Chapter Text
Albus has had a bloody long day. It’s been an endless string of infractions regarding floo powder possession and a highly illegal attempt to connect a Muggle hospital to the floo network.
After that shitshow, it cheers him up no end to step out of his fireplace and find Scorpius sprawled out on his couch.
‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ he tells his boyfriend, surveying the sheets of parchment and upturned books on wandlore that have consumed his living room. The smell of coffee hangs in the air, and Scorpius looks hyper but happy, so he concludes it’s been a successful day of writing.
‘Hello to you too,’ Scorpius tells him, dropping his book and scrambling into an upright position. He’s wearing blue-and-white striped boxers and a grey jumper that’s rather too big for him, and he looks faintly silly and very scruffy and far more attractive than anyone has the right to under the circumstances.
He holds out his arms and makes flappy little hand movements in Albus’s direction. Albus raises an eyebrow at him. This is not the first time Scorpius has attempted to get him into his lap, and not the first time Albus has rejected the idea as absurd. He sits down on the much sturdier sofa and wrangles Scorpius onto his lap instead. Scorpius isn’t exactly petite – he’s six feet of lean muscle – but this way round still seems like the safer option to Albus.
Scorpius slips his arms around Albus’s neck. ‘You’re not too heavy, you know.’
Albus is not keen to test that theory, and Scorpius seems to be taking the matter as a personal affront to his legs. He doesn’t doubt that Scorpius is strong, and he has exceptionally nice legs, but they probably don’t need two-hundred-and-something pounds of Albus Potter sitting on them.
‘You’ve been raiding my wardrobe,’ he accuses, tugging at the hem of the grey jumper Scorpius is sporting. It sits well enough over his broad shoulders and chest, though it’s noticeably oversized over his middle. It’s a tad embarrassing, actually, as this jumper is definitely too small for Albus now and he’s been meaning to get rid of it. But Scorpius wasn’t to know that.
Scorpius grins. ‘I was cold.’
‘I wonder why.’ He runs a hand up Scorpius’s bare thigh, dusted with fine hairs, firm with muscle.
Scorpius gazes down at him, devilishly charming. He rocks his hips slightly in a way that is highly distracting.
Merlin. Albus has barely been in the house five minutes.
‘Got a letter from my father today,’ Scorpius says.
‘Oh?’ Albus takes a firm hold of Scorpius’s hips to keep them still, because he really doesn’t want to risk his dick and Draco Malfoy occupying the same thought space.
‘He invited me over for dinner next week. He was very insistent that I should bring a date.’
‘Hm. Got anyone in mind?’
‘There are a few options. I’ll let you know when I’ve narrowed them down.’ He grins. ‘What do you think? Are you up for meeting my father?’
It’s been a few months since Albus and Scorpius bumped into each other at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and – after some not-so-subtle interfering by their respective best friends – decided that dating each other might not be the worst idea. And it’s going pretty well so far, if Albus does say so himself.
But meeting each other’s families is a hurdle they haven’t really discussed until now. It’s going to be weird, however they approach it. There’s not really a way of getting around that.
‘You don’t have to,’ Scorpius adds quickly, a little worry creeping into his expression.
‘I’d like to,’ Albus assures him.
The momentary uncertainty vanishes and Scorpius looks bright and happy again. ‘He’s not too scary, I promise.’
Albus isn’t sure where the line is here, whether he’s allowed to joke about Scorpius’s family being full of former Death Eaters and that, yes, meeting them is a slightly alarming prospect. That’s something he’ll have to establish – and tiptoe around as required – by the time next week rolls around.
*
‘Be honest, how scared should I be?’
After a long day at work, Albus is stress-snacking on strawberries in the flat Scorpius shares with Grace and Zabini.
Zabini is cross-legged on the floor, hand-painting a set of Gobstones with a look of utmost concentration on his face. He’s wearing a black jumper and shorts – a surprisingly muted look for him, although the jumper does have orange and pink stars around the neckline. His eyes are ringed with heavy liner and he looks like a cheerful goth on a low-key day.
