if that will make him happy all over again.

Except you don't, because things don't work like that and you can admit to yourself now that yes, you find his obsession disturbing in more levels every day.

He nods, stiffly, and slips from the bench to make his way towards cousin Hugo, sitting alone on the grass; and you see the jilted, uncomfortable manner in which he lowers his head and slumps his shoulders in a dejected look so reminiscent of his second namesake that for one wild moment you almost feel he's channeling him somehow. That perhaps you imbued him with a little more than you thought when you labeled him with that name.

Which is utterly foolish.

You sigh, turning away and jostling off James - asleep on your shoulder throughout the entire conversation. He looks up, disgruntled, and mutters something under his breath that you pretend you don't catch.

Hermione and Ron are sitting alone at another table, and you hurry to join them there, suddenly eager to talk to them about the problems with your youngest son. He's different from the rest of them, you know that - and it is so clearly displayed in the way he leans against the trunk of the tree, frowning ever so slightly as he listens to Hugo (sweet, sincere, innocent Hugo) talk.

He doesn't look at you, although you know that he knows you're watching him.

He always knows.

Hermione looks up, and smiles a little sadly.

"Something wrong with Albus, Harry?" she asks, and you offer a small, troubled smile for her empathy as you slide into the seat opposite Ron.

"Yeah... I just can't make heads or tails of his Malfoy obsession, and it's driving me insane."

Ron snorts, shooting a look at the boy in question - Albus twitches as if struck, and hunches his shoulders in further, playing with the twigs lying on the ground by his crossed legs; he snaps them one by one.

"It'll pass, I'm sure."

But Hermione - ever the more insightful one of the pair - frowns and shakes her head, looking directly at you.

"I don't think so, Ron. I think there's something more there..." and here she purses her lips. "He's always been a little more Slytherin than the rest of the family. I think that, maybe, he sees the Malfoys as people he could possibly relate to."

You bristle, and she explains herself quickly.

"I mean, when you think about it, he does have some of the same characteristics as we saw described in Lucius' Ministry files. Oh, don't look at me like that Harry; I'm not saying he's a murdering, bigoted, pureblood supremist. Just that they both have a love of strategy..."

"He beat me in chess the other day," Ron chips in.

"And, from what I read on those files" - and you read them too, but have tried to put them out of your mind because there's just something so incredibly wrong about remembering personal details about a man who once tried to kill you - "Lucius was a very aloof teenager, who preferred his own company rather than anyone else’s - and you have to admit, Albus isn't exactly a social butterfly, is he?"

"Not to mention," Ron says darkly, "the fact that he never wants to come to these family gatherings."

Hermione nods thoughtfully.

"Yes... he's always avoided big gatherings, and he doesn't like small spaces. Just think of it, Harry - all he's ever heard about the Malfoys; their huge estates, the cold, detached way they always act, the fact that they can lie through their teeth and manipulate anything. And then to actually see Lucius at the Ministry - and I have no doubt he was looking his best, so you don't even need to tell me... it's just natural, I think."

You grimace, reaching for a glass of wine sitting on the table.

"Well, I hope he grows out of it..."

Not that you think he will... and not that you are surprised when he doesn't. Not even when you try to become more of an active ingredient within his life, taking him to big Quidditch Games and telling him more about the war.

The only problem is that he only ever seems interested if it includes the word 'Malfoy'.

So you tell him everything you can - anything that pops into your mind, just so you can see him smile. It bothers you, to a huge extent, that he laughs when you tell him about the Chamber of Secrets, and then sits there picking apart the motivations to come to the conclusion that 'Lucius Malfoy plans very far ahead' at midnight, when he should be sleeping and not standing by your desk in flannel pajamas with a look of abject admiration on his young face.

It was wrong.

It was going too far.

And it isn't helped by the fact that Lucius himself makes his first public appearances that year, throwing himself into the Ministry so perfectly that within weeks you can't round a corner without passing him or one of the many French ambassadors he has bought back with him - and you know that he is just doing it all over again; building up his public image, gaining standing in Britain.

It’s working, and you hate yourself for admiring that.

Not to mention the social events - three or four a week, and always with a different beauty on his arm; the fine jewels plucked fresh from Montpellier or Toulouse, who speak in soft French accents, perfect escorts for the patriarch of an ancient pureblood family. The whole world seems to forget that he was a Death Eater...

Despite your best efforts, Albus only became more deeply enraptured.

Sometimes you find him clipping articles out of the Daily Prophet - once, you even stumble upon the place he keeps them, and you swear so loudly that Ginny comes running and you have to conceal them quickly, least she see it. Because you know, even now, that this is between you and Albus...

Because, despite blood, Albus is so much more a Potter than a Weasley... and barely even a Potter at all.

You read the papers too - a picture of the grandson, who looks like a boy fresh from a Muggle army camp - the straight, square set of his shoulders and the ever-wary way his sharp grey eyes flicker over your face. You shiver, then, and wish so hard that Scorpius had taken after his mother, and not been a near carbon copy of his grandfather.

It is just too disconcerting that he is the same age as Albus.

You watch out for them - untouchable, ice-cold; you don't let your youngest son go anywhere where he could stumble across one - where he could have a repeat experience of what happened at the Ministry. But most of all, you try to reel him back, try to see if you can change him into something that will somehow fit into the family the way he is supposed to.

You never thought he was so comfortable in his own skin - so sure of himself, so set in his ways.

A million conversations, and you find that they bleed together after a while, until one moment you're telling him of the Final Battle and the next you're recounting the events of only six years before - it all runs like watercolor paint in the rain, until you must have told him things a million times before.

One year of this, and you're starting to go insane.

Another half of a year, and you think you might actually have gotten there.

Relief comes in the form of Bill and Fleur's wedding anniversary dinner, although your stomach drops when you read that it is to take place at a restaurant in Wiltshire - of all the places in the world! But you go - of course you do.

You worry about Albus, although he puts on a brave face and joins in well enough with the conversation George and James are having over the top of his tousled black head - but there is no heat in his voice, and he picks at his food, moving it around his plate instead of eating it. This is not overly unusual - he eats very little, but is tall for his age and rather spindly, destined to grow into a long-limbed walking disaster. But the dark, brooding look in his eyes is new… and it frightens you, just a little.

Still, you do not expect him to disappear quite so suddenly - or so completely.

It was during dessert when he excuses himself, and half an hour later that you realize that he has not returned.

Part of you knows where he has gone.

- - -

Your Dad worries far too much.

It's not as if you don't know what you're doing, after all - you know exactly what it is that you're doing. You know the rough direction to walk in, the approximate time it will take before you hit the outer wards and trigger the intruder mechanisms, immediately alerting the Lord of the Manor of your presence. You even know what you will say when he finds you, tired and dirty and utterly disheveled from the trek.

You have everything planned out - you've been planning this for years.

But mother thinks you're too young to wander off alone - ten isn't much more than nine, after all, and a big step below eleven - and your dad has always been disturbed by your fascination in Lucius Malfoy.

And it is just him you're obsessed with, you know this - just Lucius.

The fact that you don't even know exactly why is of no consequence.

Perhaps it is merely that you got a glimpse into the intricacies of his character, and you are enthralled by them, much as you were always fascinated by the movement of muscle beneath the Kneezle's clinging skin. You want to know what's in there... because you are aware, deep down inside, that you'll like it.

Your family simply doesn't understand this.

They don't understand you at all.

You've always known that you were different, the 'snake in the grass'. You hate the big, loud family gatherings - you despise the cramped confines of the Burrow, or even that of your own house. What you need is space and solitude, and a place where you won't get chided for sleeping with the windows open, just because the wards aren't really built to cope with it.

What you need is epitomized by one single man... and what you want, you always try to get.

Never mind the fact that your calves start burning after the first half hour of scrambling through the high, sweeping hedges of supposedly costly Muggle estates - never mind that you're bleeding in a dozen places you can see, and a dozen more you can't; small, sharp, stinging pains. None of that matters, not at all.

It unnerves you, because you're young yet and it's a long, long way to go - but you dismiss the swirling uncertainty in your stomach, because just this once you can be like a Gryffindor and just ignore the danger of your situation. It is, after all, what your father does best... although never with your quiet confidence in the strategy already planned, dissected, and agreed upon within the clear confines of your agile mind.

Uncle Ron always said you were a brilliant tactician, but you know you're not; there's so much to learn, so much more to know.

Your father won't teach you the Dark Arts - you don't ask him this, you just know it, down in the quick of your bones. But it feels wrong, somehow, not to know, not to learn every scrap of information you can on the ancient rituals and the supposedly 'evil' magic imbued within the foundations of the Wizarding World.

But you are the offspring of blood traitors, and thus, you are tragically bereft.

No matter what, you do not tell them this - you never say 'I can understand the Death Eaters', because that would be tantamount to betrayal, would be the ultimate stab in the back.

It does not stop you knowing it, though.

You clamber through another hedgerow, and cut across a wide swathe of grass where the air seems to hum around you, clinging to your skin - and you know, the moment you step out, that you've hit the outer wards and triggered a series of events now beyond your control. You know this, and yet you only laugh in delight and pick up your pace, moving to angle through a clump of bushes and then up to hit the first of a series of long pathways, winding through the sparse smatterings of trees like the small dark snakes that slide through the leaf litter beside your feet.

There is no true measure of time, except the dull, throbbing pain of your body as you reach the pathway and stand, panting, with your head turned towards the setting sun - your lungs are on fire, and your legs feel like they are made of water, wavering underneath you as you take deep gulps of sharp, clean air.

You have been missing for hours, and yet you cannot care; and so you wait, instead, and calm the rampant thudding of your heart in your breast.

A breath of wind, and the sound comes easily enough - the steady crunch of well-made boots biting into gravel, and the rhythmic thud of something far heavier; your heart leaps into your throat, and you allow yourself a single moment of blind panic before you carefully craft your face into something that does not look quite so shocked.

You turn to the noise; you watch in mute fascination the manner in which Lucius Malfoy's left eyebrow quirks and the way his eyes narrow just ever so slightly - the stray lock of hair that's been pulled from his braid by the wind as it curls on his pale cheek... and, at the same time, you try not to blush about the tight riding breeches or the knee-high cavalry boots - the white silk shirt that's only buttoned halfway up to show a triangle of smooth flesh, and the small silver links of a chain hung about his neck.

The horse - huge and white and doubtlessly bred to perfection - is not something you really notice. But then, why would you, when faced with the object of your not-quite-childish fascination?

"Albus Potter," he says, and you shiver as you feel the weight of his scrutiny slide down your slim, bony chest; you are suddenly devastatingly aware of your state of dishevelment - the fact that your robes are more holes than fabric, and that your skin is slicked with fine lines of glistening blood beneath the combination of mud and sweat. "A most... unexpected visitor."

"Mr Malfoy," you start, but cannot hold your train of thought, and so jump into the next with uncharacteristic Gryffindor bluster. "Are you going to tell my father?"

He tilts his head a little to the right, and you take that as an answer in the affirmative even as he extends one hand towards you.

"You may wish to get cleaned up," he drawls. He's wearing leather gloves, cool on your skin as you put your hand in his and look up through your eyelashes, smiling shyly, as you are wont to do around beautiful men and exceptionally forward young ladies (you are too young to know what this means, but you have an innate understanding of it anyway) - from here, you can just see the start of a thin scar that presumably travels somewhere across the back of his neck.

"Yes, sir," you say, and shoot a quick look up the pathway in the direction he came from - the Manor is nowhere in sight.

Lucius' grip tightens, and you find yourself being pulled towards him, his hands moving to your waist as he lifts you into the soft black-leather saddle on the broad back of his horse; it regards you balefully through a curtain of fine grey forelock, resting its forehead in the curve of its master's lower back as he gathers the reins and looks back up at you over his shoulder.

"A bath first," he orders, and moves to swing nimbly up behind you, so that you can feel the warm oppression of his presence, smell spices and leather and cognac - so that when you tip your head back, just a little, you can rest it against his chest and look up at the clean, sharp lines of his jaw. "Then dinner."

The animal sways under you, and your stomach drops pleasantly at the sensation - Lucius glances down, and you see something flash through his eyes; amusement, perhaps.

"You were dining in Wiltshire?"

You nod, glancing guiltily at the dying sun before resting the palms of both hands against the horse's neck, feeling the soft pull of muscles under your fingers - fascination comes to you so easily.

He says nothing more, and you are glad of it; there is contentment in the lazy, rolling gait of the animal beneath you - wonder in the steady wash of his breath through your tousled hair, the support of his arm hooked around your waist, keeping you upright. You are guilty, just a little - you know that your mother will be distraught, and that you have ruined uncle Bill's anniversary.

Despite your best efforts, you cannot bring yourself to care too much.

Space does that to you - the crisp, clean air clears you of all feelings bar a delightful, floating sensation that begins somewhere in the realm of your chest and seems to flow through you, much like that Muggle morphine Aunt Hermione was telling you about last summer. You sigh, curling up against Lucius' chest and closing your eyes against the glare of the setting sun.

Much to your surprise, he does not attempt to move you.

While you rest, feeling the full weight of your weariness seep through your bones, you consider what your parents will be doing back in Wiltshire - will they have contacted the Ministry? Will they suspect that you have bee ntaken captive

Will your dad guess where you have gone to?

Perhaps you should not have revealed as much as you have - but it's too late for that now.

A soft flutter of wings alerts you to a new development, and you open your eyes in time to see the small chestnut-brown falcon hook its claws into the pommel, staring up at you through fierce, dark eyes. You blink, startled, as Lucius' hand slips around your side, securing a small note to the bird's leg with consummate ease - a moment later, and feathers sweep across your face as the falcon leaps skyward, swooping low to the ground before streaking off into the cloudless sky.

"They're faster," Lucius says to your ear, and presses you back against his chest to secure you against the sudden jolt of the horse. "Not that your mother will thank me," and he sounds amused at this - you smile, pressing your cheek against the white silk of his shirt.

"She doesn't like you," you say dreamily as your eyes slide shut again. "She says I shouldn't either."

You can feel him smirk - your own smile broadens, and an easy silence falls again. Something soft...

Something you'll not tell anyone.

It is dark, but the wind is light and warm, and you do not feel uncomfortable in your ruined clothes, though the scratches and tears in your skin still sting - you doze, in the arms of the last person your family would ever expect.

He does not seem to mind overly much, though perhaps that is simply wishful thinking on your part.

In the night, the Manor glows - you open your eyes as the light washes over you, spilling out onto the turning circle situated at the front as your head tilts upwards, taking in the entire sprawling might; the near white-washed stone and the high arched windows, glittering, as you look further upwards to see the jagged edges of the roof meet the star-filled sky.

"Wow," you say, and berate yourself immediately - but Lucius only quirks his eyebrow and slides out of the saddle, reaching up to lift you gently down, leaving one hand resting easily on your shoulder as he snaps his fingers.

The House Elf startles you - you shy involuntarily, pressing back against the soft fabric of Lucius' clothing, and his grip on your shoulder tightens.

"Take care of my horse," he orders, and then looks down at you; you nod mutely, glancing nervously at the small creature darting up to take the dangling reins of the horse, before you allow yourself to be guided up the polished marble steps towards the heavy double doors. They open without a single touch or command, and you step through into the bright, brilliantly open entrance hall - your eyes grow wide at the sight of the twin staircases winging up on either side, leading up to the open second story.

A small noise draws your attention - your head snaps round just as a tall blond boy slips through a door to your right, dressed in fine black robes that make him look older than he really is. Sharp grey eyes flick over you, inquisitive, before they flick up to Lucius.

"Grandfather," he says in an accented drawl so thick you have a slight amount of difficulty discerning the words. "Do you need something?"

He moves forwards, offering you a small, thin smile; Lucius' other hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and he looks down at your leaf-strewn black hair.

"You are about to bathe?" he asks, and the blond boy nods silently.

"I would like you to take him with you - use the healing potions in the cabinet." The hands squeeze reassuringly again, and you find yourself nodding in agreement even as Lucius lets you go, propelling you towards the boy before he turns on his heel and makes his way through another set of heavy doors.

The blond boy eyes you again, then smiles brightly.

"I'm Scorpius," he says, motioning for you to follow as he takes to the left staircase, guiding you up past dozens of framed portraits that watch with impassive eyes. "You're Albus, aren't you? The Potter boy?"

You take an instant liking to him.

"Yes," you say, and watch intently as the portrait to your right shoots a glance down to where Lucius disappeared. "How did you know?"

Scorpius shrugs, turning down a wide, open hallway.

"We're the same age," he says instead, and flashes you another grin. "We'll go to Hogwarts together."

A pause.

"I hope you're in Slytherin."

"Yeah, me too..."

He glances at you from under his eyelashes, and seems to weigh your response - he nods after a moment, and beckons you towards a polished oak door, opening it with one hand while the other grabs your arm, providing a small measure of comfort as you follow him inside.

It is - unsurprisingly - absolutely massive; the bath alone would fill your entire living room twice over.

You take it all in in mute amazement; the marble walls, the flagstone floor, the gleaming black obsidian snakes inlaid in the marble. Scorpius, meanwhile, pulls his robes over his head and then diligently divests himself of all other clothing, walking naked across the floor towards a tall cabinet - he flicks it open, scanning the contents before pulling out two small bottles filled with liquid.

"Here," he says, walking back towards you - he is very tall, and very pale in the bright light, with the faintest traces of stringy muscle. "This will heal your cuts."

Without hesitation, you take the first offered phial and pop the cork, raising it to your lips and all the while watching the way the light turns Scorpius' grey eyes silver.

You don't taste it on the way down.

"And this one," the blond adds, holding out the second. This one tastes of mint, and leaves a faint, tingling sensation in your mouth - intrigued, you look down at your arm; the blood is still thick, but the cut itself has gone.

"Thanks," you say, and shed yourself of the scraps of your robes - bought new over the summer - before following Scorpius to the edge of the bath; he glances back over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow at you.

"You've missed dinner, but the House Elves can make you something," he drawls, flicking blond hair out of his eyes and waiting for your nod before he dives headfirst into the glistening water.

You follow with a grin.

It is hot - blood hot, and you shiver in delight as it closes in around you, hitting the bottom with your feet before propelling yourself to the surface. Warm and wet and delighted beyond measure, you laugh as Scorpius brushes dripping hair from his eyes with a dark scowl.

"I wish it wouldn't do that," he says, and then studies you again before reaching up to pluck at one strand of your unruly black hair.

"Albus, you have leaves in you."

He sounds disgusted, and you snort as he pulls you towards him, bending your head down so that his nimble fingers can remove the offending objects.

You can't help but wonder what your granddad would say...

Not that you care.

It is well over half an hour later that Scorpius speaks again - you don't count his amused snorts or laughter as speaking, nor the sound of him trying to duck your head under the water with growled French expletives.

"It's hard to believe you're half Weasley."

You don't freeze - you feel far too content to even bristle.

"And according to my family, you should be dead," you shoot back, and he grins.

"Touché."

He pulls himself out of the water, grabbing for a towel.

"I think some of my clothes will fit you, come on."

You follow him, dripping wet and clothed only in a soft white towel emblazoned with the Malfoy crest, out through the door and down another hallway - he grins as he pushes his bedroom door open, motioning you through before him; you blink, amazed, as you step into a room into which your own would fit at least two times over. It is a careful blending of mahogany and marble, with the carved four-poster set between a pair of sweeping windows. Books litter every surface and, over by the corner, the newest Firebolt is resting against the side of a polished desk.

Scorpius shrugs when you look at him, stepping across the lush carpet towards a door on the other side - he pulls it open, and you are greeted with the sight of carefully folded clothes organized in strict sections.

"Blue, I think," he muses, and pulls some robes down from a high shelf, thrusting them into your hands. "And these for me;" he shakes out the black silk pajama bottoms, divesting himself of his towel to pull them on then and there, as you unfold the robes and hold them up for inspection. They are very dark, and of a fine, expensive fabric that makes your fingers tingle.

"Ummm," you begin, but Scorpius quirks his eyebrows at you and shakes his head.

"Keep them - Father always brings back more from France."

You start to protest, but he waves a flippant hand in your direction, lips thinning - defeated, you meekly strip off your towel and drag the robes on over your head, shivering a little as the cool silk presses against your warm, slightly damp skin. Appearing, tousled and breathless, from beneath them, you have time to watch Scorpius' eyes crinkle at the corners and his lips curl ever so faintly upwards; a sign of true amusement.

"Lets go," he says after a moment, grabbing your hand and nearly towing you back through the room and out into the hallway. The steps feel slippery under your bare feet, but he jogs nimbly ahead, darting around a carved banister to disappear down a winding staircase - you take a few seconds longer, allowing yourself the time to take in the full majesty of the cavernous ceiling and the portraits hung on the walls.

Finally, you hit the bottom of the steps, and follow his blond head through a series of corridors, until you feel utterly certain that you are lost - only when you are about to ask him which way is north, does he pause and turn towards a door on his right, opening it and looking back at you before disappearing through.

Relieved, you are quick to follow, finding yourself in a spacious kitchen; a pair of pillowcase-clad House Elves bow to you from beside a large table, gesturing for you to take a seat - the smell of food reminds you, painfully, that you have not eaten for hours, and wipes away all sense of disquiet. Clambering up into your seat, with Scorpius perching on the one next to you like a small, pale bird of prey, you reach for the knife and fork and pull the plate towards you.

While you eat, your companion amuses himself by talking, and you are eager to listen - he tells you about his father, playing the perfect husband to his mother's family in Martigues, though their marriage is nothing more than a few vows and a perfect son.

When you ask if it bothers him, he laughs lightly and shakes his head.

"I like Mother, and I visit her once a year... but, overall, I think I love my Father and Grandfather more."

He is nonchalant, and you find yourself agreeing - you have never felt connected to your own mother either.

Later yet - some interminable time, because spending it with Scorpius seems to make it rush on like a whirlwind - you feel the heat rush into your cheeks as Lucius' hands settle on your shoulders, startling you; you are an observant person, but even you did not notice the light fall of his footsteps or the swish of his clothes.

"I apologize," he says, and you tip your head back to meet his grey eyes, nodding mutely. "You are finished?"

Again, you nod.

"Then I shall have to return you," and he smiles, slightly, as Scorpius makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat - you shoot him a quick, thankful grin. At least somewhere you have someone to call a friend.

"I'll see you some other time," you say to him as you slide out of the chair, feeling Lucius' fingers bite into your shoulder to draw you back against him. Scorpius nods, extending his hand - "I'll write to you," he says, and glances upwards to his grandfather as if to make sure it is appropriate.

Lucius does nothing, not that you can see, but Scorpius smiles again and releases your hand - there is time enough to bid him goodbye before you feel a sickening lurch in your gut, and the world snaps out from under your feet; you have the oddest feeling that, were you not pressed against Lucius, you might have gone spinning off anywhere...

Apparation makes you giddy, makes you itch in places right under your skin - Lucius' presence makes the back of your neck burn and your tongue feel like a deadweight between your teeth, though you find comfort in the fact that his hands have slid down to your chest, steadying you against him as everything solidifies around you once more. Blinking, you first glance up at his face, outlined in moonlight, and then to the establishment in front of you - the restaurant you disappeared from earlier.

There is a yell - loud in the night - and the door flies open; you flinch.

"ALBUS SEVERUS POTTER! WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?"

You close your eyes, and step forwards doggedly, curling your bare toes in the grass before looking back - Lucius is watching you intently, and you find yourself not wanting to loose the familiar sight of his impassive, sharp-angled features.

But he can't stay with you; you both know that.

"Thank you," you say, and he nods before Disapparating away in a whirl of cloak and white-blond hair.

There is nothing for it - you turn back and, in the silence of your mind, bemoan your fate.

- - -

"I asked you what in seven hells you were doing! He's evil!"

It's the thirty-fourth time she's said that - you know, you've been keeping track.

"ALBUS!"

You should be actually listening; you should be saying something, other than just sitting here with your head between your knees, letting the noise wash over you until it all becomes one nonsense blur that's just so easy to block out.

You should be listening...

But you can't find it in you to even pretend to care.

