Work Text:
“Good evening, Mr. Potter. What’re you working on?”
Harry glances up from the workbench, and Scorpius is careful to keep his posture disarming, neutral even, hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. He does not stare at the sweat dripping down Harry’s forehead, his temples. Nor at the plaid shirt stained with motor oil and dirt. It looks older than the both of them, well worn. Harry turns his attention back to his work, his shoulders noticeably stiffer than before, a forced nonchalance in his voice. Shit. But it’s to be expected. “Hey, Scorp. Just getting ready to change the oil on the bike. Sorry, Al’s not home.”
It’s alright, he expected this. He was prepared for this. Scorpius keeps his voice pleasant and soft, not overly sweet. “I know. He’s at the manor.”
Harry, who’d been turning a muggle tool, the sound a slow grinding that echoes through the garage, pauses. The sudden quiet is a bit alarming, but Scorpius waits it out while Harry hesitates, then looks back, finally meeting his eyes. “…What do you mean, he’s at the manor?”
Scorpius swallows his trepidation down and steps closer. He’s taller than Harry, but he makes himself small, looks up at him through his lashes. “He’s with father. And I’m here, with you.”
The tool in his hand, some metal thing with a curved head, clatters onto the garage floor from Harry’s suddenly loose grip. “Scorp…”
Scorpius lets his lips curl into a slow smile, enjoying the slow burning flush across Harry’s cheeks, down his neck, the way those green eyes trail his body quickly, as if he can’t help it. “Well, you said no more polyjuice, right? So, we haven’t used any.”
Harry goes utterly still, the workbench behind him forgotten, Sirius’s old bike left rumbling quiet in the garage. He can see it, the way Harry’s throat works. “Scorpius,” His voice is an attempt at being firm, but there’s cracks in the edges. “no.”
That’s alright too, because he planned for this. Scorpius breathes in sharply like he’s been struck, and starts to blink rapidly, it’s difficult to do this properly, to not make it obvious, he lets his breathing pick up so his cheeks grow flushed. He looks away, “But…I…” He closes his eyes, and lets out a breath, makes it tremble just a little. “Yes. Of course, you’re right, I’m sorry I—I don’t know what I was thinking.“
“Scorp—“
He wraps his arms around himself, he’s worn his old Slytherin jumper, one size too big and falling off his bare shoulders, and his school trousers. He took great pains, too, in order to style his hair like he’d seen father’s done in a photograph from fifth year. Scorpius makes sure to angle his head, so his profile catches the light. He swallows. “No, it’s alright. I understand why you wouldn’t want me, I know I can’t compare to my father.”
“That’s not—Scorpius, that isn’t the point.” He isn’t looking at Harry, he’s careful not to, he has to trust he’s getting the reaction he wants, the guilt, the hesitation, it’s all in Harry’s voice.
Scorpius keeps his gaze on the tools hanging from the wall. “But it is, isn’t it?” He laughs quietly, pained. “You know, the polyjuice…that was my idea.” It wasn’t, it was both of theirs, but Albus won’t care, he’s probably spinning his own tale as they speak. He looks up through his pale lashes at Harry, bites his lower lip. “I thought- I knew you wouldn’t want me, not me, as I am. Not unless I looked like…But I just…I couldn’t stop thinking about…”
Harry runs a hand over his face, presses his palm hard against his scar, his eyes closing as he breathes in deep. “Scorpius, I-”
“You don’t, ah, you don’t have to say anything.” Scorpius chances a small step closer while Harry isn’t paying attention. “It was stupid, I know that. It’s just...”
Mr. Potters hand falls away from his face, then, and he slowly looks up at Scorpius who, swallowing, carefully, takes another step closer, keeps his gaze to the floor. Harry doesn’t move back, doesn’t try to put distance between them. Breathing in slowly, Scorpius waits, lets the silence sit the tension in the air is pulled so taut that Harry’s magic reacts to it. The room is warm, vibrating almost, the tools on the walls trembling ever so softly. “You felt so good .” Scorpius breathes, meeting his eyes and hiding his surge of triumph as Harry’s breath catches.