Scorpius is otherwise occupied with Grace in the bathroom – they’ve both had one of those weeks where hair dye is the only answer – so now seems like a good time to pester his flatmate and best-friend-since-Hogwarts with questions about the former Death Eater who sired him.
‘You shouldn’t.’ Zabini waves his paintbrush in the air. ‘Scorpius’s dad seems stern and snooty and embarrassingly posh when you first meet him, but he’s a big softie really.’
Albus doubts that there are many people who would describe Draco Malfoy as a big softie, but Zabini seems unabashed.
‘He’s not going to do a whole judgemental-father routine and interrogate me to find out why I’m not good enough for his son?’
Zabini doesn’t dignify the question with an answer, narrowing his eyes as he adds gold flecks to the Gobstone he’s painting.
‘I feel like he’ll set tests, you know? Things I don’t realise are tests until I’ve already failed them. Conversational traps, that sort of thing. Maybe some literal traps. Does he hunt? He probably hunts. Maybe –’
‘Potter,’ Zabini interrupts, brandishing the paintbrush in his direction, ‘don’t overthink it. Draco is a perfectly normal human being. And he thinks Scorpius is the best thing since sliced bread, so you’ll already have lots in common.’
Albus is about to defend himself with something suitably withering, but then the creaking of the bathroom door reaches their ears. Albus and Zabini exchange nervous looks.
Zabini sets down his paintbrush, looking slightly fearful. ‘We have to be nice,’ he hisses, probably as much to himself as to Albus. ‘Even if it looks terrible.’
‘Especially if it looks terrible,’ Albus agrees.
Scorpius and Grace emerge from the bathroom. Grace’s shoulder-length dark hair is a striking violet at the tips. Scorpius’s hair is a deep ocean blue.
‘Looks great!’ Zabini says with obvious relief, leaping over to his girlfriend to admire her handiwork more closely. ‘I knew it would. Never doubted it. Albus was the one saying what a terrible idea it was...’
Scorpius raises his still-blond eyebrows indignantly. Albus splutters in protest.
*
As the day of the dinner draws closer, Albus’s brain does what it does best and cheerfully presents him with something else to worry about.
Here is a relevant fact: Draco Malfoy knew Albus’s dad at school. Every witch and wizard in Britain is aware of that. So Draco knows that his son is dating Harry Potter’s son, and he probably has a variety of feelings about that, but there’s one thing in particular that sends Albus’s insecurities into overdrive.
Draco probably expects him to look like Harry.
Albus does look like his dad in some ways. The messy black hair, the green eyes, the substandard vision that requires him to wear glasses. But it’s been a good ten years since someone commented on his resemblance to his father, because Harry is perennially lean and wiry, and Albus is decidedly – well, not.
So if Draco expects his son to stroll down the drive with Harry Potter 2.0 on his arm, he’s going to be in for a surprise.
The night before they’re due at Malfoy Manor for dinner finds the pair of them in Albus’s bed in – well, in a certain state of dishabille. Scorpius’s hand is running along the curve of Albus's stomach, which is where his touch normally gravitates after sex. It’s a bit weird – maybe? – but Scorpius seems to enjoy it, and fuck, it feels good, which is weird too – definitely? – so Albus isn’t going to complain. He’s got used to the attention, to be honest. Maybe looks forward to it a bit. Even if it draws his attention to how much his stomach rises up these days, even when he’s lying on his back, how distinctly not-flat it is compared to Scorpius’s.
So this should be a nice moment, with them both lazy and sated and affectionate, except it also gets Albus’s brain whirring, and he finds himself blurting out, ‘Does your dad know?’
Scorpius looks alarmed and quickly retracts his hand.
‘Know what? That we’re fucking? I mean. Yes. I assume he does. I haven’t made a point of discussing it with him. I don’t imagine it’ll come up in conversation tomorrow. Please don’t bring it up in conversation tomorrow.’
‘Does he know what I look like?’
Scorpius blinks at him. ‘Um. I don’t know? I haven’t sent him a photo album, or anything. Does it matter?’
