Everything [Scorpius/Lysander - PG-13] - Part 1
Author: xmusicnotesx
Title: Everything
Prompt: #17 Submitted by alley_skywalker
Pairing: Scorpius/Lysander, Scorpius/FemaleOC, Astoria/FemaleOC
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild sexual situations, violence with pointy swords,
lots and lots of swearing, character death. May also contain traces of
humour.
Word Count: 14,353
Summary: As Oscar Wilde would say, “The exploits of purebloods
are rarely pure and always bloody.” Scorpius finds a wife, Lorcan
challenges him to a duel of honor, Lily buys everyone drinks (let’s
hope they’re not poisoned), and Lysander looks on in confusion.
Notes: A thousand thanks to the fest mods for making this all
possible, and to my glorious betas, H and K, as well as the D key on
my laptop, may it rest in peace.
EVERYTHING
“It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.” - Sherlock Holmes
Scorpius picked the book up with a sigh, staring at the forest of empty boxes around him. It was the last item he had packed away from the Manor, and now it was the last item he unpacked at his (modest, but nice) new flat.
He set it down on the shelf with a final thump, turned away, then paused. He felt a tingling at the back of his neck, as if the book was calling to him. Look at me, Scorpius. Just once.
There was a reason he had waited so long to unpack it. This book was special. He convinced himself it was one of his favorites to have an excuse to keep it around, then trained himself not to pick it up, not to even look at it as he passed its place on the shelves in his old room.
But just one look wouldn’t hurt. After all, he didn’t even think of that time any more, did he? Scorpius turned on his heel, setting his face into a brave glare, as though he was about to face the legendary monster from the Chamber of Secrets.
There was nothing monstrous about it. It was a volume of moderate size, neither thick nor thin, old but not ancient, with peeling gilt letters on the leather spine: 100 Magical Herbs and Fungi. Scorpius reached out to it, and was surprised at the steadiness of his hand.
The book itself really wasn’t special at all. Scorpius had never particularly liked or disliked herbology, only had a passing interest in it as an extention of his love of potions, and it wasn’t the best book there was on the subject. It had been a gift, and Scorpius knew that … the giver (Merlin, Scorpius, can’t you even think his name?) had aquired it from the second hand shelf at Flourish and Blots.
There was nothing of interest about the book. No, the only thing about it that was remotely special was the inside cover. And that was very, very special.
The inscription, untidily scrawled in blue ink, read,
For my Scorpius,
I know you’ll get that O in Herbology. Think of the Department of Mysteries!
Yours always,
Lysander.
Now Scorpius’ hands shook. This was why he had trained himself not to think about Lysander. Because every time he did, this strange emotion came over him, and he wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia or rage or pain.
Yours always.
Tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he threw the book down onto the floor. It lay there, pathetic, spine bent at an awkward angle, and Scorpius fell to his knees, pressing a hand over his mouth.
“Oh no,” he whispered, picking it up gently and placing it back on its shelf. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
He sat there for a moment, staring down at his hands. They were pale and thin, and the edges of his fingers were stained with potions ingredients, various shades of black and green and scarlet.
They had always been stained during seventh year, when he could think of nothing but NEWTs. NEWTs and Lysander, who had always been at the corner of his mind, taking away a little of the stress every time Scorpius thought of him.
Always. They had been so bloody naïve, with their little promises that they would be together forever. All their friends had known it wouldn’t last past graduation, but they were caught in their fantasy. As beautiful as a soap bubble, and as fragile.
Then it had popped, and Scorpius held the needle.
Merlin, Scorpius, apologizing to a book. You really have gone mad. Tea. Tea was what he needed now. He pulled himself shakily to his feet and toddled to the small kitchen.
His flat was the cheapest he could find that was close to the Ministry, had a floo connection, and was nice enough that his parents wouldn’t convince themselves that their son needed to be rescued from a squalid life of drunken debauchery. They would have bought him an entire house in Hampstead if he had allowed it, but if Scorpius was going to be independent, he thought he should do it properly.