You miss the space; miss the almost-silence, the heady rush of age-old magic thrumming through your veins - the hot-cold contrast of the robe around your body and the flagstones beneath your feet. Miss the arrogant, accented drawl of Scorpius; his sharp, vicious curses as he bit back his laughter and pretended to try and drown you in the bath.

Miss, even more than that, the flash of something intangible that turned Lucius' grey eyes into silver; the easy, languid smirk so often on his lips.

"Where did you get those robes from?" your mother asks, and again you mumble "Scorpius" into the fine fabric, inhaling the scent of honey and rich red wine with no care if she can hear you in your position or not. She'll only ask you the same thing ten minutes later, anyway.

"Scor..."

"Draco's son," Harry cuts across, and you can imagine the hand he's putting on your mum's shoulder - the way he's doubtlessly smiling in reassurance, as he leans in to whisper in her ear.

"Let me talk to him."

You might have felt relieved then, but you didn't - your father was always the worst, with his 'I'm so disappointed in you' look and his way of making you feel utterly wretched with just a few simple words; as you feel him settle beside you, you utter a soft, indistinctive curse.

It's coming...

"Albus, son, come on, talk to me..."

What you wouldn't give not to hear him say those words again! You bristle, feeling guilty and cheated at the same time - he knew, didn't he? He knew!

Bastard.

"Why?" you snarl, and look up through your black hair, full of loathing and disgust that is not entirely directed inwards. "It's your fault! If you'd let me go sooner, or taken me to see them, then I wouldn't have had to run away in the first place!"

You feel him tense, and suck in a breath.

"You're blaming me?"

"Yes," you spit vehemently, though you know you don't mean it quite as much as you make it seem you do; because even as betrayed as you feel, the thought of what he's asking makes you feel so dirty inside. So despoiled.

You're not innocent, and you know that - you're dark, you always have been.

You always will be.

They don't get this - they don't understand this. You don't fit in, and you won't ever be able too; there's something humming, deep inside your bones. You don't want to get away from it... you don't want them to make it go away.

"Tell me what happened, Albus."

He's too gentle, too nice - you can't deny him anything, though you still can, and still will, tell little white lies straight through your teeth.

A deep breath, and you look back down at your knees.

"Mr. Malfoy found me when I hit the outside wards, like I knew he would. He took me back to the Manor, and told Scorpius to help me out. I had a bath, he gave me some clothes, the House Elves got me dinner, and then Mr. Malfoy bought me back again..."

"... It’s not his fault. Don't let Mum do anything to him."

Another breath - you're not sure if you should say it, but you do anyway.

"He was really nice."

Silence, and you don't dare look up; your father is drawing in deep, calming breaths, and the quiet is stilted and uncomfortable.

"Yes," he says at last. "Lucius does that."

You know, then, that he's not quite getting your point the way you want him too; instead of saying it again, you hook your arms around your knees more tightly and ask him something that has been weighing on your mind for a while.

"Will you care..." you whisper, "If I'm put in Slytherin?"

In the pause, you can almost feel his skin crawling at the thought.

"No."

Only a little.

Despite yourself, you take comfort in his thinly veiled lie - what does it matter to you, anyway? You have always been a snake at heart, and your family’s disappointment cannot change that.

Sometimes you just wish you weren't so alone all the time...

- - -

Yes, you definitely should have known.

He is still sitting there, in the living room, hunched over in the fine blue robes he came back in, bare toes curled in the plush carpet - he is still hugging himself...

Still hating you.

It is like waking at the bottom of a deep well filled with thick, rolling fog - your thoughts slur together, distant and sickening as the consonants and vowels ride in your head as if upon waves, clear one moment and then fuzzy and distant the next. You cannot breathe for the stifling confliction of your own uncertainty - you are sick to death of having the rug pulled out from under you so often, especially as far as your youngest son is concerned.

You despise the fact that you don't seem to be able to help him, and that the only people who can are the ones you don't want anywhere near him.

Bloody Malfoys...

The newfound knowledge of the depths of his obsession is a feeling akin to crawling over thousands of tiny shards of broken glass on your belly; you feel torn, broken, hurt in more ways than you can describe.

Because he's your son, and it shouldn't be like this.

No, it shouldn't be like this.

You slide the thick white parchment between your fingers, and stare down at the black ink as if it holds the answers to every question battering away at you.

Many times, you just wish they were all dead.

- - -

You sit alone in the dark, remembering every detail - not of the anniversary you ruined, nor of your mother screaming and Harry's solemn words; these aren't things you want to think about, and so, you simply don't.

Instead, you recall the smell of spice and wine, leather and cognac - you imagine, again, the brush of gloves against your bare skin, the slight rough edge of the seams pressed to your cheek. In your mind, you rest back against Lucius' broad chest and can feel his heartbeat, thudding, slowly, calmly, to the tune of your racing breath; and you don't know what it means, exactly, when you feel a hot flush of heat down your spine at the thought.

But you don't need to know in order to like it.

The mattress is warm and comforting under you, and you tangle your fingers in the sheets as you slowly allow yourself to flop bonelessly onto it, head colliding with the pillows hard enough to make them bounce, just a little. Relaxing, you stare up at the pale ceiling, and wonder why these images cause your pulse to race.

You wonder if your father will care...

Not that you'll tell him, not yet. Ten is far too young to decide on sexual orientation - though you will be eleven in less than a month, and starting Hogwarts later this year. But, to everyone except a few, you are nothing more than a young child who has yet to be shown the right path to take in this world.

They're wrong - you already have a path.

You already know what you want.

Sighing, half in quickly stifled despair and half in longing, you turn your head to the side and rest your cheek against the fabric, closing your eyes. It is not late, but you are exhausted, though a small spark of excitement still lingers in your stomach, fluttering like a caged bird. You feel both elated and drained in the same slow heartbeat.

You nuzzle into the sheets, rolling onto your side and tucking both hands under your head in order to get more comfortable. You have not taken off the robes Scorpius gave you, although you know you should.

A large fraction of you just refuses to part with this small piece of the Malfoy family, and you have no resistance to it.

In the darkness, you breathe easily and watch the stars out through the open window - watch the dull gleam of the crescent moon and the flutter of your curtains in the wind; and when a dark shape is outlined against the sky, you barely even blink.

Moments later, and the owl swoops into your room in a flash of dusty white wings and a cruelly hooked beak, settling regally on the head of your bed and regarding you through clear tawny eyes; scrambling, you half-fall and half-leap across the sheets towards it, grabbing for the letter attached to it's outstretched leg.

Grinning like a madman, you unfold the heavy parchment eagerly.

You laugh in delight, hoping your parents won't hear, and grab the inkwell and eagle-feather quill from the bed stand, flipping the parchment over to write on the back.

Signing off the final letter with a quick slash, you roll off your bed and move towards the eagle owl, which obediently extends it's leg for you to secure the reply onto - you stroke your hand down the feathers on it's back, careful not to dislodge any, and it blinks back up at you with an approving expression.

"I wonder what your name is..."

If birds could shrug, then surely it would have done so.

"I'll ask Scorpius some time," you tell it, and then step away so that it can spread its wings, propelling itself upwards and swooping over your bed before darting back out into the night.

Elated, you finally find the willpower to drag the robes off, folding them neatly and placing them on a chair before sprawling naked across your bed.

When you fall asleep, it is to the tune of distant church bells.

- - -

This begins a routine to which you eagerly adopt over the long months, winding down your time until the start of term with illicit letters you are careful not to let your parents see.

Scorpius writes every few days - sometimes only short messages, a sentence or so, saying he'll write more later - sometimes a page or more. You find yourself counting the days in between them, so that time seems to pass by in a sluggish blur, interspersed only by the flutter of owl's wings and the crackle of heavy parchment unfolding.

You smile - it's the only time you ever do, these days - and reach for a scrap of parchment, dragging it across the desk to pen a quick reply.

There isn't much hope of it, and you know this - your parents suspect you more every day, and your aunt Hermione has taken to watching you like a hawk whenever she is near. The scrutiny makes you feel claustrophobic; makes you feel trapped in a cage, like an animal.

A snake surrounded by lions and eagles.

They don't trust you any more; they act like you are something dangerous and fragile, suspect to break with the slightest application of pressure. These days, you mostly ignore it; tonight, however, there is a boisterous gathering the floor below - and you must soon attend.

It is with a sinking heart that you stash the letter away, and then walk to the door, pulling it open and taking a deep breath. The hallway is very short, and the stairs too easy to get to the bottom of...

"Albus?"

Aunt Hermione, peering up through bushy brown hair as you offer her a sharp nod and try to brush past - she catches you by the elbow on the last step, and you keep your eyes firmly fixed on the ground.

"Lets talk," she says, and you allow yourself to be dragged meekly back up the stairs and into the room you just left.

Inwardly sighing, you settle on your freshly made bed and watch her take a seat at your desk, piling the textbooks on the chair in order to perch on the edge.

"So," you hear her start, and turn your head away to stare out at the clear blue sky. "Have you told anyone yet?"

"Told anyone what?"

She frowns. "About why you ran away, of course."

You don't look at her, though your fingers tighten in the sheets beneath you.

"No."

Another sigh - hers, this time, and out loud as well.

"Listen, Albus." She shifts in her seat, fixing you squarely in her sights. "There is a lot you are too young to know about the war, and a lot you are too young to know about Lucius Malfoy. But, I read his files in the Ministry, and if you want to ask me questions... well, here's your chance."

Your heart leaps, and your head snaps back round.

What to ask first? Where to start?

"Is he smarter than you?" you ask, almost immediately - it is the first thing to jump into your mind.

"What kind of question is that?" your aunt jibes, smiling. "We have very similar academic records - he was always top of his year, and I believe he took the same number of subjects as me. As far as experience goes, though, I think he beats me by a fair number of miles."

"And in the Dark Arts," you add thoughtfully, twisting the sheets through your fingers and pulling them out from under the mattress as you do so.

"Okay, so, what was the French Wizarding Uprising about?"

You get the oddest feeling in your stomach...

Thrill?

"Well," she begins. "It was basically a rebellion against the dictator Bellamont, who, after becoming Minister in 1956, set up martial law in France. It was called the Resistance, and was led by Dominique Grosnevor - you know about him, remember? We were talking about him stepping down last November."

You shrug.

"Anyway, what happened was that the Resistance helped set up something called the Rebel Wizarding Military, which consisted of a lot of the French Aurors. Later, the Russian Ministry helped bolster it up, but then it was pretty much a small, elite organization trying to work to take down Bellamont. Abraxas - Lucius' father - joined around 1961, according to the Malfoy files in the Ministry. He was a general of sorts."

"In 1962, things started to heat up, and that awful prison in Dijon was commissioned and built. People here in Britain didn't have any idea what was going on until the following year, and apart from the Malfoys, we didn't get involved, except to put a bit of political pressure on Bellamont."

"But, while we were neutral, Russia sided with the Resistance and threw a lot into the fight. Apparently the Ministry meetings of Europe were quite heated..."

"In August, 1965, the war came to Britain - Mrs. Malfoy was murdered, and Abraxas disappeared off into France. Lucius, according to a few sketchy recounts, joined the Rebel Wizarding Military over Christmas. We don't know for sure - there aren't many reliable documents from the time."

"What we do know for certain, though;" and here you perk up even further, watching with avid eyes. "Is that he was captured over the Christmas holidays of his second year at Hogwarts, and shipped off to the prison in Dijon. There are some photos taken of him when he got back to school the next year - three weeks late and assumed dead - tucked in with his files."

"And no," she says sternly as you twitch on the bed, face lighting up. "You can't see them."

Damn...

"In 1967, Italy and Germany threw Auror forces into the Resistance, and Grosnevor gained the support of pretty much all the French wizarding public. There was a huge battle at the Ministry, but Bellamont escaped from the chaos and tried to flee to Spain - they caught him just before he got over the border."

"On October 4th, 1968, Grosnevor was made Minister of Magic in France, and Bellamont was given the Dementor's Kiss. We retained a few ties with the country, due to the fact that the Malfoys were very important people during the war; it's one of the reasons why Lucius was made the French Ambassador. Not to mention that he's basically wormed his way out from under the jurisdiction of our own Ministry..."

Planning, you believe, is a brilliant thing - strategic planning and subterfuge, however, are all in a league of their own.

Your Aunt Hermione smiles are you, and you smile brightly back.

A moment of internal conflict; you give in.

"I have something to tell you," you say, suddenly serious. "As long as you swear not to tell anyone."

You take a deep breath, and wait for her to agree before you speak again.

"I've been writing to Scorpius..." and here it is a little bit more difficult for you to get it out, honesty be damned. "And I've decided that I'm going to be in Slytherin."

If she notices that you say 'going to be' instead of 'want to' or 'hope to', then she is smart enough not to comment on it. Unlike Uncle Ron, you know she is aware of the definition of discretion.

"What's he like?" she asks slowly, as if not quite sure which part of your revelation to respond to first. "I've only seen pictures of him - he looks a lot like Lucius."

"He's brilliant!" And, again, your emotions have flipped so suddenly it leaves you breathless. "He's been telling me about Switzerland! Apparently, his grandfather owns an estate somewhere there, and he's been spending the last few weeks out there looking after some Abraxans. It sounds amazing."

Your smile slips by a fraction.

"He offered to meet me in Diagon Alley later this month, but I don't think it will be able to happen."

She nods.

"No, probably not. You know our families aren't really the... best of friends. Arthur was furious when you ran off to the Manor."

Despite yourself, you narrow your eyes.

"What about you?" you ask softly, but with such a lack of innocence even you shiver at the sound of it. Just a little.

"Me? I don't think we should act like they're all one person. I may not like them, but I know that Scorpius has absolutely nothing to do with the war."

Suddenly inspired, you shift on the bed and focus more fully on her face.

"How did the feud between Grandad and Mr. Malfoy start?"

She shrugs.

"I don't know; no one seems to want to tell me the whole story." She slides off the desk, reaching forwards to ruffle your hair.

"When I find out, you'll be the first to know."

She moves to the door, placing one hand on the handle before looking back at you.

"First Slytherin in the family," she says with a grin. "If Severus were alive and not such a git, he would have been proud of you. I know I certainly am."

The words mean more to you than you will ever say to anyone...

Not even to yourself.

- - -

The scarlet steam engine is imposing, but not for the reasons that your family believes.

It intimidates you because though it is clearly very big, it is also already very full - and you have never been a fan of crowded places, much less of being stuck in small train compartments that you will doubtlessly have to share with your boisterous lunatic of a brother. Unless, of course, you manage to slip away from him, and meet up with Scorpius somewhere.

He's standing down the other end of the platform, next to a tall blond man who is, very obviously, his father. Your own dad greeted him with a sharp nod as you walked past, but Mum didn't even acknowledge his existence - you were not in the least surprised that Mr. Draco Malfoy acted as if she didn't exist either, though he had certainly given you quite the once-over, making you blush and smile shyly back at him as you trailed after your parents.

Now, Mum is telling James to look out for you - with pointed looks at the Malfoys all the while - and you're hoping he's not listening, because he's prone to doing that and once, just once, it might as well work in your favour. Dad is giving you suspicious looks over the tops of his glasses; you manage a weak grin, and duck your head, shooting a glance at Scorpius while you do so.

You are amazed at the difference between when you last saw him - he has grown an awful lot, and already gained a kind of easy grace, though it is still a long way from rivaling the elder members of his family. Lucius, in particular, has a certain predatory elegance to his movements.

You know; you remember.

Still, he is straight-backed, alert, and delightfully haughty - though for you, at least, the corners of his mouth curl ever so slightly upwards.

"Albus," your mother says, and hugs you to her as if she wishes to crack every bone in your body; with a wince, you bear it, slumping your shoulders and going boneless in order to protect your ribs and spine from the pressure. "You be good, you hear me!"

She pulls away and puts a hand under your chin, tilting your head up; you see right through her.

"Write home and tell us how you're sorted."

For a moment - a single reckless, insane moment - you want to say 'I'll be in Slytherin'. Except you don't, because you can hear what she didn't say. Gryffindor is the frontrunner; Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are acceptable pathways for you to leap upon.

But only Dark Wizards go to Slytherin.

It is a mindset that makes you want to scream, but you know she still has it, and so you say nothing - out of the corner of your eye, you see Aunt Hermione frown.

"Let them get on the train," your dad says, and mum releases you, much to your relief.

To dad, you give another weak grin - weak not out of nerves, though surely that is what he believes, but rather out of relief. The long wait is over.

You can be with Scorpius again.

So when they take you to the train, you go willingly, stepping easily up into the first carriage and then carrying along the hallway until James drags you into an empty compartment, and you help to put your trunk onto one of the racks before he shoves you down onto a seat by placing both hands on your shoulders. You scowl at him, and his face turns serious.

"Listen Al," he says in his best older brother voice - you blink impassively, and watch as he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mum told me to look out for you when you're in Gryffindor" - you're suddenly glaring on the inside - "but I'm not sure you really need it... and I don't really want to. So just stay out of trouble, all right? And try not to bother me! I don't need you under my feet."

You nod briskly, and glance sharply towards the door as it snaps open and four of James' friends come tumbling through.

"Hi there James! What di... hey, is this your brother? Albus, right?" A short brown-haired boy with a lot of freckles gives you an appraising glance.

"Yeah, this is Al - Al, this is Scott, he's one of the Gryffindor Chasers. This guy;" he nods towards a tall black-haired boy wearing a startlingly bright pair of blue cargo pants, "Is Stephen, one stop shop for all your Muggle needs. And this one -" James shoves the tanned, stick-thin boy "- is Ezra."

"Nice to meet you," you reply in monotone, and extract yourself from the seat. "I think I'll go find Rose now."

Scorpius...

"Er, yeah, okay," James says, caught off guard, and you slip between him and Scott before he can think of anything else to say, sliding the compartment door shut behind you. Breathing a sigh of relief, you turn to the left, and look into the compartments as you pass them.

It takes you a while - you pass Rose on the way, although, luckily, she doesn't see you go by - before you find him, sitting with a tall black boy with slanted eyes. Scorpius looks up as you enter, and grins, moving over so that you can flop down on the seat beside him.

"Albus!" he greets you in his trademark accented drawl, sounding delighted - the black boy gives you a sharp glance, and then smiles.

"Albus, this is Ihani Zabini - I told you about him, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you say, and smile back at him. He has a very hawkish face, with high, curving cheekbones and eyes so dark they seem almost black - you can remember his father from a few photos your dad had lying around one day last summer, and you think that they look strikingly alike.

For the first time since leaving Malfoy Manor, you allow yourself the liberty of relaxing completely.

- - -

The hat has barely touched Scorpius' blond head before it calls out his House - you, and the rest of the school, aren't in the least bit surprised by this development.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Looking wonderfully aloof, he hands the hat back to Professor McGonagall, flicking his grey eyes over you as he moves to take a seat at the Slytherin table.

“Nottingham, Johnny!”

Tipping your head back, you look up at the night sky, splattered with stars, and smile - this is the most complete and unconcerned you have felt in over a year.

“RAVENCLAW!”

Sometimes, when you dream, you imagine the freedom of Salisbury Plain and the glittering green expanses of the Malfoy estate; now, the stars serve the same purpose.

Beneath them, you feel so much more alive.

“Potter, Albus!”

A communal shiver runs through the room, and a low undertone of whispers as you step carefully up to the stool and take the hat, sitting down before you slide it over your head.

Slytherin… Nowhere but Slytherin…

There is a sudden rush of wind in your ears; you think the hat is laughing.

Done.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Dead silence.

Perfect stillness.

And then, suddenly, a lone clap from the Slytherin side - Scorpius Malfoy looking disdainfully down the rows of his House Mates, as he brings his hands together; a silent urging, until more claps join the chorus and the table erupts as if in slow motion, gradually rising as you walk towards them and drop down, smiling, on the right hand side of the blond. He smirks at you.

At the Gryffindor table, you see James sink his head into his hands in defeat.

- - -

Your first term goes by in a blur - your memories consist mainly of Scorpius, sprawled across the foot of your bed like a housecat as he writes your letters home for you, laughing all the while; of Ihani, clumsy and gorgeous at the same time as he stumbles down the steps or lies spread-eagled on the wet Quidditch field, mock-glaring up at you, after having fallen off your broom for the fifth time.

Scorpius, grinning like an idiot and hugging you in the safety of your dorm, after being named the youngest Seeker ever - kissing you on both cheeks and saying something wonderful in French afterwards, because you’d made Chaser and Merlin, wasn’t your brother jealous of that!

Ihani, crying and clutching his aching stomach as you try to learn French and Italian at the same time, scrambling the words together until Scorpius hits you round the back of the head and declares that you are an ‘utterly insufferable git of a friend’.

Of course, you don’t tell anyone this. To the rest of the school, you are a Slytherin ringleader, holding court at the table - aloof, arrogant, and ice-cold. They don’t see the Scorpius you do, but rather the chill, haughty Malfoy persona that is so clearly just another part of him - they never get to meet the Ihani that trips over his own feet, but instead the shadowy, mysterious figure that can’t quite be understood.

You wonder if your dad will believe you, if you tell him that being in Slytherin is like having a whole other family.

James and Rose don’t like it - they watch you constantly.

They even hate you when you beat them in Quidditch in the first match of the year, walking side-by-side with your friends up towards the school, still wet from the shower and elated with the victory.

When you write home - or, rather, when Scorpius writes your letters home for you, because he’s just like that - you never fail to mention how great your House is.

25th September

- - -

When you close your eyes, you can still see the letter crumpling in your grip.

Now, however, what you feel isn’t so much shock and trepidation as a distinct form of emotional numbness.

Your son has finally found his calling, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s the right one.

Of course, you’re definitely going - you have to, you need to.

“Harry?”

Hermione again.

“Mmmm?”

“Want some company going to Hogwarts? I know Ginny’s going to be busy, and I’d like to see the kids again.”

You nod, relieved, and fold the latest letter up carefully, stashing it in the drawer of your desk alongside the others before you turn back to the paperwork stacked up on top of it.

“That’d be great. Thanks ‘Mione.”

“No problem.”

- - -

When you arrive at the familiar Quidditch stands of Hogwarts, you find that you are not the only parent to have made the trip for the team - Draco Malfoy is sitting in the Slytherin section, seemingly deep in conversation with his father, decked out in black and silver robes with his hood pulled up against the light wash of rain. But you can see his pale, aristocratic face in the semi-shadows, and the way Draco leans towards him, head tilted to one side.

You stiffen, and Hermione rests a hand on your shoulder.

“What is it?” she asks quietly.

“Malfoys,” you shoot back, and throw a pointed look up towards them - as you do so, Lucius’ head snaps round. You can feel his gaze wash over you like cold water, and shiver minutely beneath your heavy robes, still uncomfortable with his presence despite the many years since the war.

“Well, Scorpius is playing,” Hermione tells you, in a fair imitation of the famous Malfoy drawl, before dragging you towards the Slytherin stands.

“Wait, what! Where are we going?”

“Harry, Albus is playing for Slytherin. So, we are going to sit in the Slytherin stands. There - no, not there, there!”

“That’s pretty close to Malfoy.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Fine, we’ll sit there!” and she jabs her fingers at a pair of seats in the second row, before shoving you towards them - out of the corner of your eye, you see Draco’s eyebrows flick up.

Wet, cold, and now being laughed at; to be honest, your mood is utterly foul.

It lifts, immensely, when you see your son walk out onto the pitch - and never mind that he is wearing Slytherin green and silver, or walking beside a very tall, very slim blond boy.

Your son is playing Quidditch for a House team, and you are proud of him.

So you watch as he stands quietly by Scorpius, looking very aloof - not quite overconfident, but arrogant all the same; you watch as he and the blond exchange a few words, before they mount their brooms and wait for the whistle.

And you blink to clear them when it blows and a silver blur leaps upwards, dissolving in a split second into a cloud of dust before you see Scorpius again, rolling around one of the Ravenclaw beaters and then bypassing Albus by a whisker - and as you look, you fancy you can see your own son laughing…

Like all goods things, though, it is over far too soon - Slytherin has just scored their third goal when suddenly the stands erupt, and Scorpius comes diving almost vertically towards the ground, narrowly missing a pair of Beaters before rolling and changing direction, jerking off to the left in order to streak along so close to the grass he might have been able to touch it.