Albus isn’t sure if Scorpius is being intentionally dense – which he is, sometimes, about this sort of thing, in a way that is both fairly endearing and deeply frustrating – or if he genuinely doesn’t know what Albus is getting at.
‘Does your dad know that I’m fat?’
Scorpius runs a hand through his blue hair, leaving it attractively mussed. ‘Al…’
‘That’s a no, then.’
Albus leans down to grab his t-shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head. Scorpius watches him with an inscrutable expression.
To his credit, Scorpius never tries to pretend that Albus isn’t fat. Not that he’s ever made Albus feel bad about it. If anything, he somehow manages to make it sound like a compliment. But he acknowledges that it’s a fact, which it is.
‘Should I have mentioned it? When we got together, I didn’t say hey, Father, I’ve got a new boyfriend, his name’s Albus and this is his weight and his height and his shoe size.’
‘It would be good if he knew, that’s all.’
‘Would it? Why does it matter?’
Albus asks, ‘Has your father met anyone before? Any of the guys you’ve dated?’
Scorpius sits up in bed and pulls the blankets around his waist, apparently resigned to having this conversation. ‘He met Felix. I dated him just after Hogwarts, when I still lived at home, so he was inevitably going to run into my father at some point. But that’s it. I’ve never really dated anyone else seriously enough to want to introduce them, to be honest.’
(Later, Albus will realise that Scorpius said something rather sweet there. But in the moment, he’s too wrapped up in his own panicky train of thought.)
‘Al, I’m a bit lost here,’ Scorpius says. ‘I don’t really know what we’re talking about.’
Albus knows that Scorpius has a type, and that type is guys who are a lot heavier than he is. Albus also knows he’s not even the heaviest guy Scorpius has ever been with, because that had seemed like crucial information to wheedle out of him, even though Scorpius had rolled his eyes and said it wasn’t relevant.
He always says that. He thinks Albus is overly fixated on this. But it all seems highly relevant to Albus.
What did Felix look like? he wants to ask. It would be just his luck if this Felix was the skinniest guy Scorpius had ever dated and Draco was therefore completely unaware of his son’s preferences. He doesn’t imagine it would come up in conversation otherwise – lovely weather today, Father, and by the way, chubby guys really do it for me – and it seems like a deeply pathetic thing for Albus to ask Scorpius about.
But he wants to find a way to ask. Wants to know what Draco’s going to think when he sees him, when he sees him and Scorpius together.
He knows that Scorpius knows he can get insecure about shit like this. But he doesn’t want to draw attention to it more often than is necessary. Doesn’t want Scorpius to feel like he needs constant reassurance.
And he’s okay with his weight, most of the time. But then sometimes a wave of insecurity will sneak up on him and suddenly it’s all oh, you thought it was okay not to be ashamed of that? Well think again, mate.
In Albus’s continued silence, Scorpius says, ‘My father will really like you, you know. If you’re worried about tomorrow, you shouldn’t be.’
Scorpius is giving him a soft look, and Albus does his best to return it. He knows this means a lot to Scorpius. There’s no reason for his panic protocol to take over and get in the way of that.
So he raises his eyebrows and says, ‘Of course he’ll like me. Who wouldn’t? I’m extremely likeable. Maybe too likeable. It’s a curse, really.’
The corners of Scorpius’s mouth twitch. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
*
‘Shortbread?’ Draco Malfoy waggles a plate under Albus’s nose. ‘I picked it up in Orkney. Exquisite stuff. How do you take your tea?’
‘Milk, no sugar, please, thanks,’ Albus says, overthinking every word as though he expects Draco to give him marks out of ten for his answer.
Scorpius beams at them both while Draco pours tea from a squat silver teapot, weirdly domestic, and Albus takes a bite of buttery shortbread, worrying about getting crumbs on the antique rug beneath his feet.
Malfoy Manor is pretty much what Albus expected. Grace and Zabini like to tease Scorpius about how odd his house is, and it certainly feels more like a museum than a regular house where regular people actually live, everything terribly grand and austere and beautifully maintained, almost like Hogwarts on a smaller – and somewhat creepier – scale. He’s never seen so many ornamental serpents in one place.