It was a new job, a new house, a new life. His alchemical training in Paris and later Tehran was behind him, and school behind that, and Lysander behind that, far in the past. It had been nearly four years, and Scorpius had no reason to think of him.
He would settle himself solidly in a career, marry a pretty blonde girl of good family, and inherit the Manor. Everyone would be happy, and yes, that included him. It did.
***
Scorpius found his new coworkers in the Department of Mysteries surprisingly friendly and open, if only among themselves. The skill at conversation his mother had instilled in him nearly from birth came to good use, and he found himself with more popularity than he knew what to do with.
He was invited out for drinks nearly every night - it seemed popular among the Unspeakables to drown the stresses of the job in strong drink - and nearly always declined, pleading fatigue. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he convinced himself that he just needed to settle into his new life, before he could deal with people.
A few weeks later, Scorpius was given his first major project.
“It’s only in its preliminary stages, of course, but it’s shaping up to be quite a big thing,” Unspeakable Corner, the department’s Head of Potions, had assured Scorpius. “Some of Nicolas Flamel’s works mention an utterly undetectable poison. We’re hoping to develop some way to detect it. The poison itself is lost to time, but Flamel wrote an antidote, and your job is to work backwards from that.”
Unfortunately, working it backwards was easier said than done. Scorpius and his partner, a Mary Morstan, had tried what seemed like nearly every possible combination of base potions, nearly every additional key ingredient, and though they had come close several times, nothing was quite right.
“I can’t think what else to try,” Scorpius bemoaned one afternoon, slumping against a counter and pushing his goggles up onto his forehead. It was technically Laboratory Policy to Wear Protective Eyewear at All Times while in the lab, but Scorpius had quickly discovered that few Unspeakables really followed the rule. Anyway, he was wearing his goggles. As a hat.
“Oh, don’t lose hope,” Mary scolded him, leaning on the counter close beside him. “Maybe what we need is a bit of stress relief. Do you … do anything to relieve your stress?”
She was really quite close beside him. Perhaps a bit too close. Was he imagining the sultry edge to her tone?
“Er,” he said noncomitally, resisting the overwhelming urge to ask her what the hell she was implying, “like what?”
“Like fencing,” Mary said brightly, and the sensation that someone was inching a match slowly closer to his face was gone as soon as it had arrived.
“Fencing,” Scorpius repeated. “Right. Isn’t that some mental old Muggle sport?”
“Yes, but it was quite popular with wizards in the 1700s,” Mary informed him, “and our generation has started a revival. It’s more fun than it sounds, and great for relieving excess agression. You should give it a go.”
“If we could get this potion right, no one would have any excess agression,” Scorpius muttered, but he agreed to go to a practice with Mary that weekend. Lysander had haunted his dreams the last few nights, and he could do with another distraction.
***
Saturdays for Scorpius were strange, in that he could never decide if they were heaven or hell. Usually he spent them pottering about in his flat, making tea and reading large, dusty books. It was a time to relax, and would have been nice, if it wasn’t for Lysander’s constant haunting of the corners of his mind.
Scorpius had been doing well before he opened the book. He had far from forgotten Lysander, but he had put him well out of mind. His year in Tehran had been the most free time of his life, with no one who knew him or his parents around, no reputation to maintain. He had bedded many men in those twelve months, with nearly no regrets.
While Lysander had never been entirely out of his mind, Scorpius could finally breathe. He could face living on his own and beginning work at the Department with a free mind, if not a free heart. He had left Tehran a different person, Potions Mastership in hand, prepared to face the real world.
And he had just had to screw that all up by opening the book. Now he was back in the morass of loneliness, despair, guilt, and regret that he had sheltered himself under in Paris. It was interfering with his work, and he had to stop.
The solution was simple: find himself a girlfriend. A pretty, blonde girlfriend of good family, who he could conceive a child by and never sleep with again. But who?