Three seconds later, and he pulls to a stop and raises his clenched fist, tiny silver wings flittering between his fingers.

“I see what he meant,” Hermione mutters to you in the ensuing chaos, as you both watch the entire Quidditch team be swallowed by a horde of green and silver bedecked supporters - you manage a glimpse of Albus in the crowd, being clapped on the shoulder by a tall black boy.

A soft sound to your right - you turn your head in time to watch both Malfoys descend from the stands, heading off in the direction of the changing rooms; a moment later, and a blond figure detaches itself from the crowd below you and jogs after them.

Four seconds after that, you see Albus and the black boy follow.

You cannot help but curse under your breath.

- - -

He comes up behind you - this time, you can hear the swish of his cloak and the steady tapping of his boots on the floor of the changing room; it does nothing to lessen the chill that crawls up your spine.

You turn to face him slowly, calming yourself, using the time to steady your racing pulse; he pushes the hood back off his face with three gloved fingers, regarding you levelly through grey eyes that seem silver in the bright lights.

“Albus,” he says, and you blush immediately at the sound of your name on his lips, ducking your head; he smirks, ever so slightly, as you do so.

“You flew well.”

Your blush deepens - there is a rustle of fabric, and you can feel his stunted heat, can close your eyes and just breathe, just shiver, with him standing so close.

Two fingers curl about your chin, pulling your face up; the leather is wonderfully cold, and you can feel the seams of his gloves pressing into your skin as he studies you, brushing an errant strand of hair from your forehead with his other hand as he does so.

Much to your mortification, you visibly twitch at the extra contact.

It’s worth it, though, just to see the edges of his mouth curl up into a little smile and his eyes soften just a tiny bit with amusement.

“You flew well,” he repeats, oh so quietly.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” and it is little more than a whisper, as you smile just a tiny bit nervously, knowing he can feel your pulse racing, your breath hitching.

You’re starting to know what this means, now.

His smile curls just a little more, and his eyes are narrowing, becoming faintly heavy, like a cat lying stretched out in the sun.

“It’s Lucius.”

And, just like that, he releases you and spins on his heel, across the room and through the door before you even remember how to breathe - how to think in anything except muddled emotions and swirls of colour.

Alone, you close your eyes, and in your mind, hear him say it again.

- - -

The world is a blur to you - an unstable, colorful whirl of sensation that you just ride out; it is laughter and lessons and cold arrogance, letters opened by wand light, stories told under the security of threefold Silencing spells. It is curses you shouldn’t be learning, and potions you aren’t supposed to brew.

School is Scorpius and Ihani, and everybody else but your housemates dwindle away; over Christmas at the Burrow, you pull insistently at your metaphorical collar, disappearing off to swim in the lake or to lie naked on the smooth pebbled shore for hours on end. The family does not bother you so much this year, and your mother has pulled away a little bit, much to your delight.

Yet the only real highlights come in the form of the circlet now constantly on your wrist, shaped into the form of two serpents twined together, one black and one silver, and the book on the Dark Arts you keep safely hidden away from any prying eyes - the two presents you love the most.

When you return to school, everything blurs again - there are only the lower levels, proclaimed Slytherin territory, and the Quidditch pitch.

You almost hate it when your first year ends, except for the fact that you have managed to talk your dad into letting Scorpius and Ihani stay for a week over the holidays - you were invited to spend part of them at the Manor, and though you want it so badly it hurts, your parents will not bend quite so far to accommodate your burgeoning friendship and your not-quite-hidden obsession.

At night, you can still hear him; still feel your heart thudding, your pulse racing - still manage to trace the line of your jaw where his fingers lay, cool and steady against your skin.

Three simple words, and they mean so much to you - even more than your own father’s heartfelt praise and your aunt’s blazing smile; and you hear them louder yet when you lie in on your bed in the dark, heart fluttering like a caged bird as you stare up at the familiar patterns that make up your ceiling, already so sick of being at home.

It will be Scorpius’ birthday soon, and you wish you could go to the Manor like Ihani is; but instead you are made to wrap your present up very carefully and tie it to the leg of Altair, who watches you with wide, appraising eyes.

How badly you wish you could leave this place.

It is not that you don’t like your family, or this room that has been yours since birth - just that, these days, you are too free for this place, too footloose and wild for the cluttered hallways and the bright, bold colours on the walls.

You don’t know this place; it has never known you.

So you spend the first night in quiet contemplation, with the windows thrown wide open and the curtains flung apart, the chill wind biting into your bare skin and the moonlight turning you silver. You dream with wide-awake eyes, and run trembling fingers down your chest until you can, oh so tentatively, stroke between your thighs; you shiver and imagine him stepping from the shadows, wishing it could be so.

You say, “I want you,” and even though your parents believe you are too young to understand these things, you are not mistaking anything - because you know yourself like they never will.

“Please take me away,” you whisper to the starlight, over and over again, until it sounds like nothing more than an absurd jumble of sounds. Until you can barely sense your lips moving, tinged blue with the cold; and though you can feel your heartbeat, slow, steady, it seems as if there is a fire raging in your chest. “Please take me away.”

“Please… I need to get away.”

When your father comes in, in the morning, you are lying with the bed sheets pulled up to your hips and your hands tucked behind your head, watching the sky turn first grey and then a light, brilliant blue.

He sits on the edge of your bed, resting a hand next to your thigh as he leans back and looks down at you.

“Morning kiddo,” he says, and you snort softly to yourself as peer up at him through your wild black hair.

“Morning.”

He frowns.

“Is there something wrong, Albus? You seemed pretty down last night.”

Tight-lipped, you reply, “Shouldn’t you already know?”

You wait for him to sigh, but he doesn’t - instead, his frown only deepens.

“Listen very carefully now, Al, because this is very important. Your mother and I are fine with you being in Slytherin, we’re fine with you being friends with Scorpius and… Ihani? We don’t even mind that they’re coming over here to stay for a week, or that you want to celebrate your birthday here instead of at the Burrow. But…”

You immediately start to protest, and he claps a hand over your mouth with a sharp shake of his head.

“But we’re not quite ready to let you go off to Malfoy Manor, and you’re just going to have to accept that.”

Enraged, you tear his hand off your mouth.

“Just because YOU hate Scorpius’ family doesn’t mean I have to! You don’t even KNOW them!”

Harry’s expression hardens.

“Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater, and did hor-”

“So was Severus Snape!” you shoot back.

“He was working for Dumbe-”

“He still willingly joined the Dark Lord! Or did you forget that bit?”

“Don’t call him the -”

“I’LL CALL HIM WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT!”

“Albus…” he growls threateningly, but though you drop your voice, it is only into an acerbic hiss.

“I don’t care! What do you know about Lucius Malfoy, anyway?” you spit, rolling off the bed to stand naked in the morning sunshine, hair tousled and eyes narrowed. “Nothing! Aunt Hermione told me you didn’t even read his Ministry files, except for what happened during the war.”

“I doubt…”

“What!” you demand, throwing your arms out. “That his father was a sociopath who GAVE some of his power to Voldemort, before he could even talk? That his mother was murdered? That he was just left to DIE in France during the Uprising? What, you doubt that it makes a difference? Or do you really Just. Not. Care?”

Deathly quiet, you say, “You know what, dad? Sometimes I really, really hate you.”

His face goes perfectly blank.

“Get dressed and come down for breakfast,” he tells you coldly, rising from the bed; you shake your head minutely at the order, turning away to face the window - the door shuts behind him with a sharp snap.

Your shoulders drop.

“I’m sorry Dad,” you whisper dejectedly to the open air. “I’m so, so sorry that I mean it.”

Resting your forehead against the windowpane, you look down into the garden below, where Lily is playing with one of her many friends.

“And I’m sorry that you don’t know me like you think you do,” you add, so quietly you can barely hear yourself.

But then, you’re the one who already knows.

- - -

You don’t talk to anyone for days; the air is stilted, too oppressive to stand - by the end of the first week, you barely leave your room at all.

It is your birthday in five days, and Scorpius is arriving tomorrow, with Ihani in tow. Sometimes, you cannot help but think that Slytherins are the best things in your life - at least they will lift this stifling, newly acquired knowledge that you are most definitely nothing more than an utter disappointment to the majority of your family.

Too sharp, too cold, and far too dark.

Your friends don’t care, because they’re exactly the same - because they’ve been raised on Dark Arts and bought up with the dual perceptions of public and private being two entirely different things, and because they like you for who you are, and not what you should have been.

There is a flutter of wings through the window, and you turn to catch the letter in midair as a small, and familiar, chestnut-brown falcon swoops over your head, coming to rest on the back of your chair.

Smiling, you unfold it.

Casting a quick glance at Kazemde - he watches you steadily, supremely unconcerned - you reach across to pluck a quill from your desk, flipping the letter over to write on the back.

Scorpius,

That’s fine.

Al.

Folding it twice, you hold it out to the falcon; after a moment of eying it up haughtily, the bird sticks out its leg, ruffling its feathers - very, very carefully, you move forwards to attach the reply.

He clicks his beak, and takes off the moment it’s secured, clipping you on the side of your head with one wing before diving through the open window and darting off into the open sky.

You laugh quietly to yourself, inspecting your fingers and finding only the smallest scratch where his talons caught as he took off; you count yourself among the lucky, and then turn to cast a glance around your room - the walls are a dark, deep blue, and it is surprisingly tidy; stark contrast to the rest of the house.

“It’s okay,” you tell yourself, and flop down on the light blue coverlet, shoving a pillow under the back of your head and closing your eyes.

Only twelve hours left to go…

- - -

Your father is surprised to wake up and find Scorpius Malfoy making crepes in the kitchen - his expression alone is priceless, and tells you everything you need to know.

“Good morning, Sir,” Scorpius drawls, his accent somewhat lessened by having only infrequent trips to France over the past year. “I do hope I’m not intruding…” and he twiddles a dial on the stovetop, before sliding a plate down the bench towards you and Ihani.

“No, you’re not,” your father says bemusedly, taking in the scene. “Though I wasn’t aware that you could cook.”

“Grandfather taught me.”

“Lucius can cook?”

Scorpius’ left eyebrow flicks upwards.

“You sound surprised; but yes, Grandfather can cook very well.”

Beside you, Ihani smiles, resting his fork against his lower lip and tipping his head just a little bit to the side - you flash him a quick grin, before looking up at your father.

“Morning Dad.” You nod first towards Scorpius, and then to Ihani, who turns in his seat. “You know who Scorpius is, of course, but this is Ihani.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ihani says quietly.

Harry looks uncomfortable for a moment.

“Yes, you too. So, what’s your father doing these days?”

Ihani smiles sharply, flicking his head to get the hair out of his dark eyes.

“He’s trying to work out the issues between the Ministry and the British Vampire population; they’re having problems with some of the public getting access to the registry.”

“I heard,” your father says weakly. “And you, Scorpius? What’s Draco doing?”

Again, Scorpius’ eyebrow goes up.

“He’s in Paris,” he says somewhat coldly, looking Harry up and down as he rinses the plates under the tap. “With Grandfather. They’re doing some important work for the French Embassy.”

He flicks his wrist out to grab a tea towel, drying the dishes and cutlery off before returning them to their appropriate places in the kitchen - that done, he folds the cloth and hangs it through one of the drawer handles, blond hair falling in his narrowed grey eyes.

Your father scoops an orange out of the fruit bowl, peeling it slowly.

“Will Lucius be translating for the Minister again this autumn?”

As Scorpius’ shakes his head in amusement, you glance at Ihani and slide from your chair, hearing him follow suit.

“What else?”

“Dad,” you cut in, “we’re going outside,” and you promptly move past him, with Scorpius and Ihani falling into step either side, to sweep down the front steps and out into the street beyond.

“I’m sorry,” you say, but Scorpius only shrugs.

“Don’t be - I’m used to it.”

“Did you like your present?” you ask him nervously as you walk down the road towards the forest, a thick, dark smudge on the horizon.

He lifts his arm, shaking back the sleeve of his fine black robes to show you the golden circlet you bought him for his birthday - he’s smiling.

“Yeah, Al,” he says very softly. “I love it.”

- - -

Your birthday is a scandalous affair, as far as your mother is concerned - you disappear off with Scorpius and Ihani after she’s barely risen, and spend the day running rampant through the forest and lazing around naked by the lake, talking about the anything and everything you can think of.

Scorpius gives you a wickedly sharp Occamy fang on a small silver chain, and it rests against your chest as you lie on the pebbled shore, letting the sun dry you out; beside you, Ihani flips through the Potions book he gave you, occasionally angling it towards you and pointing things out with an air of quiet satisfaction.

By the time you return home the sun is just sinking behind the horizon, and Ginny is irate; you bear her disgruntled silence with what good grace you can muster, and spend dinner watching Lily go pink and grey in turns, whenever Scorpius looks in her direction.

In the end, you simply cannot help yourself.

“So, Lily,” you begin, and see Scorpius’ lips quirk up in the corners and his eyes brighten ever so slightly in amusement. “Is this your first time seeing a blond boy close up?”

Ihani hits you around the back of the head without looking up from his dinner; you feel a blush creep into your cheeks, and rub a hand through your hair - Lily, meanwhile, has turned a wonderful shade of Weasley red.

“Shut up, you jerk,” James snaps, at the end of his tether - he has been quietly brooding ever since your friends got here, and just waiting for an opportunity to lash out. “That’s not even funny!”

“James…” Harry starts, but your brother shoves his chair back and leaps to his feet.

“I can’t believe you’re friends with a fucking MALFOY!” he shouts. “What the hell is wrong with you, anyway! Why can’t you just be normal for once in your goddamn life, and hate them just like everyone else does!”

You’re halfway up when Scorpius’ hand lands on your shoulder, shoving you back down - his face is completely blank, but his eyes are smoldering.

“Sit down, Albus. I don’t need you defending me,” and his voice is soft… oh so dreadfully soft.

“What the FUCK!” James growls, slamming his hands down on the table and making the goblets jump and spill across the white cloth. “You don’t even deserve to have anyone defend you! Go crawl back to your Manor and wait for the next Dark Lord to die for!”

Beside you, Ihani visibly flinches - your father is utterly furious, on his feet and demanding order; your mother, on the other hand, only begs for James to sit back down.

“No,” Scorpius orders; much to everyone’s surprise - including their own - both your parents comply. “Let him say it.”

He rises from his chair, stepping forwards to stand toe to toe with James; they are the same height, though Scorpius is by far the younger and slimmer of the two.

“Go on, Potter. What else have you got to say about my family?” he asks, grey eyes flashing silver in the light.

James glares at him.

“Go on,” Scorpius whispers, staring right back.

“Your grandfather should have died,” your brother begins harshly, hands balled into fists at his sides. “He should have been left to rot in Azkaban, like the dog he is - and your father should have joined him there.”

“And?”

“I wish you were all dead…”

Your father closes his eyes.

“You know what I think,” Scorpius says gently, reaching across to toy with the topmost button of James’ robes.

“I think that I really do not give a damn what you think of us. I think that you. Just. Don’t. Matter,” he punctuates the last three words with sharp taps of his fingers against your brother’s chest - and smiles, sharply, into the ensuing pause.

“And I think that you never will,” he adds, and turns away, reaching into his pocket to pull out an ornate silver ring.

“I’ll write to you,” he says, and activates the Portkey with a word.

You close your eyes, put your head in your hands, count to seven, and then let yourself explode…

- - -

When you next see Scorpius, it is when he appears seemingly out of nowhere and drags you into an empty compartment on the Hogwarts express, grinning like an idiot.

“Guess what!” he says, and barely waits for you to open your mouth in an attempt at answering before plowing on. “You can come stay for Christmas! Well, if you want to, anyway… but Grandfather said he won’t mind if you do.”

As always, your heart skips a beat at the mere thought of facing Lucius Malfoy again.

“And I asked him if he would teach you what you asked in that last letter, and he said he would if you can manage to talk your way into staying at the Manor over the summer.”

Without thinking, you pull him forwards and kiss him full on the lips in sheer, mind-blowing delight.

Breaking apart, he laughs delightedly and slings an arm around your shoulder, peering down at you through that perpetual curtain of white-blond hair; you look up at him, smiling like you haven’t smiled for weeks.

“You’ll have to share him, you know,” he says seriously, though his grey eyes are still shining. “You can’t have him all to yourself; he’s just not that kind of person.”

You don’t ask who you’ll have to share him with - at this point, you just don’t care.

“He’ll let me stay even if my parents don’t know I’m there?” you ask, and your smile turns grim when Scorpius nods in agreement. “Then I’ll tell them I’m staying at school over Christmas - though, that means I can’t get on the train. James wants to kill me as it is, and it’s kind of hard to miss the fact that I’m running off with Malfoys if we go from the platform.”

Scorpius shrugs.

“We can use my Manor Portkey, though I think Grandfather has business in Hogsmeade the day the train leaves, and he can Side-Along both of us easily enough. It’s not like we need to carry luggage - it’s what the House Elves are for.”

Sighing, you tip your head back against his shoulder, watching the world flash by out of the train window; part of you is wondering why you feel so comfortable leaning against him, indeed, even kissing him, when you’re nothing more than friends.

But then, you don’t really mind anyway.

“Scorpius,” you say quietly. “I’m really sorry.”

His arm drops to twine around your waist, and he rests his chin in the curve of your neck, pulling you closer.

“It’s okay,” he replies, reaching up with his free hand to dig the Occamy fang out from underneath your collar - he holds it up into the sunlight, twining the chain around his fingers. “He’s not the Potter we Malfoys are concerned with.”

Despite yourself, you feel a blush heat up your cheeks.

“Will he really teach me Dark Magic?”

You can feel Scorpius’ breath against your neck as he tucks the fang back under your shirt; your eyes fall partly closed at the feeling.

“Mmmm, yes -” he smirks “- but only if you’re very, very good.”

- - -

Hogwarts is much as you remember it, though a few of the faces have changed and you are forced to adapt to life with treacherous first-years underfoot; at least until a sharp word and an arched eyebrow from Scorpius straightens their backs and sends them scampering.

That night, sprawled side-by-side with Ihani beside the fire in the most dignified mass of robes and limbs and parchment possible, you cannot help but ask him about it.

“Scorpius,” you begin, and support your chin up in your hand to peer up at him, lounging in a wing-backed chair with a Transfiguration textbook propped open in his lap. “Did that come naturally, or is it just another thing you learnt growing up Malfoy-style?”

He peers over the top of his textbook, quirking up an eyebrow in an expression you know far too well.

“‘Malfoy-style?’ Do you mean: just another thing I learnt growing up in one of the darkest wizarding families in Britain? Because if you do, then I’ll have to say that yes, it is; but only because Grandfather trained with the Wizarding Military in France and he thought I might like it.”

Beside you, Ihani snorts into his homework.

“And do you?” you ask, a little too eagerly; it only makes his smirk become more pronounced, as he closes his book on one finger and blinks down at you.

“Do I like being perpetually beaten into the ground at dueling practice by my own Grandfather? Of course! Why on earth wouldn’t I like it?”

The sarcasm drips off him, but you can see the smile in the shimmering grey smoke of his eyes and, besides, you hardly take anything scathing he says at face-value anyway - the laughter bubbles up inside you, and you bite into your lower lip just enough to make it hurt, in order to keep it in.

His mask of disdain slips at your obvious amusement and you see the flash of an enormous grin.

“You are such a git sometimes,” you chuckle, and wrestle the pillow beneath your chest into a comfortable shape before lying back down and reaching for quill and parchment, ready to finish your Potions homework - something solid slams into you from above.

“Ummpph!”

“I take offence,” Scorpius drawls, picking his textbook up from where he dropped it in the small of your back and glaring down at you.

“So you assault me!” you squeak, winded - his face seems torn for that split-second between becoming hysterical at your hamster reenactment, and retaining an expression of affronted arrogance; you speak again just as he has managed to pull himself together, still wheezing slightly. “And not very well at that. That book isn’t even particularly big! Fat load of Dark Wizard you are!”

His expression stays for a moment, and then breaks down - grinning, he throws the book on the floor, rips the cushion out from behind him, and hits you squarely on the top of the head with it.

“I invite you over for Christmas, and this is how you repay me!” he demands, hitting you again; you are suddenly, exceedingly pleased that you are alone in the common room - you can’t breath for laughing, and Scorpius’ cold façade is in shatters.

“You ungrateful -” he hits you again, and you squirm to one side, crying into your pillow with mirth “- little snake! I ought to -” once more “- disown you and make you -” and again “- a Hufflepuff!”

“Merlin, noooooo!” you howl, throwing your head back and rolling over to catch the cushion on his next down-stroke, pulling him down onto of you so that his hair is tickling your face and he is sprawled all over you, shaking with faked indignation and laughter. “Please, Scorpius, not Hufflepuff! Not Hufflepuff!”

His knees fall either side of your hips, and he grabs at the cushion, thumping you in the chest before you manage to catch it again.

“Yes Hufflepuff! I’ll strip you and paint you black and yellow, and give you to them as a present! Wouldn’t you like that, huh? Huh? You GIT!”

“Somebody save me! Help, heeeelp! Assault! Assault! I’m being assaulted and GIVEN AWAY!” you shriek, looking desperately towards Ihani as Scorpius tries to wrestle the cushion away again - he is clutching his sides, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You guys are soooo lucky I put Silencing Charms up,” he gasps through his laughter, and then doubles over again when Scorpius manages a good shot to the side of your head.

“I’ll give you assault,” he growls, thumping you in the ribs; you grab for the cushion, miss, and manage to get his robes instead - with a fresh bout of laughter, you shove him off and away, to lie panting and flushed on the cold flagstone floor.

Breathless, you tip your head to one side to watch Scorpius prop himself up on both elbows, looking utterly disheveled.

“Do you think he’ll ever want me?” you ask him, still smiling.

Scorpius flicks his head, trying to get his hair out of his face.

“I think maybe when you’re a bit older; say, when you come of age. Twelve is a bit young by anyone’s standards, even if you have gone and Heart Bonded with him.”

“Even if I’ve what?”

Both his eyebrows go up.

“You don’t know? But it a huge wizarding tradition - they even hold up in the Wizengamot!”

As you shake your head, he gives a despairing sigh.

“What have they been teaching you?” he moans to the air in feigned despondency, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You don’t even know what Heart Bonds are! You my friend-” he reaches across to poke you in the chest “-have an awful lot to learn.”

“So -” you wink, grinning up at him though there is a nervous flitter in your stomach that you know is reflected in your eyes “- are you going to teach me, or just bemoan my upbringing?”

Scorpius looks across at Ihani, and then sighs, moving slightly so that he can lie down beside you, pressed up against your side - his fingers curl around the wrist of your left hand, raising it up off your chest and pressing a thumb to the pulse point of your vein.

“Well, Heart Bonds have always been pretty rare, because they’re forged during childhood and very few children have specialized magic - that is, magic that is destined to be of a certain type - and even less children that do have it, manage to encounter someone with the right aura to bond with anyway.”

He runs his thumb down the line of your vein; you follow the movement, mesmerized.

“In your case, I’d say that you were born with specialized magic; Dark Magic can’t be used by just anyone, you know - you have to be born to it.”

You can feel him smirk, and twist your head to one side, looking at his pale profile in the firelight.

“Let me guess - you were born to it?” you tease, and are rewarded with a soft snort.

“Of course; all Malfoys are born Dark. Though ‘dark’ is hardly the right word - the majority of the wizarding world have such a foolish insistence on seeing things in black and white; but then, Grandfather will probably tell you that, and I can’t do the talk half as well as he or Father can. So, suffice to say, we three are destined to be Dark Wizards.”

“Which, funnily enough, doesn’t mean we can’t do the magic that the so-called Light Wizards can do… nearly every spell has a Dark counterpart, so, all in all, we actually learn how to do more.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, deep in thought.

