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New fic! About time, eh?
“No man dies of love but on the stage” ~ Mansfield Park
Summer, 2023
There is a boy in the back of the Muggle tea shop. Scorpius watches him out of the corner of his eye, voice rasping as he orders at the counter. The boy moves slowly, dreamily, framed between two grime-stained prints of Parisian women demurely lifting their petticoats. He bends over to pick up discarded plates – two women with peacock feathers in their hair murmur to each other, their makeup crinkling at the corner of their eyes as they laugh.
Adage, allegro, arabesque – there is a slow, liquid symphony to the boy’s movements, something balletic in the way he reaches with his damp cloth to clear a table; positions a tray on his hip. Scorpius finds his eyes drawn to the flex of muscle in the boy’s calves, the arch of his feet in those terrible Muggle sandals, his shorts riding up above his knees, up his thighs, as coyly as the ruffles and lace of Toulouse-Lautrec’s women.
Soot-black hair curling over a faded Muggle T-shirt, soot-black eyelashes curling over absinthe eyes – Scorpius wonders what the fuck Albus Potter is doing in a Muggle tea shop in the death-throes of August, when black buzzing flies rise above the yellow ochre of the street and the scent of overblown roses.
He shifts his legs.
He watches Albus for the rest of his shift, his hand curled restlessly against his Potions textbook, charmed to look like a Muggle tabloid magazine. Albus’ shirt clings to him in the sweat of the afternoon, outlining his slim chest, forming damp spots in the small of his back above the ribbons of his red apron. A pretty girl with long brown hair flirts with him, mouth parting to reveal white teeth as she smiles.
After his shift, Albus pockets the day’s tips and the girl’s phone number, waving to the thin, hooked-nose proprietor frowning behind his newspaper, pushing past the shop’s peeling door. Scorpius follows Albus into the dazzling heat of the street, sun flashing on cobblestones and in his eyes; there is a metallic tang in the air – like blood, like magic – and he realises they are not as far away from Diagon Alley as he thought, a few streets and lifetimes away in Muggle Soho.
Albus leads him into a back-alley, fetid with the smells of tipped-over rubbish coalescing at its edges, and there is a sudden shift in the air, a whispered breath – before Scorpius finds himself Petrified and floating, defying gravity, face-up in front of a wide unblinking sky. Under Albus’ wide-range Disillusionment charm, it feels like he is treading water, buffeted by warm gusts of magic.
He feels Albus’ eyes rake over him – feels it although he cannot turn his head, and imagines he can see Albus’ wry smile as he mutters another charm that reveals his beautiful toy car, a Porsche that can fly – all silver and dark grey leather, a seventeenth birthday present from his dad and his grandfather.
A pause, and then he hears Albus say, ‘I can’t Levitate you into the car in that Body-Bind. You won’t fit.’
Scorpius rolls his eyes – or he would, if he could.
A sigh, a finite, and Scorpius finds himself back on dry land, rubbing his wrists instinctively to restore their circulation. Albus leans against his car, his arms crossed in front of that bony chest, his little red apron wrinkling in the crease of his thighs.
His eyes, when Scorpius meets them, are light – malachite – and unamused. ‘What are you doing here, Scorpius?’
Scorpius feels acutely aware of himself – his light summer robe incongruous in the middle of this dirty Muggle street, before Harry Potter’s second son, sweat-speckled and delicious, shifting from foot to foot as he waits for him to answer.
He cannot bring himself to lie.
‘I missed you.’ The words come out frayed, tattered, and Albus flinches. Scorpius bites back a flicker of hurt.
‘Albus –’
‘Fuck that.’ Albus movements are disjointed, abrupt, as he un-balls his fists and turns toward his car. ‘God, you’re – just get in.’
He does.
::
He remembers Al’s face when he’s being penetrated, how his mouth would go slack and his head would tip back – stormcloud hair against the pristine white of his pillow – the trembling of his eyelids and the arch of his neck. He loved fucking Al face-to-face, watching him reach out to grab the headboard, watching himself slide in and out between the curves of Al’s arse, the sound of Al’s breaths against his cheek like sobs, Al’s long pale limbs stretched and spread and flung over his shoulders.
He loved fucking a replica of the Boy-who-lived, especially when Al was so warm, after – heat rising off his body in the afterglow, his wince as Scorpius slid out of his body and spread his semen, salty-slick, updown the length of Al’s crack, wondering how a boy could be so wet.
