Fic: Only a Love Story (Harry/Scorpius)
With all my internet troublz, I totally forgot to post my Yule Balls fic. Here it is, the monster that nearly ate my sanity.
Title: Only a Love Story
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Harry/Scorpius
ADW: 18/42 - 21/45
Summary: Not every love story ends in a happily ever after. Sometimes, it doesn't end at all.
Warnings: fluff, rimming, semi-public sex, mild bondage, dirty talk, angst, non-linear story telling and shifting tenses, not necessarily in that order
Word Count: ~ 39,900
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Author's Notes: My hp_yule_balls fic, written for aigooism. This repost comes with heartfelt thanks to my saviours starry_nights88, fancypantsdylan, and who_la_hoop.
Only a Love Story
Everyone's Had a Bad Day
With a deep sigh, Harry lets the door fall close behind him and drops his bag. He is tired; exhausted in a way he has never been before. Not even during the long ago times of restless nights filled with nightmares and days filled with Potions classes and worries about Voldemort. With another sigh, he slowly peels off his coat and hangs it on its hook, moving like a man twice his age.
When did his life become so exhausting? It feels like years but Harry thinks that it's probably only been six months. Six months since he was promoted and his life became full of long, draining hours at the office. God, he's forty-seven, yet all he wants is to drop on the couch and close his eyes and have a couple of minutes of peace … and then snuggle against a warm body and forget all about the world beyond his walls.
Forget all about duties and magical law enforcement, about being watched by everyone and stalked by the press while trying to settle into a position that is still new to him. Forget all about politics and Wizengamot members and honours and being the youngest wizard ever to do something. Forget about having to go back again tomorrow and go through it all again.
Forget about everything but home and peace and love.
He misses it. Misses Scorpius. Misses talking with him long into the night, or reading a book while listening to him play his piano. Misses just being with him.
But the moment he straightens and turns, becomes aware of things beyond his exhaustion and relief to finally be home, he knows he won't have it today, either.
He can hear the faint sound of the piano being played, and it's not a happy tune. He knows that haunting, cursed melody, knows what it means.
For a moment, Harry closes his eyes, shoulders drooping with the additional burden. He is so tired. So tired … and Scorpius is in a mood. Sad, angry, and a little afraid, perhaps, though he'll never admit it. But Harry knows his moods and he knows what Scorpius feels when he plays certain tunes. After close to three years together, he is familiar with Scorpius and his piano and the correlation of emotions and melodies.
The one he is playing now is the one Harry hates most. This one tells him that Scorpius is sad, angry, and a little afraid - and hurt.
And it's up to Harry to coax him out of it. It's up to him to go into the living room and over to the low bench where Scorpius is sitting, ostensibly lost in his music. He will lay his hands on Scorpius's shoulders but remain silent until Scorpius stops playing and turns on the bench. Then he will pull Scorpius into his arms and steer him to the couch, where Harry will snuggle and pet him until Scorpius speaks about what has upset him. Then Harry will spend the remainder of the evening coaxing Scorpius out of his mood. It usually involves more snuggling and petting and then taking things to the bedroom. In the morning, Scorpius will be his usual bright self.
That is how it always goes, after all.
Harry sighs and runs a heavy hand through his hair. He's so tired. Why can't Scorpius, for a change, coax him out of his mood?
All of a sudden, resentment flares in Harry. Yes, why can't he? Why is it always Harry who has to deal with his partner's moods? Why can't Scorpius come out for once - he surely has realised Harry is home by now! - and take care of Harry's moods? He has to know that Harry's day wasn't particularly easy. It has never been when Harry comes home this late, after all.
It would be nice, just once, to be the one who is coddled. Hell, just seeing Scorpius would be nice! Just seeing Scorpius step out of the living room, maybe to come and kiss him hello like he used to do. If he'd just come out and ask Harry how his day has been.
But no, of course not. Scorpius isn't the one who needs to consider his partner's emotions. Scorpius is the one who needs to be petted and fussed over. He spends half a day on this weird Arithmancy thing that Harry doesn't understand, then lounges around and meets friends, and in the evening he expects Harry to pet him out of whatever funk he's managed to put himself into.
Because Harry isn't the one who's had a shitty day. He's only the one who just spent over twelve hours at the Ministry, trying to do a job that is still unfamiliar to him, watched by all and sundry and the media, too. No. Harry is always the considerate one, the one who always has time to listen to accounts of petty little spats amongst friends.
Harry rubs a hand over his scar, knowing he's being ridiculous and childish. Scorpius isn't like that at all. His resentment drains away, and he sags against the wall.
