Fic: (HP) - Pushing the Boundaries
Apr. 7th, 2009 10:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
regasssaTitle: Pushing the Boundaries
Pairing(s): Draco/Albus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: !!CHAN!! Repeat, Albus is not quite 16. Dub-con, slight violence, dirty talk, frotting, masturbation
Summary: Albus has a very ideal image of his first time. It involves dew-damp grass, bright sunlight and a handsome blond. Real life isn't quite as ideal, but to be honest, his standards aren't so high. He's be satisfied with just the blond.
Word Count: 5096
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s notes: Written for Snarkyscorp for the HP Nextgen exchange
Bluebells speckled the emerald grass, a line of trees broke the horizon and a thestral drifted above them. In the distance there was a castle; Hogwarts in all its glory, sunlight glinting from its windows. The foreground was the most striking part of the image: a young, dark haired man lay among the tiny purple flowers, twirling one between his fingertips, and approaching him was another youth, this one with hair that fluttered about him like a halo as he ran. Drawing in an extra wisp of hair with his quill then touching it with his wand to colour it a pale shade of blond, Albus Severus was hardly aware of his Professor leaning over his shoulder, tapping his leg irritably with the tips of his fingers.
"I do hope we're not disturbing you, Mr. Potter."
"What? Oh -- Professor Malfoy, I'm sorry." Albus sat back, holding his breath. Malfoy was a striking figure, his hair mid-length but neatly brushed back away from his eyes. It was almost a pleasure to look at him; he was like a piece of art. Unlike a piece of art, he wasn't confined behind a frame. Malfoy snatched up the piece of paper that he was poring over and studied it critically through his reading glasses.
"Fascinating...tell me, Mr. Potter, which year was the wizard Grindelwald defeated?"
Albus flushed. "1945," he spluttered.
"And who defeated him?"
"Albus Dumbledore, Sir."
The professor narrowed his eyes, piercingly. "Don't you think that Albus Dumbledore, a hero, would be disappointed that someone was not paying attention to a lesson about him?"
"My father says that..."
"Five points from Slytherin," Malfoy snapped. The rest of the class, deathly silent until now, gasped in shock. "I don't want to know what your father says, Potter. This is my class, and I expect you to listen to what I teach you."
"Yes sir," Albus answered, sullenly.
Malfoy, the confiscated picture gripped tightly in one hand, returned to the front of the classroom, and Albus sat uncomfortably, crossing his arms in front of him on the desk.
"I told you," he whispered out loud, when Malfoy was writing things on the blackboard again. "Your father hates me."
Scorpius, sat beside him, grinned despite himself. "He doesn't hate you. He hates your father, maybe."
"There's no 'maybe' about it, Scorpius. He hates my father, and he doesn't like me much either. If I didn't know so much about history, that'd be fine, but I grew up reading about Albus Dumbledore."
"And you're a genius," Scorpius sighed. "I can't stand history. You don't know what he's like at home."
Stuffing his hand into his mouth to muffle his laugh, Albus leaned back in his chair, looking up to read the blackboard. Thirteen uses of Dragonsblood. Didn't Malfoy know they'd done this already in Potions? He sighed and copied the words down so he couldn't get caught out. "Fancy getting in a bit of practice tonight?" he asked, glancing over toward Scorpius.
"I've got a ton of Potions to do; you know that," Scorpius murmured, still drawing out his loopy, extravagant handwriting.
"You can copy mine when we get back," Albus said. "We'll make some bits wrong on purpose, so they can't tell."
"Oh thanks," sniffed the blond, stabbing a full stop and dropping his quill back into the ink well. "I'm pretty good at potions, you know."
"Yeah, but like you said -- I'm a genius."
* - * - * - *
"Oh come on, just once more?"
Albus loved flying. He was rubbish at it, though admittedly only in comparison to his brother James, who was one of the best Seekers Gryffindor had ever had. Scorpius kept telling him that he was amazing, but he always told him things like that. His father, on the other hand, never said anything of the kind.
Harry Potter loved his oldest and first born son the best. Gryffindor, Prefect, Head Boy. James Potter had been the paragon of all things wonderful, and though Albus Severus had been his second son, and therefore just as loved, he'd been the youngest; growing up in the shadow of his siblings' exploits. Being sorted into Slytherin hadn't helped much either; as pleasant as his father had pretended to be about it, it was obvious that he was a disappointment. And even though Albus excelled in all of his classes, it had never quite been enough to make up for it.
It wouldn't have been so bad if his father wasn't Harry Potter, he decided. People always said 'Oh, you're Harry Potter's son, aren't you?' but somehow they'd stopped thinking he was cute as soon as he started wearing green striped scarves. The one time he'd gone upstairs and raided James' old school trunk, he'd almost been strangled by his older brother, despite protestations that he wanted to change houses. In the end, it had been Mrs. Weasley who had set him on the right track, "Don't tell daddy this," she'd told him, sparing a glance for Ron, who was busy playing snap with Harry. "But Mr. Malfoy and I are good friends, and he's your head of house. There's nothing at all wrong with being a Slytherin." When he went back to school that January, he made friends with Scorpius, and everything had gone right from then on.
He hovered back and forth, anticipating the rush of climbing back into the grey-white winter sky again. So his father thought James was a better flier, did he? He'd prove him wrong eventually. Eventually. And until then, he'd practice and practice and practice. He was just getting started, completely wired...
Scorpius, on the other hand, looked exhausted. His long blond hair had fallen loose of the tight ponytail it was kept in, thanks to the gusting wind, and his face was pink and freckled. "You can go if you like," he spluttered, "But I don't think I'll make it back to the changing rooms, let alone back into the air. Besides, my hands have frozen into icicles."
Albus grinned, punching his friend's shoulder, firmly. "Come on then, let's go warm up. I think I've got a couple of butterbeers in my trunk still."
By the time they got back to the Slytherin Common room, they were both warmed through again; a hot shower and a couple of spells had seen to that. Albus' hair was just starting to curl as it dried, completely out of control, as usual.
"Stay here," Albus hurried out of the room, disappearing through a door at the far end. A moment later he returned, holding up two bottles of butterbeer proudly.
"Watch out, Albus," Scorpius laughed, "The prefects will get you."
Albus tapped the prefect badge on his chest. It glittered proudly in the firelight, and he sat down, glancing up at his friend. "Here," he said, passing him the bottle. "Thanks for coming out with me. I know you hate flying."
"It's not so much the flying I hate," Scorpius admitted. "It's the falling I'm not keen on."