“Scorpius-“ he sounds pained, then, and Scorpius flicks his gaze down just quickly enough to see the bulge in Harry’s trousers. Merlin and Morgana but he wants to sink to his knees and nuzzle against it, take him into his mouth, swallow it down until he’s drooling on it, until his lips are red and messy from it like they are when he deep throats Albus.
The need is heavy, making his pulse throb, its what has him taking a step closer, one, two, but before he can take the third Harry shakes his head, his hands clutching tight at the work bench behind him, like he’s desperately holding them back. “Scorpius,” He chokes, “Your father would kill me.”
Your father , he says. He doesn ’t say no. He doesn’t say, get away. He must want to, he must want him and Scorpius fights to hide the triumph he feels, the swoop of utter giddiness and power. Harry Potter, wants him. “My father,” Scorpius begins, firming his voice just a little, just enough to snap Harry to attention, and that pleased thing inside of him begins trembling with excitement. “Is currently with Albus.” He moves just a tiny bit closer, knowing he has to play this right. “We would’ve known by now, if nothing was happening. Which means something is. Which means this, is fine.”
The truth of it seems to sink in, and Harry’s shoulders slump, his grip on the work bench going loose, and Scorpius feels his heart in his throat, beating with fear. “No. No, It’s not.” Harry runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes, as if he cannot bare to look at Scorpius, and that’s how he knows this is the critical moment, it could go either way. He just has to play it right, not let himself get overly excited. He forces in a slow breath, and listens to Harry’s entreaty, meeting his eyes. “How can I make you see that this is wrong?”
“Is it?” Scorpius has always been a bolder man than people expect, and he uses that boldness now, borrowing some Gryffindor courage, and stepping closer to Harry. Just a little. “Why? I’m an adult. We are both of us adults. I am consenting, and sound of mind, and I want you.”
There’s a flash of something in Harry’s eyes, a sudden pain, and desperate wish, not hidden quickly enough and Scorpius knows all at once that this is it. That’s his way in. He has him, knows it in his bones, feels it in his throat as he whispers, “Oh. Oh, Harry , ” Scorpius’s heart aches for him as he closes the distance between them, and the hunted look in Harry Potter’s eyes would make a lesser man think twice, would make them terrified, ready to run but Scorpius knows him, was practically raised by him. Harry won’t hurt him, Harry can ’t hurt him.
Scorpius is thankful, now more than ever, that he inherited his father’s height. He presses a soft hand to the rough curve of Harry’s cheek, strokes his thumb over the rasping shadow of facial hair. “You’ve never been told that before, have you?” The way those green eyes widen is answer enough. So he smiles, sweetly, and leans in like he’s telling a secret. “Then allow me be the first,” Holding Harry’s face with both hands, Scorpius does his best imitation of his fathers voice. “I want you, Harry Potter. I have always wanted you.”
He doesn’t feel bad for lying. He can’t, not when Harry’s eyes widen, not when an expression flashes over his face, a yearning, an ache, not when he’s sure, sure that Harry is seeing Father in his face. Perhaps these are words he’s always wanted to hear from Draco Malfoy. And perhaps father is a fool for not giving them sooner.
Harry’s lips are wet when they kiss. Wet and full and slack, but Scorpius doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t push, he just…nudges. Just tilts his head forward, lets the barest hint of his tongue stroke across that lower lip, and when Harry finally kisses back, his shoulders sink, and his lips part, and he’s so warm, so soft inside. No wonder father is obsessed with him, no wonder father is obsessed with being inside of him. Scorpius loses himself in the kiss all too quickly, a shuddering sigh of pleasure when their tongues curl together, when Harry explores his mouth. It tingles, he can taste Harry’s butterbeer and his own breath freshening charm mixing together, minty and sweet all at once.