There's only one person who upsets Scorpius like that, only one person who would say hurtful things to him while pretending to only want the best. It's Draco Malfoy who always puts Scorpius into this sad-angry-a-little-afraid-but-definitely-hurt mood, and that's one of the reasons why Harry loathes the man these days. He seems unable to accept that Scorpius is an adult who makes his own decisions.
And that is the reason why, after a tacit truce of almost thirty years, Harry and Draco Malfoy are back to hating each other.
Harry grimaces as he pulls off his boots and steps into his slippers. Scorpius probably met with his father today, and Harry can't be angry with him for being moody after that. Scorpius's relationship with both his parents, but especially with his father, is a difficult one. Harry tries his best to make it better, but the only thing he can do is comfort Scorpius afterwards.
But if dealing with a moody Scorpius now and then is what it takes, then Harry will do it, and gladly. Or as Hermione once put it after having an argument with Molly: 'If you truly love someone, you can put up with the in-laws and their meddling.'
No, Harry can't resent Scorpius. But he still can't find in himself the energy to go and coax Scorpius out of his mood, to sit and listen to Scorpius rant about whatever his father said, either. He can't be considerate tonight.
The music swells and gets louder. Scorpius is probably wondering why Harry hasn't come in yet and started the ritual dance.
Harry rubs his eyes behind his glasses. With another deep sigh, he makes himself step forwards towards the living room.
He stops at the door and looks inside. The sight still takes his breath away; the slender young man, his blond head bent over the keys, the graceful instrument vibrating with the emotions he pours into it.
Beautiful.
The notes pluck at Harry's heart until it feels as though he is in resonance with Scorpius's emotions. Until he feels how hurt his lover is.
That is what usually drives Harry forwards. His lover hurting, and Harry's need to soothe and comfort him.
But today the emotions behind the notes only pluck and pull at Harry and make him hurt, too. Oh, he wants to go and comfort Scorpius. Or rather, he wishes that Scorpius was comforted. Harry is drained, emotionally as well as physically; there is no comfort he can give today.
He doesn't move away, though. He keeps still, watching. Hoping that Scorpius will turn towards him. Perhaps they can comfort each other.
Scorpius doesn't turn. His only reaction to Harry's presence is a stiffening back and a swelling of the volume until the music is too loud. It bangs around in Harry's head and in his chest.
'Scorpius,' he whispers, pleading. But, of course, his voice is drowned out by the piano.
A renewed spark of resentment makes him move, forces him to turn away from Scorpius and step through the arched doorway towards the staircase.
In the bedroom, he sheds his work robes and kicks them under the bed, glaring at them for good measure. Priddy will scold him for wrinkling the good robes, but Harry needs to get rid of them. Needs to not think about going back tomorrow. About going through the dance and deciphering the double and triple layered meaning behind the words of co-workers, Wizengamot members, and assorted politicians again.
Sometimes, he wishes he'd stayed a simple Auror. Fieldwork would be hard on his body these days, but Harry thinks that even duelling rogue Dark witches would be better than trying to cope with the meaning hidden behind double meaning he is dealing with these days.
Politics. Harry snorts and gives his robes an extra kick. It's all their fault, anyway. And right now, he doesn't care that he's being childish.
'Master Harry is not to be wrinkling his good robes,' a surprisingly melodious voice scolds him from somewhere around his knees.
Harry forces a weak, apologetic smile. Priddy, the house-elf Scorpius brought with him to their house, is tiny even by house-elf standards. Her glare is effective even by Molly Weasley standards. Even tired as he is, it is effective. He simply lacks the energy to do more than feel guilty.
'I'll wear the other set tomorrow,' he tries.
Priddy shakes her head at him. She snaps her fingers and the robes fly off the floor. Another snap, the robes wriggle, and then fall down in elegant folds, wrinkle-free.
'Thanks, Priddy.'
The tiny elf studies Harry intently as she directs the robes to a hanger. 'Master Harry is needing to get dressed and eat,' she informs him.
Harry rubs his naked arms. 'Yeah, I …'
In the living room, the music reaches a new crescendo. Harry closes his eyes. He shivers.
'Priddy is thinking perhaps Master Harry is liking a bath first?' Priddy suggest quietly. When Harry looks down at her, her ears are quivering. She knows Scorpius's music as well as Harry does, perhaps even better.
'A bath.' Harry blinks. Goosebumps suddenly run down his arms and legs. 'Yes. Yes, that's a good idea.'
'Priddy will go immediately!'
With a soft, popping sound, she disappears. A second later, Harry can hear the water run into the tub. He grabs his fluffy bathrobe and follows the sound to its source.