Draco, on the other hand, is almost a regular human being, which is very much not what Albus had been expecting. He’d shaken Albus’s hand when they first arrived and declared it was a pleasure to meet him, and then he’d thrown his arms around Scorpius in an actual honest-to-god embrace. He’d made earnest conversation with the house elf who brought in the tray of tea and biscuits. He’d expressed a preference for custard creams over chocolate bourbons.
‘Your house is really – impressive,’ Albus finds himself babbling, trying fervently to remember how human conversation works.
‘The land's been in the family since 1067,’ Draco says casually. ‘Scorpius can show you the portrait gallery in the east wing, and the peacocks in the garden. Visitors always seem to enjoy those.’
Albus knows his own upbringing was far from typical, but it’s downright weird that Scorpius grew up in a manor house with a portrait gallery and multiple wings and peacocks as pets.
‘I’m not taking you to the portraits because you’ll walk along picking out the ancestors who look most like me,’ Scorpius says seriously to Albus. ‘We are not playing that game.’
‘I don’t think any Malfoy in ten centuries has chosen to do that to themselves,’ Draco says, raising a pale eyebrow and indicating Scorpius’s hair.
As Scorpius and Draco bicker good-naturedly about Scorpius’s new hair colour, Albus sneaks a glance at the photographs around the room. Several of them feature a small, excitable Scorpius bounding around the frame. In one particularly adorable shot, he’s wearing red wellies and a yellow mackintosh, appears to have fallen in a puddle, and is clearly having the time of his life. Some show a younger Draco with rather more hair and less beard, and a pale, dark-haired woman who must be Scorpius’s mother.
Superficially, Scorpius looks startlingly like his father, both the younger Draco in the photographs and the current Draco sitting across the room. The elder Malfoy has a small, pointed beard and a receding hairline, but those grey eyes are identical, the shape of their faces, the obligatory white-blond hair. But Draco is all sharp angles in a way that makes him look severe, even when his lips curl into a smile. Scorpius is all sparkling eyes and bright grins and infectious, excitable energy.
He looks brilliant today, wearing a new pair of robes that Albus hasn’t seen him in before, and – holy hell – Scorpius looks so good in robes. This is rather stating the obvious, as Scorpius looks indecently good in everything – and in nothing – but there’s something in particular about a nicely tailored pair of robes that really does it for Albus.
But even more than that, he looks so bright and happy, so pleased to be here. He’s beautifully encouraging of every moment of conversation Albus shares with his father, as if he can’t contain his excitement that they’re in the same room together. He shuffles steadily closer to Albus on the couch as the conversation goes on, his hand ending up in the small of Albus’s back, casual, reassuring, a little proprietary.
Some time later, Draco excuses himself to check on dinner – which Albus interprets as, ‘checking on the house elf that’s making the dinner’, because if the image of Draco pouring tea was odd, the idea of him hard at work over a hot stove is even more bizarre.
The moment the door closes behind his father, Scorpius throws both arms around Albus and closes the non-existent gap between them still further.
‘Doing ok?’ he asks, grinning.
‘You tell me,’ Albus says.
‘Of course.’ Scorpius kisses him. ‘He loves you.’
‘And no one’s mentioned the war once,’ Albus says with considerable relief. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’
Scorpius beams. He looks so sweet and soft and happy, and it’s so nice seeing him here in this place that’s so odd but that he makes seem so comfortable, so nice seeing him around the father he clearly adores, and – though this should be less important – he looks so fucking good in those slim-cut robes, that Albus can’t resist pulling him in for another kiss, a little deeper and hungrier than before.
They somehow miss the whoosh of green flames in the fireplace, and it takes them a split-second too long to realise they have company.
A formidable looking witch looms over them, clearing her throat loudly. She looks devastatingly elegant in sleek robes of duck egg blue, her white hair arranged in a complicated knot at the base of her neck.
‘Grandmother!’ Scorpius squawks, almost falling off the couch in his haste to disentangle himself from Albus. ‘I – we – hello! You look well. How are you? I thought you were at Lake Como for the rest of the month. I –’
‘Are you going to introduce us, darling?’ Narcissa Malfoy says crisply.