"Hey -- I caught you last time, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Scorpius grinned, "After telling me you were going to do it for the last four years and missing me every time. You were bound to catch me eventually."
"Hurt my shoulder doing it, though, and you were uninjured, as usual. Might as well have let the ground catch you."
"Thanks for that," Scorpius sighed, wryly. He broke open his bottle of butterbeer and collapsed back onto the sofa.
"No need to thank me." Sipping at his own drink, Albus sighed, enjoying the warmth of the fire. "I'll get on with your homework later, alright?"
"Whenever you like. Albus...are you going home for Christmas?"
"I don't know yet. Are you?"
"Mum's going to go stay with her family, and dad hates them, so I'm staying here."
"We always spend Christmas with the Weasleys, which is fun and all, but it's exhausting too. There's so many of them and they're all..." he trailed off.
"Gryffindors?" Scorpius suggested.
"Yeah," Albus bit his lip, staring at his hands as they curled around the bottle. "It's not that I don't love every one of them, it's that I've never really fit in with them, even before I was sorted. I'm just Albus Severus; the odd one out."
"You can stay with us?" Scorpius suggested. "I could convince my father..."
"Don't want to put you out, Scorpius..." Albus kept his eyes on the bottle, not wanting to betray the fact that spending Christmas with Scorpius and Draco would be like a dream come true. He was much too old for dreams coming true.
Scorpius didn't need to be told. He looked at Albus and smiled, hopefully. "I'd like it if you spent Christmas with us. You're my best friend, Albus, no matter what my father says, and it'd make me happy. Besides, it's not like he can stop you staying at Hogwarts over Christmas, right?"
He was too old to hug other boys, too, but he did blush, and took another swig of his butterbeer. "Thanks," he said.
* - * - * - *
Dear father,
I've been very graciously invited to spend Christmas with Scorpius and his father, here at Hogwarts. I hope you don't mind that I won't be coming back for Christmas, but I'd like to see what a Hogwarts Christmas is like, especially after all your stories. Try not to miss me too much.
Give my love to mum,
Albus Severus Potter
* - * - * - *
"My son tells me you wish to spend Christmas with us."
Albus had been waiting for this. When he'd reminded Scorpius about it, he'd just looked nervous, like someone who wasn't sure whether they wanted to admit to eating the last piece of cake that they'd found in the cupboard. Maybe this was why...? Professor Malfoy's lip was curled, somewhere between a snarl and laughter, and Albus didn't like the expression much; it twisted an otherwise handsome face.
"Um," Albus said.
That was all he managed. Draco moved forwards like white lightning, grabbed his collar and thrust him back against the wall behind the statue of Borris the Elder.
"Sir?"
"My son worships you, Potter. I don't know how it happened -- I don't know why -- but if I find out that you're taking advantage of him, then not even your father will be able to protect you."
Draco was breathing hard. It tickled against Albus' throat in a wonderfully arousing way, sending a thrill all the way through him. Draco's body was close to his own, blocking him from escape, his hands were twisted in his robes...
"What do you mean?" Albus asked, trying to keep himself from letting go to his unconscious desires and doing something thoroughly fantastical that would get him promptly expelled.
"The picture, Potter, of yourself and my son. You keep your disgusting Potter thoughts where they're supposed to be, do you understand?"
With that warning, Albus decided not to enlighten his professor as to the blond in the picture's true identity.
"I'll let you stay with us for Christmas, but that is it, Potter, do you understand?"
Albus nodded -- yes, he understood. As soon as Draco let him go, he hurried back to the dormitories, clinging on to the memory of that body pressed against his own, and said nothing to Scorpius when he asked what was wrong. Oh really, what was the point? He couldn't exactly tell him: Hey, Scorpius, I have the hots for your dad. It wasn't exactly going to go down well, was it?
* - * - * - *
"Have you read this?" James lifted the letter into the air and shook it. "He's not coming back for Christmas?"
"So your father tells me," Ginny said, putting a basket of hot bread rolls on the table, and smacking James' hand when he reached out for them. "They're for dinner."
"It doesn't bother you that he's staying with the Malfoys for Christmas?"
"Albus can look after himself," Ginny said. "I still can't believe they let him teach though."
"I heard from a guy at work that he was a Death Eater. Said he has the scar and everything."
"You shouldn't listen to ugly rumours, James." Harry had just come in through the kitchen door, shrugging off his heavy Auror robes, which were dripping all over the kitchen floor.
"Harry Potter!" Ginny exclaimed. "What do you think you're doing to my beautiful floor?"
"You turn more into your mother every day, Gin."
"You think so?!" Ginny's voice teetered on the edge of shrill. She had a wooden spoon gripped in one hand, but looked positively homicidal. For once, James was relieved that it wasn't him that she was angry with, and grinned as his father ducked out of the kitchen hurriedly. Still, Dad was right; James' mother was a lot like his gran; but at least he wasn't stupid enough to say it out loud!
When his father finally came back to the kitchen, he was dry, and his mother was serving up dinner. James finally got his hands on a roll, which was disappointingly cold. "So is he?" he asked, sitting back to pull the roll apart.
"What?" Harry asked, glancing up.
"A Death Eater."
"Oh." Harry reached for a plate. "I think you should ask him yourself."
"Right," James ground out. "So he is. Thanks for telling me, Dad."
"James!" Ginny sat down. "Do you realise how much trouble your father could get in to? The Malfoys are a powerful family."
"Yeah," James snorted. "And my dad's Harry Potter. Nobody will touch us."
Harry frowned, serving himself a spoonful of stew. "Malfoy saved my life once. I'm asking you, James, please keep it to yourself. A rumour is a rumour, but a fact can do a lot of damage. The school board would throw him out, just like they did Remus."
James sighed, throwing himself back so that the chair rocked. Teddy Lupin was his closest friend, and it was just underhanded to bring up his father. "Fine," he sniffed. "I won't say a word. But don't you think...don't you think it's a bit dangerous leaving Albus to stay with them for Christmas?"
"He's at Hogwarts, James. There's no safer place in the world."
"Sure," James laughed. "Because your education wasn't fantastically life threatening, Dad."
Harry grinned and dug into his dinner. Halfway through his mouthful, his face dropped. "Still," he said thoughtfully, "I hope Albus doesn't go getting himself in trouble."
* - * - * - *
It was obvious, Albus thought, that Draco Malfoy despised the idea of spending Christmas with a Potter.
