One-Shot: Green-Eyed Boys
Title : Green-Eyed Boys
Author : Hellus Bellus
Rating : PG
Word Count : 2,254
Pairings : Scorpius/Albus
Summary : Scorpius comes out to his father.
Disclaimer : I do not own rights to Harry Potter or associated content. I plan to make exactly no money from this work of fiction.
Authors Note : One-shot. I admit that this is mostly about Scorpius and Draco, but it definitely has to do with Albus. Posted to the_ass_ship .
*
Scorpius bit his lip and looked down. He watched his tightly clasped hands, his knuckles getting whiter and whiter by the second. The silence pressed down on his shoulders. He thought he might melt right into the chair, right into the floor, right into the Manor itself. But no luck. He didn't melt. And his father still hadn't said anything.
Finally, the silence was too much. “Father?” He said quietly, still not looking up.
Draco sighed. A tiny flare of hope lit in Scorpius' chest. It wasn't an angry sigh, or an 'I'm about to beat you into being a proper man'-sigh. He just sounded weary. Weary was good, Scorpius thought. Compared to the alternatives, weary was bloody excellent.
“Are you...” and here Draco sighed again. Scorpius looked up through the pale curtain of his bangs. His father's mouth was very tight.
“Get your hair out of your eyes, boy, ” Draco snapped.
Scorpius jerked up in the chair, quickly brushing his hair to the side. Something trembled in his stomach, and he felt his jaw tightening. He scoured his father's face and posture, taking in every detail, searching for some indication of feeling, some clue to what was about to happen. He wasn't just worried about being disowned or beaten - he was worried that his father might hate him. Or worse, might be...disgusted. Disgusted, by him. Scorpius began to feel nauseous.
Draco sighed for a third time, uncrossed his legs, and then re-crossed them with the opposite leg on top. “Are you...” he began again, this time looking straight into Scorpius' eyes. “Are you sure?”
His hands clenched together so tightly that Scorpius lost the feeling in his fingers. “Yes,” he said, and realized that he'd whispered it. He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He congratulated himself that his voice did not reflect the trembling of his innards.
Draco stood up, and Scorpius bit the inside of his cheek, afraid for a split second that he was about to be hit. But Draco did not hit him. He did not remain still, either. He turned around, walking behind his leather wing-backed chair. He crossed in front of the bay window, then strode past rows of bookcases, his reflection distorting on the surfaces of sundry magical artifacts and in the enormous glass belly of a grandfather clock. He did not stop his pacing at two walls, and continued until he had made one complete circuit of the room, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed. Scorpius stiffened when Draco passed behind him, but his pace was quick, and soon Draco was back behind his wing-backed chair, staring out the window. His hands unclasped.
“Very well,” he said after a significant pause.
Scorpius blinked. Draco didn't add anything to this statement, and such a long moment passed that Scorpius wondered if the conversation was over. Should he leave? Scorpius glanced towards the door.
The sound of his father's voice, dropped to a low rumble, barely loud enough to hear, put an end to Scorpius' escape plots.
“My father was not always kind,” said Draco, and Scorpius felt his eyes widen. Draco paused there, as if waiting for an answer, but Scorpius stayed silent. He wasn't sure how this pertained to, well, him, but he wasn't about to interrupt anything about his grandfather. Though other people had told him plenty and more about Lucius Malfoy, he could count on one hand the number of times his father had so much as mentioned the man.
Draco tucked his hands in his pockets, still facing the window. “Lucius...was not always kind,” he repeated, and Scorpius could tell by the wry tone that Draco was remembering something, an incident, and Scorpius desperately wished he knew what it was.
“Well.” Draco sighed for a fourth time. “That is, he didn't- no, no, that's not...” For a fifth time. Scorpius had never seen his father so flustered. Actually, Scorpius would be hard-pressed to recall a moment when he'd seen his father flustered at all.