The lights in the bathroom have been muted to a soft, golden glow. The warm air smells of herbs. Priddy crouches on the brim of the tub and sprinkles more herbs into the water, which is slowly turning green. She looks at him with a proud smile. 'Priddy thinks of adding Miss Luna's Special Herbs,' she chirps. 'Priddy remembers Miss Luna says they are good when Master Harry is having long days.'
Harry smiles fondly at the memory of Luna presenting him with her Special Herbs, Hermione's insistence he waits until she had thoroughly analysed them, and Neville's calm reassurance that they were harmless. Harry's smile deepens. Thinking of his friends already makes feels better.
Priddy declares the bath ready, and Harry sinks slowly into the almost too hot water with a groan of delight. Priddy beams at him and tells him to relax and enjoy, she'll go and prepare a sandwich for him.
'Master Harry is coming to the kitchen after his bath,' she orders. 'Priddy is having food and tea for Master Harry.'
Harry grunts in reply, eyes closed. Priddy pops away, and Harry sinks deeper into the water. Priddy isn't Scorpius, but it's nice that someone takes care of him.
He can still hear faint snatches of music. But surrounded by heat and the fresh, relaxing scent of his green bath water, everything seems to float away. It's only him and the warmth and the water. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders, stomach, and calves loosen. Harry hums in delight, and for a long time, he simply floats.
When the water cools, he emerges from his green-tinted trance, feeling warm and almost peaceful. Not less tired, but certainly less stressed. And suddenly, he's ravenous. Silently thanking Priddy yet again, he slips into his pyjamas and robe and goes in search of food.
The house is silent when he leaves the bathroom. Scorpius has stopped playing. Harry speeds up his steps, curious and hopeful. Perhaps playing was enough and Scorpius has come out of his mood and is waiting for Harry? Harry hopes, because talking to Scorpius while drinking tea is the best way to end a long, tiring day.
When he passes the living room, he catches a glimpse of a blond head. Retracing his steps, Harry once more stands in the arched doorway and watches Scorpius. His young lover is sitting on the couch, leaning against one end, turning his back to Harry. Over his shoulder, Harry catches the glimpse of a large book.
He hesitates. The turned shoulder speaks even louder than the earlier music. Scorpius is upset, and now he's upset with Harry, too. Harry wishes he could go and sit and coax Scorpius into their usual ritual, but the mere thought of listening to Scorpius rant about his father is exacerbating Harry's exhaustion. Still, he doesn't want to just walk past without at least trying to do … something.
Harry clears his throat, but gets no reaction. So he tries words. 'Good evening, Scorpius,' he says softly, gently.
Scorpius only nods without even raising his head.
'Priddy's made sandwiches,' Harry tries again. 'Are you hungry?'
'I've eaten,' is the short reply.
'Oh. Then … you could come and keep me company?' Harry suggests, trying to keep the pleading note out of his voice.
'I'm reading,' Scorpius snaps and shoots him a glare over his shoulder.
Harry swallows. 'Right. Sorry for disturbing you, then.' He waits a second longer, then gives up.
As he turns away, there is a rustle behind him as though Scorpius has turned, maybe got up. Perhaps he's waiting for Harry to look back or say something else, try again to persuade him.
But Harry is tired of this dance, where nothing is straightforward. He's tired of trying to understand signals and reading the true meaning between the lines. Besides, if Scorpius wants to talk to Harry, he can come and talk, Harry tells himself as he walks into the kitchen.
The sight of his place laid out with a plate full of delicious-looking sandwiches and a steaming cup of tea makes him smile. His stomach growls audibly. Harry sinks into his chair with a pleased sigh and loses himself in Priddy's sandwich.
Scorpius doesn't show up. Harry tells himself he isn't disappointed.
After he's eaten, Harry feels even more tired and heavy. As he sips his tea, watching the steam rise through heavy-lidded eyes, he finds himself thinking of his bed. Soft mattress, fluffy comforter, warm body curled next to his. Well, he thinks, as he puts his empty cup down, probably not the latter tonight. Scorpius is capable of sleeping on the couch out of spite.
It would be nice, though.
Sighing, Harry heaves himself to his feet. His left knee twinges in protest. Great, just what he needs to complete this depressing day, another sign that he's getting old. What does Scorpius see in him?
Quickly, Harry pushes the unbidden thought away. It leaves a faint trace of fear that, perhaps, Scorpius is wondering, too.
Almost in penance for his doubt, Harry pours a cup of tea and brings it to the living room. Scorpius is still curled up on the couch, reading. The lamp behind the couch lights his blond hair and casts his profile into sharp relief.