‘I – yes – er –‘
‘Albus Potter,’ Albus offers, arranging his face into what he hopes is a winning – and thoroughly innocent – smile. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Malfoy.’
‘Ah, the famous Mr Potter.’
Albus almost says no, that’s my father, but this doesn’t feel like the moment for a joke.
‘Scorpius has told us all about you,’ Narcissa continues.
Her eyes rake him up and down and he feels deeply self-conscious. He tries to stand a little taller and pulls in his stomach and hopes that his hair isn’t too messed up from where Scorpius’s hands were running through it moments ago.
‘Oh?’ he says. ‘That’s – er – that’s nice of him –’
She turns her piercing gaze to Scorpius, staring meaningfully at his hair. Her lips purse. ‘How very modern, darling.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, apparently choosing to take it as a compliment.
‘You look like a water nymph.’
‘Er – right. Are you joining us for dinner?’
Dinner is fillets of beef with mountains of roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings, carrots and broccoli and turnip and peas. It’s all drowning in a truly delicious gravy, which Albus appreciates as much as the next Yorkshireman (adopted Yorkshireman, at least). There’s Eton mess for afterwards, rich cream and tart raspberries and fluffy meringue.
It’s surprisingly normal and comfortable, not unlike going for Sunday dinner at his grandma’s, though with undeniably better wine.
Dinner is also served with a side of increasingly intense questions from Narcissa, all fired squarely in Albus’s direction.
‘So, Albus. What do you do for work?’
He swallows a mouthful of roast potato. ‘Department of Magical Transportation. Floo network regulation.’
‘That must be a lot of responsibility.’ Narcissa takes a haughty sip of wine.
‘Um, it can be –’
‘It pays well?’
‘Grandmother,’ Scorpius protests.
Draco is attempting to hide behind his goblet, as though he knows exactly where his mother is going but also knows he is powerless to stop her.
‘Oh, he doesn’t mind, do you, Albus?’
‘Not at all,’ Albus says, most untruthfully. ‘The pay is fine.’
‘Your parents work at the Ministry too?’
‘My dad’s Head of the Auror Office,’ he says, as though everyone present doesn’t know that already, ‘and Mum works for the Prophet – sports correspondent –’
‘The Ministry and the Prophet? Very impressive,’ Narcissa continues without shame, her eyes positively gleaming. ‘You’ll be well placed to help Scorpius find a job when it’s finally time for him to get one.’
‘Inappropriate. So inappropriate,’ Scorpius tries feebly.
Albus doesn’t point out that Scorpius already has a job. He’s got his studies, and he works shifts in a café, and Narcissa clearly doesn’t believe this qualifies. ‘If that’s what he wants,’ he says neutrally, because now doesn’t seem like the time for a conversation about nepotism.
‘I’m just looking to the future, dear,’ Narcissa says breezily to Scorpius, who has slumped down in his chair. ‘Speaking of the future, I know that your lifestyle is more – alternative – than expected, but do you think that children –’
‘Mother,’ Draco says firmly, as Scorpius groans, covering his face with his hands. Albus plasters a polite smile on his face, wishing the expensive carpet would open up and reveal a deep hole in the ground he could casually dive into.
After cups of tea and coffee and after-dinner mints, and after Draco has just-about-successfully restrained Narcissa from probing Albus about his views on everything from marriage to religion to the Minister's new policy on Muggle relations, Scorpius decides it's time to escape.
He hugs his father and his grandmother, and Narcissa chides him for his hair one last time and then presents a cheek for Albus to kiss, which he dares to think might be a sign of approval.
‘We’ll check on the peacocks before we go,’ Scorpius says, as though this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
‘Thanks so much for dinner,’ Albus says, his politeness protocol kicking in. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’
‘Say hello to your father for me, won’t you,’ Draco says affably, and Albus almost chokes at the thought of how weird that conversation is going to be.
After all the strangeness of Malfoy Manor, the grand white peacocks in the garden seem almost ordinary, as if everyone Albus has ever dated has had a flock (a herd? a gaggle? a murder?) of peacocks in their back yard. The birds strut around as though they own the place; one bird in particular seems to be channelling the energy of Narcissa Malfoy herself.