Harry pulls back first, the moment Scorpius’s chest starts to twinge. “Scorp-“ He pants, but letting him talk is the worst possible decision. Scorpius kisses him instead, open mouthed and wet this time, whimpering into it and pressing himself closer to Harry, letting his hands stroke down his sides, until his thumbs circle Harry’s strong wrists, pulls them closer, press his hot palms against Scorpius’s thin hips. When he pulls back, the flush has risen all the way to his scalp, prickling hot. “Shh,” Scorpius whispers. “I want you Harry. I want you so badly. Let me. Just let me.” He swallows Harry’s breath with another kiss, then, their lips drag apart, softly clinging, then Scorpius slowly lowers himself to his knees.
He lets his fingers stroke over the leather of Harry’s belt, both hands, edging closer to his prize in the middle, following the seam of his jeans. The metal clinks, softly, as he unbuckles it, as he watches Harry’s resolve crumbling in his eyes. Scorpius softens his features, “ Please . ”
Adam’s apple bobbing, there’s a war playing out on Harry’s handsome face, in those gorgeous green eyes of his, but there’s a flush on his cheeks, too, and a sharp uptick in the rise and falls of his breaths, and Scorpius doesn’t look away from those eyes. He has the sense that, if he breaks eye contact, if he falters, even for a second, Harry will come to his senses. Will firm his voice. Will ask Scorpius to leave.
So he doesn’t look away, he holds that stare and knows just exactly what it is about Harry that father finds so compelling. There’s something so, so utterly thrilling, to be the center of all that intensity, of that attention. It was different, under the polyjuice, Harry wasn’t really seeing him, but now, just as he is, Harry is looking right through him and Scorpius wants him, wants him so badly he’s salivating with it.
Slowly, so, so slowly, the hand on his shoulder falls away, the last barrier between them and, just as slowly, without looking away from the wildflower green of Harry’s eyes, Scorpius sinks to his knees, fingers unbuckling his belt, undoing his zip. He feels more than sees that gorgeous prick bared to him already more than half hard, and the thought that Harry wasn’t wearing pants, that he’s already hard because of Scorpius, is enough to have him shuddering, licking his lips.
Then he does exactly as he’d imagined, he leans in, nuzzling his cheek over that gorgeous prick, moaning softly at the brush of precome over his skin, at the pulsing heat of him. Above him, Harry gasps, fingers twitching at his sides, and Scorpius wants those hands in his hair, but apparently Harry’s not ready for that yet. Instead he’s quick to clutch at the work bench, as if to hold himself back. Scorpius doesn’t push, he doesn’t focus on anything but the green of those eyes, but the heat radiating from Harry, from the scent of him and his own lips parting to whisper. “I’ve been dreaming about this.”
And then he’s opening his mouth, offering his very pink, very wet tongue to Harry, offering his mouth, his body. He still doesn’t look away, and that green has grown dark, a dazed sort of intensity, a sharp tension in the air, a precipice that Scorpius is content to linger on, however long Harry needs.
Slowly, achingly slowly, one of the hands clutching the workbench lets go, and Scorpius waits, breathing so lightly he thinks he might pass out, his tongue tingling in the open air, but he refuses to look away as that hand wavers, and then Harry is swallowing so thickly that he can hear it. Before he takes himself in hand and, carefully, gently, presses the head of his prick to the center of Scorpius’s tongue.
At the first taste of him, their eye contact breaks, because Scorpius’s eyes roll back in pure pleasure, a breathless, whimpering little moan catching in his throat. It’s permission, it’s a yes, all at once, and he hears Harry’s shuddering breath as he tilts his head forward, taking Harry’s gorgeous prick deeper into his mouth, it twitches, surges, leaking hot and salty and perfect, and Scorpius is crawling forward on his knees, moaning when large hands bury in his hair, when Harry chokes out a broken gasp, when he has to pull one hand away to keep his balance against the work bench, knees trembling.