Harry's breath catches. Scorpius looks so beautiful, so cold. His face seems frozen into a mask, and Harry's hands are shaking from more than exhaustion as he holds out the cup.
'I thought maybe you'd like a cup of tea,' he says quietly.
Scorpius looks up. His light blue eyes are dark and forcibly blank. 'Thank you.'
Harry smiles cautiously as he sets the cup down on the low table and perches on the couch next to Scorpius's feet. Hopeful warmth unfurls in his chest. 'What are you reading?' he asks in an attempt to break through Scorpius's silence.
Scorpius curls his lip. 'Basington's Theory of Arithmantic Orthogon-Division of Stable Variables.'
Harry flinches back at his lover's tone. 'Ah,' he says inadequately. 'All right. That … sounds interesting.' Scorpius sneers at him. He knows full well that Harry doesn't have the faintest idea what he's talking about. Harry's shoulders sag. The warmth in his chest quivers painfully. 'I'll … I'll leave you to it, then?'
Wordlessly, Scorpius returns to his book.
Feeling old and cold, Harry struggles to his feet. His knee twinges again. Not daring to even lay a hand on his lover's shoulder, Harry all but limps out of the room and up the stairs. The warmth from his earlier bath is entirely forgotten. There is a strange, squeezing sensation in his throat that forces him to keep swallowing.
The lamps on their bedside tables are lit and the bed is turned down. The signs of Priddy's care make swallowing more difficult. Harry slips out of his robe and huddles under his duvet.
He feels inadequate; old and useless. Scorpius is such a brilliant, gifted young man. He's far more intelligent than Harry, who doesn't even understand what his partner of almost three years is working on. And Scorpius is still so young, only twenty-two. So young and so beautiful. What is he doing with a middle-aged Ministry-drone like Harry?
Harry swallows hard and rubs his burning eyes. An old and useless and maudlin Ministry-drone who's having a self-pity fest.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and tells himself sternly to stop. He's exaggerating. He's had a bad day, and Scorpius has had a bad day. They're both upset. Probably the best thing is to simply avoid each other until they're both feeling better. Just because Scorpius is upset with him tonight - has been acting oddly for quite some time, whispers a little voice at the back of his head - it doesn't mean he's thinking about …
Well.
So.
Harry huffs out a frustrated breath and sits up. Viciously, he boxes his pillows until he can lean back against them, half sitting up. He fishes his book from the bedside table and determinedly opens it. It's a Muggle novel, of all things. Some kind of family story written by someone apparently very popular. Ron devoured it, laughed himself into stitches, and lent it to Harry, saying, 'You've got to read this, mate. It's hilarious!'
Harry has to admit, it is entertaining. There's all kinds of drama - forbidden love and jealousy, betrayals, deaths that might or might not be murder - everything. It's so badly written and over the top, it's funny. And it's just the kind of mind-numbing, unrealistic melodrama he needs to drown his own troubles, if only for a while.
Two and a half chapters later, Harry's eyelids are drooping and he's yawning until his jaw cracks. He puts the book aside, folds his glasses on top of it and flicks his wand to set the alarm and extinguishes his light. For a moment he hesitates, then he leaves the light on Scorpius's side burning.
Settling down, Harry half-expects his thoughts to keep him awake despite his exhaustion. But within minutes, he finds himself drifting off to sleep. He's jerked awake again when the bed beside him dips and the room is plunged into darkness. Sleepily, he smiles. Scorpius came to bed. He can't be that mad.
Next to him, Scorpius twists and turns, then lies still. Harry can hear his slow breathing.
He wishes Scorpius would turn to him. Or that he would dare to shift closer and take Scorpius into his arms.
Cautiously, Harry inches his hand across the bed. If he's careful, perhaps Scorpius might not even notice. Can pretend he doesn't notice. Harry just needs a little bit of contact.
His little finger brushes against warm skin. Harry freezes, waits. Scorpius's breath seems to have stopped. But he isn't protesting, isn't twisting away. Harry relaxes.
There's a soft sound almost like a sob from Scorpius, and suddenly, he moves. For a split-second, Harry thinks that Scorpius is moving away and is about to pull back, but then Scorpius presses against him.
Harry can't suppress his own sob-like sound and wraps both arms around his precious love, pulling him even closer. As Scorpius snuggles against him like a little bird seeking warmth, Harry buries his face in Scorpius's hair, taking a deep breath, smelling Scorpius's beloved scent.
This, he just needs this: Scorpius warm and loving in his arms. Just like it used to be before he became Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and everything became incomprehensible.