“I was talking about this with Father - all wizarding children automatically have bonds to their parents, though some have stronger ones than others; I’d say yours aren’t all that strong, Al.” You cannot help but smirk. “Ihani, you have a strong bond with yours though, don’t you? Father said you do.”

His finger moves further down your forearm, and you blink. “And you?”

“I was blood-bonded at birth to my father and my grandfather.”

“Really, really strong then?”

“Yeah; it’s why Madam Pomfrey freaked out last year when I broke my arm after the Hufflepuff match, remember?”

You frown slightly, closing your eyes.

“She said you had far too many heartbeats.”

Scorpius smirks again, looking at your wrist.

“Which was because I freaked out when I fell off after catching the Snitch - I mean, that was an awfully long way down - and I let the bond show up; usually, nobody can notice it, but I opened it too far.”

His expression hardens, the grip on your arm tightening.

“Father said he kept his open all the time during the war, especially when Grandfather was in Azkaban. He said it was the only thing that kept him sane…”

You flinch inwardly at the reminder of the war, rolling a little to the side so that you can tuck your head into the curve of his neck, breathing lightly against his ear - the tension bleeds out of him like paint in the rain, and he sighs, stroking the vein in your forearm again.

“I’m used to it, see; they’ve always been there - and I think Heart Bonds are sort of the same thing. He can unleash your potential, and because it’s so similar to his own aura - not necessarily as far as your strength is concerned, but in the way it works and all that jazz - and because you have no one in your family who you could latch onto, you need him.”

Scowling, you open your eyes and study the line of his jaw.

“So if someone in my family had been dark, I wouldn’t -” love “- need him?”

That wrings a chuckle out of him.

“I think you still would have; your magic is far too similar.”

“You can tell?” you mummer to his ear, nervousness and anger giving way to amusement. “What, got some super-magical similarity sensors going on?”

Somewhere above you, Ihani snorts.

“Sometimes I loathe you,” Scorpius declares, dropping your arm, though he doesn’t so much as attempt to push you away.

“No you don’t,” you say, wriggling closer. “You adoooooore me.”

“I should hope not; Grandfather will kill me.”

“Really?” you ask brightly, resting a hand on his chest.

“Of course not, you git!” he huffs. “But I still don’t. You’re far too in love with my Grandfather for my tastes.”

“I am not in love with Lucius!” you yelp, startled.

“Lucius? Yeah, sure, okay, I believe you… and tomorrow morning I’m going to paint myself red and gold and sashay up to McGonagall, offering services of the most lucrative kind in return for being re-sorted into the House of the Great Big Golden Lion.”

You laugh. “Scorpius, that’s just sick!”

“What?” he asks, all innocence. “Aren’t you aware of my deep-seated desire to offer to loosen up her bun a bit? ‘Oh, Headmistress, I’m ever so pretty and bad! Can’t you please teach me a lesson, oh please? I know a trick with cherries and chocolate that will make you let your hair down in no time.’”

“If you don’t stop now, I will throw up all over your robes.”

“‘Please Headmistress, you have the prettiest eyes, and I promise I can lap-dance in a skirt like you wouldn’t believe… How in the world may I service you tonight?’”

“I swear it, Scorpius. Throwing up in ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”

You hit him in the chest, ignoring the fact that Ihani is clutching at his sides again and watching the pair of you like you are a sideshow at a Muggle circus.

“‘My, Scorpius, you sure know how to handle a broomstick!’” he croons, smirking at you - you go to hit him again, but he catches your hand and laughs.

“Fine then…” his eyes narrow. “‘Oh Albus, don’t you know that I do so love a man who can handle his balls…’”

Tearing yourself away from him, you lunge for the cushion lying abandoned on the common room floor.

- - -

The days go by so slowly, and you fall easily back into the routine of classes and Quidditch; of homework and the odd detention, where you polish the trophies with Scorpius until they can blind and then laze around on the floor, talking quietly and only scrambling to your feet when you hear the trademark thud of the caretaker’s boots coming down the hall.

But in the nights - the only time you can truly stop and think and breathe - when you sneak out to sprawl on the wet grass under the stars within shell upon shell of Notice Me Not charms, you let your mind wander from schoolwork and strategy, out beyond the bounds of Hogwarts’ walls to swim through memory and fantasy; smiling at the puff of your frost-white breath and the chill that bites into your bones, because they only help you to recall his face in more perfect clarity.

And when you can see it, you close your eyes and let your hands wander; unhook the buttons of your cloak to run your palms down your chest, to the imagined glide of soft leather and the rough edge of the seams, the flitter of fingertips tracing patterns in the hollow curve of your stomach before they disappear beneath the waistband of your trousers and your voice cracks in adolescent delight when you harden at the slightest touch of them.

When you moan, wetly, into the darkness and curl your fingers, running a thumb along the base until - young and inexperience - you shiver and twitch and come, not quite dry, into your own cool palm; to lie boneless in the grass, and think of him looking down at you with heavy eyes.

Sharp grey eyes, landmines and arrogance and unsubstantiated sarcasm - and you laugh lightly to yourself at the ease with which they jump from your mind and into the stars so high above you.

Idly, you run a hand over your left forearm, and draw the snake and skull upon the dark sleeve; you wonder why he did it.

You ask the night if it hurt as much as you think it would have done, and sigh when the only answer is the brush of the wind through your hair and the rustle of grass against the fabric of your robes.

“It’s almost Christmas,” you whisper, and raise your hands up in front of your face so that the sleeves fall down, and the single golden circlet that Scorpius gave you on your eleventh birthday glistens and sparks in the moonlight.

Running a thumb across it, you shiver again.

“I wish you could take me away;” in a soft, weary whisper. “Scorpius says that Heart Bonds hold up in the Wizengamot - if you took me away, you could keep me, and my family wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

The sky is perfectly silent, and you close your eyes; “But you won’t, will you? It’ll be hard enough when I’m seventeen, and actually legal… I mean, my parents are going to kill me for this, aren’t they? They don’t even like Scorpius all that much, and he hasn’t done anything to either of them…”

You take a deep breath.

“But then, I’d rather they went after me than you.”

- - -

You face Gryffindor in the first match of the year, and, much to your relief, the Quidditch schedule has not been switched around so much; there is plenty of time for you to spend strategizing in the Great Hall, shoulder to shoulder with the seventh-year Keeper and Scorpius, listening intently to the Captain - Tristan O’Reilly, a fellow Chaser - lay down the game plan.

It is simple enough - you know you have the best Seeker in the school, and the best Chaser combination since your Uncle Charlie played for Gryffindor; your Beaters are tall, burly sixth-years who can handle bats like twigs, and your Keeper is quick as a snake. You hit fast, score big, and trust each other like nothing else.

When you head down to the changing rooms, it is in a group, talking quietly; you pass James in the Entrance Hall, standing with Scott and Stephen - you cast him a glance, and he scowls, turning away. It doesn’t matter.

Shrugging on your robes five minutes later, you look towards Scorpius, who is slipping on his gloves - the sight always gives you a pleasant thrill.

“Do it fast,” you say, and he smirks, wriggling his fingers and then lacing them up at the wrists rather like a corset; you know, because your mother has one.

“Score lots of points, and I just might,” he drawls, raising an eyebrow and holding out his hand for the other glove - you grab it, throwing it towards him; he catches it deftly. “I want a big margin before I go for the Snitch - Jameson is gullible, and his reactions are slower than mine; not to mention he’s riding a broom a whole two versions behind. I can draw him off.”

He smiles.

“Remember to roll, Potter - I think I’m going to make him play chicken with the Chasers today.”

“Or don’t roll,” Tristan chips in, grinning. “If you give him concussion, we can win by an even bigger margin.”

You snort lightly, grabbing for your own gloves.

“You fly into him then,” you say, running your fingers down the soft leather and shivering slightly at the feeling, before you slip on the left one. “You’re bigger than I am, and we don’t need you as much.”

“Ouch, little Asp, that really hurt.”

“Asp?” you query sarcastically, pulling hard on the laces until the leather is tight against your skin. “Did I get my name changed when I wasn’t looking?”

“You’re such a sardonic little snake sometimes; think of it this way - would you rather I called you Aspy the Tiny Terror instead?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” you roll your eyes, grabbing for your Firebolt and giving it a thorough look-over as you talk. “I suppose I can handle Asp, if you really must label me with a nickname of some kind.”

“Hey, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a year, don’t burst my bubble please!”

“Sad,” Scorpius drawls, shaking his head and smirking; you resist the urge to hit him around the back of the head - such things shouldn’t be done in public, after all. “So very, very sad… really, O’Reily, didn’t you have OWLS to study for?”

“Pfft, as if, Malfoy.”

You get up, slinging the Firebolt over your shoulder and looking around - Scorpius cracks his neck, and then does the same.

“Right team, we’ve got some golden boys to wallop,” Tristan orders cheerfully, ruffling a hand through his short brown hair, before grabbing his broomstick and heading towards the doors. The two Beaters - Braden and Darnell - slap each other on the shoulders before following, while your third Chaser, Everett, gives you a broad grin and falls into step beside you and Scorpius.

“Ready?” he asks in his light Irish accent, looking down at you.

“You need to ask?” you reply smartly, and smirk as you step out into the sunlight to the near-deafening roar of the school - beneath the cheers, you can just hear an undercurrent of hissing from the Gryffindor stands, but it doesn’t bother you. It never has.

“I’ll best you today,” Everett says, and glances up at the clear blue sky with a calculating look on his face. “Five goals.”

You smirk. “Oh really? I’ll go to six.”

“Slughorn gets propositioned?”

“McGonagall?” Scorpius chips in with a smirk; you spare a moment to sneer at him, before looking back at Everett.

“Slughorn. With Firewhiskey, and a skirt.”

“Very kinky…” your fellow Chaser murmurs, still watching the sky. “Okay, so the loser propositions Slughorn while wearing a skirt, and with the use of Firewhiskey. Oh Potter, you’ll have to tell me what it’s like to die of embarrassment after you’ve done it.”

“I’ll be standing just around the corner, dying of laughter.”

“Deal?”

The Gryffindor team appears, and you study them for a moment as you stop in the middle of the field.

“Deal,” you agree.

Tristan reaches forwards, clasping hands with the Gryffindor Captain; you see the muscles in his arm flex, and a slight flash of pain streak across his counterpart’s face.

Hollister pulls out the whistle, reaching forwards to unlock the box containing the two Bludgers, the Quaffle, and, more importantly, the small Golden Snitch that you have no doubt Scorpius will manage to catch.

“Mount your brooms,” he orders, and you swing your Firebolt down from your shoulder and throw a leg over the side, sharing a quick grin with Scorpius - you have had a long-standing competition over who can be the fastest off the ground.

“On my whistle,” you wrap your hands around the handle, looking upwards. Adrenaline drowns out the screams from the stands, until all you can hear is your breathing and the referee slowly opening the lid.

“Three, two -” he throws the box wide open, and you see the slightest flash of gold against the clear blue sky “- ONE!”

You are gone at the first shrill note.

- - -

“Albus, will you please stop doing that!”

You freeze mid-stride, chancing a glance towards Scorpius - he is glowering at you from under a fine film of blond hair and the soft, flimsy arch of his powder-blue hood; a blush heats your winter-flushed cheeks.

“Calm down, I swear that Grandfather doesn’t bite.” He pauses, frowning. “No, wait, that’s a lie, he does bite, though not in the way that I mean… oh, never mind, just stop pacing! You’re making me dizzy.”

“I’m just edgy, okay!” you huff, slouching and hugging your thick black cloak tighter around yourself, half from the cold and half from your jittering nerves. “It’s not like you have anything to worry about; my family won’t kill you for running off to the Manor.”

Digging the toe of your boot into the thin layer of snow covering Hogsmeade, you draw a half-circle, scuffing one end before looking back up at him.

“Be funny if they tried to,” Scorpius drawls, smirking; you scowl at him, turning away and into the biting wind.

“Oh, come on Albus, it’ll be cool!”

“Hmmph.”

“Hey, are you in love with my freaking Grandfather or not? Well now’s your chance to really get to see him, you complete and utter git of a Potter! So just CHILL.”

You can hear the exasperation in his voice, and you shrug your shoulders a little, looking up towards the distant towers of Hogwarts, wreathed in wispy clouds.

“Scorpius, I’m twelve, my family has no idea I’m gay, and I’m bonded to a man who’s not all that much younger than my own granddad. Does any of that seem wrong to you, or is it just me?”

A hand lands on your shoulder; you twist your head to one side, watching Scorpius’ expression flicker from frustration into concern.

“I’m serious, Albus, you need to relax. I mean, when you boil it all down, do any of those things even matter?”

He smirks ever so slightly.

“So what if you’re twelve? You’ll be seventeen and of age in only five years. And what does it matter if you’re gay? Plenty of wizards are. Not to mention that we live for an awfully long time, so, really, he’s only about 30 or so years older than you…”

The admission makes you smile, and you allow yourself to relax, resettling your hood against the chill winter wind.

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

As always, Scorpius takes your sarcasm in his stride.

“No problem; now look sharp, it’s almost six and he’ll arrive any minute.”

As if on cue, there is a sharp, sudden crack just in front of you and slightly to the right; a swirl of robes that makes you start with a yelp, as you look up, and up further still, into Lucius Malfoy’s amused grey eyes.

You are utterly and completely mortified; the blush beings at the roots of your hair and goes all the way down to your toes, running down your spine in a long shiver that leaves your knees weak.

“Albus,” he says, and you blink right back at him, inwardly cursing your ability to turn a livid Weasley red. “I do apologize for startling you.”

“Oh, stop fooling with him - can’t you see that he already wants a hole to open up under his feet?” Scorpius drawls, appearing beside Lucius and going to his tiptoes to kiss him squarely on both cheeks.

Lucius quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I am not ‘fooling with him,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, the gloved fingertips biting in gently; you duck your head, letting your black hair fall into your eyes and taking your lower lip between your teeth.

“However, I would quite like to return to the Manor shortly; Albus, I’m afraid I need you a little closer than that.”

There is a gentle tug, and you follow obediently, moving towards him until his arm slides down to circle your waist and, if you wanted to, you could take just a single step more and lean against the soft, rich fabric of his silver-edged robes - feel his heartbeat thrumming against your cheek, and drown in the scent of leather and cognac and that subtle undercurrent of fine red wine.

You resist the urge with all the will you possess, and hate that you have to do so.

A moment later, and you feel that terrific squeezing, like being forced head first through a too-tight tube; your lungs feel crushed, and there is a spike of pain in your temple as you gasp and rest your head against his chest, trying to overcome the sick sensations of vertigo and that steady, pulsing desire.

That marvelous, fantastic, excruciatingly untouchable desire.

For an instant - a split second that flashes by so fast you can’t be sure it was ever there - you think you can feel your pulse racing to the tune of his single exhale; but then there is a cold hard floor under your boots, and you are half-pitched from your feet like an out of control marionette, kept upright only by the lightning-quick reaction that has you crushed back against him.

Somewhere beside you, Scorpius gives a little moan and shakes himself out of his lethargic state.

“Urgh,” he says in disgust, pulling you back and examining you top to toe. “I despise that feeling with every fiber of my being.”

Lucius runs a hand down his front, smoothing his robes back out; your eyes follow the run of dark leather over the black fabric, transfixed.

“Really, Scorpius? I didn’t know.”

The sarcasm makes you smile, and you tear your eyes away to look towards your friend - his cheeks are flushed a light pink.

“Sorry Grandfather.”

“I expect you in the dining room at seven,” Lucius orders somewhat curtly, before his grey eyes slide to you; caught like a deer in the headlights, you can only blush again. “Albus,” and he nods, sharply, before spinning on his heel and heading out towards a huge set of wooden double doors - the left one swings open as he walks towards it, and you get the slightest glimpse of an elaborate ballroom before it snaps shut behind him.

You are standing in the foyer, where the two marble staircases flank the set of doors Lucius disappeared through, and lead up to the overhanging second story that you recall with a jerk of pleasure; you feel lighter than air just staring at the wide, open spaces of the Manor - the high ceiling that towers up above you, enchanted to allow in the fading sunlight.

Sighing, you throw your head back and look at the crimson sky.

“I love this place.”

“You’ll love it even more if you stop staring at the ceiling, and actually follow me up the stairs.”

You chuckle, looking back down at Scorpius - both his eyebrows are up.

“So… where am I sleeping?”

He shrugs, turning to lead you up the right-hand staircase, past a portrait of a fine-boned, beautiful women with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen - you smile shyly, duck your head, and follow him up.

“In the western wing, just next to me - oh, and in case you’re wondering, Grandfather usually sleeps at the southernmost end of the Manor…”

Deciding that your indignation far outweighs his need for perfect hair, you hit him soundly around the back of the head; he glares at you as he tops the steps, raising a hand to rub at the spot where your hand collided quite solidly.

“That was cruel,” you tell him sardonically, and smirk in a way that you know drives him completely spare - he rolls his eyes, looking exasperated.

“It’s Christmas, be charitable!”

“Allow you to be a git?” you ask sweetly, turning with him to walk down a long hallway that you vaguely recognize from the last time you walked through the Manor - it leads to his room, if you have it right.

“I’m so glad you agree,” he drawls, and stops to rest his palm flat against the dark wood of the nearest door, raising an eyebrow at you before looking towards it.

“Ouverte.”

It swings open easily at the command, revealing your room inch by glorious inch - the vast sea of near-black carpet and sleek rugs in a silvery tan; the cream and gold sheets laid out on the carved four-poster, with the thick sable blanket pulled down. Windows, absolutely everywhere, and thrown wide to allow in the crisp bite of the Wiltshire wind.

Your black Hogwarts trunk, resting at the foot of the bed; you cannot help but smile when you see the robes, a dark, deep green with white trim, carefully stacked on the top of it.

“New robes?” you ask as you step through the door, letting the air of calm that radiates from the room sink down into your bones - into the marrow and the slow pulse of blood through your veins.

“If you’re going to be staying in the Manor, then you have to look good,” Scorpius explains, and smirks. “When you need a House Elf, just snap your fingers; they can get you anything you want. Now, you get changed for dinner, and I’ll meet you down in the dining room - it’s the door with the snake carved into it, in the Entrance Hall.”

You nod, feeling almost absurdly relaxed as you step forwards to pick up the robes, letting the fine fabric spill through your fingers like water.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” you say absently, and barely hear as Scorpius crosses to the door and snaps it firmly shut behind him, leaving you alone in the perfect silence.

It feels like coming home.

Moving as if in a daze, you slowly strip down to your skin and pile your clothes on the trunk, before shaking out the new things carefully; shivers course down your spine as you pull on first the black trousers, and then the light robes - you even hold your breath until the latter is carefully buttoned, and sigh in delight when it is all done.

For the first time in your life, you understand what it means to be a sensualist, and why your uncle claims that, ‘all Malfoys are!’

And as you run a hand through your hair, you cannot help but imagine the slide of leather, the silk-soft whisper of Lucius’ skin; the tickling brush of his hair in the moonlight, the silver flash of his eyes above you, the slightest upwards curl at the edges of his mouth.

You even fancy that sometimes, just sometimes, he knows when you think like this.

Because maybe that will make it all that much easier, somehow, if you imagine that you aren’t so alone.

Giving up on your hair - you have inherited your father’s all over the place style, and there is nothing that can be done - you reach down to pull your boots back on, doing them up with a sort of forbidden thrill as you pull hard on the laces, tightening them much like your Quidditch gloves. You have a distinct love to feel the constriction against your skin, the snug fit of them against you; just like you like the way the gloves close over your wrists, not quite tight enough for it to hurt, but enough so that one more pull would make them do just that.

Not that you have told anyone this, and not that you will ever tell your family of it.

A Slytherin, gay, and in love with Lucius Malfoy - you figure they’ll have enough to deal with as it is.

Still moving as if through a dream, you move to pull open the door, stepping out and closing it behind you with a definite snap; the Manor walls seem to pulse beneath your fingertips, a comforting presence thick with Dark Magic and ancestry, centuries of aristocratic brutality, running up your arms to settle within the thudding, racing beat of your own enraptured heart.

Slowly, surely, you find your way back down the corridor - back past the pale portraits, with their cold eyes and haughty profiles; past the woman with the blue eyes, who you greet with another shy smile and a duck of your head.

Across the Entrance Hall, sparing another look at the lofty ceiling; and through the huge double doors into a dining room so large you feel dwarfed by nearly everything, including the long, polished mahogany table.

There is the slightest sound to your left, and Lucius appears; you freeze completely.

“I knew the colours would suit you,” he muses, and the edge of his mouth curls upwards in that small, secret smile, as you run your eyes across him - from the pale hair, pulled back and tied with a black ribbon, not a single strand out of place, to the fine robes of ocean-dark blue that fit his body just so, clinging to his shoulders, accentuating the contours of his body in a way that reminds you of fluid muscle moving beneath fine, silken fur.

Down to the leather gloves and the elegant, pianist fingers, curled about the stem of a wine glass - and you sigh, a little mournfully, at the sight.

“Yes,” and you feel more than see the way his lips fit around the word, as he steps towards you and brings his free hand up to cup your cheek, tilting your head upwards until you can drown yourself in fine, aristocratic lines of his face - just forget to breathe and drown.

“They bring out your eyes,” and you smile, oh so shyly, and feel your cheeks heat up once more at the sheer notion that he bought these clothes for you himself - at the cool feeling of the leather against your skin, and the closeness…

And you know, suddenly, that the only thing keeping you on your feet is a thrill of desire, coursing through your veins with as much potency as a shot of adrenaline, filling you the brink until you can barely think for wanting - can feel nothing more than the soft leather against your skin, and see little else but the shattering glass of his eyes, a million shades of grey behind the lazy, half-closed lids.

You say “I’m sorry,” and see the grey flash black as the raven’s plumage and then silver again, quick as a single heartbeat.

“You have no reason to be,” he murmurs, and you see his tongue wet his lower lip to leave it shimmering faintly in the light - and there is another thing you add into your fantasy in perfect clarity, as you stand there shivering, blushing…

Needing like you should never, ever need.

Almost against your will, your eyes flitter half-shut as his thumb slides across to settle on your bottom lip, pressing gently before continuing down; his fingers curl into your cheek just a tiny bit harder, before he drops his hand and brings the wine glass up to his lips.

You have never wanted to be a liquid in your life as much as you do right now.

It is an absolutely absurd notion, but you cannot help yourself - you are transfixed by the way his lips move, the slightest glimpse of his tongue and the full-bodied darkness of the red wine contrasting with his pale skin.

“No,” you breathe, and glance upwards through your eyelashes shyly. “I suppose I don’t.”

A sharp snap interrupts your thoughts, and your head swings blindly towards the door as you inadvertently stiffen in surprise; Scorpius raises an eyebrow at you, and glances between you and Lucius with a questioning expression on his face.

“A smaller room?” Lucius queries, though you know it is no question - Scorpius nods, a little slowly, as if unsure if he is interrupting something or not.

You reassure him with a slight smile, and fall in beside him as he moves past you to follow Lucius throw another door and into a somewhat more comfortable dining room; a duo of small, prim House Elves bow down to the patriarch briefly, before quickly and effortlessly arranging the table.

Lucius doesn’t pause - with one hand, he motions you into a seat beside Scorpius, and then settles on the other side, perfectly silent.

Dinner passes in much the same way, but you are startlingly contented with the quiet; too often your family tries to clutter the world up with useless noise - there is something to be said for the pause between questions, the slightest trace of steady breathing and the odd scrape of cutlery against fine china.

It gives you more time to study Lucius, as well, though you will never tell anyone that; out of the corner of your eye, you watch the way his fingers curl, the way the leather tightens over his knuckles when he grips his knife, masterfully dissecting the food on his plate - a bite of one thing, a bite of another, always moving from one to the next without taking any extra of either.

A simple glance towards Scorpius shows you the same pattern - almost automatically, you try it out for yourself.

The corner of Lucius’ mouth curls up.

Fighting your rising blush - damn your Weasley genes! - you duck to your head and continue.

Some interminable time later you settle the cutlery on your plate, and watch as the House Elf carries it dutifully away, before looking towards Scorpius.