The answer came to him as quickly as the question.
Mary.
He detached himself from his depressive nest on the sofa and stumbled to the floo. He had gotten her floo coordinates on a purely business level, but she had hinted heavily that they could go to lunch sometime … just to chat about work, of course.
“Mary,” he called when her flat appeared through the back of his fireplace. Her head appeared around a doorframe, and she squatted at the hearth, looking pleased to see him.
“Scorpius! Still up for fencing tomorrow?”
“Of course,” he forced a smile. “But I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee or something before the class?”
She gave a broad smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes in a most winsome manner. “I’d love to.”
“Er, great. Well, see you then, I suppose?” he asked, feeling awkward. He had never really asked anyone on a proper date before - he and Lysander had just sort of happened, and he was pretty sure one night stands met at shady bars in Tehran didn’t count, either. “When … when shall I pick you up?”
“Oh, how does eleven sound?” she smirked. “The class is at twelve-thirty, so that should give us time for our coffee. Or something.”
She stood then, and Scorpius had about ten seconds to realize that she was wearing a very short skirt, before she walked off, saying over her shoulder, “Later, Scorpius.”
He withdrew his head from the fireplace very suddenly, scraping his head on the mantle, and found himself flat on his back in his own flat, feeling slightly dazed.
***
Thankfully, when Scorpius next saw Mary she sported trousers, and he wasn’t once again subjected to the sight of a vast, unplottable expanse of female leg.
“Good morning,” Scorpius said. It was strange that he felt so awkward - she was pretty, and pleasant, and intelligent. She was also certainly blonde, and he was fairly sure her blood was as close to pure as it got these days. There was absolutely nothing about her that should make him feel so ill at ease.
“Morning, Scorpius,” she smiled, taking his arm. “So … coffee, or something?”
“Just … just coffee, I think,” he stammered. Smooth, Scorpius, he berated himself.
“There’s a nice place not far from here,” she carried on. “The Bean, have you heard of it?”
They bantered wittily over coffee, and as Scorpius collected facts about Mary, she only seemed a more perfect wife to satisfy his family. Her blood was indeed pure, and she was clearly interested - her flirting style was rather unsubtle for Scorpius’ tastes, but at least it got the message across.
Leaving the coffee shop, Scorpius offered his arm, and she took it with a smile. Her wrist draped with all the elegance of a lady just out of finishing school. “Where’s the class?”
“There’s a wizarding community center a few blocks from the ministry,” Mary replied.
“Shall we apparate?” No sooner had she nodded, than he felt her grip on his arm tighten, and that strange tension at his navel.
He had heard of the community center before - it had been built not long after the last war, in an attempt to ‘build a greater sense of comradery amongst London’s wizarding youth,’ and had since flourished modestly. However, he had never found time in his schedule to visit before.
What he saw surprised him. The interior was all large rooms and wood panelling, clearly not a cheap project, and something seemed to be going on in every room he passed.
Mary led him to a large, open room on the second floor.
It was only noon, but several people were already milling about, swishing long swords in each others faces. Scorpius couldn’t see how this was any better than duelling with wands, but he was willing to give it a try.
He was examining a set of antique foils mounted on one wall, when Mary’s hand brushed his shoulder, and he turned. “Scorpius? This is our instructor. Lorcan.”
Scorpius knew who it was before Mary said the name -- he knew it from the instant he saw the man. Lorcan had hardly changed since Hogwarts.
From the neck up, Lorcan looked like the most poncy, affected man you could possibly imagine. A gold pince-nez perched on his delicate, round nose, and his silky golden hair seemed to fly back from his smooth, alabaster forehead in a single immaculate wave. But once you reached his shoulders, that impression had to be thrown out.
Those shoulders had intimidated many a first year in the old days, and the tightly muscled arms that followed had earned Lorcan a name as the best beater Hufflepuff had seen in three centuries. And, at his waist, a belt held several objects of varying length that could easily run Scorpius straight through the heart and out the other side.