Albus is awkward and pale – dreamy Ravenclaw in contrast to his Gryffindor brother and sister – an excellent student who loved Muggle cars and Charms and cocktails; his father’s favourite. Scorpius remembers the first time he saw Albus naked, the first time they had sex – his pink boy nipples and his pretty cock, tenting the front of his blue and bronze striped boxers, a gift from his mum in a misguided attempt at house pride.
The memory – which so often sent warm flame-like tendrils curling into Scorpius’ abdomen – curdles in his gut.
His eyes flicks to Albus now – brow furrowed, hands steady on the wheel as he navigated them past the late afternoon traffic. The day is dying through the windscreen; streetlamps turned on as they crossed the Serpentine over Hyde Park.
‘Where shall I drop you?’ Albus’ tone is clipped, crisp – Scorpius wonders what is going through his mind.
‘I can’t go home. Mum threw me out again – and dad’s not back from Romania.’ Albus swears under his breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. Scorpius has never explained his home-life – his resentment for his mother, his mother’s resentment of him, the father he loved and idolized and whom his barking shrew of a mother made miserable – but he is sure Al, clever Rowena’s child that he was, had guessed.
‘Your Grandmother’s?’ Al’s voice is softer now, and a thrum of heat flickers in the vicinity of Scorpius’ chest.
‘Visiting in France. Lucius’ anniversary.’ His grandfather had died ten years ago. Scorpius remembers him very well.
He could see Albus looking at him, his eyes a sliver of light against the growing dark of the landscape. It was only for a second – Albus turns his attention back to the road. They had reached the highway, and Albus tosses back his head, a small impatient gesture so familiar it makes Scorpius ache.
Al whispers, ‘Merlin, you’re so much more trouble than you’re worth.’
They turn out of the next exit, into the countryside. Once they were on an open, carless stretch on road, Albus fiddles with the buttons on the gear-stick and, invisible, they rise into the air.
::
The Potter home is a much quieter place now, after James moved out. It is a large cottage, about an eighth of the size of Malfoy Manor, the fading roses on the trellis silhouetted against the glare of Albus’ headlights.
Scorpius can make out the high, shrill voice of Albus’ sister as he gets out, and thanks the Lord that James is away on tour with the Falcons. As he waits for Albus, his eyes linger on the old swing beneath the elm tree – elm, demiguise hair, 12 inches – where, late one night last summer, Albus had kissed him, slick, soft swipes of lip and tongue, unknowingly in full view of Hermione Weasley. Albus had been a little uncomfortable with his aunt ever since.
The doors open, spilling light into dark, and Scorpius can make out the messy, grey-threaded head of Harry Potter in the doorway; the glint of his glasses.
He takes a deep breath, and is surprised when he feels Albus’ hand slip into his own, a warm press of palm against palm.
‘Relax.’ Albus whispers into his ear, using his other hand to wave back at his dad. Scorpius closes his eyes – he refuses, refuses to feel weak-kneed at this miniscule amount of contact, after all that has happened between them. ‘They’re not going to eat you.’
He quirks a smile back, and tries not to feel his heart sink when Al stiffens, an unreadable look crossing his face, before stepping back.
::
‘Hello, Scorpius.’ Mr Potter’s voice is unexpectedly friendly, and his gaze is warm – an earthier, more piercing green than the son who resembles him so – as he reaches out to clasp Scorpius’ hand. Unbidden, Scorpius finds a flush rising to his cheeks – feels himself straightening, eyes flashing, as he squeezes Albus’ dad’s hand back. He thinks he will always be a tiny bit infatuated with Harry Potter.
‘I wondered why we haven’t seen you this summer. Albus didn’t mention when you’d be visiting,’ Harry continues, oblivious to the resigned cast of his son’s thin face. Scorpius couldn’t hide his surprise – hadn’t Al – but Harry is smiling at him again, and Scorpius can’t bring himself to say anything.
‘Scorpius will only be staying the night, dad,’ Albus brushes past the both of them, moving into the dining room. Scorpius swallows the bile that threatens to rise into his throat every time Albus dismisses him. He’s not aware that he has been gazing after Albus until Harry clears his throat, drawing his eyes back.