“My room?” he asks, and casts a glance at Lucius before smiling and pushing back his chair, rising easily and holding his hand out towards you, palm up.

“Okay,” and his fingers curl about yours, pulling you forwards just so ever slightly as you hesitate, gazing back as Lucius rises, pulling on his gloves to make sure they are settled properly before turning and disappearing with a sharp ‘crack.’

You balk like a frightened horse, and Scorpius laughs lightly, half-dragging you back out into the Entrance Hall and up the stairs.

“He likes to Apparate directly to his study; the normal route is a tiny bit… well, it’s really, really long.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He shrugs, leading you down the hallway until he can open his own door and shove you over the threshold.

“And why I am not surprised to walk in on you flirting with my grandfather?”

Sometimes, you just wish it were possible to hit that stupid smirk right off his face - resigned to a life doomed to be plagued by it, you flop down on the black sheets of his four-poster, staring up at the canopy and sighing as he sprawls down alongside you.

“I wish I was seventeen…”

“Why? So he can finally just go and fu-” you slap a hand soundly over his mouth, and growl savagely under your breath. “Shut it, Scorpius. I feel bad enough as it is.”

He peels your hand off, lifting an eyebrow.

“Bad? Or just plain horny? Because you know there is a cure for that particular affliction.”

You know it is wrong - you know it is utterly and completely insane; but your father was fighting, and defeating, Voldemort and Basilisks at twelve, so surely you can be in love and bonded and gay and…

Any number of things, really.

“I’m afraid I haven’t hit that stage yet. Ask me again next year…”

His smile is something you can feel in the air around you, though you cannot see his face; your own is turned too far in the other direction, the fabric of his bed sheets soft and warm against your cheek.

“Remind me, and I’ll do just that.”

You snort softly, closing your eyes.

“I’ll try and talk dad into letting me stay over the summer, so do you mind if I borrow one of your owls tomorrow? I know you have some that aren’t so obviously ‘Malfoy’.”

The smile disappears.

“Well, Al… ah, Father wants to take me to France to see my mother for the first week of the holidays, so… well, do you want to stay here alone with Grandfather? I mean, I don’t mind if you miss my birthday, because I think you really need to just spend some time with him, and let him teach you Dark Magic and just relax a little bit.” He says it all in a rush - were you not so familiar with his thick, accented drawl, you might have missed nearly all of it. “So, are you okay with that?”

Through the sick flutter of your own sudden rush of nerves, you manage a slight laugh.

“Yeah, Scorpius… I think I’m okay with that.”

- - -

You return to your own room late into the night, to lie naked under the blankets with the crisp Wiltshire wind ruffling through your hair - and as you lie there, on the cusp of sleep, you feel more complete than ever before.

When you dream, it is of marble ballrooms and fine, high-collared robes that flare and sway like wings, catching the light and sending it spiraling off, ricocheting right back again; you dream of bright white masks in the candlelight, and the subtle shades of blond against such a backdrop, a single lock of hair curled against the flawless porcelain cheek.

Of silver goblets filled to the brim with blood - or wine?

Awaking to the cry of far-away falcons, you slide from the bed and walk, somewhat unsteadily, to rest your forehead against the frame of the nearest window, peering down into the mist-shrouded gardens so far below.

A moment later, and you see a distant figure on the steps, black hood pulled up to help stave off the early-morning chill; and the head tips up towards your window for a heartbeat, before Lucius descends the polished stairs and follows a gravel pathway, steadily disappearing into the haze until you can make out nothing more than the impression his figure has left upon your eyes.

“Good morning,” you sigh, and shiver as you, almost unknowingly, slide a hand down your stomach; curl your fingers around your nearly flaccid cock, and stroke along the underside with your thumb, squeezing gently and letting your head fall back and your eyes shut at the sensation.

Breath frosting and hair tickling your shoulders, you squeeze again - and imagine, as you have done once before, that it is his fingers tightening, playing the borderline of pleasure and pain; just not quite hard enough to make you scream, but enough to make you moan wetly into the air and flinch at the same time.

You imagine the feel of him, the slow beat of his heartbeat against your spine, the soft rush of his voice as he whispers something, anything, into your ear.

“Oh god,” you choke out, and slide your hand from tip to base - once, twice. On the third time, your body betrays you and your fingers tighten reflexively, wringing orgasm out of you like water from a wet sponge.

“Oh god…”

- - -

Your aunt Hermione would kill to get even the slightest glimpse into the Malfoy library; of this, you are absolutely certain.

For some time, you have not quite been able to understand where her desire to investigate it comes from - now, standing before the fireplace with row upon row of tall oak bookcases at your back, you think you know.

The leather cover of the book is dull and rough with age, cool under your fingers as you run them down the front, before carefully opening it in a rustle of old paper, flattening the first page with your palm.

“The Art of Extinction,” you say quietly to yourself. “The lost families of wizarding Europe, 1615-1859.”

Peeling the pages apart, you pick a point at random, frowning down at the small, spiky black writing.

“In 1823, Raphael Virikas committed the brutal murder of his parents after being bitten by a vampire in the far east of Siberia; he then commenced a killing spree that would last for thirteen years, leaving twenty-eight Muggle women murdered in Russia alone. Virikas was captured just south of Moscow on December 17th, 1836, and killed on sight, thus ending the male line. His only daughter married Helios Malfoi three months later.”

There is a soft sound beside you - you freeze up, but relax when a hand claps you across the shoulders and Scorpius leans over you, peering down at the book.

“Uncle Raphael?” he asks, utterly nonchalant.

You cannot keep the incredulity out of your voice when you respond with, “Your uncle?”

“Well, great, great, great, great, great uncle… or something like that, anyway. There is a portrait of his daughter, Aunt Caliadne, in the Eastern Wing; she makes for some great conversation - you should talk to her sometime.”

Scorpius frowns, reaching out to pluck the book from your fingers and snapping it shut, before depositing a second in your now-empty hands.

“The Blood Calling,” you read doubtfully. “Wizard bonds and heart magic.”

He smiles.

“You’ll like it, trust me.”

- - -

Christmas in the Manor is a surprising normal affair - you are woken up in the early hours of the morning by nothing less than an exuberant and painfully cheerful Scorpius Malfoy, who deposits himself firmly in your lap, steals the pillow out from under your head, and hits you around the face with it.

You even spare a few moments attempting to wandlessly curse him into oblivion as you try to burrow into the mattress, much to his obvious delight and your decidedly sleepy disgust.

“Presents,” he declares happily, and drops a lumpy package down on your chest - you recognize it as one from your Grandma, and resolutely decide not to open it - before snapping his fingers; the room fills with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, as the House Elf holds out a tray bearing two steaming mugs.

“And caffeine, because you look like you need it.” He slips from your lap, freeing up your legs as he settles comfortably beside you, legs crossed; you manage a subtle glance past him at the coffee, and the small pile of presents arranged at the foot of your bed. “How long did you stay up looking at that book, anyway? I didn’t mean for you to read it all in one sitting, you know, Albus.”

You struggle up from the bed, grabbing for your abandoned pillow and stuffing it behind your back to help keep you upright, before you accept the mug Scorpius is holding out for you - the merest sniff of it makes you feel giddy.

“I don’t know… but how did these presents get here?” you ask with somewhat belated excitement, reaching past the one that has rolled from your chest onto to your lap, and plucking up something decidedly more decent than the newest addition to your Weasley sweater collection.

Scorpius shrugs, curling up on your bed like a contented cat and taking a long swallow of coffee.

“We had the House Elves secret them away,” he drawls, and looks pointedly towards the present on your lap. “Grandmamma Weasley knit you another?”

“Doubtless,” you reply, trying to open your present with one hand and bring the mug up to your lips with the other - somehow, you manage to do both without calamity, and drop the wrapping paper unceremoniously on the floor beside your bed as you pull out the book.

“Moste Potente Potions?” Scorpius questions, leaning forwards to get a better look as you flip it open, showing an illustration of the Polyjuice Potion taking effect in full colour - transfixed, you watch the fat, balding man turn into another person entirely, right before your eyes. “We have a copy, but Father usually keeps it in his chambers and I can’t get in…”

He sounds intrigued rather than petulant - you glance up at him through your eyelashes, smiling slightly.

“Who’s it from?”

Now it’s your turn to shrug, as you snap the book closed and pass it to him, reaching for the next present. “Uncle Charlie, I expect.”

“The hot one?”

“Yes, Scorpius. The hot one,” and you grin as you unwrap the next, and the one after that, passing each to the blond after giving them a quick once over - the coffee is long gone by the time you reach the end, and your side is getting warm from Scorpius body heat where he is curled up against you, his head resting on your shoulder.

After passing him the one from Ihani - another gorgeous book on Potions - you finally manage to find the one he himself has given you; his eyes follow your fingers as you unwrap it, glittering in the faint morning light.

“What is it?” you ask, even as you fumble with the wrappings; he snorts quietly to himself, and doesn’t answer, preferring instead to let you peel away the layers and find the sleek, folded bundle beneath - heart jumping, you shake it out, revealing a finely made cloak of that same dark green of the robes you got on your first night here, the hood trimmed in fine white rabbits fur.

“Wow…” you breathe, and run it through your fingers - it spills like water, though you know it shouldn’t. “This is amazing!”

“Grandfather picked out the colour,” Scorpius tells you quietly, and leans over to kiss you on the cheek before he drops his forehead into the curve of your neck, talking to your shoulder. “He said it would bring out your eyes.”

You blush so brightly you feel your skin is on fire.

For a second, you are afraid that you are going to get hard with Scorpius sprawled all over you - puberty is catching up with you, and starting to elicit the most inconvenient of reactions from you whenever you have a moment to think about Lucius Malfoy’s body, his hands.

His eyes, flittering through a hundred shades of grey quick as hummingbirds’ wings…

You cough, folding the cloak back up and setting it reverently on top of the book Ihani gave you as you try and force the images to the back of your mind; Scorpius, for his part, only smiles against your shoulder.

“Father is coming back at lunch,” he says happily. “He’ll be here for Christmas dinner.”

“That’s good,” you reply, and really, really mean it - you don’t know Draco Malfoy, but you have always wanted to, and you figure that today is a good a day as any to start…

- - -

Draco Malfoy greets his father with a kiss on each cheek and one solid, forceful one straight on the lips - your stomach lurches in pleasant confusion at the sight; the briefest moment of Lucius’ hands tightening around his son’s upper arms, and the artistic mingling of their features.

With all your heart, you wish it were you he was kissing.

Dinner is a quiet, comfortable affair - elaborate, but tasteful and startlingly warm; you hold your own in the oral sparring, being smart, being witty.

And watching, all the while, the way Lucius rests his fork against his bottom lip - the way his eyes narrow and his mouth curls up in the corners whenever you parry one of Draco’s remarks with something suitably biting and exceptionally Slytherin.

To your pleasant surprise, you find that Draco is a particularly passionate person beneath the cold Malfoy features, full of smirks and laughter and sly insinuations that cause Scorpius to blush like a schoolgirl, pink filling up his usually cream-white cheeks.

You wonder why no one in your family even bothered to try and get to know him, if this is what he’s like inside.

Lucius, for his part, is a nearly silent companion - he talks only when spoken to directly, softly and decidedly, his words like double-edged swords; there is always a razorblade quality to him, a certain danger lingering behind the cool, composed mask of his features.

You can see it, flittering through his eyes whenever he brings the wine glass up to his lips; and you can never stop watching him do it, just as you cannot help the fact that your cock is hardening in his presence, an ill-timed distraction that causes you to occasionally say things without fully thinking them through - much to Scorpius’ thinly-veiled amusement.

And when dinner is through, and dessert is done, the verbal skirmishes continue; you find yourself sucked in, and Lucius finally joins it too - and no one seems to really care that he can flay every one of you down to the bone with a single sentence, or that he can sway any discussion with consummate ease. Draco and Scorpius take it in their stride, always trying to worm around him, trying to poke holes in his replies, until eventually they just give up and smile - just laugh and find another topic to debate, and draw you back in again.

It is later - much later - when you all retire to the parlor at Lucius’ request, to sit on fine couches; for you to sprawl across the rug before the fire alongside Scorpius, like a pair of overgrown cats, comfortable enough to drape yourself all over him in a sort of physical intimacy that has gotten you a lot of snide comments in the past.

You can feel Lucius’ eyes on you, heavy and warm, as the glass bottles clink and the cognac gleams in the firelight; as he raises it to his lips, and gives you the briefest glimpse of his tongue catching a stay drop running down from the rim - as your mouth goes dry and your palms go clammy.

“You wish to return over the summer?” he asks at last, and you echo that shy smile that he must know very well by now, looking up at him through wild black hair and heavy eyelashes.

“If I am allowed,” you tell him, and see that telltale curl of his mouth that signifies true enjoyment - lying half on top of you, Scorpius rests his head against your chest and smiles; Draco shifts a little in his seat.

“You want to learn Dark Magic?” he asks quizzically, lifting an eyebrow.

“You’re surprised?”

He shrugs elegantly, running a finger around the rim of his glass.

“Merely curious. I was of the opinion that your family is somewhat… against such things.”

Scorpius laughs, splaying his right hand over your stomach - “They are,” he says, in a drawl made thicker with the effects of an early morning and complete and utter satisfaction. “But Albus isn’t like them.”

“No,” Draco agrees, giving you an inscrutable look before glancing towards his father. “Not like them at all…”

- - -

You get no reply to the letter you sent your parents while you are staying at the Manor - but then, it is doubtful if you would have noticed if you had. It feels much more like home than your house does, and after getting lost a total of seventeen times, you are fairly confident of the layout of the West Wing, if nowhere else.

Instead, the owl finds you not moments after you are Apparated into Hogsmeade by Lucius, pressed up against his side with his arm slung around your waist; for some reason, the position is far more comforting - a certainly more stimulating - than the last time you were in it. You think it might have something to do with the time spent within the Malfoy environment, beyond the trademark walls of ice they build up around themselves; there is a certain forbidden thrill to it that you have only just learned how to truly appreciate.

The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest - always leaves you wanting more.

You are wearing your new cloak, the hood pulled up against the light fall of snow; Lucius looks down at you from out of the shadows of his own, his face cast in half-light, before his eyes flick to the sky and focus, eerily fast, on the bird winging towards you out of the clear blue sky.

“Is that Aleron?” Scorpius asks, following his grandfather’s gaze; Lucius inclines his head a little to the right, and then politely shrugs you off as the dot morphs into the distant shape of a barn owl - it’s wings pull back in a graceful flutter as it breaks, and then closes it’s talons over Lucius’ proffered wrist, digging into the leather of his gloves and taking a moment to steady itself before it holds out it’s leg.

Lucius unties the parchment, and hands it to you without a word, while Scorpius smiles a little nervously and moves up behind you to read over your shoulder.

Almost weak-kneed in relief, you sigh and look up at Lucius - a single nod causes his eyes to flash silver in the dull grey light of the winter noon.

“I will see you over the holidays then,” he says by way of goodbye, looking towards Scorpius - his grandson steps towards him, going to his tiptoes and kissing him lightly on both cheeks.

“Have a good trip to France,” Scorpius tells him, and Lucius nods as he flicks his wrist, sending Aleron fluttering up into the sky - an moment more, and he turns sharply on his heel, disappearing in a flare of robes with a muted crack.

You want so badly to just pull him back…

- - -

You’d always imagined that love was hot and sweet and perfect; set alight in a single moment, destined to burn in a flash fire or an undying inferno - you’d always believed that it was flaming, full of heat and anger and passion.

Not this. Not this slow, torturous unraveling and the steadily deepening obsession - not the voice that wakes, so gradually, to whisper kiss me, kiss me, take me in the back of your head, intangible as the wind. Not the soft, shivering, aching beat of your heart whenever you even think about him.

Certainly not that your muscles would go to water and your mouth go dry at the simplest of looks, the smallest of smiles; at even the slightest indication of him even seeing you, noticing you.

You never thought that when you fell in love, you would ever feel such a need to completely surrender; to just allow yourself to be swept away in the inexplicable tide, to give in to the pull.

It does not help that puberty hits you in full force not long after Christmas - your voice scratches, hitches, breaks; you grow hard so easily you have to revert to a Concentrating Solution to keep you attentive in class - his face, his voice, his eyes… they all jump into your head so easily, and you hate it when you have to blush and shift uncomfortably, casting sly, desperate glances at Scorpius and Ihani out of the corner of your eyes.

And the fantasies in your mind aren’t perfect enough to make you feel content for more than a moment, but they have to be enough for now, so you try so hard to pretend that they are.

Discretion is badly needed, but you practice it with a sharp edge of spite - too often, you think it would be better to just write home, to just say ‘Dad, I’m bonded to Lucius Malfoy’ and see what happens. They wouldn’t be able to stop you, you know that - and maybe it’s worse that you are aware of this, because you can see the shorter road, see the end of it; can imagine, so readily, the public outrage that would pound upon the Manor’s walls, while you lie flushed and breathless in the moonlight, trying to find some way to simply be absorbed into Lucius’ soft, pale skin - to drown in his eyes.

You tell Scorpius, and he smiles a little sadly and holds you close - kisses you in the dark till you are warm and wanting; slides a hand under the waistband of your pajama bottoms and cups you, squeezes you.

He tells you that he understands, when you come moaning into the curve of his neck; and the name hangs between you, unspoken, as he arches too, and you feel the wet spill of him over your fingers.

Oh god, Lucius… Lucius.

And he tells you other things, when you are pretending to be asleep underneath the heavy green covers of his four-poster, the curtains drawn around you, naked bodies tangled in a way you know children your age should not be doing.

He tells you of ancient rituals, of France, of his family.

Of what blood bonding really means.

You are not jealous - you can’t be, not when it’s him, not when it’s them - though you know, now, where Draco slept over Christmas; know why Scorpius panted and writhed and echoed the silent cry of your orgasm, his lips fitting around the word with his head thrown back and his neck taunt, darkened with bruises.

Lucius…

In fact, you are hardly even surprised by the admission - thinking of it now, with your fingers tracing idle patterns on Scorpius’ chest, you can’t understand why you didn’t see it sooner. He had told you, after all, that ‘you’ll have to share him, you know. You can’t have him all to yourself; he’s just not that kind of person…’

Who else would you have to share him with, but his own son and grandson?

You take some small measure of comfort in the fact that Scorpius himself has not slept with him, and will not until his seventeenth birthday; your birthday is not long after his, and you feel no envy that he will have his wishes granted before you do - you cannot decry him for wishing to be inducted fully into the Malfoy traditions, even if you know there is more than just a sense of duty that sets his eyes alight when he talks of it.

Something more that makes him smile on the rare occasions when he says, “I love my Father” or “I love my Grandfather” - and it should be wrong; to anyone else, it would be.

But to you it’s not.

Though your views on right and wrong have always been rather different from others; measured more within subtle shades of grey, rather than sheer black and white - and you do not tell people this, but your family knows it anyway.

In the hallway three days before, James even went so far as to say “Albus? If we were still fighting the war, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he turned out to be a Death Eater,” within your hearing, much to Ihani’s quiet disgust.

But now, wrapped around Scorpius like a slim thread of Devil’s Snare, you cannot find it in you to contemplate attempting to defend yourself against such claims, to step back and look again and even think of telling him that it’s wrong.

Because you know it isn’t, and it’s not your fault if the rest of this useless, fragile world, doesn’t think the same…

So instead you say, “I love you,” and watch him smile softly in the faint shreds of moonlight - and you don’t mean it like people usually do, but that’s okay because Scorpius knows it, and he means it exactly the same way you do, even if he hasn’t said it just quite yet.

“I know, Al,” he whispers, and runs his fingertips along your thigh. “I love you too…”

- - -

The rest of the school year passes so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash; you go from Quidditch to homework to classes - and you can remember little of any of them.

No, what you remember instead is the feel of Scorpius pressed up against you, his pale skin, his long, lean body - the faintest definition of adolescent muscle, moving under your fingers. You remember his lips bruising from kisses, his voice hitching and scratching; cries no longer left unspoken, but hissed into the comfort of Silencing Charms and thick, fine sheets. “Oh god, oh god, oh god…” or “please” or “more” or “harder, dammit!”

He never cries out your name - he never cries out anyone’s, though you have caught him more than once with ‘Grandfather’ teetering on his lips - kissed him hard and fiercely for it, and all the while screaming internally.

You do not give this thing a name, though you know that Ihani is starting to suspect that there is something more between you and Scorpius - and it is something that, in all truth, cannot be given a name. It is not love - not even affection, or lust, or a mutation of your usual physical intimacy…

If anything, it is a way of showing the depth of your obsessions - of showing exactly how much you both love other people, how far you would go, and you find comfort in the fact that you are not as alone as you thought you were.

You are so sick of being alone.

On the final night of your second year - sitting between Scorpius and Ihani at the Slytherin table and staring idly at your plate - you allow yourself to feel once more the sick flutter of anticipation, the sense of excitement and desire that has your heart racing.

The rest of the school? Nothing more than an insubstantial blur at the corner of your vision.

“Where are you going for the holidays?” you ask Ihani softly; he doesn’t look over, in order not to draw attention from McGonagall, performing her end of year speech once more - but you see him smile.

“Dad is taking me to South Africa… I hear you’re running off to the Manor again. Your parents don’t mind?”

You shrug, looking back up at the head table just as McGonagall finally finishes.

“They might.”

He says nothing more on the matter; not even when you manage to talk him into sneaking out of the castle to lie on the wet grass underneath the stars, with his head resting on your thighs and your body half-draped carelessly over Scorpius’ chest, his fingers tangled in your wild black hair.

But then, there isn’t much more he can say; he knows, a little, of your bonding - and what he doesn’t know, you will not tell him. At least, not quite yet.

It is with a small measure of trepidation that you bid them both goodbye in the morning, standing upon the platform in Hogsmeade and looking, every so often, down the road towards the spot where you are to meet Lucius later this evening - Scorpius is being Portkeyed straight to le château Malfoi, on the Southern coast of France, from the steps of Hogwarts; there to face, at long last, the dreaded affections of his disillusioned Grand-père.

You are to meet up with Lucius alone - the very thought makes you feel almost ready to faint.

The day is spent idled away in the shops of Hogsmeade, wrapped up in your cloak against the surprisingly cool wind and clinking around a pocket full of galleons, trading them off for magically shrunken books and the odd quill; not to mention a box full of Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans, so you can sit up by the Shrieking Shack and sort through them, tossing the disgusting ones away and watching them roll down the path back towards the rest of the village.

It is getting dark by the time you hear the telltale crack of Apparation, and tilt your head back to peer upwards through a film of fine rabbit’s fur, seeing robes flare around behind you and feeling his presence against your back - when you let your head fall just a tiny bit further back, you can see his face, sharp and inscrutable in the dying sunlight.

Your reaction is instantaneous - a deep, dark blush and a throbbing spike of desire that runs down your spine and jabs you forcefully in the groin, making you close your eyes for a moment and take a deep breath to steady your racing nerves.

“You have had a good year?” he asks offhandedly as he helps to pull you to your feet, easily brushing a light smattering of leaves from your back with one gloved hand - you shiver, and then blush a little harder, dropping your head.

Perhaps his eyes darken at the sight of it… perhaps.

“Bearable,” you reply, truthfully, though the ‘because you weren’t there’ is left unsaid, and you do not think you need to say it, because if the slightest thinning of his lips is sign enough, then he has heard it anyway.

He holds himself perfectly still for a long moment, looking down at you, unblinking, unforgiving; you stare right back, with your heart thudding in your chest and your blood boiling like mercury.

“Yes,” Lucius says slowly, and you see him move as if in slow motion - feel the fingers of his right hand rest lightly against your chest, as he leans forwards and you press yourself towards him, as close as you can manage.

“I know,” as his other hand rises to fit against your cheek - and you barely even notice the cool leather, because then he is leaning down and you can feel his breath on your face, smell the sharp mingling of rich wine and spices, feel the jolt of metaphorical lightning that flares when his lips touch your cheek, oh so gently.