Lysander had always been the delicate one. Lorcan was always the first to start a duel, always the first to call you out on even the smallest offense if he thought it dishonoured his twin. Though he would never admit it, Scorpius had always lived in mortal fear of the man.
“Alright there, Malfoy?” Lorcan said pleasantly.
“Oh, you’ve met!” Mary clapped. “How lovely.”
“Yes,” Lorcan’s smile could only be read as predatory if you knew the man, “we were at Hogwarts together. And of course it’s not difficult to recognize his breed. The blonde hair, the pointed face, the immaculate - dare I say flamboyant -- dress sense …” Lorcan eyed his finely tailored purple robes with obvious amusement. “Well. I can only say it’s remarkable to see you in the company of a lady.”
Scorpius opened his mouth to retaliate, but Lorcan cleanly interjected, “Let’s get you kitted up, shall we, Scorpius?”
As Lorcan found him a foil and ran through the protective charms necessary for practice, Scorpius couldn’t help waiting for the last thread to finally snap. He knew there was tension between the two of them, but he wondered if Lorcan even felt it. If he did, he was doing a commendable job of concealing it.
The thread finally broke when Lorcan was teaching him a parry. Scorpius found himself wedged into a corner of the room, his blade and Lorcan’s crossed an inch from his cheek. He could see the fine metal quivering slightly.
Lorcan leaned in close to his ear. “Talk to me after.”
“I can’t,” Scorpius protested through clenched teeth. “I have to escort Mary home. That would be no way to treat a lady.”
Lorcan smirked, showing sinisterly glistening teeth. “Because you really care about ladies,” he muttered, shoving enough subtext into the sentence to set a world record.
“Find time. It’s about Lysander.” Lorcan’s blade flew down to his hip. “Well done, Malfoy,” he said loudly, and they were apart as quickly as if they had never moved.
Of course it’s about Lysander, Scorpius thought, twirling his blade in the same absent way he treated his wand. I might just have to find a way to distract Mary for a bit.
In spite of himself, Scorpius was awaiting the end of the class - and not just so that he could go home, have a hot soak, and listen to his vinyl Chopin records.
***
Mary, fortunately, needed no distraction. She headed off for tea with a friend from the fencing class, Audrey Weasley, as soon as it ended.
“Are - are you sure you wouldn’t like me too … walk you home?” Scorpius stammered after her, for chivalry’s sake - he would admit to being a little indignant, to be left in the dust like this.
“Oh, no, Scorpius,” she smiled. “Don’t worry about me, I’m sure I can manage.”
“Right. Well, I’ll … see you at work, then?” he cried after her retreating figure. She was already gone, and he gave up, turning back to Lorcan. They were alone.
“She certainly cuts a fine figure in those trousers,” Lorcan remarked, adjusting his pince-nez. “Are you planning on marrying her?”
“Oh, probably,” Scorpius said sullenly, slouching back against the wall. “Give it another two dates or so, and my mother will be planning the wedding.”
“Indeed? Well, you may want to reconsider dating her at all,” Lorcan walked a few steps away, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back as he gazed out a window.
“I don’t see why,” Scorpius snapped, wondering what Lorcan could possibly be getting at. “The girl is smart, funny in her way, certainly beautiful - and blonde. What more could any Malfoy man desire?”
“Lysander is also blonde,” Lorcan noted, his tone strangely offhand, “and probably beautiful. Smart and funny I cannot vouch for, though I am his brother, and my judgment is therefore clouded.”
“He is, actually,” Scorpius confirmed, caught off guard. “He’s also male.”
“An unfortunate fact of chromosomes. It hasn’t stopped Malfoys of the past, however. Many of your ancestors were known to take male lovers in addition to -“
“I don’t want a mistress, Scamander,” Scorpius snapped. I want my bloody boyfriend back.