Scorpius doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t, but Morgana help him, he wants to . He has never, in all his life, felt as powerful as he does in this moment. He swallows down deeper, gag reflex trained out of him by Albus’s lovely prick by the time they reached sixteen, and nearly comes at the way Harry cries out, the way he starts to shudder, his thick thighs going tight under Scorpius’s hands. The flexing muscle, the heavy breaths. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect, and if he does this just right, if he gets this just right, if he asks just as he’s planned to, he’ll have this gorgeous prick splitting him open right on that work bench.
But before he can pull back, say anything, Harry is there, gently pulling him away, pulling him up from the ground and Scorpius is ready to argue, to whimper, plead, but then Harry is taking his chin and dragging him in and kissing him. It gets sloppy quickly, Scorpius wants to taste him, taste all of him, moaning into his mouth and Harry’s big hands are everywhere, all over him, running down his back and grabbing his arse through his trousers.
Scorpius yelps when, all at once, he’s lifted like he weighs nothing, lifted and turned and set down on the work bench, Harry between his legs, Harry ’s mouth on his, his tongue. The pure triumph he feels has him reaching for Harry with greedy fingers, unbuttoning his plaid shirt with, moaning when he gets them free, when he can run his palms over that hairy chest, clutching him closer. Harry’s answering noise vibrates in that chest, against Scorpius’s hands, and it’s such a gorgeous sound. He wants to hear it again, needs to make it happen, but before he can that mouth moves to his neck, to his throat, licking and sucking hot and desperate, and Harry Potter’s heavy prick is there between his thighs, hard and wet for him. Scorpius can’t believe his luck, can’t believe this is happening, he hast to touch it again, he wants it in his mouth again, he needs it inside of him.
Harry’s strong hangs are at his waist, pulling down his trousers, groaning when he sees Scorpius wasn’t wearing pants beneath them, and then that big hand is wrapping around his prick, pumping and he’s whimpering, really writhing, really playing it up, the desperate schoolboy act. If Albus were here, he’d be snickering, teasing him. But Harry just looks at him with those blazing emerald eyes, and Scorpius meets them, parted lips and flushed cheeks, and whispers. “Inside me. I need you inside me.” It isn’t enough, he knows it isn’t, because despite the desire in those eyes, there’s hesitation, too. So Scorpius lifts his hips, drags himself forward on the bench until his hard prick is brushing against Harry’s stomach, he looks up at Harry from beneath his lashes, licks his lips until they’re wet and glistening, and drops his voice into the most subtle imitation of hie father he can manage, “I need you, Harry, please. ”
Scorpius Malfoy can’t help his smirk of triumph when Harry Potter’s breath catches, and he falls forward into his arms, kissing him desperately.
—
There’s something digging into his back, something vaguely sharp and metallic, and the metal work table is uncomfortably flat, and there’s the scent of petrol in the air, and wood dust, and despite all that, Scorpius thinks this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s hard not to just stare, awestruck, because Harry Potter is above him, his plaid shirt not even entirely off, just unbuttoned, his hairy chest sweat soaked, his pebbled brown nipples, the look on his face, the flush of his cheeks, and Morgana help him, his prick, thick and so perfect, sinking inside of him.
And this time, this time he isn’t pretending to be father, he’s just himself, in his own body, and he can just, let go. Let utterly go. Let himself whine like he were a desperate, weak little thing, utterly at someone’s mercy. The way he can’t do with Albus, because they know each other too well, too much truth between them to play games like that and believe it, and not laugh. But with Harry, he can sink into it, shift bare down on his heavy prick like a desperate little slut, “so good,” he whimpers, and tries not to let himself smirk when Harry chokes. So, he likes that then, then, does he? “Please, Harry, you feel so good.” he pleads, the flush burning across his skin, arcing over his chest, the need in his gut. “Deeper, yes, oh, oh ”. It might be a little too much, but Harry is shuddering, and Scorpius looks down at their bodies. At Harry’s lovely prick, sinking into him, at himself, divested of his trousers and pants, in nothing but a rucked up Slytherin jumper, his thighs spread wide, his legs, thin and pale and breakable, over Harry’s shoulders.