Draco turned to face the study, and his son, but his eyes rested on his expansive desk. “There was once a green-eyed boy named Fabian,” said Draco, and now his tone was flat. “Fabian worked in a shop your grandmother frequented in Provence. I'm sure you've been to it. She still goes, every summer. I, well, we...” Scorpius saw his father's head tilt, and knew Draco was looking at something that was not in this room, and not of this time. Something that leaked a poisonous sadness into his eyes. Scorpius' heart ached at that grown-up sadness, unsure of how to react, unsure of how to handle the knowledge that his father had once been young like that.
“One afternoon, my father caught us...caught us.” He looked up then, gazing into Scorpius' eyes, expression blank. Scorpius sucked a breath in through his teeth.
“He was not happy,” Draco deadpanned, then flashed a smile so crooked and achingly cruel that Scorpius flinched at the sight. Draco slipped a delicate hand through his silver hair. “We had a conversation,” he said, eyes flitting to the bookcases, “in this very room, as a matter of fact. It was not happy, either.” Draco twitched, hands untucking and then re-tucking in his pockets. “He explained to me - in his way - what I am about to explain to you.”
Draco paused here, and looked directly at Scorpius. He obviously expected a response. Scorpius swallowed. He had no idea what to say, and was deathly afraid of saying the wrong thing and making this sudden flow of words cease. So, he only nodded, assenting. To what, he was not quite sure.
Draco descended into the wing-backed chair, graceful as always. He placed both his hands on his desk, smoothed them over the green deskmat, then folded them together.
“You are very young,” he began, but there was no condescension in his tone, only a cold statement of fact. “If the world was fair, you wouldn't need to think about things like marriage and children until you are much, much older.”
Scorpius felt the hint of blush heat up his cheeks, and he glanced at the carpet. He felt sure he knew what was coming next.
“But the world isn't fair, and you are Malfoy. So we must speak of these things now.” Draco shifted in his seat. “There will always be a true-blooded heir in the Manor,” said Draco, and Scorpius glanced back up at him, brow furrowed, feeling the beginnings of a defensive anger build in his stomach.
“I'm not being difficult.” Draco quirked a smile. “It's sealed into the stones of the place. There will always be a legitimate, natural heir to Malfoy Manor. Anyone else who attempted to acquire ownership would find himself dead, and quickly.”
The rage quieted. Scorpius nodded, reluctantly.
“So, the obvious question is this: do you wish to inherit the estate?”
Scorpius blinked. He unclasped his hands, then re-clasped them. “Um.”
Draco raised a pale eyebrow.
“Well, am I...” Scorpius resisted the urge to duck his head, knowing how his father hated those little twitches of timidity. “Am I still...welcome to?” He finished, almost whispering.
It was Draco's turn to blink, looking puzzled. “Of course. Why wouldn't you be?”
“Well. Um.”
“Scorpius, being homosexual makes life complicated, but it doesn't change you. You are a Malfoy; you are my son. These facts cannot be altered.” Draco's expression melted slightly, a gentle smile curling his lips. “I am asking if you are my heir.”
Scorpius felt the tension break inside of him. Ice cold relief flooded his body and mind, spilling out of him as a gust of breath and a broad, uncontrollable smile. He leaned back in his chair. His father's words echoed in his mind, over and over: 'You are a Malfoy.' Scorpius couldn't stop smiling. 'You are my son.' My son. My son.
“Scorpius, I expect an answer.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “I mean, if I can be. Yes.”
Draco nodded. “I'm glad. But if that's the case, there are expectations. Consequences, which I had wished I could shield you from for a while longer.” Draco's expression turned rueful. “Primarily, children. If you are sure that you cannot marry a woman...”
Scorpius blushed and nodded.
“Fine. However, you will need to marry. Heirs must be legitimate.”
Scorpius' brow furrowed. He understood the bit about marriage. He was fine with that. He fully intended to marry. However, 'Heirs?' 'Legitimate?' How...