Scorpius and Albus had sat next to him all the way through dinner in the great hall -- it was beautifully decorated with stunning white Christmas trees and shining stars that sparkled along in time with the music being played by phantom violins that spun about of their own volition above the dinner table and frequently stopped to serenade the headmistress until she threatened to transfigure Flitwick into a gobstopper if he didn't stop them.
They'd each worn the most ridiculous Christmas crowns which had erupted from the Christmas crackers, even Professor Malfoy, who's crown had been filled with lucid pink stones, and whom, despite having attempted to trade it, had found the thing eventually attached to his own head after a stern look from the headmistress.
After they were full of mulled wine and turkey, they left the table, and Albus followed Scorpius back to their rooms, talking animatedly about the book that Hermione had sent him, a particularly unhappy looking Professor Malfoy following behind. Albus tried to concentrate on the conversation, rather than the daggers piercing the back of his head. He hadn't forgotten his confrontation with Professor Malfoy yet; or the feelings that the close contact had invoked.
"Idiot," Albus grinned, smacking his friend on the arm. He just about heard Draco's growl, but decided to pretend he hadn't. He didn't know he could growl like that...it was arousing. No -- not arousing. Bad Albus. He had to keep his mind off that kind of thing, especially with Scorpius here. He was a Slytherin for a reason.
"Only in comparison to you, you know. If I had anyone else as a friend, then I'd be the clever one. You're too clever for your own good."
Albus shook his head. "I don't mean it."
"You should," Scorpius blushed, and suddenly Albus understood. Scorpius did worship him, or something like it, just like Draco said.
When he realised, he instantly felt uncomfortable, and he grabbed hold of his friend's arm and whisked him further down the corridor until they were hopefully out of earshot. "Look, Scorpius...you don't have to compare yourself to me. We're friends...and that means, you know...that I have a total respect for you that goes beyond academia and stuff. It doesn't matter who scores higher on a test, I would be friends with you whether you were a genius, or whether you had frogspawn for brains, right?"
He'd never seen Scorpius look so happy.
Draco seemed oddly generous when they made it back to the dungeon rooms. He gave them a jug of Serizins Fizzing Avocat and sat them in front of the fire with one of the finest wizard chess sets Albus had ever seen. As his knight's horse cantered across the board and reared over Scorpius' queen, flashing its ivory hooves and gashing her gown, Albus thought he caught Draco watching, and reached to refill his glass.
After four matches, and a couple of glasses, Scorpius stood up. "I'm going to head to bed, but you can stay up if you like. Dad?" Scorpius looked distinctly unsteady, and his words were slurred, "Why don't you play with Albus. He's too good for me."
"Yeah," Albus said, slowly, glancing up towards the older man. "Just one game, though. I ought to be getting to bed too." He took another sip of the drink -- he'd been going at it for a while now, one sip at a time, and had lost count of how many glasses he'd steadily made his way through.
The man looked quite bewildered by the request, but his mask slipped back into place soon enough, and he settled down opposite Albus, studying him. "You look just like your father did at your age," he remarked, as soon as Scorpius was out of the room. "Far more so than your older brother."
"That the best conversation you can make?" Albus asked, eyeing him. "Besides, nobody in their right mind would agree with you. James is much more like my dad." Were they really discussing his father? The topic was usually off limits.
"Much more like him, certainly." Draco began to rearrange the pieces on the board. His long fingers brushed against the ebony and ivory lovingly, and Albus found that he was watching altogether too closely. He crossed his legs under the table. "James Potter was the most arrogant little whelp I've ever had the misfortune to teach," the other man continued, "He hadn't the slightest interest in Wizarding History, and thought that everyone should worship the ground he walked on, as though it were he who had defeated the Dark Lord."
"Sounds like James," Albus ground out.
"You, however, look much more like him. Your behaviour isn't altogether unlike his, but you have an advantage..." Albus raised an eyebrow, "...You're far more intelligent."
Albus blushed. "I'll tell him you said that." He looked back at the board. Draco had given him white. "I'd rather be black," he suggested.
"You see, I'm not a fool either. I watched you play with Scorpius. You used the same method each time, starting with black, and he was simply too inaebriated to realise it. Scorpius does like a drink. No. You can start, Mr. Potter."
With a scowl, Albus urged the Queen's pawn forward and sat back in his chair, trying to pay close attention to the chess board, and not the way that Draco's chest rose and fall, or the tapping of his fingernails on the edge of the table. Draco opened with his knight, and Albus shrank back a little. He knew that opening - and sure enough, the moves that came after were his too. He'd have to work out how to defeat his own offence.
"Um..." he said, glancing up. "So you were in school with my father, right?"
"That's a stupid question, Potter. If you're interested in cute stories about your father, I suggest you ask someone else."
Albus flushed. "No...I wanted... Um. I was hoping you could give me a different perspective, that's all." Draco's laugh caught Albus off guard. He looked up, startled. "What's so funny?"
"A different perspective. It's certainly that." Draco countered one of Albus' moves with his queen, forcing him on the defensive once more. "Your father was the bane of my existence."
"Isn't that taking the piss? The bane of your existence is a bit extravagant."
"Not in the slightest. Harry Potter was the bane of my existence. If you doubt it, you can ask him." Draco motioned toward the fire invitingly.
"Er...no." Albus grinned. "I don't think my father would appreciate my sticking in here with you after Scorpius has gone to bed."
"Why are you still here?" Draco regarded him piercingly, and Albus almost faltered. "It's not just for a game of chess, is it?"
"Just chess." His voice squeaked unpleasantly, and he bit his lip and pushed his pawn forward without thinking. Draco's queen stopped to caress the young man's cheek before running him through with her sceptre. It was quite brutal.
"How do you feel about a bet?" Draco asked, out of the blue. "If you win..." He hummed, brushing his fingers along the edge of the board, "...Then I'll let you visit the Manor for a fortnight during the summer."
Hesitantly, Albus looked up. Spend a fortnight at Malfoy Manor? It would be fantastic. "Why would you do that?"
"Because it would annoy your family considerably," Draco answered, a smirk dancing across his lips.
"I...okay. But what if you win?"
"The terms can be discussed later," Draco murmured.
Albus shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. In fact, it's probably a stupid idea." Not knowing what he might lose in a bet with another Slytherin. It could be dangerous. But a fortnight at Malfoy Manor... He chewed at his lip and pulled his hand back from the chess board, rather than make another stupid move and get himself into check. "Fine. But I won't lose."