‘Is – erm – is everything alright between the both of you?’ Harry looks excruciatingly uncomfortable, and Scorpius would have laughed at the notion of Harry Potter shirking at anything, let alone discussing his son’s love-life, if he wasn’t embroiled in the whole mess.
‘We’re – sorting a few things out.’
‘Oh.’ Harry looks perturbed; he pushes up the nose of his glasses. ‘Is it – NEWTs are coming up, aren’t they – Al must be feeling the strain –‘
‘It’s not Al’s fault,’ Scorpius can’t help interrupting, and feels a frisson of shock at himself.
Harry pauses at that, considering the boy in his front parlour, who, save for the indigo of his eyes, so much resembles the ghost of a boy he used to know. He had found it incomprehensible, a perverse trick of fate, when Albus had first brought him home, all that quintessential Malfoy arrogance and cruel wit. But he had come across them one day, their faces unbearably close together, Scorpius slanting his eyes and whispering something into Al’s ear that made Al collapse, laughing helplessly – a clear, clarion-like sound he hadn’t heard since Al was very young – and hadn’t really thought about it since.
If Al was happy, he could live with it.
::
Scorpius remembers that other boy – how could he not? Dark skinned, loose-hipped, he had a strange, liquid way of dancing that deliquesced Scorpius’ insides. The burn of Firewhiskey in his throat as the boy languidly grinded their hips, leaving teasing kisses on Scorpius’ cheek, his neck, his mouth, all under the psychedelic whirring of the lights and the wailing and thumping of the club’s music. Those long, dark fingers stroking the bulge of his cock, so bold and unfamiliar, and the sour-sweetness of his breath as he crooned, ‘Wow, aren’t you eager,’ and took Scorpius’ cock out, swirling his fingers over its damp tip, right in the middle of the dancefloor.
Bright, bright flashing lights, as Scorpius devoured his mouth, thrusting into his hand, thinking thinking oh my god and never once doubting that Albus would never find out, Albus with his soft green eyes who loved him and the boy fisted his cock and bit his mouth as he came.
He had felt slightly ill after, ill enough to go to the bathroom to regurgitate his guts, only to find Albus, his Albus, looking at him as if the world had ended.
‘Rose called me to take you home.’
Albus had not spoken to him since that day, three months ago.
::
Al’s bedroom is a landscape he had traversed many times before – in the twilight, its Muggle appliances and boy-smells, the familiarity of Al’s handwriting, slanted across a forlorn piece of parchment – raises an odd lump in Scorpius’ throat.
He can hear the clinks of tableware from the dining room, the low hum of Al and his family’s voices. He had escaped, excusing himself to the washroom – he couldn’t bear to see Al not look at him; not talk to him.
It had been their last night at Hogwarts – a risqué little party in Hogsmeade for the sixth and seventh years. Albus had hared off early, needing to pack. Scorpius had been feeling high, confident in the wake of his quidditch win, the prospect of the long upcoming summer – the adrenaline rush of alcohol made him uncharacteristically light-headed. He had been having a brilliant time.
Scorpius wonders how he could ever have been so stupid.
The soft cloud-grey of Al’s duvet rustled under his fingers – Albus had had it since he was a child. Scorpius remembers making love to Al underneath it, trailing his fingers on Al’s skin, hours and hours of snogging as Al gently raised his legs to wrap them around Scorpius’ waist.
He buries his face in the duvet – it smells so uniquely of Albus, the smell that had faded from Al’s old T-shirt a month after he had found it, mispacked, in his luggage.
He’s not an imbecile – he knows it’s no use, following Albus like this, making his mother even more sick of him with his moping, forcing himself into Albus’ home – Al is still too soft-hearted, after all…he knows, really, that Albus will never take him back.
Somehow, he had always taken for granted that Al would never leave him.
Scorpius doesn’t realise that he is gasping from the sobs, that it feels like a giant wrenching through his chest, until he hears the snick of the door opening. His breath stutters – he raises an arm to shield his face, even as he registers that particular change in the air that signals when Al is near.
‘Al- Al, please,’ his breath is ragged.
‘Scorpius,’ He feels the slight pressure of Al’s arms around him, drawing his hands away from his face, the light press of Albus’ cheek against his own. Suddenly the smell of Albus is all around him, and Scorpius cannot stop crying.
Al’s fingers – hesitant at first – slowly begin to card through his hair, lingering on the downward sweep.
‘Shhh.’