‘I know it might not seem like it,’ Scorpius says, pouring some birdfeed into Albus’s palm, ‘but you did really well with Grandmother.’
‘Yeah? I feel like she just stopped short of asking me my favourite sexual position.’
‘You survived the interrogation and remained polite throughout, which is what counts. And, while you’re not a nice pureblood girl of impressive talents and useful connections and impeccable lineage, you’re as close as I’m likely to get, under the circumstances.’ Scorpius smirks. ‘So that wins you a lot of points with her.’
‘Thanks? I think?’
Scorpius tosses the birdfeed out onto the grass, and Albus follows suit. The peacocks look rather less dignified as they squawk and scrabble for the food in a flurry of white feathers.
Looking at the peacocks rather than at Albus, Scorpius says, ‘There’s something else I’d like to do before we leave. If you don’t mind. It’s a bit … weird.’
Usually, Albus would raise an eyebrow and employ some of his sharpest sarcasm in response. But Scorpius is still staring at the peacocks pecking the feed from the grass, his gaze somewhere faraway, so Albus touches a hand to the small of his back and says softly, ‘Okay.’
The Malfoys have a family graveyard on their property, which in theory is just about the most macabre thing Albus can imagine, but in reality it’s quite lovely, a peaceful space set aside in the north of the grounds.
In an action that looks habitual, Scorpius crouches down before the grave and rearranges the flowers unnecessarily.
Albus isn’t sure what he should do, what Scorpius wants them to do here. He never talks about his mother. Albus doesn’t know how often he comes here, whether he brings gifts, whether he talks to her, whether that’s what he wants Albus to do now.
He waits for Scorpius to finish tidying the flowers, and when he straightens up, Albus takes his hand and squeezes it.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ he says.
Scorpius smiles. He doesn’t say anything, so Albus doesn’t either. A gentle breeze ruffles Scorpius’s hair, and a hopeful sun brings some light to the cool spring day, and Albus feels warm in the knowledge that Scorpius wanted to bring him here, wanted to share this with him.
*
‘So when do I get to meet your family? Grace the hallowed halls of chez Potter?’
Back at Albus’s house in York, Albus makes short work of Scorpius’s robes. He slips them off his shoulders and reaches for the t-shirt underneath, slipping it up his flat stomach, over his broad chest, and Scorpius lifts his arms, allowing Albus to pull it off over his head.
It’s moments like this when Albus nearly forgets to breathe, sometimes, at just how absolutely gorgeous Scorpius is – at the fact that he, Al Potter, gets to look at sights like this and touch abs like that and have Scorpius beam at him like he’s something special, like he’s doing Scorpius a favour.
‘You really want to?’ he says, words heavy with scepticism, while Scorpius’s long, slim fingers work through his shirt buttons. ‘There are so many of them. And they are a lot. At least half of them will make it their mission to verbally eviscerate you. Another third will do it without realising. A lot of them will judge you for being a Ravenclaw – we don’t have many of those, surprisingly –’
‘I kept trying to reassure you that my family would like you. Can’t you at least pretend to do the same?’
‘Honesty is the best policy, I find. Maybe they won’t like you and we’ll just have to prepare for the worst. You aren’t that likeable, you know. I barely tolerate you most of the time.’
Scorpius’s grey eyes meet his, eyebrows raised, and Albus supposes he might be slightly more than tolerable, just at this moment. His hands skim the curve of Albus’s belly where it pushes over his jeans, where it’s widest and softest. His touch is feather-light, as though – contrary to the glut of heavy, solid evidence at his fingertips – Albus is something delicate and breakable, something precious.
‘Such a little shit,’ Scorpius tells him.
Albus glances down at himself and raises an eyebrow. ‘We can both agree I’m not that little.’
Scorpius shoots him a look that’s somehow fond and withering at the same time. ‘Al. That was awful. Barely even qualifies as a joke. A proper waste of air. I am embarrassed for you –’
Albus shuts him up with a kiss.