“You seem confused,” said Draco, sounding more amused than accusatory.
“Well, I mean...marriage, yes, that's fine, but...”
“It's possible,” said Draco, eyes wandering a little away from Scorpius. “There's a...method. It was invented several hundred years ago, primarily for situations such as this. The Old-Blood Manors can be temperamental about these sorts of things, and, well...” Draco's thumbs ran over his other fingers. He looked nearly as uncomfortable as Scorpius felt. “Love is a great motivator for invention.”
“So, that means that I would have to be...”
“Pregnant. Yes. At some point. Or your...partner.”
Scorpius was silent. His blush was vivid and hot. He'd never considered the possibility of that before. He figured if he wanted children, he'd just adopt or get a surrogate or, y'know, something. But...pregnant? Really?
“Can you live with that?” Draco's tone was serious. It was not a light question. Scorpius paused, thinking, determined not to give a light answer.
Actually, he was sure he didn't know if he could live with that, but Draco expected an answer, so, finally, he said, “Yes, I can.”
“Good. That's the primary obstacle. Situations such as this are not so rare that you'll be shunned, at least not in Our circles. However, there is significant prejudice in the Muggle community, and the general Wizarding community is not much better.” Scorpius almost smiled to see that familiar sneer twist his father's lips. “But there are ways to live with that. It is not a fair lot, but if it is your lot, you should be prepared.”
“Thank you,” Scorpius said simply, unsure of how to respond. His father nodded.
“Well, there is only the one matter left then.”
Scorpius straightened in his chair. So they'd come to it at last.
“Why you've chosen,” Draco's lips twitched, “him, I cannot guess. I desperately hope this is a fling.”
Scorpius opened his mouth to retort, but his father cut him off.
“However, I see no danger in the boy, as it is. God knows he's from a fair enough family. But when the day comes that you are married, there is protocol, as I'm sure you're aware.”
Scorpius nodded.
Draco took a deep breath, his hands clasping tightly together. His gaze bore down into Scorpius' own, and Scorpius could not dare to look away.
“You do not take another man's name,” said Draco, his expression deadly serious, as was his tone. “You are a Malfoy. You were born as one, and you will die as one. Marry the boy, bed him, live here together, bear his children. All this I can accept, but you will never be a Potter.” Draco spat the name. “Never. They will carve on your tombstone: S. Malfoy. Am I understood?”
Scorpius almost laughed. However, taking in his father's expression, he decided this would be unwise, and choked it down. “Understood,” he said slowly.
“Good.” Draco unclasped his hands. “Well then.” He cleared his throat.
There was a long silence, during which Scorpius gazed at his father, nerves atremble, and Draco looked anywhere but at his son.
“Well then,” said Draco again, more quietly. “Have you...told your mother?”
Scorpius shifted in his seat. “Yesterday.”
“Ah,” said Draco. “And she...?”
“Desperately hopes this is a fling.” Scorpius smirked, unaware that when he did so, he looked frighteningly like a young Draco.
“Indeed,” said Draco, raising one pale eyebrow and smiling that quiet smile that Scorpius unconsciously associated with his mother. “Well, I assume you have an owl to write...”
Scorpius felt himself blush again, and nodded.
“You may go.”
Scorpius stood up, feeling as though his legs should give out beneath him, but finding that he felt strangely energized. He'd only just touched the doorknob when his father's voice drew him back.
“Scorpius?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is Potter...” Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. “I suppose Albus...I suppose Potter is having a similar conversation?”
“Yes. He told his parents today. About...me.”
Draco nodded, looking down at the desk. He waved vaguely, indicating that Scorpius could leave, which Scorpius promptly did, en route to his suite of rooms to pen a very relieved note to his boyfriend.
Draco paused a moment looking at his desk, thinking thoughts of a green-eyed boy. Then he smirked, opened a drawer, and retrieved quill, parchment, and ink.
Potter,
He wrote, penmanship both elegant and refined.