Fin
cross-posted here
“No man dies of love but on the stage” ~ Mansfield Park
Summer, 2023
There is a boy in the back of the Muggle tea shop. Scorpius watches him out of the corner of his eye, voice rasping as he orders at the counter. The boy moves slowly, dreamily, framed between two grime-stained prints of Parisian women demurely lifting their petticoats. He bends over to pick up discarded plates – two women with peacock feathers in their hair murmur to each other, their makeup crinkling at the corner of their eyes as they laugh.
Adage, allegro, arabesque – there is a slow, liquid symphony to the boy’s movements, something balletic in the way he reaches with his damp cloth to clear a table; positions a tray on his hip. Scorpius finds his eyes drawn to the flex of muscle in the boy’s calves, the arch of his feet in those terrible Muggle sandals, his shorts riding up above his knees, up his thighs, as coyly as the ruffles and lace of Toulouse-Lautrec’s women.
Soot-black hair curling over a faded Muggle T-shirt, soot-black eyelashes curling over absinthe eyes – Scorpius wonders what the fuck Albus Potter is doing in a Muggle tea shop in the death-throes of August, when black buzzing flies rise above the yellow ochre of the street and the scent of overblown roses.
He shifts his legs.
He watches Albus for the rest of his shift, his hand curled restlessly against his Potions textbook, charmed to look like a Muggle tabloid magazine. Albus’ shirt clings to him in the sweat of the afternoon, outlining his slim chest, forming damp spots in the small of his back above the ribbons of his red apron. A pretty girl with long brown hair flirts with him, mouth parting to reveal white teeth as she smiles.
After his shift, Albus pockets the day’s tips and the girl’s phone number, waving to the thin, hooked-nose proprietor frowning behind his newspaper, pushing past the shop’s peeling door. Scorpius follows Albus into the dazzling heat of the street, sun flashing on cobblestones and in his eyes; there is a metallic tang in the air – like blood, like magic – and he realises they are not as far away from Diagon Alley as he thought, a few streets and lifetimes away in Muggle Soho.
Albus leads him into a back-alley, fetid with the smells of tipped-over rubbish coalescing at its edges, and there is a sudden shift in the air, a whispered breath – before Scorpius finds himself Petrified and floating, defying gravity, face-up in front of a wide unblinking sky. Under Albus’ wide-range Disillusionment charm, it feels like he is treading water, buffeted by warm gusts of magic.
He feels Albus’ eyes rake over him – feels it although he cannot turn his head, and imagines he can see Albus’ wry smile as he mutters another charm that reveals his beautiful toy car, a Porsche that can fly – all silver and dark grey leather, a seventeenth birthday present from his dad and his grandfather.
A pause, and then he hears Albus say, ‘I can’t Levitate you into the car in that Body-Bind. You won’t fit.’
Scorpius rolls his eyes – or he would, if he could.
A sigh, a finite, and Scorpius finds himself back on dry land, rubbing his wrists instinctively to restore their circulation. Albus leans against his car, his arms crossed in front of that bony chest, his little red apron wrinkling in the crease of his thighs.
His eyes, when Scorpius meets them, are light – malachite – and unamused. ‘What are you doing here, Scorpius?’
Scorpius feels acutely aware of himself – his light summer robe incongruous in the middle of this dirty Muggle street, before Harry Potter’s second son, sweat-speckled and delicious, shifting from foot to foot as he waits for him to answer.
He cannot bring himself to lie.
‘I missed you.’ The words come out frayed, tattered, and Albus flinches. Scorpius bites back a flicker of hurt.
‘Albus –’
‘Fuck that.’ Albus movements are disjointed, abrupt, as he un-balls his fists and turns toward his car. ‘God, you’re – just get in.’
He does.
::
He remembers Al’s face when he’s being penetrated, how his mouth would go slack and his head would tip back – stormcloud hair against the pristine white of his pillow – the trembling of his eyelids and the arch of his neck. He loved fucking Al face-to-face, watching him reach out to grab the headboard, watching himself slide in and out between the curves of Al’s arse, the sound of Al’s breaths against his cheek like sobs, Al’s long pale limbs stretched and spread and flung over his shoulders.
He loved fucking a replica of the Boy-who-lived, especially when Al was so warm, after – heat rising off his body in the afterglow, his wince as Scorpius slid out of his body and spread his semen, salty-slick, updown the length of Al’s crack, wondering how a boy could be so wet.