Bliss…

And it is warm and light, insubstantial as butterfly wings, there one moment and then gone the next; you melt, let yourself fall forwards and be captured in his arms, as he bends his head and kisses you, just as gently, just as quickly, on the other cheek.

“I know,” he whispers again, and you wish it were possible to be swallowed by his voice, to sink down into the hard silver flash of his eyes, as you bury your head against his chest and let out a choked moan.

“Oh god, Lucius. I can’t do this.”

“Shhh,” you hear him say as he pulls you closer; and you can feel the sharp contours of his ribs against your chest, feel the flat plane of his stomach, the steady beat of his heart - and you know that he can feel you too, feel every inch of you, from your fluttering breath down to your achingly hard cock.

You don’t care - why should you care?

There is a tug below your navel, a sickening squeeze; Apparation or a Portkey - you just can’t find it in you to wonder, not when there is such a delicious want filling you up to the brim, and you know you can’t resist him, and you don’t want to try to anyway.

A moment more, and you stumble back as the world solidifies under your feet; Lucius moves with you easily, his face inscrutable in the soft light of a dozen lamps as his fingers slide smoothly down to the first button of your cloak, undoing it slowly and then moving onto the next.

You can barely breathe - you always thought it stupid when people said they were breathless with desire, but now you know it too, and it leaves you dizzy, as if there is no gravity; the faintest brush of his hands on your skin, the moonlight-starburst-supernova-suicide flash of his eyes, and you let go of reality entirely and settle instead for launching yourself rather recklessly straight into the stars.

‘I love you’ you would like to say, but you don’t because the air is too thick and words aren’t needed here. ‘I want you.’

His fingers undo the last button - his gloved hands push the cloak from your shoulders, and the robes after it, peeling you apart, unresisting, and you wish, for one brief, mad moment, that it were possible for him to dissect your skin like this, to split you into two and then step inside you, to become to you…

But there is only this sweet-sick sensation of vertigo, this throbbing pulse of pleasure-pain; you watch him, as he gently pushes you backwards - watch him in mindless, earth-shaking obsession as those nimble fingers pull his own robes off, and you see the white silk shirt untucked, the way the sleeves are hitched up just a little bit by the friction and the static, bearing one pale forearm and one… not so pale.

Wordlessly, your fingers clamber for it, curl about his wrist and draw it out, until the snake and skull is glaring up at you, dark as the day it was burned into his skin.

He pauses a moment, watching you; almost reverently, you dip your head to kiss his gloved fingertips - sharp leather, bitter and brilliant - and then the grouping of blue veins just below the serpents head, before you seal your lips over the skull.

You don’t have enough oxygen - the world slips and slides around you, as Lucius throws his head back; you can feel the single shiver that rockets down his spine, before he takes a deep breath and tugs his arm away.

“Please,” you whisper, desperate and hard and wanting as you press yourself back up against him - and his eyes are deadly, his lips are absolute poison, but you don’t care because that is how it's always meant to be.

Lucius doesn’t answer - he doesn’t need to, because he’s tugging off your shirt, dropping it to the floor and running his fingers down your chest; you writhe and moan, squirming like a snake and wanting frantically for his hands to run beneath the waistband of your trousers, to feel his leather-clad palm against your heated skin…

And when he does just that - when you feel his touch, light and fluttering, there and yet not quite there - your body betrays you, as young boys often do; you come, warm and wet and gasping and aching, over the soft leather, and even as you groan into his neck you struggle for a handhold in the present.

You say, “I’m sorry” over and over and over again, blissful, nervous, terrified - you say it until he has stripped you down to your skin, and wrapped you up against him, and tilted your head up towards him.

You say “I’m sorry” until he kisses you, and when he kisses you, you forget all languages but that of utter ecstasy, feeling his hot tongue slide over your bottom lip, pry your mouth open to slip inside - feel the quick bite of his teeth when he withdraws, and you waver in his arms like a sapling in a cyclone.

“Shhh,” he whispers once more; a sidewinder smile, a razorblade whirlwind of colour through his eyes, as he pushes you further back until your knees hit the side of the bed and you collapse on top of it, feeling the cool silk cling to your sweat-streaked skin, feeling the wet drip of semen down between your thighs as you harden again.

There are no cheap histrionics, no whorish strip tease in the way his fingers move to his silver buttons, slide down over his belly in a light flutter and push the fabric away to either side; and you can’t stop watching, can’t stop wanting to touch the pale, flawless expanse of his skin, the groves of defined muscle, as he shrugs the shirt over his shoulders and lets it slip down his back to gather in a pool of fine-spun starlight on the black carpet.

And your treacherous mouth knows only one word now in a tongue he will understand, because the rest are nothing more than garbled noise and desire; so you whisper it, say it long and low and sweet, so sweet.

“Lucius…”

In the lamplight, you see his lips move again in that smile that is all triumph and want and indifference and ice, and you shiver once more as you throw your head back and feel the thick, soft pillows just touching the top of your head, and imagine that your hair is licking at them like small, wild fingers of black fire.

Your hands twitch, and run in a hesitant line down your chest, past your nipples, over the razorblade angles of your ribs and the fine strings of juvenile muscle; you are hawkish and long and lanky and not a little bit taller and older than you should be, though you at least no longer think of yourself as twelve and childish and far, far too young to know what love really is.

Because you do know. Because you’ve always known.

When your fingers curl about your hard length, run softly from tip to base to the erratic rhythm of your breathing, Lucius gives a little twitch and moves towards you - and you watch him through narrowed eyes, in a world that plays as if stuck in honey, as he rests both knees on the bed and gradually leans over you, soft hair falling down over his face, tickling your collarbone, your neck, your chin; silk and silver and spice and wine, and you cry out and arch upwards into your own palm, feeling the scrape of his belt-buckle against your knuckles, feeling the slightest collision of your own naked skin against his pale belly.

A whispered spell, and the light of the lamps is quick to fade into fractured moonlight; not so the unholy glint in his eyes, the shimmer of bloodied steel as he lowers his head and captures your lower lip in his teeth, and reaches down to unclasp your hands from around your aching cock and raise them to the fine silken texture of his chest, till your fingers are splayed across his pale nipples and you can feel muscle, taunt and strong and thick and underscored, always, by the steady thu-thud thu-thud thu-thud of his heart.

At long last, the wait has made it nearly painful to run your fingers across his skin, to open your mouth and allow in the slick heat of his tongue as you trace the contours of muscle and follow the angles of his ribs, slide your hands around until you feel the first rough edge of scars beneath your thumbs and, shyly, continue on across a back crosshatched with ridged skin.

“What…” you whisper as you pull back breathless from his opiate kisses, and cannot finish amidst your panting, desperate moan as you feel the first touch of his gloved palm, wet against your cock, the fist closing about you so slowly you might have screamed, were you not gasping and dizzy and desperate; had he not latched his mouth onto the slipstream curve of your neck, bruising your tanned, freckled skin with sharp teeth and a wicked tongue.

The leather chafes, just a little - a friction burn that has you keening, twisting in the sheets as your fingers bite into his back, pressing down hard upon the knotted crests of scared skin, drawn up in a perfect tableau, crossed one over the other from the back of his neck and down, perfectly organized, to disappear beneath his belt.

You want to follow them; you want to follow the trail down below the waistband of his trousers, to find where it ends, to wonder at the perfection of the marks, to ask him who-how-what-where-when-why…

Except you can’t, because his fingers are squeezing and his mouth is hot and poisonous, because even though he is still taking most of his weight on his knees, you can feel his chest pressed up against you - fancy, imagine, fantasize that you can hear the blood sloshing through his veins, because you are sure that he can feel your heart pounding, thrumming, burning, just a little.

Because by the time you’ve screamed your throat raw with “please” and “yes” and “more” and the one long, final moan of “Luciusssss”; because by the time you’ve climaxed, half-sobbing, and felt again the wet stickiness on his gloves, the drip down your thighs, you can barely breathe and barely think and all you want to do it pull him down and hold him and love him…

Only then - when you’re limp and dazed and half-broken as a wet rag-doll - only then does he gently grip your forearms and pry your hands from his back, guiding them down to his belt and leaving residues of semen and sweat on your palms from his gloves - only then does he press down hard enough for you to feel him, and so you arch back up and want all over again, and see the quick flash of his smile in the faintest shards of moonlight splintering through a single gap in the thick black curtains.

It seems a year before you touch him - a year before you gather the courage, and look up through heavy eyelashes to see the quicksilver flash of something across his face. A year long enough to forget your own trepidation, your own insecurity, your own slim tracings of fear, and by the time you feel the silver buckle of his belt under your fingers, slippery and cold and sharp-edged, it has been far more than a mere heartbeat and far less than two.

“I don’t-” you begin, but he kisses the corner of your mouth and there is nothing, nothing you won’t do.

So you slip the buckle undone, slide your fingers down under it until you find the two little buttons - and beneath that, hard and hot against your thumbs, his cock jumps; you let out a miniscule sigh at the feel of it, loosening his trousers enough to slip your hands down - and all the while he watches you like a coiled python, lips slightly parted, cheeks just ever so slightly red, eyes sharp as knives and boiling like iridescent mercury.

And you kiss the line of his jaw as you run your fingertips down through the pale, curled hair beneath the dark fabric of his fine trousers; run your tongue up to his ear when you lay your palm flat against his erection, and moan against his flawless skin as you curl your fingers about it slowly, getting used to the proportions before you run a thumb up the underside.

Lucius hisses sharply, dropping his head into the curve of your neck - you throw your own head back against the pillows, and move your thumb again, squeezing lightly; in this - his cock sliding between your fingers, the slither of sculpted muscle as he arches over you - you know very little, although it does not stop you from trying.

He is close, oh so close - you tighten your grip, sliding your fist down to the base and then up… down again.

A single sharp, strangled moan as his eyes drop closed and he jerks against you in orgasm, spilling hot and wet over your fingers, and you kiss, again, the sharp edge of his jaw - when you pull your hands out, they are shaking, trembling.

Lucius whispers the cleaning charm against your skin, stretched and damp over bunched muscles tight with nerves and desire; his fingers, gloved and suddenly dry, take yours - you bring the back of his hands up to your lips, and kiss the dark black leather, the bitter tang underscored at once with the phantom residue of your orgasm.

You sigh, and release his hands, curling your fingers about his belt and sliding it easily out of the loops, lost somewhere in the soft sheets of his bed as he slides his trousers down long, pale legs; and these, too, are lost - neither are missed.

He rolls off you smoothly, somehow managing to bring you with him to end up half-sprawled under the coverlet, with your head tucked into the curve of his neck and one leg thrown carelessly over his muscled thigh - and at long last your sense of mere mortality is lost, and time has long since leapt free on the shattering sweep of starling’s wings; there is nothing here but him.

When you fall asleep, it is to the potent lullaby of Lucius’ breathing and the near-phantom drift of his fingers down your spine.

- - -

“Most often, emotion is the road to death.”

Long fingers trace down your spine, then draw away, rising to tangle in the hair at the base of your neck a moment later and bringing your head back, until your vision is full of the high, glistening ceiling, and little else.

“Indifference is key,” and his breath is warm, his voice soft as his lips move against your ear - you let your head fall back a little more as he moves closer, capricious, impulse; you look for, and find, the faintest trace of captured moonlight in his narrowed silver eyes.

This, you remember - this, you know with a reverence that makes your bones ache; the face you woke to amidst tangled sunlight and the distant cries of hunting falcons - the long fingers that ran over you, plucked at strings of sinew and muscle, and let the notes of your desire run into hot, liquid kisses that left you weightless.

You do not blush.

“You just have to -” he rests his other hand on your hip, gently pulling you up against him as he releases your hair and loops that arm around your waist “- block everything out. Hatred, pride, anger, fear, pleasure…” gloved fingertips brush across the back of your neck, followed by the soft touch of his lips - his voice is like velvet, soft, thick, dark.

“Pain…” Lucius breathes, and you can feel him smile into your collar before he pulls away, flirty, flighty - the sunlight breaks through the stained-glass windows, and lights him up in silver as he steps backwards easily, twirling his wand - and you don’t know when it got there, and you don’t care, either - between his fingers; your back is suddenly cold, though the rest of you is burning.

“Distractions can kill,” he says, nonchalant, and slides the near-black wand across his palm. “This -” the leather across his knuckles tightens, and his lips curl up in the corners, gaze sliding down to fix on the back of his hand “- you must learn, of course. Among other things.”

“But -” he adds slowly, and curls the fingers of his free hand about his wand one by one, holding it firmly in both for a moment with an unreadable expression “- that shall come later.”

“The Dark Arts are so very selfish, Albus. The merest allusion to guilt will weaken them - emotion can, and usually will, turn them in on themselves; yet it is the most unconstrained of all magic, the most potent. You can capture millennia in a word, suspend gravity, burn any matter to ashes in a heartbeat.”

He looks upwards sharply, and smiles.

“And, like many things, there is a certain art to wielding the power.”

- - -

Lucius’ eyes can burn; burn fierce, make your skin tighten, make it almost painful to stand for hours and practice wand movement, incantations (long, timeless years, centuries that flitter by in a heartbeat - has it only been such a short amount of time?).

You love the silence, the pause between breaths, the stillness that permeates the gaps between one word and the next; there is more to be said in the silence, additional things to be heard - and in the rays of a distant sun, slowly sweeping across the horizon, you communicate more within these sharp glances, these raised eyebrows; these sly, flittering smiles that come and go, quick as lightning.

He teaches you with fingers about your wrists, his body pressed into your back; he teaches you by letting his own magic burn through you, as he whispers the incantation against the hair on the back of your neck.

You love the way he watches you, the way his eyelids sit heavy and the grey of the irises flitters from silver to near black as you creep, almost certain now but still that tiny bit unsure and strangely nervous, through his bedroom door.

You are young, a child, but not - barely young, never anything so simple as a child. Neither of you have had the luxury, or, indeed, the desire. And you wish you could tell him this (but he already knows, he’s always known) - you wish you were cowardly enough to tell your family this as well.

But you won’t do that. He means too much; they cannot have him.

In the daylight, you have not spoken of this; this belongs to the night, to the last light of a dieing sunset - to the starlight reflected in his eyes, the lamps that flicker and then fade into darkness as you are drawn into his arms.

Every time he touches you, it feels like coming home.

At night, you allow yourself to surrender all of yourself; you allow yourself to drown in silk-shrouded opulence, to feel the sweat-slick slide of his skin against yours, the contortion of muscles under your fingertips when you grip his sides hard enough to bruise.

Because no matter how everything seems to go on forever, it will never be long enough.

‘Please,’ you whisper into his hot-sweet-sinful kisses, asphyxiated, but since when do you need to breathe? ‘Please, I want you. Please, please - I need you.’

The first time he presses his soft lips to the inside of your tanned thighs, the world stops.

He is a shadow among shadows; a curl of pale smoke amidst the black sheets, with a single sliver of faint, hazy moonlight cutting across the line of his back - the jutting edge of his shoulder blades and the perfect order of scars crosshatching across his skin, dark as blood.

“Did you know,” he says softly, amusedly, running ungloved hands down over your hips, light as the sweep of a single starling’s feather. “That you have a freckle right here,” and lips press to your skin, as you arch upwards, panting - a hot, warm tongue runs upwards from that same spot, just brushing past your aching cock before he pulls back with a lazy smirk, and his hair catches in the moonlight, bright enough to blind.

“I thought not,” and there is that quick, sidewinder, razorblade smile that makes you weak with something so much more than lust - the perfect, perfect line of his lips as he curls them about the head of your cock and it is hot and wet and good, so good that you’re saying “oh God” even though you’ve never had a god, do not need one, and never will.

It is only one long fall, and time has stopped for it, frozen solid as he takes you in, in all the way; the strong arch of his neck, shoulder blades standing up like the first - or last - remnants of wings. Such sweet, sweet fallen angels, and you want to trace the lines across his back, want to bring your lips to the ridges of them.

But there is only his tongue, swirling around you - only the cling of silk to the union of your damp skin; only your own head tossed back, and your own mouth wide open.

Only “yes,” and nothing more but that soft, intangible ‘I love you’ that hangs in the air, always unspoken, always shimmering in your glazed eyes.

You will say it some day.

Paradox - even in compliance, he controls you.

“Am I learning yet, Lucius?” you ask, and curl your fingers about his ankle, pressing your lips to the blue vein that pulses behind it; there is a thrill to having him here, sprawled out before you, a predator in human skin, watching with hooded eyes - though it is your nerves that are jangling in discordant harmony at the mere thought.

You love his legs - his long legs that twine through yours like Devil’s Snare when you lie against him in the night; the smooth, unblemished cream of his skin and the slide of muscle in his calves, his thighs. You trail your lips up, over his knee, past his cock and then across, growing in confidence all the while, to swirl your tongue against the skin just under his navel; he sighs.

“Yes,” he drawls, and you love that mouth enough to press your hands to his chest and lever yourself upwards to kiss him - not quite chastely, but it will do, and he lies lax and near-boneless underneath you, though you can feel the beat of his not-quite-calm heart against your palms, as you pull away and dip your head to kiss at the sharp hollow at the base of his throat.

And he is here; all of him is here, all of this darkness, from the scars - phantom blood running in rivulets, and he kisses you when you ask and says, “you don’t need to know” - to the mark, a vivid, permanent bruise that is flat and dead under your fingers - “did it hurt?”

All of him here in this darkness - both of you here in the dark; you do not forgive him, because there has never been anything to forgive. Not for you.

So you map out his skin in the soft, impenetrable night; run your hands down his chest, fit them to his hips, kiss every inch of him until you are drunk on the taste of honey and wine and the minor salty tang from your own mingled sweat - and when this is over; when you raise your head from kissing the ridged ends of old scars at the side of his neck, you slide yourself forwards until your cocks come into contact and there is that rich jolt of pleasure that means more to you than perhaps anything does.

You refuse to think of its impending end.

- - -

Scorpius comes back the day before your birthday; when you see him, you are standing barefoot and bare-chested at the bottom of the stairs, wand in hand, wild hair falling in your eyes - you are slick with sweat and oil, bruises purpling, remnants of sex and the sharp, stabbing collision of spells.

He’s smiling when he throws his arms about you and kisses you solidly on the lips - smiling in that bright, brilliant, knowing way that eases the faintest uneasy flutter of your heart.

“You’re training?” he asks; his accent has thickened with his time in France, reverted back to that long drawl, those lilting letters you first met so many years ago. You still love the sound of it.

“What else?” you reply, shrugging - he looks pointedly down at the dark hand-shaped bruises over your hips, just peaking up from underneath the waistband of your trousers, and smirks.

“What else indeed.”

You are not self-conscious, not any more. Instead, you simply smile and drape an arm over his shoulder, turning him towards the ballroom doors.

“How was France?”

This? This is a dance you know so well - this passionate tango of bandied words and sly smiles, flashing eyes and biting innuendo; not quite the slow, elegant waltz, the ballroom flare of Lucius - not quite the brutal perfection of something more like combat, when he drags you close and kisses you until you think you might break, and smiles and asks “Do I distract you?” as if he thinks the answer might somehow be anything other than ‘yes’.

Not quite the same as those; but then, Scorpius has always been different.

You delude yourself that your time in the Manor is not flashing by before your very eyes.

There is not long left now; not enough time in the world to writhe within the silk sheets, to lie curled against Lucius in the night - to bring your hands to his chest, and your lips to his throat, and wake him from his sleep as quickly as a predator from restless slumber. Those are the times when you can laugh, lightly, and tell him “It’s like sleeping next to a wolf” because it is - because even the slightest movement will cause his eyes to open, sharp and bright and oh-so wary.

Threats of constant danger can make mere habits a necessity - but it is affection that keeps you still as a stone within his arms, that keeps your breathing soft, that makes you careful not to move the leg thrown over his thigh, or the hand on the side of his ribcage. You do not mind.

Your mornings - both before Scorpius, and after him - consist of lazy-eyed waking, the picture-perfect greyhound stretch of fluid muscle as Lucius’ long body arches in the dawn - they are made up entirely of his languid smirk, his easy, unhurried kisses; the splash and slip and slide of hot water down his back, close enough to scalding for it to barely matter, as he turns away and you run your fingers over the scars and press your lips to them in silent, saddened acceptance.

The mornings are lessons and breakfast in the summer garden, standing sweating and near naked, trying desperately not to get sidetracked by the deliberate clatter of a silver fork against his plate, the crunch of his boots in the gravel, the whisper of his gloved fingers across the back of your neck.

Lucius is good at distracting you; it’s why he does it.

You are changing in your time here, and you know it - no longer the sweet, carefree child you are supposed to be; no longer an innocent face, but one that is flat-planed and sharp-angled above a body with too-long limbs and a coltish look, half-clumsy, half-elegant. Now, you can feel the dull thrum of power through your veins, and though you are no Dark wizard yet, you are learning and that is all that matters.

Lunch, and you play Quidditch with Scorpius in the clear Wiltshire sky; witty banter and sarcasm, challenges and dares that leave you both flushed and breathless and an inch away from breaking bones.

Afternoons - the clean-cut expanse of perfect grass, and Scorpius’ laughter as Lucius sends you flying with spell upon spell, until you are lying bruised and dazed and laughing at him as he goes tumbling down beside you. A single day where you get to sit on the sidelines and watch the fireworks of acidic spell-fire, as Draco dodges and curses and swears, profusely, when he is finally borne down to the ground with a wand at his throat.

Evenings, spent about the table and then the library, sitting at Lucius’ feet with your head against his thigh - and Scorpius calls you a dog, but he’s doing it too, so you only smirk at him and look down at the book propped open in your lap: ‘The Comprehensive Guide to Novice Dark Arts - self-protection vs. self-destruction.’ This is when you write letters home - little more than quick, scribbled notes to say that you’re still alive.

The night that Draco stays is the only one you do not spend with Lucius; instead, you lie naked in the moonlight atop the fine silk sheets of Scorpius’ bed, all boyish charm and teenage insinuation as you ask him about what he and his father did in France.

On the last day of August, you find your school supplies tucked neatly into your Hogwarts trunk, and as you stare down into it, stare down at the folded robes, the piled books, the soft dark green cloak resting on top, you curse your own idiotic heart for daring to dream that this time would never end.

Sharp white-light bursts as your skull meets the carved headboard a bit harder than strictly necessary, the quick hiss of Lucius’ breathing, and your lips parting, parting as you fist your hands through his hair and draw his tongue into your mouth and moan, moan like you think he might somehow be able to hear you even though you yourself can hear nothing but your own pounding heart.

‘Oh god, oh god, oh god please.’

His fingers moving down your freckled chest, past tight, pale nipples - his quick, nimble fingers, and he knows exactly where to push and where to pull, takes his time even though your blood is racing and you want him, want him now. Right here with the sheets tangled around your feet and your cheeks lit up as if in a fever, your head thrown back hard enough for the whitewash, of something that might just be pain, to strike again; and you need him inside you, need him inside you so badly.

Even though you know he won’t do it. Not now. Not yet.

“Oh god!” as his teeth sink into your neck, as the blood rushes and it’s bruising, oh god it’s bruising. “Oh god, oh fuck!” as the fingers of your right hand drag across the scars on his back, white lines in white skin that slowly flush pink and then a deep, dark, brilliant red.

And he’s laughing, silently, because he loves you like this - all lust and passion, and your legs are long enough to hook around his hips as you drag him down towards you; there is only that hot wave of pleasure that jolts up your spine and his moan, half-bitten back as he presses his lips to your hair.

You can barely breathe - you’re dizzy, you’re falling, and you release the hand in his hair so that you can press your palms against his chest and push, just long enough for him to roll away to one side so you can slide down his chest, feeling the hot, wet rub of his erection against your thigh.

So you shimmy down, slip against the sweat and in amongst his breathy laughter, swirling about you like fog as he smiles, brutality seductive; you know what that look means.

Lucius’ skin is pale, so pale and perfect under your hands, with their backs dusted in light freckles, and your flesh a faded gold - his cock is thick and heavy and curled back, darker than the rest of him, glistening in the faint moonlight as you lean forwards to press your lips to the tip, to run your tongue across it, to open your mouth and slowly, slowly let it slide in past your teeth.