Relieved and light and happy, a faint smile on his face, Harry falls asleep.
* * *
>> Part 2
Title: Only a Love Story
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Harry/Scorpius
ADW: 18/42 - 21/45
Summary: Not every love story ends in a happily ever after. Sometimes, it doesn't end at all.
Warnings: fluff, rimming, semi-public sex, mild bondage, dirty talk, angst, non-linear story telling and shifting tenses, not necessarily in that order
Word Count: ~ 39,900
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Author's Notes: My hp_yule_balls fic, written for aigooism. This repost comes with heartfelt thanks to my saviours starry_nights88, fancypantsdylan, and who_la_hoop.
Only a Love Story
Everyone's Had a Bad Day
With a deep sigh, Harry lets the door fall close behind him and drops his bag. He is tired; exhausted in a way he has never been before. Not even during the long ago times of restless nights filled with nightmares and days filled with Potions classes and worries about Voldemort. With another sigh, he slowly peels off his coat and hangs it on its hook, moving like a man twice his age.
When did his life become so exhausting? It feels like years but Harry thinks that it's probably only been six months. Six months since he was promoted and his life became full of long, draining hours at the office. God, he's forty-seven, yet all he wants is to drop on the couch and close his eyes and have a couple of minutes of peace … and then snuggle against a warm body and forget all about the world beyond his walls.
Forget all about duties and magical law enforcement, about being watched by everyone and stalked by the press while trying to settle into a position that is still new to him. Forget all about politics and Wizengamot members and honours and being the youngest wizard ever to do something. Forget about having to go back again tomorrow and go through it all again.
Forget about everything but home and peace and love.
He misses it. Misses Scorpius. Misses talking with him long into the night, or reading a book while listening to him play his piano. Misses just being with him.
But the moment he straightens and turns, becomes aware of things beyond his exhaustion and relief to finally be home, he knows he won't have it today, either.
He can hear the faint sound of the piano being played, and it's not a happy tune. He knows that haunting, cursed melody, knows what it means.
For a moment, Harry closes his eyes, shoulders drooping with the additional burden. He is so tired. So tired … and Scorpius is in a mood. Sad, angry, and a little afraid, perhaps, though he'll never admit it. But Harry knows his moods and he knows what Scorpius feels when he plays certain tunes. After close to three years together, he is familiar with Scorpius and his piano and the correlation of emotions and melodies.
The one he is playing now is the one Harry hates most. This one tells him that Scorpius is sad, angry, and a little afraid - and hurt.
And it's up to Harry to coax him out of it. It's up to him to go into the living room and over to the low bench where Scorpius is sitting, ostensibly lost in his music. He will lay his hands on Scorpius's shoulders but remain silent until Scorpius stops playing and turns on the bench. Then he will pull Scorpius into his arms and steer him to the couch, where Harry will snuggle and pet him until Scorpius speaks about what has upset him. Then Harry will spend the remainder of the evening coaxing Scorpius out of his mood. It usually involves more snuggling and petting and then taking things to the bedroom. In the morning, Scorpius will be his usual bright self.
That is how it always goes, after all.
Harry sighs and runs a heavy hand through his hair. He's so tired. Why can't Scorpius, for a change, coax him out of his mood?
All of a sudden, resentment flares in Harry. Yes, why can't he? Why is it always Harry who has to deal with his partner's moods? Why can't Scorpius come out for once - he surely has realised Harry is home by now! - and take care of Harry's moods? He has to know that Harry's day wasn't particularly easy. It has never been when Harry comes home this late, after all.
It would be nice, just once, to be the one who is coddled. Hell, just seeing Scorpius would be nice! Just seeing Scorpius step out of the living room, maybe to come and kiss him hello like he used to do. If he'd just come out and ask Harry how his day has been.
But no, of course not. Scorpius isn't the one who needs to consider his partner's emotions. Scorpius is the one who needs to be petted and fussed over. He spends half a day on this weird Arithmancy thing that Harry doesn't understand, then lounges around and meets friends, and in the evening he expects Harry to pet him out of whatever funk he's managed to put himself into.
Because Harry isn't the one who's had a shitty day. He's only the one who just spent over twelve hours at the Ministry, trying to do a job that is still unfamiliar to him, watched by all and sundry and the media, too. No. Harry is always the considerate one, the one who always has time to listen to accounts of petty little spats amongst friends.
Harry rubs a hand over his scar, knowing he's being ridiculous and childish. Scorpius isn't like that at all. His resentment drains away, and he sags against the wall.