He lost. It only took Draco five more moves to pin him into check mate, and Albus cursed at his own lack of concentration. It had been obvious he was going to do that! He scowled and sank back into the chair, irritatedly.
"So what do you want?" Albus grunted. He wasn't a very good loser.
"I want you to finish the picture."
Surprised, Albus sat up, blinking, "You're kidding, right?"
"Certainly not. Finish it. I have some special ink you can use; the kind they use on magical paintings to bring them to life. The character of the people you've drawn, brought to life in the painting. All of your thoughts crafting their personalities. I wish to see what they do, but only the painter can finish it."
"No," Albus said, bright red now. "I can't finish it."
"You will." Draco had summoned the ink and the picture, and lay them out before Albus. "Finish it."
Albus stared at his little people, placid and static in their frozen forms. He knew what would happen if he released them onto the page. The blond would push the scruffy haired boy back into the bluebells, their hands would be all over each other. "You can't," he protested, but he reached for the ink anyway, taking the quill that Draco provided.
As he drew in the last line, and leaned to blow on the ink, the little people came to life. Draco Malfoy, alive in vibrant ink, moved towards the young man, caught his hand and twisted it back behind his head, pushing him hard into the blue-green grass. Unable to look away, Albus watched as they writhed together, crushing flowers in their hurry to undress; a flurry of lips and hands and long tongues of decadent inky flesh.
Draco's breath was heavy on the back of his throat, and Albus turned his head, trying to swallow back the fear of being so close to his Professor - to this older man - to his best friend's handsome, unattainable father. He was getting hard just thinking about it, and when he dared to glance back at the painting, the drawn versions of themselves were lying panting in the battlefield that had once been a meadow, painted sweat dripping off their slender bodies.
"So how exactly, do you explain that?" Draco asked. Albus' heart felt as though it were pressing against his tongue, stopping him from speaking.
"Um," he said instead. "Um."
"Um. Very eloquent."
"It seems your fantasies about my son are quite graphic, Potter."
"But they're not about him!" He said it before he even realised he was saying it. "No, I mean..."
But Draco was looking at him with a strange kind of realisation dawning on his face. His lips closed into a thin, white line, and Albus held his breath.
"I haven't had nearly enough wine," he finally ground out, sounding like a creaky carriage wheel, "to permit that kind of ridiculous..."
Albus interrupted, emboldened. "Are you saying you would if you were more drunk? Or maybe you might let down your polished veneer enough to try it?"
"You're sixteen," Draco hissed. "Not even. It's impossible."
"It's not impossible," Albus responded, firmly.
"You don't have the slightest clue, do you? You teenagers and your hormones. My life teeters on the edge already, and yet you expect me to throw it to the wind so that you can enjoy a little fondle and a romp between the sheets."
"I wouldn't tell anyone." He had a sniff of the winning line now. Draco was on the back foot.
"Wouldn't tell anyone?! I'd bloody well hope not!"
Albus reached up, placing his hand on Draco's hip. "You can't tell me you wouldn't enjoy it. I'm Harry Potter's son." It was encouraging enough that Draco didn't step away. "I could suck your cock if you like. One mess of black hair is the same as another..."
"Potter! If you can't contain yourself, I suggest you keep your mouth shut. I could give you detention for speaking to me like that!"
"Please do." Albus was on his feet now, and his hand had crept around to seize the man's arse, joined by the other.
"Potter..."
"Is there a problem, Professor?"
"Potter..."
"You're hard," Albus grinned. His hands had wandered, and Draco had let out a frightened kind of gasp when he'd pressed his hand firmly into his groin.
"I'm married," Draco protested.
"Denial."
"Go to hell, Potter."
"Now you're getting it."
Draco reached up, twisting his fingers in Albus' hair and pulling his head back. "You are playing a very dangerous game."
"I'm good at games," he countered.
"Not this one. You don't have a strategy, and you don't know the rules." Draco's long body pressed against his own, his teeth grazed against his throat. It was fantastically sensual.
"You're a teacher," Albus hissed. "So teach me."
The nearest wall had a Christmas tree standing in front of it, but Draco knocked it over as he thrust Albus back, grinding his erection firmly into his hip. He was heavy, stronger than Albus had expected, and frighteningly warm and real. His imagination hadn't quite prepared him for the delight of the nails digging into his scalp, the tingle of pain as Draco twisted his right hand back too far as he pinned it above his head, or the way each of these sensations sent sparks of pure pleasure pulsing through him, red hot.
"I'm not doing this," Draco growled, but his hips told a different story, thrusting roughly against Albus', grinding out his frustration against him. Albus lifted his leg, twisting it around Draco's, groaning at the friction as their robes rucked up between them, slender legs twisted together, straining in an effort to keep themselves upright.
"Fuck. Yes. Oh f-fuck..." Albus groaned as Draco released him, haphazardly wrapping his arms around the man's back in an effort to keep his balance. Draco sank against him, bent over, his hands plunging between them to pull ruthlessly at their robes, only to meet Albus' 'Yule Log' underwear hidden underneath.
Draco didn't have to say anything, he was laughing inside, Albus knew it. It took some wrestling to untangle Albus long enough to push his underwear down, and then they were moving together again, wanton, desperately grinding flesh to flesh. Words failed him...he'd wanted this for so long, and the reality certainly didn't disappoint.
It was over all too soon. Albus grunted and clawed at Draco as he came, but Draco took his time, holding him against the wall as he masturbated against his hip. When he came, it was with a quiet, breathy sob, and then they sank to the ground together, clinging to each other's hot bodies as though they were the only solid thing left in a world that had whizzed off its axis.
"Fuck," Albus groaned, when he felt like he had enough breath to use on words.
"Harry Potter would never say 'fuck'," Draco muttered, dropping his nose into his hair. "You're a terrible copy."
"How do you know?" Albus sniffed. "He might swear all the time if you did that with him."
"I know," Draco insisted, but Albus was sure he could hear him thinking as they lay quiet, and the silence stretched out. "Scorpius will be wondering where you are," he finally said.
"Yeah," Albus said, but it wasn't until Draco pushed him off so that his arse landed on the cold floor that he made any effort to move, and then he was up like a shot. "Fine! So next week?"
"We never talk about this again," Draco growled. "Never."
"Next week?" Albus pressed. "We don't have to talk."
Draco's eyes beamed hot and red into the back of Albus' head, so that he was sure he could still feel them even when he was half way down the corridor.
When he finally got back to the dormitory, Scorpius greeted him sleepily from his bed. "He-ey hero. Did you win?"