Albus is awkward and pale – dreamy Ravenclaw in contrast to his Gryffindor brother and sister – an excellent student who loved Muggle cars and Charms and cocktails; his father’s favourite. Scorpius remembers the first time he saw Albus naked, the first time they had sex – his pink boy nipples and his pretty cock, tenting the front of his blue and bronze striped boxers, a gift from his mum in a misguided attempt at house pride.
The memory – which so often sent warm flame-like tendrils curling into Scorpius’ abdomen – curdles in his gut.
His eyes flicks to Albus now – brow furrowed, hands steady on the wheel as he navigated them past the late afternoon traffic. The day is dying through the windscreen; streetlamps turned on as they crossed the Serpentine over Hyde Park.
‘Where shall I drop you?’ Albus’ tone is clipped, crisp – Scorpius wonders what is going through his mind.
‘I can’t go home. Mum threw me out again – and dad’s not back from Romania.’ Albus swears under his breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. Scorpius has never explained his home-life – his resentment for his mother, his mother’s resentment of him, the father he loved and idolized and whom his barking shrew of a mother made miserable – but he is sure Al, clever Rowena’s child that he was, had guessed.
‘Your Grandmother’s?’ Al’s voice is softer now, and a thrum of heat flickers in the vicinity of Scorpius’ chest.
‘Visiting in France. Lucius’ anniversary.’ His grandfather had died ten years ago. Scorpius remembers him very well.
He could see Albus looking at him, his eyes a sliver of light against the growing dark of the landscape. It was only for a second – Albus turns his attention back to the road. They had reached the highway, and Albus tosses back his head, a small impatient gesture so familiar it makes Scorpius ache.
Al whispers, ‘Merlin, you’re so much more trouble than you’re worth.’
They turn out of the next exit, into the countryside. Once they were on an open, carless stretch on road, Albus fiddles with the buttons on the gear-stick and, invisible, they rise into the air.
::
The Potter home is a much quieter place now, after James moved out. It is a large cottage, about an eighth of the size of Malfoy Manor, the fading roses on the trellis silhouetted against the glare of Albus’ headlights.
Scorpius can make out the high, shrill voice of Albus’ sister as he gets out, and thanks the Lord that James is away on tour with the Falcons. As he waits for Albus, his eyes linger on the old swing beneath the elm tree – elm, demiguise hair, 12 inches – where, late one night last summer, Albus had kissed him, slick, soft swipes of lip and tongue, unknowingly in full view of Hermione Weasley. Albus had been a little uncomfortable with his aunt ever since.
The doors open, spilling light into dark, and Scorpius can make out the messy, grey-threaded head of Harry Potter in the doorway; the glint of his glasses.
He takes a deep breath, and is surprised when he feels Albus’ hand slip into his own, a warm press of palm against palm.
‘Relax.’ Albus whispers into his ear, using his other hand to wave back at his dad. Scorpius closes his eyes – he refuses, refuses to feel weak-kneed at this miniscule amount of contact, after all that has happened between them. ‘They’re not going to eat you.’
He quirks a smile back, and tries not to feel his heart sink when Al stiffens, an unreadable look crossing his face, before stepping back.
::
‘Hello, Scorpius.’ Mr Potter’s voice is unexpectedly friendly, and his gaze is warm – an earthier, more piercing green than the son who resembles him so – as he reaches out to clasp Scorpius’ hand. Unbidden, Scorpius finds a flush rising to his cheeks – feels himself straightening, eyes flashing, as he squeezes Albus’ dad’s hand back. He thinks he will always be a tiny bit infatuated with Harry Potter.
‘I wondered why we haven’t seen you this summer. Albus didn’t mention when you’d be visiting,’ Harry continues, oblivious to the resigned cast of his son’s thin face. Scorpius couldn’t hide his surprise – hadn’t Al – but Harry is smiling at him again, and Scorpius can’t bring himself to say anything.
‘Scorpius will only be staying the night, dad,’ Albus brushes past the both of them, moving into the dining room. Scorpius swallows the bile that threatens to rise into his throat every time Albus dismisses him. He’s not aware that he has been gazing after Albus until Harry clears his throat, drawing his eyes back.