Your spawn is getting handsy...
*
Author : Hellus Bellus
Rating : PG
Word Count : 2,254
Pairings : Scorpius/Albus
Summary : Scorpius comes out to his father.
Disclaimer : I do not own rights to Harry Potter or associated content. I plan to make exactly no money from this work of fiction.
Authors Note : One-shot. I admit that this is mostly about Scorpius and Draco, but it definitely has to do with Albus. Posted to the_ass_ship .
*
Scorpius bit his lip and looked down. He watched his tightly clasped hands, his knuckles getting whiter and whiter by the second. The silence pressed down on his shoulders. He thought he might melt right into the chair, right into the floor, right into the Manor itself. But no luck. He didn't melt. And his father still hadn't said anything.
Finally, the silence was too much. “Father?” He said quietly, still not looking up.
Draco sighed. A tiny flare of hope lit in Scorpius' chest. It wasn't an angry sigh, or an 'I'm about to beat you into being a proper man'-sigh. He just sounded weary. Weary was good, Scorpius thought. Compared to the alternatives, weary was bloody excellent.
“Are you...” and here Draco sighed again. Scorpius looked up through the pale curtain of his bangs. His father's mouth was very tight.
“Get your hair out of your eyes, boy, ” Draco snapped.
Scorpius jerked up in the chair, quickly brushing his hair to the side. Something trembled in his stomach, and he felt his jaw tightening. He scoured his father's face and posture, taking in every detail, searching for some indication of feeling, some clue to what was about to happen. He wasn't just worried about being disowned or beaten - he was worried that his father might hate him. Or worse, might be...disgusted. Disgusted, by him. Scorpius began to feel nauseous.
Draco sighed for a third time, uncrossed his legs, and then re-crossed them with the opposite leg on top. “Are you...” he began again, this time looking straight into Scorpius' eyes. “Are you sure?”
His hands clenched together so tightly that Scorpius lost the feeling in his fingers. “Yes,” he said, and realized that he'd whispered it. He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He congratulated himself that his voice did not reflect the trembling of his innards.
Draco stood up, and Scorpius bit the inside of his cheek, afraid for a split second that he was about to be hit. But Draco did not hit him. He did not remain still, either. He turned around, walking behind his leather wing-backed chair. He crossed in front of the bay window, then strode past rows of bookcases, his reflection distorting on the surfaces of sundry magical artifacts and in the enormous glass belly of a grandfather clock. He did not stop his pacing at two walls, and continued until he had made one complete circuit of the room, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed. Scorpius stiffened when Draco passed behind him, but his pace was quick, and soon Draco was back behind his wing-backed chair, staring out the window. His hands unclasped.
“Very well,” he said after a significant pause.
Scorpius blinked. Draco didn't add anything to this statement, and such a long moment passed that Scorpius wondered if the conversation was over. Should he leave? Scorpius glanced towards the door.
The sound of his father's voice, dropped to a low rumble, barely loud enough to hear, put an end to Scorpius' escape plots.
“My father was not always kind,” said Draco, and Scorpius felt his eyes widen. Draco paused there, as if waiting for an answer, but Scorpius stayed silent. He wasn't sure how this pertained to, well, him, but he wasn't about to interrupt anything about his grandfather. Though other people had told him plenty and more about Lucius Malfoy, he could count on one hand the number of times his father had so much as mentioned the man.
Draco tucked his hands in his pockets, still facing the window. “Lucius...was not always kind,” he repeated, and Scorpius could tell by the wry tone that Draco was remembering something, an incident, and Scorpius desperately wished he knew what it was.
“Well.” Draco sighed for a fourth time. “That is, he didn't- no, no, that's not...” For a fifth time. Scorpius had never seen his father so flustered. Actually, Scorpius would be hard-pressed to recall a moment when he'd seen his father flustered at all.