"Yeah," Albus grinned, dropping down into his own bed and fluffing up his pillow. "I sure did."
Pairing(s): Draco/Albus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: !!CHAN!! Repeat, Albus is not quite 16. Dub-con, slight violence, dirty talk, frotting, masturbation
Summary: Albus has a very ideal image of his first time. It involves dew-damp grass, bright sunlight and a handsome blond. Real life isn't quite as ideal, but to be honest, his standards aren't so high. He's be satisfied with just the blond.
Word Count: 5096
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s notes: Written for Snarkyscorp for the HP Nextgen exchange
Bluebells speckled the emerald grass, a line of trees broke the horizon and a thestral drifted above them. In the distance there was a castle; Hogwarts in all its glory, sunlight glinting from its windows. The foreground was the most striking part of the image: a young, dark haired man lay among the tiny purple flowers, twirling one between his fingertips, and approaching him was another youth, this one with hair that fluttered about him like a halo as he ran. Drawing in an extra wisp of hair with his quill then touching it with his wand to colour it a pale shade of blond, Albus Severus was hardly aware of his Professor leaning over his shoulder, tapping his leg irritably with the tips of his fingers.
"I do hope we're not disturbing you, Mr. Potter."
"What? Oh -- Professor Malfoy, I'm sorry." Albus sat back, holding his breath. Malfoy was a striking figure, his hair mid-length but neatly brushed back away from his eyes. It was almost a pleasure to look at him; he was like a piece of art. Unlike a piece of art, he wasn't confined behind a frame. Malfoy snatched up the piece of paper that he was poring over and studied it critically through his reading glasses.
"Fascinating...tell me, Mr. Potter, which year was the wizard Grindelwald defeated?"
Albus flushed. "1945," he spluttered.
"And who defeated him?"
"Albus Dumbledore, Sir."
The professor narrowed his eyes, piercingly. "Don't you think that Albus Dumbledore, a hero, would be disappointed that someone was not paying attention to a lesson about him?"
"My father says that..."
"Five points from Slytherin," Malfoy snapped. The rest of the class, deathly silent until now, gasped in shock. "I don't want to know what your father says, Potter. This is my class, and I expect you to listen to what I teach you."
"Yes sir," Albus answered, sullenly.
Malfoy, the confiscated picture gripped tightly in one hand, returned to the front of the classroom, and Albus sat uncomfortably, crossing his arms in front of him on the desk.
"I told you," he whispered out loud, when Malfoy was writing things on the blackboard again. "Your father hates me."
Scorpius, sat beside him, grinned despite himself. "He doesn't hate you. He hates your father, maybe."
"There's no 'maybe' about it, Scorpius. He hates my father, and he doesn't like me much either. If I didn't know so much about history, that'd be fine, but I grew up reading about Albus Dumbledore."
"And you're a genius," Scorpius sighed. "I can't stand history. You don't know what he's like at home."
Stuffing his hand into his mouth to muffle his laugh, Albus leaned back in his chair, looking up to read the blackboard. Thirteen uses of Dragonsblood. Didn't Malfoy know they'd done this already in Potions? He sighed and copied the words down so he couldn't get caught out. "Fancy getting in a bit of practice tonight?" he asked, glancing over toward Scorpius.
"I've got a ton of Potions to do; you know that," Scorpius murmured, still drawing out his loopy, extravagant handwriting.
"You can copy mine when we get back," Albus said. "We'll make some bits wrong on purpose, so they can't tell."
"Oh thanks," sniffed the blond, stabbing a full stop and dropping his quill back into the ink well. "I'm pretty good at potions, you know."
"Yeah, but like you said -- I'm a genius."
* - * - * - *
"Oh come on, just once more?"
Albus loved flying. He was rubbish at it, though admittedly only in comparison to his brother James, who was one of the best Seekers Gryffindor had ever had. Scorpius kept telling him that he was amazing, but he always told him things like that. His father, on the other hand, never said anything of the kind.
Harry Potter loved his oldest and first born son the best. Gryffindor, Prefect, Head Boy. James Potter had been the paragon of all things wonderful, and though Albus Severus had been his second son, and therefore just as loved, he'd been the youngest; growing up in the shadow of his siblings' exploits. Being sorted into Slytherin hadn't helped much either; as pleasant as his father had pretended to be about it, it was obvious that he was a disappointment. And even though Albus excelled in all of his classes, it had never quite been enough to make up for it.
It wouldn't have been so bad if his father wasn't Harry Potter, he decided. People always said 'Oh, you're Harry Potter's son, aren't you?' but somehow they'd stopped thinking he was cute as soon as he started wearing green striped scarves. The one time he'd gone upstairs and raided James' old school trunk, he'd almost been strangled by his older brother, despite protestations that he wanted to change houses. In the end, it had been Mrs. Weasley who had set him on the right track, "Don't tell daddy this," she'd told him, sparing a glance for Ron, who was busy playing snap with Harry. "But Mr. Malfoy and I are good friends, and he's your head of house. There's nothing at all wrong with being a Slytherin." When he went back to school that January, he made friends with Scorpius, and everything had gone right from then on.
He hovered back and forth, anticipating the rush of climbing back into the grey-white winter sky again. So his father thought James was a better flier, did he? He'd prove him wrong eventually. Eventually. And until then, he'd practice and practice and practice. He was just getting started, completely wired...
Scorpius, on the other hand, looked exhausted. His long blond hair had fallen loose of the tight ponytail it was kept in, thanks to the gusting wind, and his face was pink and freckled. "You can go if you like," he spluttered, "But I don't think I'll make it back to the changing rooms, let alone back into the air. Besides, my hands have frozen into icicles."
Albus grinned, punching his friend's shoulder, firmly. "Come on then, let's go warm up. I think I've got a couple of butterbeers in my trunk still."
By the time they got back to the Slytherin Common room, they were both warmed through again; a hot shower and a couple of spells had seen to that. Albus' hair was just starting to curl as it dried, completely out of control, as usual.
"Stay here," Albus hurried out of the room, disappearing through a door at the far end. A moment later he returned, holding up two bottles of butterbeer proudly.
"Watch out, Albus," Scorpius laughed, "The prefects will get you."
Albus tapped the prefect badge on his chest. It glittered proudly in the firelight, and he sat down, glancing up at his friend. "Here," he said, passing him the bottle. "Thanks for coming out with me. I know you hate flying."
"It's not so much the flying I hate," Scorpius admitted. "It's the falling I'm not keen on."