He looks small compared to Harry, looks sweet, like a school boy seducing his professor, like every filthy fantasy he ’s ever had about Harry fucking into him, his big hands and his strong thighs and his prick. Those green, green eyes, the perfect, panting control of him, Harry ’s hot breaths as he pushes in deeper, deeper. He doesn’t thrust sharply, even though he wants to, Scorpius knows he wants to, he can see it in how his thighs are trembling, can feel his prick flexing when he lets out a little whimper. “ Ah, ah, ” and finally, finally Harry is fully inside of him and Scorpius, he can’t take it, it’s so good, it’s so much, and his arms are wrapping around Harry’s neck, pulling him in, pushing himself further onto the work table of the filthy garage, their lips clumsy, Scorpius trying to catch them, his tongue stroking across Harry’s own, sloppy and wet and pretending at inexperience like he hasn’t been making out and fucking for the last four years. “It’s so good, Harry,” he whimpers, “so good, please, Harry, please, please,”
“Fuck.” Harry gasps, and he’s driving his hips forward, and the sudden burst of pleasure through him is like a lightning bolt, goosebumps climb up his arms, a shudder rushing down his spine and suddenly he feels insane with it, bearing down on Harry’s prick.
“Yes, yes, yes, Harry, yes!”
Harry chokes, groans, driving his hips forward again, and again, and the table starts to shake a little and Scorpius clings to him, holds his shoulders, bearing down, needing to feel him, every inch of him, needing to be bruised up from the inside, absolutely, utterly—
“Scorp, not so, fuck, not so tight” Harry pants, and Scorpius nearly comes, to hear the nickname that Harry has called him a hundred times, a thousand times, in that tone. He half expects Harry to smile at him, and ruffle his hair, and he whimpers, feeling himself leaking, dripping between them, making an absolute mess. “Just, try to relax,” Harry says, his voice trembling like he’s trying to be patient, his thrusts gone slow, nearly stopping.
Scorpius wants to whine at him, to just loosen, obey immediately, just to get Harry to start pounding into him, but a thought strikes him, something that makes him near dizzy with arousal to imagine, and he finds himself whispering. “It feels so good, you’re so big, Harry, I can’t— I can’t—“ and he clenches around that delicious prick again, just to feel it flex, just to hear the full body groan that Harry makes, his knees nearly giving out. But Scorpius knows he won’t come, knows he’s got too much control for that.
It takes a second for Harry to talk again, and Scorpius admires the view of him, his closed eyes and the deep flush across his face, the beading sweat on his forehead and the riot of his curls. The clenching of his muscles, his strong arms, his thick thighs, the way his stomach bunches, jumps. “Just,” Harry manages, “just breathe in slow, okay? Slow.”
Scorpius obeys, a slow breath, he shifts, though, and whines again, clenches again and Harry is pressing a strong hand to his stomach. “Breathe against my hand, make your stomach expand okay?” And Scorpius nods, looking down at his little stomach against Harry’s big hand, and pulling in air, pushing against that palm, and Harry’s looking down, too, watching the rise and fall.
“Like this?” Scorpius whispers, making his voice dip into something high and sweet. “Am I doing it right?” He lifts his hips a little, gives a little tremble, and loosens his muscles ever so slightly.
“Yeah,” Harry breathes, distracted by his own hand on Scorpius’s stomach, and as if in a trance, he slides the palm all the way down, teasing the leaking tip of Scorpius’s prick, and they both watch as Harry’s fingers tease the head, he’s so pale, every inch of him, and his prick is so pink, the head so red and flushed.