You don’t choke, though for a moment you want to, because this is new, and a little bit more than strange - there is a drop of saliva gathering on your chin, but that doesn’t matter because the muscles in Lucius’ thighs are tight and he’s panting in breathy moans that make your head reel.

It takes a moment - maybe two - for you to rediscover your courage; for you to slide a hand down to work at the base as you slip your lips nearly all the way off and then take him in again (not as far as he took you, all the way down so that you could feel the muscles in his throat working - no, not that far), to hollow your cheeks and suck and hum and ignore the awkward way you’re forced to breathe, the air rattling around in your chest, trying to get out.

Timeless - it could be hours or a heartbeat before his hands grip your shoulders and force you off, drag you up like a human-sized rag doll; and his kiss is hard and brutal, his teeth are sharp and there is blood on your tongue, blood on your chin.

But you don’t care, because his hand has slipped down and curled around you both, rubbing you together so hard it might just hurt, and you can hear him snarl into your mouth when he orgasms, and that is enough to make you follow with a half-strangled sob of release.

When you manage to pull back, you press two fingers to your torn lip, and smile.

- - -

You are ambushed the moment your feet touch the platform, swaying somewhat drunkenly from the aftereffects of the Portkey; it is your mother who sees you first, though she sees Lucius before you and it is only because she throws him a dirty look that she manages to catch a glimpse of your black hair over the elder Malfoy’s shoulder; you dearly wish she hadn’t.

Scorpius shrugs when she calls you over, and you sigh, looking up at Lucius - his eyes are hooded, lazy; your heart jolts, though you resist.

“Some other time, Mr Potter?” he inquires, and you shake his hand lightly, nodding, before you tear yourself away and stalk, for all the world an indignant, ruffled cat, across towards Ginny and the rest of your family.

Sometimes, you are sure that you hate your mother more than she hates Lucius; it is a scary thought.

She greets you with a hug; you endure it, utterly boneless, just as you endure her greetings and cooing and demands that you look after Hugo and Lily, starting Hogwarts this year - and never mind that you’re in Slytherin so, really, she doesn’t mean any of it…

It is a relief to escape again - to loose Hugo and Lily somewhere behind you, knowing they will be quickly snatched up by your cousin Rose and hustled off to begin life in any other House but yours; your family is an oppressive presence, too loud by far after the calm, collected chill of the Manor and its inhabitants.

You find Scorpius and Ihani in a compartment in a surprisingly short amount of time, dodging around your brother - or, more rightly, not quite dodging and instead hitting him squarely in the shoulder and sending him stumbling into the wall - and slipping through the partly open door, sliding it shut behind you and casting a locking spell before you throw yourself down on the seat next to Ihani.

“How was the family? I saw your mother snatch you up on the platform; getting you out of Lucius Malfoy’s evil clutches, was she?” Ihani asks, and you throw him a dark look, replying bluntly.

“My mother is deluded.”

“The Bond thing going well, then?”

It is the first time you have blushed since the start of the summer, that first night that Lucius took you to his bed - you had hoped you were over it, but you’re obviously not.

“You could say that,” Scorpius drawls, and smirks triumphantly when you sigh in a mixture of acceptance and disgust, slumping in your seat. “Hit it off quite finely, didn’t you, Albus?”

“Scorpius, you are such a bastard.”

Ihani’s eyes flash; oh god, why the fuck did you say that? Now he knows - or thinks he does.

“I know. Isn’t it just great?”

- - -

School is little more than a multicolored blur - the Entrance Hall, the House tables bedecked in green and silver and gold and red and yellow and… others. The pathway Scorpius cuts through the crowd with his pale hair, and Ihani’s dark shadow as you slide into your seats and greet old friends with lazy smiles and sharp nods, because no Malfoy shows much affection in public and you live by Scorpius’ rules these days.

The Sorting; Lily’s awestruck face as she stares up at the star-spangled ceiling, and Hugo’s white complexion - you think he might be sick, and you are not the only one. Rose and James are watching them intently from the Gryffindor table.

When Lily is sorted into Hufflepuff, you are torn between amusement and relief - amusement because, of course, it’s Hufflepuff, and relief that your brother and cousin have not managed to snatch up another one.

Scorpius grins wickedly.

“You’ve got a badger for a sister,” he drawls. “But that’s better than another lion, I suppose?”

“By far.”

Hugo is small - smaller than you were at eleven - and his hair is vibrant; Rose is watching him with an expectant expression. He isn’t looking at her.

And it makes you smile.

“You’ve never had any badgers in the family?” you ask, feigning innocence, and Scorpius arches an eyebrow.

“If we did, then they wouldn’t have stayed family for very long, don’t you think?”

“Weasley, Hugo!”

He jumps, just a little, and you see James hide his laughter with a sharp, fake cough as your cousin moves somewhat unsteadily towards the stool - even from your place at the Slytherin table, you can see his hands are shaking.

You watch him settle on the stool with a thrill of nerves; you know he isn’t going to become one of the snakes - he’s not like you - but anything, anything will be better than having him put in Gryffindor.

A moment longer, before the booming cry of the Sorting Hat.

“RAVENCLAW!”

Rose slumps in her seat, and James reaches across to pat her shoulder - when Hugo looks at you, you smile.

Expectations don’t always need to be lived up to, after all.

- - -

You don’t know how they find out about Christmas, and deep down you just don’t care how much the knowledge might have hurt.

It is in your third term - you are leading the House and Quidditch cups by miles, and, though your ribs are still decidedly battered from the 230-120 win over Ravenclaw two nights ago, you are in high spirits. Classes are going well, although you still cannot top Ihani in Charms and Scorpius beats you in Potions six times out of ten. Defence Against the Dark Arts has become disturbingly easy, and you now understand why Scorpius has always been so very good at it. It is easier to defend against something you already know.

Mum is the one that sends the Howler - you know it’s from her the moment you spot it, clutched tight within the claws of your father’s owl; your heart sinks, your stomach churns.

“Damn,” is all that you can say. “Oh damn.”

Scorpius’ hand lands on your arm, his fingers tightening as he dips his head towards you. “Stay calm, Albus; we’ll handle this the Slytherin way. Just sit still, eat your breakfast, and pretend that your mother isn’t trying to blow your brains out with her vocal power.”

You drop your fork, shaking your head minutely - the Hall is starting to notice the angry red envelope being borne towards your table.

“The whole school will hear,” you hiss, but Scorpius doesn’t let you go. “Do you want them to listen to my mother slagging off your entire family?”

He shrugs, nonchalant.

“Nothing they haven’t heard before;” the blond casts a quick glance down the table towards Everett - Captain of the Quidditch team this year - and then up the other side to Lucas in some sort of silent communication that you don’t have the willpower to follow. “No one at this table cares if you ran off to my house over Christmas, and since when do we give a fuck about the others, anyway? Bunch of slimy bigots, the lot of them.”

A look towards Everett shows you his grin.

“House Unity talk there, Scorpius?” the Irishman asks innocently, teeth flashing as his smile widens. “Promoting a Hogwarts free of prejudice and full of tolerance?”

The owl is swooping down towards you - there are hundreds of people looking in your direction, and only one real choice.

You pick up your fork, stab it into your breakfast, and bring the slice of pineapple up to your lips with an easy shrug of your shoulders. Scorpius’ grip loosens, and he nods sharply, turning towards his own food and picking up the conversation with Everett again.

“Jealous of my oral skills, are you, Everett?”

Everett winks lewdly, and the Slytherins around you chuckle - Scorpius, for his part, is as suave as ever; only the left eyebrow arches.

“Should I be?” the Captain counters, the exact same moment a fuming Howler is deposited beside your plate - you ignore it, feeling the owl’s wings brush over your head as it flashes away in a swirl of tawny feathers.

“If what Darnell says is true, then I’d have to reply with one hell of a convinced yes.”

“ALBUS SEVERUS POTTER, WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS IS WRONG WITH YOU!”

You stab another piece of pineapple, sharing an arched look with Scorpius.

“Loud in here, isn’t it?” you ask simply, and twirl your tongue around the fruit.

“GOING TO MALFOY MANOR OVER CHRISTMAS. DO YOU NEVER STOP TO THINK! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED…”

“Your mother’s sure got some power,” Lucas chips in, and shoves the fruit-bowl towards you with a grin; you fish out an apple, cutting it into tiny little pieces.

“…DEATH EATER! I DON’T CARE IF THE MINISTRY THINKS HE’S REFORMED…”

The knife hits the plate with a dull clatter, and you pick up the first sliver of apple between your index finger and your thumb, resting it on your tongue before swallowing.

“YOU AND YOUR OBSESSION WITH LUCIUS BLOODY MALFOY AND HIS INTOLERABLE SPAWN!”

It is sharp and cold; you give a little sigh of delight, and reach for the next sliver, repeating the process.

“BAD ENOUGH THAT WE HAVE A SLYTHERIN IN THE FAMILY. WHEN YOUR GRANDFATHER FINDS OUT…”

“He’ll sic the entire Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office on you,” Ihani says with a smirk, stealing a slice of your apple. “It’ll be in the papers the next day - Potter child killed by biting teacups! Ministry claims they were out of control!”

“WE ARE SO DISAPOINTED IN YOU, AND YOU…”

“Need some robes that don’t clash so horribly with your complexion.”

“Need to wax your eyebrows.”

“Are the ugliest one in the family.”

You nearly smirk down at your plate, but for the strong feeling of dread running through you. Here it comes…

“SEVER ALL TIES IMMEDIATELY…”

Scorpius’ fingers touch your thigh, and you drop your right hand down, linking your own through them - your heart is pounding.

“STRAIGHT BACK TO AZKABAN…”

She can’t do this. How dare she do this!

“IF YOU EVER GO NEAR HIM AGAIN!”

The letter crumbles into ash beside your plate - fighting to remain stoic, you brush the remains from the table and reach for another slice of apple; you are gripping Scorpius so tightly you’ll be surprised if he can still feel his fingers.

“Albus,” he says quietly, as the entire Slytherin table gives a communal shrug of feigned indifference and turn back to their food. “It’s okay. We’ll sneak out to see him.”

Numb, you hold the apple between your fingers and stare down at your plate.

“The legal age of consent for a bonded child is eleven,” you say quietly. “The legal age of abduction is eight. If I go to the Ministry, then I can live with you…” trailing off, you shake your head sadly.

“But I can’t do that. My family will be after yours like a pack of wolves; the Weasleys don’t understand pureblood traditions, and my father was raised by Muggles.”

Fuck…

“I can’t do that to Lucius… or to you.”

He squeezes your hand, and leans further towards you. “We’ll be fine, Albus.”

“No,” you say bluntly, feeling as if the world has dropped out from under your feet. “I told you, I can’t do that. I’ll just have to deal with it. I mean, I can still write to him, can’t I?”

Your quiet laughter has far more than a single edge of hysteria to it; you can’t find enough emotion in you to even pretend to care.

- - -

“Albus?”

It is little more than a whisper, and you turn towards it automatically, gripping the handle of your wand a little tighter - Hugo looks nervous and out of his element, his red hair in disarray and his brown eyes comically wide.

“Hugo,” you say lightly, and slip your wand back up your sleeve. “It’s nearly curfew, what are you doing wandering around in the dungeons? If Vector catches you…”

He worries at his lower lip, and frowns up at you - he has never been one to break rules, or to court danger in even the slightest way.

“I was looking for you. I wanted to say… well, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Intrigued, and more than a little bit delighted, you quirk an eyebrow at him - Scorpius would die to see you do it. “About what?”

Hugo glances down the corridor in both directions, and then looks back up at you.

“About Aunt Ginny not letting you go to the Malfoys.”

You smile, reaching forwards to ruffle his hair affectionately; of all your cousins, he is always the one you have liked the most.

“And why do you care, cousin Hugo? Is it Scorpius?” you cannot help but smirk at the last word, and his cheeks flush a bright and vibrant pink.

“No!”

Laughing quietly, you tug him towards you by the elbow. “You really should tell Aunt Hermione, you know. She’ll understand.”

“You haven’t told anyone!” he accuses, and glares up at you; Hugo always was the short one in the family.

“I told you,” you reply smartly, sliding an arm around his shoulders and turning to walk down the corridor in the direction that leads out of the dungeons. “Isn’t that enough?”

He pouts, and his lips are red, all red and plump and childlike.

“I’ll tell the family when you do,” he announces boldly; but you shake your head a little, squeezing his bony shoulder.

“Don’t. I don’t want them associating me with you, okay, Hugo? You tell them when you’re ready, not when I am.”

And he’s bold, bold like your family doesn’t realise, but he’s smart too - he knows the truth, even if he doesn’t like it, and nods sharply up at you in silent agreement; he’s young like you never were, he’ll get over it.

- - -

On the first day of the summer holidays, you tell your family that you are gay with more than a trace of bitter malice at the sound of it, at the sight of your mother’s face going perfectly blank for that second, of Aunt Hermione’s small little smile.

And when you leave, that same night, with the door left open behind you and nothing but the road ahead, you tell yourself you did not hate the way James’ face went utterly white; that voice, that tired fucking suffering voice when he said “Oh, Merlin, Albus? What next?” Like somehow you were wasting his time, with your ground-shaking announcements and your savage smile and your silent, silent laughter.

You think you might have been able to say it, for a moment there. To stand there and say ‘I’m bonded to Lucius Malfoy, and there’s nothing you can do about.’ Except you can’t, even though it’s still hanging there, right on the tip of your tongue. You can’t do that to him.

It’s been a year - a whole fucking year, and you think you’re starting to go insane even though you’ve gone longer than this without him before. But it’s different this time, because when you close your eyes you can see him, when you run your fingers down your chest you can feel him.

You can taste him; you know how he sounds through every moment of his orgasm - the hitch of his breathing, the moans, the strangled groan or throaty growl or perfect silence, when his eyes flash silver and his lips curl and he’s still as a statue for that one little heartbeat. You know how he looks - the long curves, the sharp angles, the pale skin and the muscle moving beneath it.

Fuck - just all that beauty, that cold, cruel, perfect, so fucking perfect, beauty. All that merciless grace and that brutal seduction and the darkness, that darkness…

Sometimes, you laugh yourself sick at the knowledge that, at some point in time, you actually managed to think that you could live without him.

The moon is huge, and the stars are bright as you jog down the road, barefoot, bare-chested because you’re still wearing your pajamas, slung low on your hips. The house has made you restless - the memories and the tension have evicted you out into the night, and the night is just like it’s supposed to be.

Except it’s not right, not right because the moonlight isn’t glinting off Lucius’ skin, isn’t catching in his hair as he arches above you; isn’t mirrored in his eyes. No - it’s only your skin, and your hair, and your near-hysterical bursts of laughter and burning lungs and, all of a sudden, your eyes are burning too.

Your vision is swimming, but you’re numb, so numb with the cold and the bitter knowledge that you’re just going to have to deal with this. Because you’re nearly fourteen, and there are three long years spiraling out ahead of you, full of school and family, and the only thing good you can find in them is Scorpius.

Scorpius, who holds you in the night and says ‘shhh, I love you, I love you,’ until you have to shut him up with kisses, and tug his head back so you can bite his neck; Lucius always liked to bite, always liked to watch you bruise, and you like to feel the skin beneath your teeth because it makes it so much more real.

And you say ‘shut up, you bastard’ with more vehemence than you knew you had in you, and bite him until he bleeds and squirms, panting, panting because you know he likes it just as much as you do, even though you both pretend it’s someone else.

The road is long gone, and the grass is wet beneath your feet; the lake gleams, and your pants are discarded like so many rags the moment there are pebbles instead of dirt and the water is cold, so cold your bones ache as you throw yourself straight in.

Shaking, shaking, crying - and you can’t tell if it’s relief or terror or loneliness, or just a mixture of all three.

“Fuck,” you tell the sharp air, the bright-light stars above your head - “fuck!”

And your hands are moving, moving down into the cold, cold water, and it's nothing like those mornings pressed against the slick marble walls of his bathroom, because then the water nearly burned and made you dizzy and careless and wanton, and he always laughed because your skin turned red and he was just so fucking white and perfect all the time.

Fingers (long, gloved fingers) curling around your cock, flushed and heavy and oh, Christ, it burns. Stroking, stroking, over the tip - and you can’t feel the moisture, because the whole world is wet, wet and suffocating.

Squeezing, and you can feel the light touches on your arms though there are none, the breathing-not-breathing of a body against your back as you slide one hand down behind you, and slip a finger up between the cheeks of your arse.

“Fuck,” you say again, because it hurts a little when it pushes inside and you’re close, so close. “Oh, Lucius… Lucius, fuck!”

And there are only the stars, and the sky, and you standing there in the water with your head thrown back and your neck is taunt, your spine is stiff but your fingers are steady and you’re coming between them.

Come gasping - and crying, just a little.

- - -

The summer is something you try to block out entirely - the family gatherings at the Burrow, where words are nothing but useless and you hate the way they say Lucius’ name like it’s nothing more than mud; hate it, hate it, hate it, with every fiber of your being.

Only one good thing comes of the holidays, baring Scorpius’ letters; Kazemde arrives in the second week, a small brown flash through the window that settles easily on the back of your chair - and though you are somewhat frustrated not to see a letter, your disappointment quickly turns to elation when you watch your mother’s face go white as she walks in to see the falcon preening through your hair.

Not all that vicious after all, although he gives your brother a series of nasty scratches when Ginny orders him forcibly removed from the back of the couch - you laugh until you can barely breathe, and stroke fingers down the fine feathers of his back.

James kicks you in the stomach that same night; all you do is lie in the darkened hallway, clutching your ribs, smiling and chuckling until he kicks you again with a savage growl - the sound of your own ribs breaking nearly drowns out your voice, but he hears you. Yes, he hears you, right before the impact.

“Oh James, won’t daddy be proud?”

Sometimes, they forget that you aren’t like them - that the dark sarcasm in your voice isn’t imagined, that the curl of your lips isn’t some last, fading smile; James used to try to forget, like he did when you were little and liked to ignore him, when you were sorted and still, still, ignored him.

Now that you are fourteen, and you have totally betrayed him - no, now he doesn’t try to forget.

“Won’t daddy be fucking proud!” spat between your teeth, because it hurts, oh Christ it hurts!

He’s bigger than you - not that much taller, because you’re tall for your age - but he’s certainly broader, and he’s seventeen, and when he pulls you to your feet and punches you, square in the jaw, you feel it. You feel your head ring from the combination of his knuckles and the wall behind you, and you’re blacking out…

“Shit, shit! Albus, you bastard. Albus!”

And you smile into the encroaching darkness, hearing the panic in his voice, feeling the pain in your jaw dim, the agony of your ribs slide away. He is shaking you, shaking you as if he thinks it will actually help in some way.

It won’t; your body is nothing more than a dead weight in his arms, the last traces of consciousness slipping away between your fingers. Going, going…

“Shit, Dad! Dad! Dad, I’m sorry! I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean it! DAD!”

Gone.

- - -

By the end of the holidays, you have been shipped off to Aunt Hermione’s place to become another shadow within her and Uncle Ron’s house, avoiding Rose and instead spending hours lying out on the grass watching Kazemde hunt overhead, with Hugo sitting quietly beside you - he does not seem to mind that you make no attempt to curb your vicious tongue or your restless, aggressive air.

August 30th, and your Uncle Ron is starting to get sick of you; you can’t blame him, but you do not think on it much. Tomorrow, you will see Scorpius again - might catch a glimpse of Lucius on the platform, and it’s pathetic, you think, that even the slightest hint of him will make you feel so much better inside.

Lucius isn’t there; you do not say goodbye to your family.

Life comes and goes in monochrome, and each day is the same as the last - you rise and dress without a thought, eat breakfast in silence; your classes are spent in restless daydreaming, all in tones of sepia and gray.

Quidditch is in colour, though only for a little while.

But Lucius - standing there, inside your head - oh, he’s all silver and green and gold and ice and fire; though for now, all you have is Scorpius, soft pastels amidst the drab swirl of your schooling.

How many more years of this?

It is the second term when he finally drags you back into his bed; when he grabs you by the shoulders and brings you forwards until your teeth meet in something that is more a battle than a kiss, more violence than affection.

“Fuck you,” he snarls into your mouth, and bites your lower lip until it bleeds. “Fuck you, Potter. Fuck, you!”

There is more vehemence in his words than you have ever heard before, but you don’t have time to think because he’s pulling you over the threshold to your dormitory, your feet catching the raised doorstop, your breath coming hard - his cruel, perfect lips are pulled back in the framework of a snarl, grey eyes narrowed.

“I ought to making you fucking bleed,” he hisses, and twirls the pair of you deftly to throw you down on the sheets of his bed, hands scrambling at the dark green silk as your back connects; a flush of something that isn’t quite desire rushes through you, and you bare your teeth as you tear off your boots and toss them carelessly aside, fingers leaping to the clasp of your robes.

Scorpius is on you before you can blink, shoving you back into the mattress with his weight - he’s taller, slimmer, but more efficient somehow - cool, white fingers slip under your robes, and there is an elegant tearing of fabric before he pulls them to either side and half-wrestles you out of them, lost somewhere on the carpet.

You want to tell him to go to hell, but there isn’t enough air to breathe and you’re dizzy, so dizzy.

Another rich tearing sound and the current of air passing through the room swirls across your bare chest, the shirt lying tattered and trapped beneath your shoulders as Scorpius plucks apart the button on your trousers, yanking them down your legs with enough force to make the bed bounce. Your cock lies heavy and flushed against your belly, a dark, angry red.

“Fucking Potters! Always thinking you’re better than everyone. Well, you know what?”

He pulls his robes over his head, tousling his pale hair; his chest is bare underneath, the fine white skin dramatically pale - are the shadows under his ribs deeper than they used to be?

A hand rests on your chest, pushing you down; Scorpius leans in until his hair is brushing your forehead, his face so close you can see each one of his pale eyelashes.

“You aren’t,” and you can feel his erection through his trousers, hard and hot against your thigh - your fingers are on his belt, pulling at it insistently until it gives out under the pressure, your mouth questing blindly upwards until your teeth clash.

And it’s fierce and hot and violent, the way you strip him down to his skin with merciless hands - the way he bites your bloodied lip, and twists your nipples until you yelp into the sweet oblivion of his mouth, and he’s not Lucius…

But then, neither are you.

This? This is a blood sport the world will never understand - the hot flash of his palm against your cock, the high arch of his supple body as he shoves his hips forwards with a snarl; brings his fingers up to tangle in your black hair, strewn out across the pillow, and pulls until your head is back and your neck is taunt, so taunt.

Magic, magic thumping; the shifting, swirling, complex rhythm that you can barely feel, because his heartbeat is racing hard against your chest, his breathing coming harder between his teeth as he presses his lips to your windpipe.

“Fuck you,” he hisses again, and there is only the sharp snap that grinds his hips forwards, the insistent rush of hot-rich-brutal friction from his cock against your cock, the thin lines of sweat running down his back, over your fingers - there is something thick and wet under your nails.

When Scorpius presses his lips to yours again, he tastes like bitter malice and dark chocolate and honey; the faintest trace of wine on his tongue, and you twirl your own around it and pull him in, gasping, moaning, your mind full of the sick-wet slapping sound of your glistening cocks rubbing together, the vision of small pink rivulets of mingled sweat and blood running down his sides to drip down from his ribs.

He’s snarling, snarling and twisting the hands in your hair as if he might pull it out; a hot tongue slides over your lips, and he’s coming in a hot-cold-wet-dry rush over your stomach, over his stomach, down between your thighs to gather upon the sweat-soaked sheets.

You throw your head away from his lips with a gasp, arching upwards as your cock glides through the semen on his pale belly, then twitches as you come; blank and hot and pulsing, and your mouth is open but no sound is coming out.

And Scorpius untangles his fingers from your hair, and runs the knuckles of his left hand over the ridge of your cheekbone, his expression softening - and he doesn’t say ‘I’m sorry’, and he doesn’t explain anything, because you already know.