Draco turned to face the study, and his son, but his eyes rested on his expansive desk. “There was once a green-eyed boy named Fabian,” said Draco, and now his tone was flat. “Fabian worked in a shop your grandmother frequented in Provence. I'm sure you've been to it. She still goes, every summer. I, well, we...” Scorpius saw his father's head tilt, and knew Draco was looking at something that was not in this room, and not of this time. Something that leaked a poisonous sadness into his eyes. Scorpius' heart ached at that grown-up sadness, unsure of how to react, unsure of how to handle the knowledge that his father had once been young like that.
“One afternoon, my father caught us...caught us.” He looked up then, gazing into Scorpius' eyes, expression blank. Scorpius sucked a breath in through his teeth.
“He was not happy,” Draco deadpanned, then flashed a smile so crooked and achingly cruel that Scorpius flinched at the sight. Draco slipped a delicate hand through his silver hair. “We had a conversation,” he said, eyes flitting to the bookcases, “in this very room, as a matter of fact. It was not happy, either.” Draco twitched, hands untucking and then re-tucking in his pockets. “He explained to me - in his way - what I am about to explain to you.”
Draco paused here, and looked directly at Scorpius. He obviously expected a response. Scorpius swallowed. He had no idea what to say, and was deathly afraid of saying the wrong thing and making this sudden flow of words cease. So, he only nodded, assenting. To what, he was not quite sure.
Draco descended into the wing-backed chair, graceful as always. He placed both his hands on his desk, smoothed them over the green deskmat, then folded them together.
“You are very young,” he began, but there was no condescension in his tone, only a cold statement of fact. “If the world was fair, you wouldn't need to think about things like marriage and children until you are much, much older.”
Scorpius felt the hint of blush heat up his cheeks, and he glanced at the carpet. He felt sure he knew what was coming next.
“But the world isn't fair, and you are Malfoy. So we must speak of these things now.” Draco shifted in his seat. “There will always be a true-blooded heir in the Manor,” said Draco, and Scorpius glanced back up at him, brow furrowed, feeling the beginnings of a defensive anger build in his stomach.
“I'm not being difficult.” Draco quirked a smile. “It's sealed into the stones of the place. There will always be a legitimate, natural heir to Malfoy Manor. Anyone else who attempted to acquire ownership would find himself dead, and quickly.”
The rage quieted. Scorpius nodded, reluctantly.
“So, the obvious question is this: do you wish to inherit the estate?”
Scorpius blinked. He unclasped his hands, then re-clasped them. “Um.”
Draco raised a pale eyebrow.
“Well, am I...” Scorpius resisted the urge to duck his head, knowing how his father hated those little twitches of timidity. “Am I still...welcome to?” He finished, almost whispering.
It was Draco's turn to blink, looking puzzled. “Of course. Why wouldn't you be?”
“Well. Um.”
“Scorpius, being homosexual makes life complicated, but it doesn't change you. You are a Malfoy; you are my son. These facts cannot be altered.” Draco's expression melted slightly, a gentle smile curling his lips. “I am asking if you are my heir.”
Scorpius felt the tension break inside of him. Ice cold relief flooded his body and mind, spilling out of him as a gust of breath and a broad, uncontrollable smile. He leaned back in his chair. His father's words echoed in his mind, over and over: 'You are a Malfoy.' Scorpius couldn't stop smiling. 'You are my son.' My son. My son.
“Scorpius, I expect an answer.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “I mean, if I can be. Yes.”
Draco nodded. “I'm glad. But if that's the case, there are expectations. Consequences, which I had wished I could shield you from for a while longer.” Draco's expression turned rueful. “Primarily, children. If you are sure that you cannot marry a woman...”
Scorpius blushed and nodded.
“Fine. However, you will need to marry. Heirs must be legitimate.”
Scorpius' brow furrowed. He understood the bit about marriage. He was fine with that. He fully intended to marry. However, 'Heirs?' 'Legitimate?' How...
“You seem confused,” said Draco, sounding more amused than accusatory.