He lifts his hips as best as he can into the touch, his throat gone heavy and wet, and whimpers as he forces his muscles to relax. “Harry, Harry, did I do it right?”
Just like that…Harry’s hand is around his prick, his big hand, pumping him slow and precise, watching the dribble of his precome as it coats his knuckles. “Good boy.”
Oh fuck, oh fuck. He almost comes, he actually almost comes, , feels himself leaking so much that Harry’s grip on him goes slick, and his prick is aching and he’s arching his hips, and he hates it when Albus calls him a good boy, he hates it, it’s pedantic and infuriating but in Harry’s strong voice— “Please fuck me,” he gasps, “Please daddy!”
Harry freezes. So, does Scorpius. Oh, fuck. The hand on him goes utterly still, and Scorpius has just a split second to call himself a fucking idiot, because he ’s doing this, he dressed like this, to pretend to be a younger version of his father. Not because he has some sort of weird daddy kink. B ut instead he ’s fucking ruined it by saying something he didn ’t even plan. He doesn’t even know where it’s come from, he’s never said such a thing in bed before, he’s never wanted to say such a thing, it had just burst out of him, and Scorpius swallows, desperate to take it back, trying to figure out how to apologize, how to not ruin this, what to do it keep that delicious prick inside of him, to get Harry to finish him .
But before he can speak, Harry’s hand is off of him, and Scorpius is about to bring out the fake tears, or call him Potter in his father ’s voice, spit at him, beg, something, when all at once he’s being grabbed by the hips, roughly dragged forward, his back scraping across whatever metal thing is beneath him on the table, and his legs are being thrown over Harry’s shoulders, and suddenly he’s being fucked .
The abrupt shock of pleasure has him crying out, and above him Harry’s eyes have gone dark and green and intense, his grip on Scorpius’s thighs bruising, his prick is hard, so hard and so hot and Scorpius is clutching at his shoulders, his hair, and he’s crying out, “yes, yes, Daddy, Daddy!!”
Harry groans like he’s in pain, like the pleasure is being forced from him, his hips ramming forward until the work table beneath them is shaking.
“Daddy!” There’s tears in his eyes, it feels so good, fuck it’s so, “-so good, daddy, daddy please, deeper, daddy!”
Distantly Scorpius knows he’s digging his nails into Harry’s shoulders, knows he’s probably breaking skin, distantly, he’s aware how the entire room is shaking, not just the work bench beneath them, ramming into the wall even though it’s bolted down to the floor, but the tools are trembling, and there’s magic hot in the air, sparking across his skin, Harry’s magic. But none of that matters because Harry’s long prick is fucking him wet and squelching, pushing against his clenching walls, and he is clenching now, as hard as he can, baring down on it and arching his hips and trying to pull him in deeper, deeper, deeper. “Daddy,” he whimpers, “it feels so good, it feels so good inside of me, fill me, fill me up, fill me, come inside of me fill me daddy, Harry, please, please, please,”
Harry growls, then, nearly bending him in half and starts grinding into him, hard, punishing thrusts that Scorpius yelping, his whole body trembling, he’s so close, they’re both so close and he can’t even hold onto Harry anymore, not with the way his arms are beginning to ache, all he can do is claw at himself, fisting his Slytherin jumper, nearly tearing it, the need in him building, building up, like its going to eat him alive, and all he can do is thrash and beg for it. “Please, please please,” he begs, like a litany, like a spell he’s putting all of his magic into, and he feels the response of it, of Harry’s magic, and his own, tumbling over together, and he’s screaming, “daddy, daddy! ”
Harry makes a sound like he’s dying, moans Draco, and before Scorpius can register it, the name or the pang of ache in his chest that Harry is still thinking about father, a sudden rush of wet and hot inside of him takes him cry out, and then a big hand is wrapping around him pumping once, and the world goes bright white, and all he is is sensation, and magic. It’s so much, its too much, too much magic and too much sensation, his heart stops, it has to, because everything is white and there’s a whooshing of his blood in his ears and he’s so light headed he could swear he hears the distant whistling call of a train, and his mums voice, like he’s underwater.