"Hey -- I caught you last time, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Scorpius grinned, "After telling me you were going to do it for the last four years and missing me every time. You were bound to catch me eventually."
"Hurt my shoulder doing it, though, and you were uninjured, as usual. Might as well have let the ground catch you."
"Thanks for that," Scorpius sighed, wryly. He broke open his bottle of butterbeer and collapsed back onto the sofa.
"No need to thank me." Sipping at his own drink, Albus sighed, enjoying the warmth of the fire. "I'll get on with your homework later, alright?"
"Whenever you like. Albus...are you going home for Christmas?"
"I don't know yet. Are you?"
"Mum's going to go stay with her family, and dad hates them, so I'm staying here."
"We always spend Christmas with the Weasleys, which is fun and all, but it's exhausting too. There's so many of them and they're all..." he trailed off.
"Gryffindors?" Scorpius suggested.
"Yeah," Albus bit his lip, staring at his hands as they curled around the bottle. "It's not that I don't love every one of them, it's that I've never really fit in with them, even before I was sorted. I'm just Albus Severus; the odd one out."
"You can stay with us?" Scorpius suggested. "I could convince my father..."
"Don't want to put you out, Scorpius..." Albus kept his eyes on the bottle, not wanting to betray the fact that spending Christmas with Scorpius and Draco would be like a dream come true. He was much too old for dreams coming true.
Scorpius didn't need to be told. He looked at Albus and smiled, hopefully. "I'd like it if you spent Christmas with us. You're my best friend, Albus, no matter what my father says, and it'd make me happy. Besides, it's not like he can stop you staying at Hogwarts over Christmas, right?"
He was too old to hug other boys, too, but he did blush, and took another swig of his butterbeer. "Thanks," he said.
* - * - * - *
Dear father,
I've been very graciously invited to spend Christmas with Scorpius and his father, here at Hogwarts. I hope you don't mind that I won't be coming back for Christmas, but I'd like to see what a Hogwarts Christmas is like, especially after all your stories. Try not to miss me too much.
Give my love to mum,
Albus Severus Potter
* - * - * - *
"My son tells me you wish to spend Christmas with us."
Albus had been waiting for this. When he'd reminded Scorpius about it, he'd just looked nervous, like someone who wasn't sure whether they wanted to admit to eating the last piece of cake that they'd found in the cupboard. Maybe this was why...? Professor Malfoy's lip was curled, somewhere between a snarl and laughter, and Albus didn't like the expression much; it twisted an otherwise handsome face.
"Um," Albus said.
That was all he managed. Draco moved forwards like white lightning, grabbed his collar and thrust him back against the wall behind the statue of Borris the Elder.
"Sir?"
"My son worships you, Potter. I don't know how it happened -- I don't know why -- but if I find out that you're taking advantage of him, then not even your father will be able to protect you."
Draco was breathing hard. It tickled against Albus' throat in a wonderfully arousing way, sending a thrill all the way through him. Draco's body was close to his own, blocking him from escape, his hands were twisted in his robes...
"What do you mean?" Albus asked, trying to keep himself from letting go to his unconscious desires and doing something thoroughly fantastical that would get him promptly expelled.
"The picture, Potter, of yourself and my son. You keep your disgusting Potter thoughts where they're supposed to be, do you understand?"
With that warning, Albus decided not to enlighten his professor as to the blond in the picture's true identity.
"I'll let you stay with us for Christmas, but that is it, Potter, do you understand?"
Albus nodded -- yes, he understood. As soon as Draco let him go, he hurried back to the dormitories, clinging on to the memory of that body pressed against his own, and said nothing to Scorpius when he asked what was wrong. Oh really, what was the point? He couldn't exactly tell him: Hey, Scorpius, I have the hots for your dad. It wasn't exactly going to go down well, was it?
* - * - * - *
"Have you read this?" James lifted the letter into the air and shook it. "He's not coming back for Christmas?"
"So your father tells me," Ginny said, putting a basket of hot bread rolls on the table, and smacking James' hand when he reached out for them. "They're for dinner."
"It doesn't bother you that he's staying with the Malfoys for Christmas?"
"Albus can look after himself," Ginny said. "I still can't believe they let him teach though."
"I heard from a guy at work that he was a Death Eater. Said he has the scar and everything."
"You shouldn't listen to ugly rumours, James." Harry had just come in through the kitchen door, shrugging off his heavy Auror robes, which were dripping all over the kitchen floor.
"Harry Potter!" Ginny exclaimed. "What do you think you're doing to my beautiful floor?"
"You turn more into your mother every day, Gin."
"You think so?!" Ginny's voice teetered on the edge of shrill. She had a wooden spoon gripped in one hand, but looked positively homicidal. For once, James was relieved that it wasn't him that she was angry with, and grinned as his father ducked out of the kitchen hurriedly. Still, Dad was right; James' mother was a lot like his gran; but at least he wasn't stupid enough to say it out loud!
When his father finally came back to the kitchen, he was dry, and his mother was serving up dinner. James finally got his hands on a roll, which was disappointingly cold. "So is he?" he asked, sitting back to pull the roll apart.
"What?" Harry asked, glancing up.
"A Death Eater."
"Oh." Harry reached for a plate. "I think you should ask him yourself."
"Right," James ground out. "So he is. Thanks for telling me, Dad."
"James!" Ginny sat down. "Do you realise how much trouble your father could get in to? The Malfoys are a powerful family."
"Yeah," James snorted. "And my dad's Harry Potter. Nobody will touch us."
Harry frowned, serving himself a spoonful of stew. "Malfoy saved my life once. I'm asking you, James, please keep it to yourself. A rumour is a rumour, but a fact can do a lot of damage. The school board would throw him out, just like they did Remus."
James sighed, throwing himself back so that the chair rocked. Teddy Lupin was his closest friend, and it was just underhanded to bring up his father. "Fine," he sniffed. "I won't say a word. But don't you think...don't you think it's a bit dangerous leaving Albus to stay with them for Christmas?"
"He's at Hogwarts, James. There's no safer place in the world."
"Sure," James laughed. "Because your education wasn't fantastically life threatening, Dad."
Harry grinned and dug into his dinner. Halfway through his mouthful, his face dropped. "Still," he said thoughtfully, "I hope Albus doesn't go getting himself in trouble."
* - * - * - *
It was obvious, Albus thought, that Draco Malfoy despised the idea of spending Christmas with a Potter.