There's only one person who upsets Scorpius like that, only one person who would say hurtful things to him while pretending to only want the best. It's Draco Malfoy who always puts Scorpius into this sad-angry-a-little-afraid-but-definitely-hurt mood, and that's one of the reasons why Harry loathes the man these days. He seems unable to accept that Scorpius is an adult who makes his own decisions.
And that is the reason why, after a tacit truce of almost thirty years, Harry and Draco Malfoy are back to hating each other.
Harry grimaces as he pulls off his boots and steps into his slippers. Scorpius probably met with his father today, and Harry can't be angry with him for being moody after that. Scorpius's relationship with both his parents, but especially with his father, is a difficult one. Harry tries his best to make it better, but the only thing he can do is comfort Scorpius afterwards.
But if dealing with a moody Scorpius now and then is what it takes, then Harry will do it, and gladly. Or as Hermione once put it after having an argument with Molly: 'If you truly love someone, you can put up with the in-laws and their meddling.'
No, Harry can't resent Scorpius. But he still can't find in himself the energy to go and coax Scorpius out of his mood, to sit and listen to Scorpius rant about whatever his father said, either. He can't be considerate tonight.
The music swells and gets louder. Scorpius is probably wondering why Harry hasn't come in yet and started the ritual dance.
Harry rubs his eyes behind his glasses. With another deep sigh, he makes himself step forwards towards the living room.
He stops at the door and looks inside. The sight still takes his breath away; the slender young man, his blond head bent over the keys, the graceful instrument vibrating with the emotions he pours into it.
Beautiful.
The notes pluck at Harry's heart until it feels as though he is in resonance with Scorpius's emotions. Until he feels how hurt his lover is.
That is what usually drives Harry forwards. His lover hurting, and Harry's need to soothe and comfort him.
But today the emotions behind the notes only pluck and pull at Harry and make him hurt, too. Oh, he wants to go and comfort Scorpius. Or rather, he wishes that Scorpius was comforted. Harry is drained, emotionally as well as physically; there is no comfort he can give today.
He doesn't move away, though. He keeps still, watching. Hoping that Scorpius will turn towards him. Perhaps they can comfort each other.
Scorpius doesn't turn. His only reaction to Harry's presence is a stiffening back and a swelling of the volume until the music is too loud. It bangs around in Harry's head and in his chest.
'Scorpius,' he whispers, pleading. But, of course, his voice is drowned out by the piano.
A renewed spark of resentment makes him move, forces him to turn away from Scorpius and step through the arched doorway towards the staircase.
In the bedroom, he sheds his work robes and kicks them under the bed, glaring at them for good measure. Priddy will scold him for wrinkling the good robes, but Harry needs to get rid of them. Needs to not think about going back tomorrow. About going through the dance and deciphering the double and triple layered meaning behind the words of co-workers, Wizengamot members, and assorted politicians again.
Sometimes, he wishes he'd stayed a simple Auror. Fieldwork would be hard on his body these days, but Harry thinks that even duelling rogue Dark witches would be better than trying to cope with the meaning hidden behind double meaning he is dealing with these days.
Politics. Harry snorts and gives his robes an extra kick. It's all their fault, anyway. And right now, he doesn't care that he's being childish.
'Master Harry is not to be wrinkling his good robes,' a surprisingly melodious voice scolds him from somewhere around his knees.
Harry forces a weak, apologetic smile. Priddy, the house-elf Scorpius brought with him to their house, is tiny even by house-elf standards. Her glare is effective even by Molly Weasley standards. Even tired as he is, it is effective. He simply lacks the energy to do more than feel guilty.
'I'll wear the other set tomorrow,' he tries.
Priddy shakes her head at him. She snaps her fingers and the robes fly off the floor. Another snap, the robes wriggle, and then fall down in elegant folds, wrinkle-free.
'Thanks, Priddy.'
The tiny elf studies Harry intently as she directs the robes to a hanger. 'Master Harry is needing to get dressed and eat,' she informs him.
Harry rubs his naked arms. 'Yeah, I …'
In the living room, the music reaches a new crescendo. Harry closes his eyes. He shivers.
'Priddy is thinking perhaps Master Harry is liking a bath first?' Priddy suggest quietly. When Harry looks down at her, her ears are quivering. She knows Scorpius's music as well as Harry does, perhaps even better.
'A bath.' Harry blinks. Goosebumps suddenly run down his arms and legs. 'Yes. Yes, that's a good idea.'
'Priddy will go immediately!'
With a soft, popping sound, she disappears. A second later, Harry can hear the water run into the tub. He grabs his fluffy bathrobe and follows the sound to its source.