When a weight suddenly collapses on his chest, his vision comes back, his ears stop ringing, and Scorpius forces in a wheezing, heavy breath, spots dancing across his vision like he forgot to breathe. Harry is on top of him, his forehead at the center of Scorpius’s chest, and his heaving breaths so heavy and hot they make his sweat soaked skin prickle, make him want to taste his tongue, to drown him. Automatically, Scorpius finds his fingers carding through Harry’s curls, the same way he does it after he and Albus make love. The world is coming back, the stiffness of the table they’re on, the sharp metal thing scraping across his back, his sweaty skin beneath his jumper, the dust and the dirt and the smell of motor oil and Harry’s musk.
Harry must be coming back too, because he goes a little stiff under Scorpius’s touch and, gently, very gently and carefully, he pulls his softening prick from him, and unable to help it, Scorpius gives a little gasp, lips curling with pleasure when he feels the slow dripping slide of wet between his thighs, surrounding his stretched hole. Morgana, but he feels incredible, like he ’s flying, but without the drop of terror in his gut from the height or the unsteady thinness of a broom, just the rush of it. Scorpius takes Harry’s cheeks in his hands begins kissing over his beautiful face, hot little kisses, dropping the schoolboy act finally. “That was perfect , Harry. Thank you.” With a final kiss to Harry’s still parted lips, Scorpius shimmies out from underneath him, rubbing absently at the scratches on his back from, he glances over, oh, a screwdriver, damn thing, and begins searching for his trousers.
It was perfect, really, and he can’t stand the idea of Harry scolding him now that his desire has been sated, he wants nothing to ruin this perfect night. So he quickly gathers his trousers, pulling them on. When he looks back, Harry’s still bent over the bench, still drawing in breath, and it’s so odd that he almost wants to ask if he’s alright. But, ah, no, he won’t push it. Scorpius only bounds over, brushes his fingers over the back of Harry’s neck, stroking over the sweat. “Goodnight, Mr. Potter.” He says, sweetly.
As Scorpius leaves the garage, he lightly flicks his tongue over his damp fingers, a giddy little giggle catching in his throat at the still salty taste of Harry Potter’s sweat. What a perfect ‘back to Hogwarts’ present he’s been given tonight. Albus will be so pleased to hear about it, and perhaps even indulge in him what might be a new kink.
—
The floo flares but Scorpius pauses upon his arrival to the manor. He doesn’t expect to see his father sitting on the settee Scorpius and Albus had sex on a few years ago but there he is. Albus isn’t here, of course. They’d planned it so they wouldn’t overlap, that Scorpius would take the floo, but Albus would apparate and use the front door instead. Scorpius had planned to go straight upstairs, but he finds he can’t move, just staring. Father’s hair is a disaster, mussed and loosened from its low ponytail, there’s a full drink in his hand and his eyes are distant, glassy on the large window.
Scorpius swallows thickly, knowing his presence is noted by the twitch in father’s jaw, the stiffening of his shoulders, and he thinks, he thinks he’s meant to say something now. But he doesn’t know what. An apology, maybe? But it’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because he’s not sorry, and he doesn’t think father is, either. And even if he were, it wasn’t like they used polyjuice this time. They came as themselves, which means that everyone consented, and got what they wanted. And, well, father was the one who said ‘ no more polyjuice. ’ Right? He was the one who left the opening, if he didn’t want that exploited why not ban them entirely? Why not…why not kick them out of the manor, or set the wards against Albus? Or even just, turn him away?
Scorpius opens his mouth, possibly to argue all of this, but father, without even looking at him, lifts a hand for silence. With his gaze still on the darkened lands beyond the window, he says, in a tone quite blank. “Go to your room.”
Scorpius swallows it all down, and bows his head. “Yes, father.”
-- TO BE CONTINUED --