Scorpius and Albus had sat next to him all the way through dinner in the great hall -- it was beautifully decorated with stunning white Christmas trees and shining stars that sparkled along in time with the music being played by phantom violins that spun about of their own volition above the dinner table and frequently stopped to serenade the headmistress until she threatened to transfigure Flitwick into a gobstopper if he didn't stop them.
They'd each worn the most ridiculous Christmas crowns which had erupted from the Christmas crackers, even Professor Malfoy, who's crown had been filled with lucid pink stones, and whom, despite having attempted to trade it, had found the thing eventually attached to his own head after a stern look from the headmistress.
After they were full of mulled wine and turkey, they left the table, and Albus followed Scorpius back to their rooms, talking animatedly about the book that Hermione had sent him, a particularly unhappy looking Professor Malfoy following behind. Albus tried to concentrate on the conversation, rather than the daggers piercing the back of his head. He hadn't forgotten his confrontation with Professor Malfoy yet; or the feelings that the close contact had invoked.
"Idiot," Albus grinned, smacking his friend on the arm. He just about heard Draco's growl, but decided to pretend he hadn't. He didn't know he could growl like that...it was arousing. No -- not arousing. Bad Albus. He had to keep his mind off that kind of thing, especially with Scorpius here. He was a Slytherin for a reason.
"Only in comparison to you, you know. If I had anyone else as a friend, then I'd be the clever one. You're too clever for your own good."
Albus shook his head. "I don't mean it."
"You should," Scorpius blushed, and suddenly Albus understood. Scorpius did worship him, or something like it, just like Draco said.
When he realised, he instantly felt uncomfortable, and he grabbed hold of his friend's arm and whisked him further down the corridor until they were hopefully out of earshot. "Look, Scorpius...you don't have to compare yourself to me. We're friends...and that means, you know...that I have a total respect for you that goes beyond academia and stuff. It doesn't matter who scores higher on a test, I would be friends with you whether you were a genius, or whether you had frogspawn for brains, right?"
He'd never seen Scorpius look so happy.
Draco seemed oddly generous when they made it back to the dungeon rooms. He gave them a jug of Serizins Fizzing Avocat and sat them in front of the fire with one of the finest wizard chess sets Albus had ever seen. As his knight's horse cantered across the board and reared over Scorpius' queen, flashing its ivory hooves and gashing her gown, Albus thought he caught Draco watching, and reached to refill his glass.
After four matches, and a couple of glasses, Scorpius stood up. "I'm going to head to bed, but you can stay up if you like. Dad?" Scorpius looked distinctly unsteady, and his words were slurred, "Why don't you play with Albus. He's too good for me."
"Yeah," Albus said, slowly, glancing up towards the older man. "Just one game, though. I ought to be getting to bed too." He took another sip of the drink -- he'd been going at it for a while now, one sip at a time, and had lost count of how many glasses he'd steadily made his way through.
The man looked quite bewildered by the request, but his mask slipped back into place soon enough, and he settled down opposite Albus, studying him. "You look just like your father did at your age," he remarked, as soon as Scorpius was out of the room. "Far more so than your older brother."
"That the best conversation you can make?" Albus asked, eyeing him. "Besides, nobody in their right mind would agree with you. James is much more like my dad." Were they really discussing his father? The topic was usually off limits.
"Much more like him, certainly." Draco began to rearrange the pieces on the board. His long fingers brushed against the ebony and ivory lovingly, and Albus found that he was watching altogether too closely. He crossed his legs under the table. "James Potter was the most arrogant little whelp I've ever had the misfortune to teach," the other man continued, "He hadn't the slightest interest in Wizarding History, and thought that everyone should worship the ground he walked on, as though it were he who had defeated the Dark Lord."
"Sounds like James," Albus ground out.
"You, however, look much more like him. Your behaviour isn't altogether unlike his, but you have an advantage..." Albus raised an eyebrow, "...You're far more intelligent."
Albus blushed. "I'll tell him you said that." He looked back at the board. Draco had given him white. "I'd rather be black," he suggested.
"You see, I'm not a fool either. I watched you play with Scorpius. You used the same method each time, starting with black, and he was simply too inaebriated to realise it. Scorpius does like a drink. No. You can start, Mr. Potter."
With a scowl, Albus urged the Queen's pawn forward and sat back in his chair, trying to pay close attention to the chess board, and not the way that Draco's chest rose and fall, or the tapping of his fingernails on the edge of the table. Draco opened with his knight, and Albus shrank back a little. He knew that opening - and sure enough, the moves that came after were his too. He'd have to work out how to defeat his own offence.
"Um..." he said, glancing up. "So you were in school with my father, right?"
"That's a stupid question, Potter. If you're interested in cute stories about your father, I suggest you ask someone else."
Albus flushed. "No...I wanted... Um. I was hoping you could give me a different perspective, that's all." Draco's laugh caught Albus off guard. He looked up, startled. "What's so funny?"
"A different perspective. It's certainly that." Draco countered one of Albus' moves with his queen, forcing him on the defensive once more. "Your father was the bane of my existence."
"Isn't that taking the piss? The bane of your existence is a bit extravagant."
"Not in the slightest. Harry Potter was the bane of my existence. If you doubt it, you can ask him." Draco motioned toward the fire invitingly.
"Er...no." Albus grinned. "I don't think my father would appreciate my sticking in here with you after Scorpius has gone to bed."
"Why are you still here?" Draco regarded him piercingly, and Albus almost faltered. "It's not just for a game of chess, is it?"
"Just chess." His voice squeaked unpleasantly, and he bit his lip and pushed his pawn forward without thinking. Draco's queen stopped to caress the young man's cheek before running him through with her sceptre. It was quite brutal.
"How do you feel about a bet?" Draco asked, out of the blue. "If you win..." He hummed, brushing his fingers along the edge of the board, "...Then I'll let you visit the Manor for a fortnight during the summer."
Hesitantly, Albus looked up. Spend a fortnight at Malfoy Manor? It would be fantastic. "Why would you do that?"
"Because it would annoy your family considerably," Draco answered, a smirk dancing across his lips.
"I...okay. But what if you win?"
"The terms can be discussed later," Draco murmured.
Albus shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. In fact, it's probably a stupid idea." Not knowing what he might lose in a bet with another Slytherin. It could be dangerous. But a fortnight at Malfoy Manor... He chewed at his lip and pulled his hand back from the chess board, rather than make another stupid move and get himself into check. "Fine. But I won't lose."
He lost. It only took Draco five more moves to pin him into check mate, and Albus cursed at his own lack of concentration. It had been obvious he was going to do that! He scowled and sank back into the chair, irritatedly.