The lights in the bathroom have been muted to a soft, golden glow. The warm air smells of herbs. Priddy crouches on the brim of the tub and sprinkles more herbs into the water, which is slowly turning green. She looks at him with a proud smile. 'Priddy thinks of adding Miss Luna's Special Herbs,' she chirps. 'Priddy remembers Miss Luna says they are good when Master Harry is having long days.'
Harry smiles fondly at the memory of Luna presenting him with her Special Herbs, Hermione's insistence he waits until she had thoroughly analysed them, and Neville's calm reassurance that they were harmless. Harry's smile deepens. Thinking of his friends already makes feels better.
Priddy declares the bath ready, and Harry sinks slowly into the almost too hot water with a groan of delight. Priddy beams at him and tells him to relax and enjoy, she'll go and prepare a sandwich for him.
'Master Harry is coming to the kitchen after his bath,' she orders. 'Priddy is having food and tea for Master Harry.'
Harry grunts in reply, eyes closed. Priddy pops away, and Harry sinks deeper into the water. Priddy isn't Scorpius, but it's nice that someone takes care of him.
He can still hear faint snatches of music. But surrounded by heat and the fresh, relaxing scent of his green bath water, everything seems to float away. It's only him and the warmth and the water. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders, stomach, and calves loosen. Harry hums in delight, and for a long time, he simply floats.
When the water cools, he emerges from his green-tinted trance, feeling warm and almost peaceful. Not less tired, but certainly less stressed. And suddenly, he's ravenous. Silently thanking Priddy yet again, he slips into his pyjamas and robe and goes in search of food.
The house is silent when he leaves the bathroom. Scorpius has stopped playing. Harry speeds up his steps, curious and hopeful. Perhaps playing was enough and Scorpius has come out of his mood and is waiting for Harry? Harry hopes, because talking to Scorpius while drinking tea is the best way to end a long, tiring day.
When he passes the living room, he catches a glimpse of a blond head. Retracing his steps, Harry once more stands in the arched doorway and watches Scorpius. His young lover is sitting on the couch, leaning against one end, turning his back to Harry. Over his shoulder, Harry catches the glimpse of a large book.
He hesitates. The turned shoulder speaks even louder than the earlier music. Scorpius is upset, and now he's upset with Harry, too. Harry wishes he could go and sit and coax Scorpius into their usual ritual, but the mere thought of listening to Scorpius rant about his father is exacerbating Harry's exhaustion. Still, he doesn't want to just walk past without at least trying to do … something.
Harry clears his throat, but gets no reaction. So he tries words. 'Good evening, Scorpius,' he says softly, gently.
Scorpius only nods without even raising his head.
'Priddy's made sandwiches,' Harry tries again. 'Are you hungry?'
'I've eaten,' is the short reply.
'Oh. Then … you could come and keep me company?' Harry suggests, trying to keep the pleading note out of his voice.
'I'm reading,' Scorpius snaps and shoots him a glare over his shoulder.
Harry swallows. 'Right. Sorry for disturbing you, then.' He waits a second longer, then gives up.
As he turns away, there is a rustle behind him as though Scorpius has turned, maybe got up. Perhaps he's waiting for Harry to look back or say something else, try again to persuade him.
But Harry is tired of this dance, where nothing is straightforward. He's tired of trying to understand signals and reading the true meaning between the lines. Besides, if Scorpius wants to talk to Harry, he can come and talk, Harry tells himself as he walks into the kitchen.
The sight of his place laid out with a plate full of delicious-looking sandwiches and a steaming cup of tea makes him smile. His stomach growls audibly. Harry sinks into his chair with a pleased sigh and loses himself in Priddy's sandwich.
Scorpius doesn't show up. Harry tells himself he isn't disappointed.
After he's eaten, Harry feels even more tired and heavy. As he sips his tea, watching the steam rise through heavy-lidded eyes, he finds himself thinking of his bed. Soft mattress, fluffy comforter, warm body curled next to his. Well, he thinks, as he puts his empty cup down, probably not the latter tonight. Scorpius is capable of sleeping on the couch out of spite.
It would be nice, though.
Sighing, Harry heaves himself to his feet. His left knee twinges in protest. Great, just what he needs to complete this depressing day, another sign that he's getting old. What does Scorpius see in him?
Quickly, Harry pushes the unbidden thought away. It leaves a faint trace of fear that, perhaps, Scorpius is wondering, too.
Almost in penance for his doubt, Harry pours a cup of tea and brings it to the living room. Scorpius is still curled up on the couch, reading. The lamp behind the couch lights his blond hair and casts his profile into sharp relief.