‘Is – erm – is everything alright between the both of you?’ Harry looks excruciatingly uncomfortable, and Scorpius would have laughed at the notion of Harry Potter shirking at anything, let alone discussing his son’s love-life, if he wasn’t embroiled in the whole mess.
‘We’re – sorting a few things out.’
‘Oh.’ Harry looks perturbed; he pushes up the nose of his glasses. ‘Is it – NEWTs are coming up, aren’t they – Al must be feeling the strain –‘
‘It’s not Al’s fault,’ Scorpius can’t help interrupting, and feels a frisson of shock at himself.
Harry pauses at that, considering the boy in his front parlour, who, save for the indigo of his eyes, so much resembles the ghost of a boy he used to know. He had found it incomprehensible, a perverse trick of fate, when Albus had first brought him home, all that quintessential Malfoy arrogance and cruel wit. But he had come across them one day, their faces unbearably close together, Scorpius slanting his eyes and whispering something into Al’s ear that made Al collapse, laughing helplessly – a clear, clarion-like sound he hadn’t heard since Al was very young – and hadn’t really thought about it since.
If Al was happy, he could live with it.
::
Scorpius remembers that other boy – how could he not? Dark skinned, loose-hipped, he had a strange, liquid way of dancing that deliquesced Scorpius’ insides. The burn of Firewhiskey in his throat as the boy languidly grinded their hips, leaving teasing kisses on Scorpius’ cheek, his neck, his mouth, all under the psychedelic whirring of the lights and the wailing and thumping of the club’s music. Those long, dark fingers stroking the bulge of his cock, so bold and unfamiliar, and the sour-sweetness of his breath as he crooned, ‘Wow, aren’t you eager,’ and took Scorpius’ cock out, swirling his fingers over its damp tip, right in the middle of the dancefloor.
Bright, bright flashing lights, as Scorpius devoured his mouth, thrusting into his hand, thinking thinking oh my god and never once doubting that Albus would never find out, Albus with his soft green eyes who loved him and the boy fisted his cock and bit his mouth as he came.
He had felt slightly ill after, ill enough to go to the bathroom to regurgitate his guts, only to find Albus, his Albus, looking at him as if the world had ended.
‘Rose called me to take you home.’
Albus had not spoken to him since that day, three months ago.
::
Al’s bedroom is a landscape he had traversed many times before – in the twilight, its Muggle appliances and boy-smells, the familiarity of Al’s handwriting, slanted across a forlorn piece of parchment – raises an odd lump in Scorpius’ throat.
He can hear the clinks of tableware from the dining room, the low hum of Al and his family’s voices. He had escaped, excusing himself to the washroom – he couldn’t bear to see Al not look at him; not talk to him.
It had been their last night at Hogwarts – a risqué little party in Hogsmeade for the sixth and seventh years. Albus had hared off early, needing to pack. Scorpius had been feeling high, confident in the wake of his quidditch win, the prospect of the long upcoming summer – the adrenaline rush of alcohol made him uncharacteristically light-headed. He had been having a brilliant time.
Scorpius wonders how he could ever have been so stupid.
The soft cloud-grey of Al’s duvet rustled under his fingers – Albus had had it since he was a child. Scorpius remembers making love to Al underneath it, trailing his fingers on Al’s skin, hours and hours of snogging as Al gently raised his legs to wrap them around Scorpius’ waist.
He buries his face in the duvet – it smells so uniquely of Albus, the smell that had faded from Al’s old T-shirt a month after he had found it, mispacked, in his luggage.
He’s not an imbecile – he knows it’s no use, following Albus like this, making his mother even more sick of him with his moping, forcing himself into Albus’ home – Al is still too soft-hearted, after all…he knows, really, that Albus will never take him back.
Somehow, he had always taken for granted that Al would never leave him.
Scorpius doesn’t realise that he is gasping from the sobs, that it feels like a giant wrenching through his chest, until he hears the snick of the door opening. His breath stutters – he raises an arm to shield his face, even as he registers that particular change in the air that signals when Al is near.
‘Al- Al, please,’ his breath is ragged.
‘Scorpius,’ He feels the slight pressure of Al’s arms around him, drawing his hands away from his face, the light press of Albus’ cheek against his own. Suddenly the smell of Albus is all around him, and Scorpius cannot stop crying.
Al’s fingers – hesitant at first – slowly begin to card through his hair, lingering on the downward sweep.
‘Shhh.’
Fin
cross-posted here
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