"So what do you want?" Albus grunted. He wasn't a very good loser.
"I want you to finish the picture."
Surprised, Albus sat up, blinking, "You're kidding, right?"
"Certainly not. Finish it. I have some special ink you can use; the kind they use on magical paintings to bring them to life. The character of the people you've drawn, brought to life in the painting. All of your thoughts crafting their personalities. I wish to see what they do, but only the painter can finish it."
"No," Albus said, bright red now. "I can't finish it."
"You will." Draco had summoned the ink and the picture, and lay them out before Albus. "Finish it."
Albus stared at his little people, placid and static in their frozen forms. He knew what would happen if he released them onto the page. The blond would push the scruffy haired boy back into the bluebells, their hands would be all over each other. "You can't," he protested, but he reached for the ink anyway, taking the quill that Draco provided.
As he drew in the last line, and leaned to blow on the ink, the little people came to life. Draco Malfoy, alive in vibrant ink, moved towards the young man, caught his hand and twisted it back behind his head, pushing him hard into the blue-green grass. Unable to look away, Albus watched as they writhed together, crushing flowers in their hurry to undress; a flurry of lips and hands and long tongues of decadent inky flesh.
Draco's breath was heavy on the back of his throat, and Albus turned his head, trying to swallow back the fear of being so close to his Professor - to this older man - to his best friend's handsome, unattainable father. He was getting hard just thinking about it, and when he dared to glance back at the painting, the drawn versions of themselves were lying panting in the battlefield that had once been a meadow, painted sweat dripping off their slender bodies.
"So how exactly, do you explain that?" Draco asked. Albus' heart felt as though it were pressing against his tongue, stopping him from speaking.
"Um," he said instead. "Um."
"Um. Very eloquent."
"It seems your fantasies about my son are quite graphic, Potter."
"But they're not about him!" He said it before he even realised he was saying it. "No, I mean..."
But Draco was looking at him with a strange kind of realisation dawning on his face. His lips closed into a thin, white line, and Albus held his breath.
"I haven't had nearly enough wine," he finally ground out, sounding like a creaky carriage wheel, "to permit that kind of ridiculous..."
Albus interrupted, emboldened. "Are you saying you would if you were more drunk? Or maybe you might let down your polished veneer enough to try it?"
"You're sixteen," Draco hissed. "Not even. It's impossible."
"It's not impossible," Albus responded, firmly.
"You don't have the slightest clue, do you? You teenagers and your hormones. My life teeters on the edge already, and yet you expect me to throw it to the wind so that you can enjoy a little fondle and a romp between the sheets."
"I wouldn't tell anyone." He had a sniff of the winning line now. Draco was on the back foot.
"Wouldn't tell anyone?! I'd bloody well hope not!"
Albus reached up, placing his hand on Draco's hip. "You can't tell me you wouldn't enjoy it. I'm Harry Potter's son." It was encouraging enough that Draco didn't step away. "I could suck your cock if you like. One mess of black hair is the same as another..."
"Potter! If you can't contain yourself, I suggest you keep your mouth shut. I could give you detention for speaking to me like that!"
"Please do." Albus was on his feet now, and his hand had crept around to seize the man's arse, joined by the other.
"Potter..."
"Is there a problem, Professor?"
"Potter..."
"You're hard," Albus grinned. His hands had wandered, and Draco had let out a frightened kind of gasp when he'd pressed his hand firmly into his groin.
"I'm married," Draco protested.
"Denial."
"Go to hell, Potter."
"Now you're getting it."
Draco reached up, twisting his fingers in Albus' hair and pulling his head back. "You are playing a very dangerous game."
"I'm good at games," he countered.
"Not this one. You don't have a strategy, and you don't know the rules." Draco's long body pressed against his own, his teeth grazed against his throat. It was fantastically sensual.
"You're a teacher," Albus hissed. "So teach me."
The nearest wall had a Christmas tree standing in front of it, but Draco knocked it over as he thrust Albus back, grinding his erection firmly into his hip. He was heavy, stronger than Albus had expected, and frighteningly warm and real. His imagination hadn't quite prepared him for the delight of the nails digging into his scalp, the tingle of pain as Draco twisted his right hand back too far as he pinned it above his head, or the way each of these sensations sent sparks of pure pleasure pulsing through him, red hot.
"I'm not doing this," Draco growled, but his hips told a different story, thrusting roughly against Albus', grinding out his frustration against him. Albus lifted his leg, twisting it around Draco's, groaning at the friction as their robes rucked up between them, slender legs twisted together, straining in an effort to keep themselves upright.
"Fuck. Yes. Oh f-fuck..." Albus groaned as Draco released him, haphazardly wrapping his arms around the man's back in an effort to keep his balance. Draco sank against him, bent over, his hands plunging between them to pull ruthlessly at their robes, only to meet Albus' 'Yule Log' underwear hidden underneath.
Draco didn't have to say anything, he was laughing inside, Albus knew it. It took some wrestling to untangle Albus long enough to push his underwear down, and then they were moving together again, wanton, desperately grinding flesh to flesh. Words failed him...he'd wanted this for so long, and the reality certainly didn't disappoint.
It was over all too soon. Albus grunted and clawed at Draco as he came, but Draco took his time, holding him against the wall as he masturbated against his hip. When he came, it was with a quiet, breathy sob, and then they sank to the ground together, clinging to each other's hot bodies as though they were the only solid thing left in a world that had whizzed off its axis.
"Fuck," Albus groaned, when he felt like he had enough breath to use on words.
"Harry Potter would never say 'fuck'," Draco muttered, dropping his nose into his hair. "You're a terrible copy."
"How do you know?" Albus sniffed. "He might swear all the time if you did that with him."
"I know," Draco insisted, but Albus was sure he could hear him thinking as they lay quiet, and the silence stretched out. "Scorpius will be wondering where you are," he finally said.
"Yeah," Albus said, but it wasn't until Draco pushed him off so that his arse landed on the cold floor that he made any effort to move, and then he was up like a shot. "Fine! So next week?"
"We never talk about this again," Draco growled. "Never."
"Next week?" Albus pressed. "We don't have to talk."
Draco's eyes beamed hot and red into the back of Albus' head, so that he was sure he could still feel them even when he was half way down the corridor.
When he finally got back to the dormitory, Scorpius greeted him sleepily from his bed. "He-ey hero. Did you win?"
"Yeah," Albus grinned, dropping down into his own bed and fluffing up his pillow. "I sure did."