“Well, I mean...marriage, yes, that's fine, but...”
“It's possible,” said Draco, eyes wandering a little away from Scorpius. “There's a...method. It was invented several hundred years ago, primarily for situations such as this. The Old-Blood Manors can be temperamental about these sorts of things, and, well...” Draco's thumbs ran over his other fingers. He looked nearly as uncomfortable as Scorpius felt. “Love is a great motivator for invention.”
“So, that means that I would have to be...”
“Pregnant. Yes. At some point. Or your...partner.”
Scorpius was silent. His blush was vivid and hot. He'd never considered the possibility of that before. He figured if he wanted children, he'd just adopt or get a surrogate or, y'know, something. But...pregnant? Really?
“Can you live with that?” Draco's tone was serious. It was not a light question. Scorpius paused, thinking, determined not to give a light answer.
Actually, he was sure he didn't know if he could live with that, but Draco expected an answer, so, finally, he said, “Yes, I can.”
“Good. That's the primary obstacle. Situations such as this are not so rare that you'll be shunned, at least not in Our circles. However, there is significant prejudice in the Muggle community, and the general Wizarding community is not much better.” Scorpius almost smiled to see that familiar sneer twist his father's lips. “But there are ways to live with that. It is not a fair lot, but if it is your lot, you should be prepared.”
“Thank you,” Scorpius said simply, unsure of how to respond. His father nodded.
“Well, there is only the one matter left then.”
Scorpius straightened in his chair. So they'd come to it at last.
“Why you've chosen,” Draco's lips twitched, “him, I cannot guess. I desperately hope this is a fling.”
Scorpius opened his mouth to retort, but his father cut him off.
“However, I see no danger in the boy, as it is. God knows he's from a fair enough family. But when the day comes that you are married, there is protocol, as I'm sure you're aware.”
Scorpius nodded.
Draco took a deep breath, his hands clasping tightly together. His gaze bore down into Scorpius' own, and Scorpius could not dare to look away.
“You do not take another man's name,” said Draco, his expression deadly serious, as was his tone. “You are a Malfoy. You were born as one, and you will die as one. Marry the boy, bed him, live here together, bear his children. All this I can accept, but you will never be a Potter.” Draco spat the name. “Never. They will carve on your tombstone: S. Malfoy. Am I understood?”
Scorpius almost laughed. However, taking in his father's expression, he decided this would be unwise, and choked it down. “Understood,” he said slowly.
“Good.” Draco unclasped his hands. “Well then.” He cleared his throat.
There was a long silence, during which Scorpius gazed at his father, nerves atremble, and Draco looked anywhere but at his son.
“Well then,” said Draco again, more quietly. “Have you...told your mother?”
Scorpius shifted in his seat. “Yesterday.”
“Ah,” said Draco. “And she...?”
“Desperately hopes this is a fling.” Scorpius smirked, unaware that when he did so, he looked frighteningly like a young Draco.
“Indeed,” said Draco, raising one pale eyebrow and smiling that quiet smile that Scorpius unconsciously associated with his mother. “Well, I assume you have an owl to write...”
Scorpius felt himself blush again, and nodded.
“You may go.”
Scorpius stood up, feeling as though his legs should give out beneath him, but finding that he felt strangely energized. He'd only just touched the doorknob when his father's voice drew him back.
“Scorpius?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is Potter...” Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. “I suppose Albus...I suppose Potter is having a similar conversation?”
“Yes. He told his parents today. About...me.”
Draco nodded, looking down at the desk. He waved vaguely, indicating that Scorpius could leave, which Scorpius promptly did, en route to his suite of rooms to pen a very relieved note to his boyfriend.
Draco paused a moment looking at his desk, thinking thoughts of a green-eyed boy. Then he smirked, opened a drawer, and retrieved quill, parchment, and ink.
Potter,
He wrote, penmanship both elegant and refined.
Your spawn is getting handsy...
*