Only runs his right hand up your forearm and pulls it down until he can twine his fingers through yours and press your palm, ever so gently, to his chest.

“Shhh,” he whispers, and kisses your temple in an action so similar to Lucius that it makes you want to weep. “It’s okay, just feel him.”

His heart is still racing against your palm, and the magic is still humming, but… there! A steady thu-thump-thu-thump, thu-thump-thu-thump; not quite out of time, but just enough.

You lean upwards, and kiss him once more; softer now, with your torn and bloodied lip and, god, your eyes are starting to burn.

“I didn’t-” you begin dumbly as you rest back against the sheets, fingers still splayed over his chest - and swallow when the words stick uncomfortably in your throat. “I- fuck, I can’t!”

“I know,” he breathes, and both of you are still sticky with sweat and semen, but for the first time since you began lying in his bed, he just doesn’t seem to care. “I know, Albus. I know.”

Yes, he knows exactly why you’re crying again…

- - -

You get more detentions in fourth year than any year before it, and your family can’t fathom exactly why. How can you tell them? How can you say ‘I’m going insane because I haven’t seen Lucius in nearly two years’?

Two years come the end of this term, and you don’t even know how you’ve made it this far, much less how you’ll keep going.

Scorpius helps - Scorpius is pretty much the only thing that helps, because he’s a Malfoy and he understands. You have grown distant from Ihani, the pair of you; all three of you know why.

Sometimes, you catch photos of Lucius in the Prophet amidst the articles - cold and haughty and debonair. Even on the front page of a newspaper, his eyes can pierce right through you.

Oh god, you miss him.

You try writing him letters, but Kazemde won’t carry them and all the owls you try to use just return looking ruffled with the parchment still tied to their legs. After the first seven times, you simply stop trying, and instead drape yourself over Scorpius and rest your cheek on his chest, falling asleep to the rhythm of that phantom heartbeat that isn’t really there, but which you can hear nonetheless.

The last day of your fourth year at Hogwarts is spent scrubbing the floor of the Entrance Hall on your hands and knees, lost in quiet contemplation and a sense of steadily growing despair. As of tomorrow, you will be alone again - no Scorpius, with his silver-grey eyes and his languid smirk, his quick laughter and nimble fingers - the sharp angles of his pale body, pressing into you, and his soft lips, your mingled breathing.

He is the only link you have; he keeps you sane.

But still, you know that this is worth it - in two years, you’ll be nearing your seventeenth birthday and your subsequent coming of age. You know, without a shadow of a doubt, what you will be doing on that day, and during that night. Nothing, and no one, will stop you in this.

Just two more long years, and then you’re free from the constraints of your family; free to loose yourself once more in the hot abandon of Lucius’ kisses, the sweet ecstasy of his hands on your body. You have not passed a single night without thinking of it - not three without sliding your hand down over your belly to curl your fingers around your cock, bringing two to slip up between the cheeks of your arse, slick with a lubricant you brewed a week before. After a while, it starts to feel good…

Soon after that, it begins to feel ever better; but this, you don’t tell anyone.

Your shoulders are stiff, and the muscles in your arms are tired - you’ve been scrubbing away for hours, but the sun is just past midday and there’s a long way to go yet. No one gets away with disrespecting Headmistress McGonagall, even if she did deserve it.

She’s sent a letter home; she always does. No doubt Mum and Dad will want to talk to you about it, ask you why you swore at her, why you’re so down these days, what they can do to help.

Whenever you think about it, you feel the urge to say ‘seven hours in a locked room with Lucius Malfoy. Though the air ducts are necessary, the bed won’t be, but if you feel the urge, you’re free to throw one in there too.’

You wonder what they’d say if you did reply with that; the thought makes you smile, even though you know that it wouldn’t be a very pretty reaction. Especially as far as your mother is concerned - she still hasn’t gotten over her second year, and probably never will.

It’s the first time you’ve smiled in what feels like years, and you pause in your scrubbing with a small frown, twisting your back until it emits a series of muted cracks; fuck, that reminds you…

Oh god, don’t you dare break down now! Not here, never where they can see you…

- - -

The summer when you turn fifteen passes in bleak monotony - another weekend spent at the Burrow among the masses that you’re supposed to call family; another few thousand excuses to get you out to the lake as fast as possible, to lie naked in the shallows and try to remember how to breathe.

James will not be returning to Hogwarts with you, and you bid him goodbye to his flat with an air of vague remoteness; you do not get along all that well, but he is still your brother, and as such there is a certain tie between you that cannot be entirely broken.

It doesn’t stop you from telling him to “Fuck the hell off, you Gryffindor bastard” when he extends a rather jilted invitation for you to join him, Scott, Ezra, and your parents for a housewarming dinner that same night. Even if you are smiling when his face goes blank and his hands fist in his pockets, eyes flashing - these days, you love having the power to make him angry with a single, well-chosen phrase. It serves as an outlet for your restless aggression; it keeps you calm.

He’s gone now, and the outlet has gone off with him; you lock yourself in your room, throw the curtains wide - press your forehead to window to dull the agonizing pounding of your skull.

There is an insistent tugging in your navel now, a constant pull; it makes you sick to your stomach to ignore it, but ignore it you must, wiling away the holidays as if lost to a fever. By the time you are back at school, you can barely remember anything.

The first night of your fifth year, you twine yourself around Scorpius and press your lips to his heart as he cards his fingers through your hair, telling you about his holidays - Lucius has been in Switzerland, doing something for the French Ministry and organizing his estate. At least you are not the only one to be missing him, though your need to see him is an ever-present ache, a continuous catch in your throat, and surely far worse than his.

You have grown, taller than some of the seventh years, though Scorpius is still bigger than you, and probably always will be - and you have inherited an long-legged, slim-figured look, with easily tanned, freckled skin; now, you fight a never-ending battle between desire and despondency while sitting in your classes, while winging through the air in search of your fifth Quidditch Cup to add to the Slytherin trophy cabinet. It is a distraction - but a necessary one, these days, when the slightest change in your emotional balance can send you spinning off into a violent outburst.

Scorpius helps you continue your training in the Dark Arts, although only in so far as helping you go over that which Lucius has already taught you. He is unwilling - or perhaps incapable - of taking you any further; you don’t mind all that much, because what little you know serves you very well indeed. Especially since wizards who are not Dark cannot sense them, and even the Hogwarts wards are not attuned to these little-known spells; they would be useless in attacking it, anyway, so why bother?

Many nights are spent out on the Hogwarts grounds, or wiled away inside the Prefect’s bathroom, Scorpius’ badge lost somewhere on the marble floor among the tangle of your abandoned robes; nights spent in throbbing abandon, pressed up against hot human skin bright enough to blind - you know every inch of him now, every tiny scar, every freckle so faint it’s barely even there.

These days, you both climax to the silent, despairing echo of ‘Lucius, Lucius…’

After Christmas - dull, mindless, already forgotten - you ask Scorpius why he doesn’t do anything with his father; his answer is a soft smile, and a sweaty palm on your slick back. “Just because,” he whispers, and levers himself upwards to press his lips to yours in sweet, sweet depression. “Just because.”

It serves as explanation enough for you.

By the end of the year, you think you might actually be officially insane - now, all you can hear in your thoughts in his voice, all you can taste is lips, all you can feel are his hands gliding down your chest, down your spine, arse, hips, thighs, shins, ankles… When you come between the fingers of your right hand, night after night, all it does is make you a little more empty and a little more lost - only the soft feel of the fine feathers on Kazemde’s back serves to stifle your need; he is your constant companion now, an unvarying reminder of just why you’re doing this.

Just one, one more year of this - it’s almost time; you’ve almost made it.

On the night of your sixteenth birthday Kazemde disappears; he returns hours later, carrying a small parcel wrapped in thick black cloth - when you peel it apart with shaking fingers, heart hammering in your throat, the silver chain spills across your desk and shines bright and brilliant in the moonlight.

Weak with such a simple act, you slump down into your chair, staring down at it; the pendant, crafted in the shape of a fine obsidian and emerald dagger, is cool and smooth under your fingertips.

There is no note, but you don’t need one.

- - -

It is a large gathering, an elaborate masquerade ball in honour of the founding of Saint Mungo’s, how many years ago now? You are wearing rich black silk, trousers that cling, a white mask that sits easily over the top part of your face - an outfit chosen only at your urging, when confronted with the vision of your extended family in bright velvets and blaring fabrics. But tonight, you are not here for them, whatever they themselves may think.

He is here, you know it; somewhere amidst the crowd mingling in the great ballroom, somewhere among those bodies - you saw Draco and his elusive wife not moments ago, the latter clothed in Magdalene silks that swirled and teased and glittered; they are not the ones you are looking for.

Somewhere, somewhere - you have to fucking find him, right now! It’s been too long, far too long, and you think you might break if you can’t feel him again soon.

There is a rush of fabric behind you just before you prepare yourself to step into the masses; your heart leaps into your throat, and you waver on your feet, closing your eyes. Yes, yes…

Oh god yes.

“You’ve grown,” that voice, that perfect voice, and you visibly shiver as a jolt of electricity rockets down your spine - two fingers brush hair from the back of your neck, slide down to curl about your waist, to pull you easily back against him.

Yes, yes, you know this body; these ribs, this chest, the faintest allusion of his heartbeat - you are hard and shivering, shivering like a leaf in the storm. Lost, lost…

When he kisses the side of your neck, the edge of his mask ruffling your hair, you throw your head back and moan low in your throat, abandoning all thoughts of decency in favor of feeling the rush of ecstasy swirl up from your toes; his breath rushes against your skin, cool on the wet warmth of your burning flesh, and this, this is what you’re living for.

“Lucius,” you breathe, and part of you will not believe it though that is his voice, those are his lips, familiar fingers splayed over your stomach, dark leather on darker silk. “Lucius.”

“Ah;” the infinity of moonlight nights in that single reply, of the union of sweat-slicked skin and it’s too good to be true, too good to be true even though it is; and his other hand moves around your other side, traces idly up as he lowers his chin into the curve of your neck, delves beneath your collar to curl around the two thin chains resting there - the Occamy fang is bright and bold in his palm, but it is the dagger that fills your eyes.

“You like it?” he asks, with that same sure certainty in which he asks all questions - your lips are parting, parting in the light - you’re saying “Yes” as if you didn’t know that he already has your answer in the way you’re pressing back into him, desperate and dreamlike and perfect, so perfect.

He shifts, ever so slightly; there is a gentle tug on your arm, and you turn in his arms, looking upwards - and the black mask obscures half of his features, merged almost seamlessly with his skin, but you know this face, the high cheekbones, the pale lips, the ridged jaw, the strong arch of his neck brushed with the tails of his blond hair, pulled back neatly with black silk.

You barely notice when his fingers creep up your neck, curl around your cheek - you’ve gone hopelessly astray within the liquid winter of his eyes, the subtle flash of a dark eternity, translucent as a thin sheen of swirling smoke.

His fingertips are warm, his gloves are smooth; he’s pulling your face upwards, and moving down to meet your lips in a soft, silent collision.

All thoughts of uncertainty break apart like glass at the contact, and your hands leap to his robes, ball into fists and pull him impossibly closer as you open your mouth to take in the wet heat of his tongue, sliding over your lower lip, slipping inside - and he tastes like you remember, only better, so much better.

You’re hard, harder than you’ve been in your life, and he’s pulling you away from the crowd like a wolf dragging his prey away from the pack - at the moment, you certainly wouldn’t mind if he tried to eat you alive, because you’re already being devoured by the sheer intensity of his kisses; kisses that leave you breathless and dizzy and block out everything in the world but him.

There is a wall behind your back, a thigh sliding between your legs, and you’re arching against him, moaning low in your throat as your hands slide down the back of his robes and link together behind his neck; your hips are moving, grinding against him, the fabric of your own robes pulling insistently at your flushed cock in a glorious friction.

Fuck, it’s been years… years.

He’s still kissing you - kissing you like your mouth is a battlefield, like you’re not already waving the white flag of surrender, like you’re not already pliant and utterly willing under his hands, one still cupping your cheek, the other gripping your hip; you can feel your skin bruising.

This, this is sweet ecstasy and agony; the ache of near-razorblade friction against your cock, the harsh grating of the wall through the thin fabric shrouding your back - you want it; you want it all, every single inch of it. The pleasure, the passion, the fire, the burning.

“Please,” you say when you can breathe, in the instant before his lips close over yours again and you’re lost once more in the maelstrom of his affections; you snap your hips forwards, and it’s too hot, too hot in these clothes - there’s a thin line of sweat running down your spine.

Lucius shifts again, subtly, and you can feel the hard press of his cock against your thigh through the fine fabric of his robes; his fingers are biting into your cheek, the rough wall is tearing your clothing, you’re out of breath and drowning. Still there is the sharp thrust of your hips, the catlike way he rubs against you, back arched ever so slightly, the muscles of his shoulders tight under your palms; you feel out of control, and you’re loving it.

“Please,” and it’s half of a breath and half of a moan, as he shoves you up harder against the wall with his body, hard enough that you can feel blood running down your back from the stone, hear the rich tear of your robes as his head falls forwards against your shoulder.

“Now,” he snarls, and it’s as if his voice alone is the trigger that sends the white-hot heat wave of orgasm running through your body, charges electricity through your nerves as you bite down on his shoulder to stifle your scream, feeling wet warmth spill inside your trousers; he jerks, then goes utterly still against you for a heartbeat.

There are dark marks on your cheek from his fingers when his hand slides away to cradle the back of your head, and you quest forwards blindly to meet him in a kiss that seems to go on forever.

Oh, how you wish it were so.

When he pulls back, there is a dull flush of colour in his cheeks, a lock of blond hair curled against the black of his mask; you are tall enough now to put your head under his chin, and that’s exactly what you do, resting your forehead against the base of his throat - he says a quick cleaning charm under his breath, and then another to mend your mangled clothes.

You can feel the multitude of scratches sting as Lucius’ hands slide down to rest in the small of your back, but you love the feeling.

“I missed you,” you say to the skin of his throat, smoothing your fingers across the indents left in the back of his neck by your nails; he pulls you closer, presses his lips to your hair - you can feel him smirk.

The idea alone makes you weak-kneed; were it not for the stability he offers, you doubtless will have fallen.

“You didn’t write…”

His breath is warm - “it was better,” Lucius says, and it is no apology; you understand it perfectly, and only wriggle closer to him, closing your eyes. “Did my parents-” you begin, and he snorts in amusement.

“See us?” he drawls, and you can feel his eyebrows go up. “You don’t believe that I didn’t think of that, do you?”

Emotionally exhausted, you don’t even respond to the jibe - only press your lips to his windpipe for a heartbeat, before you reply.

“How long have we got?”

“Less than an hour;” one of his hands moves to intertwine your fingers, and your eyes flutter open, looking up at him through heavy eyelashes - his smirk is sharp edged. “Come,” he says, and tugs your hand gently before turning; obediently, you find enough power within your body to follow him further away from the crowd, up a long staircase, and then through a door that leads into an elaborate bedroom decked out in shades of dark blue and black.

The door locks as it snaps shut behind you, and he tugs you deftly back into his arms, kissing your temple; your free hand rises to run across one high cheekbone, tanned fingers brushing across his pale skin before they hook beneath his mask, pulling it away and dropping it to the floor - moments later, your own follows it.

Your fingers tangle in the black ribbon holding back his hair, and you untie it slowly, pulling back as his hair falls down over his shoulders - a gloved hand closes around your wrist when you go to drop it and, startled, you hold perfectly still as his fingers tug it gently from your grip.

“I think,” he begins slowly, moving his other hand up so that he holds the ribbon at both ends; his eyes are narrowed, and your heart is racing. You know what he’s going to do - yes, you know exactly what he’s going to do. “That you may need this.”

The fabric is cool on your face, smooth and sleek as his fingers tie it easily at the back of your head; it is just large enough to cover your eyes completely, plunging the world into darkness - you shiver, take a deep breath, and turn your face up to where you believe he is still standing.

When fingers brush along your cheekbone, you start, lips parting, body instinctively moving into the touch; a light point of the darkness, and the silk is pressing against your eyelashes as you close your eyes with a sigh.

Another light touch to your face, and a whisper of fine, tailored robes - you can only imagine the sight of them falling away from him, slipping away like so much water; the ends of the blindfold tickle the top of your spine as you drop your head back, hands hanging limp at your sides, dizzy and breathless and, fuck, the not-quiet-silence is deafening.

“Lucius?” you whisper, and a gloved thumb runs down the curve of your neck, unhooking the clasp at the collar of your robes, pulling them to either side as the palm of his hand comes to rest against the hollow of your throat; the clothing slips down your arms, gathering in a pile around your feet.

The hand is drawn away, and there is a tug at your boots; unquestioningly, you kick them off, feeling nimble fingers pull off your socks before those hands glide up under the hems of your trousers, tracing patterns up the back of your calves.

Through the fabric of your trousers, you feel his lips pressing against your flushed cock - choking back a scream, your hips snap forwards as he rolls his tongue against it before pulling back, hands slipping off your calves; bereft and more than a little bit desperate, you reach blindly for him, but he is intangible as a shaft of pale sunlight and you touch nothing but air.

You can’t hear him moving; you can’t hear anything except your own labored breathing, the furious pounding of your heart - and your body is strung taunt as a bow, frozen in place.

Hot lips on the side of your neck, blond hair falling over your shoulders as his fingers run smoothly down the line of buttons at your front, peeling away the white silk as you shake and moan, shiver and press yourself back up against him; desire makes your skin burn - you are disorientated.

It’s been too long, but your body remembers, and the blood in your veins ignites as he lets the shirt fall down your arms, brushing your legs as it comes to rest alongside the other clothing at your feet; one hand is resting against your lower abdomen, fingers splayed apart, the tips just reaching under your waistband - the other is sliding down the zip so slowly, so terribly slowly.

And when your trousers are loose and falling from your hips, even the slightest suggestion of contact is gone; his voice, when it comes, is somewhere to your right - it cuts through your lust-induced haze of boneless longing as easily as a knife.

“The bed is six steps behind you,” he says offhandedly, and, ignoring the throbbing pulse of blood in your groin, you take a first hesitant step backwards, bare foot brushing your abandoned clothes - finding comfort in the solid stability of carpet beneath it, you take another, and another, until the back of your knees hits the edge of the mattress and you freeze in place; your hands are cramping with your fierce determination not to wrap them around your cock, no matter how much you need it, your head turning blindly from side to side, trying to pinpoint his location.

But when he speaks again, you still can’t tell; his voice seems to come from everywhere at once, reverberating down your spine - “Lie down on your stomach.”

You let yourself fall back on the mattress, feel it bounce under you, the soft sheets bunching and twisting as you writhe backwards until your hands hit the pillows and you roll cautiously onto your stomach, biting back a yell when your leaking cock comes into contact with the satin; with iron self-control you resist the urge to rub yourself against it, though the lack of friction is starting to drive you insane.

The bed dips, there is a brush of leather down your spine, and you arch up into the touch; the phantom press of his fingertips in the small of your back, before you feel the stunted warmth of his body nearby, not quite close enough to touch - your hands fist in the sheets, your forehead pressed to the soft pillow as you moan wetly into the darkness.

And when he touches you, when he really touches you, the moan turns into a strangled scream and you writhe against the sheets, all sense of restraint forgotten as his fingers run down your back and his lips press to the base of your spine, the burning swipe of his tongue as he parts the cheeks of your arse; there is the delicious, wet pull of silk against your cock, the smooth rub of his gloves against your skin. You have forgotten what it feels like to have enough oxygen in your lungs to breathe.

A flutter of breath, and then there is a wet, slick tongue pushing into you; your hips snap forwards, your body spasms, and there is absolutely no shame anywhere in you. You’re dominated, spread open - you’re saying something, anything, and everything you can think of.

“Please… Lucius, oh god… oh god… I need you… fuck!”

The world sways alarmingly under you, and the darkness is enough to suffocate as your fingers scramble at the mattress, the pillow wet with your own saliva and soft drip of sweat down from your temples; it’s never felt so good, so good, so fucking good.

Lucius leans forwards, fingers biting into the cheeks of your arse as he swirls his tongue and then drags it up all the way along the cleft of your arse and up to the top of your spine, leaving a moist trail that burns like acid as you stifle a yell in the sheets, wavering on the brink, driven not quite far enough.

“Please, please, please, Lucius, please!”

When his lips meet the back of your neck, you can feel the hard press of his cock against you, hear the soft moan in his kiss as he places one palm between your shoulder blades and slides the index finger of his other hand down, pressing gently against your opening before you snap your hips up with a savage growl, burying it to the knuckle.

You have a heartbeat to feel the seam inside you, the hot, pulsing, filling ecstasy of it that sends you careening over the edge; mouth open against the pillow though you don’t have enough air to scream, as you come across your stomach and the dark, clinging sheets.

Feeling boneless, you squirm under him and onto your back, lurching upwards to kiss whatever skin you can reach - the pulse of his neck is fluttering, pounding, and his hips are moving in slow circles, erection rubbing over your thigh.

Blindly, you slide yourself down his body, ignoring the smear of semen up your scratched back as your hands grip his sides, guiding yourself down until his cock brushes your chin - and the position is more than a little awkward, but you don’t give a damn as you shimmy down just that little bit further, raising your head and running your nose along the underside until you find the tip and take it instantly into your mouth.

His stomach tightens under your fingers, and he gives a soft groan as you curl your tongue around him, sliding up and down minutely so that the tip bumps against the roof of your mouth; Lucius is like coiled steel, quivering in his restraint not to shove his hips forwards and choke you with the thick slide of his cock between your lips.

When you hollow your cheeks, the muscles in his abdomen spasm; when you find just the right measure of suction, the shiver continues down as he arches above you, coming hot and wet and panting between your lips.

Swallowing, you release the softening tip from your mouth and pull yourself back up the bed, questing blindly upwards to run your tongue along his chest, your fingers over the fine scars on his back; when you feel the hollow of his throat against your lips, you pull back and look up above you into the darkness, and he allows nearly all of the weight of his body to settle over you, pressing you firmly into the mattress.

The blindfold is wet with sweat when you run your fingers across it, your hair is standing up at all angles when you reach back to untangle the knot at the base of your skull, pulling it free - though the light is dulled by thick black curtains, your eyes snap shut almost as soon as they open, temporarily blinded by the sudden change.

When they do open, you manage a single heartbeat before you lose yourself once more in the silver flare of Lucius’ eyes.

- - -

Your sixth year is the year to end all years - by the time you return to Scorpius, you have run over the events of the holidays over and over again; the soft brush of his hands, his lips, his tongue, the way he dressed in the lamplight just before he left and kissed you in a way that promised so much more. You know every detail, every miniscule detail.

Scorpius is a veritable whirlwind, a bundle of infectious excitement, though his cool façade seems to stay firmly in place - and you know precisely why he’s like this.

It’s for almost exactly the same reason you are.

By the end of this school year, you will be weeks away from turning seventeen, and changing your life forever; and you know that your parents or, indeed, your entire family, will not like the road you are going to take, but you don’t care.

It is your life, after all - your mind, your heart, your body to use and abuse with the memory of him.

McGonagall notices; she writes another letter home, watches you like a hawk, asks you seemingly innocent questions that always have a deeper meaning behind them - but you are a Slytherin, schooled in the arts of strategy and subterfuge, of the double-edged word wielded as carefully and precisely as goblin steel; you answer always in a feigned air of purity, acting naive, utterly childlike.

After a while, even she begins to lose the trail.

By Christmas, you are taking each day as quick as you can, going to bed early and rising late - you ignore the bustle of your family, the laughter, the wide smiles; the only time you pay attention is when young Hugo clears his throat, glances towards you, and says “I’m gay.”

The difference in reaction is noticeable; perfect silence for a heartbeat, before Uncle George cracks a joke and there is support being flung from all sides - you could tell them not to crowd him, not to hug him so tightly his ribs threaten to break; and his eyes are on you, wide and pleading, as you rise from the table and curl a hand around his wrist, tugging him away.

“I’m proud of you,” you tell him, and sling an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go to the lake,” and they don’t try to stop you, as you