Harry's breath catches. Scorpius looks so beautiful, so cold. His face seems frozen into a mask, and Harry's hands are shaking from more than exhaustion as he holds out the cup.
'I thought maybe you'd like a cup of tea,' he says quietly.
Scorpius looks up. His light blue eyes are dark and forcibly blank. 'Thank you.'
Harry smiles cautiously as he sets the cup down on the low table and perches on the couch next to Scorpius's feet. Hopeful warmth unfurls in his chest. 'What are you reading?' he asks in an attempt to break through Scorpius's silence.
Scorpius curls his lip. 'Basington's Theory of Arithmantic Orthogon-Division of Stable Variables.'
Harry flinches back at his lover's tone. 'Ah,' he says inadequately. 'All right. That … sounds interesting.' Scorpius sneers at him. He knows full well that Harry doesn't have the faintest idea what he's talking about. Harry's shoulders sag. The warmth in his chest quivers painfully. 'I'll … I'll leave you to it, then?'
Wordlessly, Scorpius returns to his book.
Feeling old and cold, Harry struggles to his feet. His knee twinges again. Not daring to even lay a hand on his lover's shoulder, Harry all but limps out of the room and up the stairs. The warmth from his earlier bath is entirely forgotten. There is a strange, squeezing sensation in his throat that forces him to keep swallowing.
The lamps on their bedside tables are lit and the bed is turned down. The signs of Priddy's care make swallowing more difficult. Harry slips out of his robe and huddles under his duvet.
He feels inadequate; old and useless. Scorpius is such a brilliant, gifted young man. He's far more intelligent than Harry, who doesn't even understand what his partner of almost three years is working on. And Scorpius is still so young, only twenty-two. So young and so beautiful. What is he doing with a middle-aged Ministry-drone like Harry?
Harry swallows hard and rubs his burning eyes. An old and useless and maudlin Ministry-drone who's having a self-pity fest.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and tells himself sternly to stop. He's exaggerating. He's had a bad day, and Scorpius has had a bad day. They're both upset. Probably the best thing is to simply avoid each other until they're both feeling better. Just because Scorpius is upset with him tonight - has been acting oddly for quite some time, whispers a little voice at the back of his head - it doesn't mean he's thinking about …
Well.
So.
Harry huffs out a frustrated breath and sits up. Viciously, he boxes his pillows until he can lean back against them, half sitting up. He fishes his book from the bedside table and determinedly opens it. It's a Muggle novel, of all things. Some kind of family story written by someone apparently very popular. Ron devoured it, laughed himself into stitches, and lent it to Harry, saying, 'You've got to read this, mate. It's hilarious!'
Harry has to admit, it is entertaining. There's all kinds of drama - forbidden love and jealousy, betrayals, deaths that might or might not be murder - everything. It's so badly written and over the top, it's funny. And it's just the kind of mind-numbing, unrealistic melodrama he needs to drown his own troubles, if only for a while.
Two and a half chapters later, Harry's eyelids are drooping and he's yawning until his jaw cracks. He puts the book aside, folds his glasses on top of it and flicks his wand to set the alarm and extinguishes his light. For a moment he hesitates, then he leaves the light on Scorpius's side burning.
Settling down, Harry half-expects his thoughts to keep him awake despite his exhaustion. But within minutes, he finds himself drifting off to sleep. He's jerked awake again when the bed beside him dips and the room is plunged into darkness. Sleepily, he smiles. Scorpius came to bed. He can't be that mad.
Next to him, Scorpius twists and turns, then lies still. Harry can hear his slow breathing.
He wishes Scorpius would turn to him. Or that he would dare to shift closer and take Scorpius into his arms.
Cautiously, Harry inches his hand across the bed. If he's careful, perhaps Scorpius might not even notice. Can pretend he doesn't notice. Harry just needs a little bit of contact.
His little finger brushes against warm skin. Harry freezes, waits. Scorpius's breath seems to have stopped. But he isn't protesting, isn't twisting away. Harry relaxes.
There's a soft sound almost like a sob from Scorpius, and suddenly, he moves. For a split-second, Harry thinks that Scorpius is moving away and is about to pull back, but then Scorpius presses against him.
Harry can't suppress his own sob-like sound and wraps both arms around his precious love, pulling him even closer. As Scorpius snuggles against him like a little bird seeking warmth, Harry buries his face in Scorpius's hair, taking a deep breath, smelling Scorpius's beloved scent.
This, he just needs this: Scorpius warm and loving in his arms. Just like it used to be before he became Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and everything became incomprehensible.
Relieved and light and happy, a faint smile on his face, Harry falls asleep.
* * *
>> Part 2