“Goal one for you, then,” Lorcan smiled, apparently pleased. “You’ve proven you have some modicum of honour in that pale, pointy body.”
“What are you getting at, Scamander?”
“Now, that is a question,” Lorcan pondered, steepling his fingers in midair. “This matter, as I told you before, has to do with Lysander …”
“Get on with it, then!”
“I was, Scorpius, for Merlin’s sake!” Lorcan exclaimed, looking put out. “Well, I shall hasten to explain, if only for fear of bodily harm.” He cleared his throat genteely. “Lysander, you see, has been … pining.”
“Pining?”
“Pining.”
“For what?”
“For, oh unobservant one, you.” Lorcan sniffed.
“That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” Lorcan said mysteriously, turning on his leather-shod heel and pacing towards Scorpius, putting him in mind of an extremely flamboyant wolf stalking its prey. “Why, my dear fellow, I think you’ll find you are mistaken.”
“Listen,” Scorpius said, trying to inch away without being painfully obvious, “can you stop sounding like the villain out of a bad Victorian mystery novel and explain what the hell it is you’re on about?”
Lorcan crossed his arms, lips pressed into a thin line. “I have been trying to.”
“Make it quick, then, and I promise I won’t say a word.”
“No more interruptions?”
“None.”
“… Alright,” the Fencing Master adjusted his perfectly starched collar. “Lysander is pining after you. He has been since the day you broke his fragile heart. For some reason far beyond my ken, he still has feelings for you. I would be willing to allow a continuation of your previous itemisation - no interruptions - on one condition.” He paused dramatically. “What, aren’t you going to ask what the condition is?”
“Sorry, I thought you told me to keep quiet.”
Lorcan sighed, as if to indicate that Scorpius’ understanding of these matters was woefully plebean. “Naturally you are allowed to speak in dramatically appropriate situations.”
“… what’s the condition?”
Lorcan drew his rapier, flourishing it dramatically. “You must defeat me in an honourable duel.”
Scorpius flinched in spite of himself. “What, now?”
“Of course not, you idiot,” Lorcan snapped, letting the blade drop to his side. “That was merely for dramatic effect.”
“… Right. I’ll think about it.”
“You can’t ‘think about’ a duel, man, it’s all to do with honour! Either you accept the challenge, or you slink away in ignominy like a lily-livered woman.”
“You have women in this class,” Scorpius pointed out. “Mary is one of your best students.”
“That’s beside the point,” Lorcan spat out. “Fine. You have five months in which to train and make your decision. If you back out, you lose every chance you had with Lysander.”
Scorpius knew he couldn’t follow through with it, knew he had more honour to uphold elsewhere … but he found himself holding out his hand. “Deal.”
They shook on it, and Scorpius found himself walking out with a pounding headache, and new wonderment at the impossible fact that Lorcan wasn’t completely gay.
***
“I’ve arranged things,” Lorcan proclaimed, flinging his coat dramatically across the chaise lounge - or, more accurately, across Lysander, who had already flung himself dramatically across the chaise lounge.
“Arranged what?” his brother replied listlessly, not bothering to extrecate himself from the carelessly flung coat.
“Things,” Lorcan repeated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Merlin, Lysander.”
“What?”
“You’re exactly where I left you six hours ago,” Lorcan stalked over to the chaise and grabbed a paperback out of his brother’s lax grip. “Is this another of those terrible muggle romances? Be sensible, man!”
“As if you’re ever sensible,” Lysander scoffed, making no attempts to retrieve the novel. “I got that off your bookshelf.”
Lorcan dropped the book, as though he had just realized it was a dead rat. “That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“Oh, no rhetorical questions,” Lorcan scolded. “Life is full of … of happiness and laughter. If you fail to see it, you’re not living.”
“That wasn’t rhetorical, Lor. I meant, what the hell are you on about?”
Lorcan flinched. His brother nearly never swore, and when he did, he sounded disturbingly like Scorpius Malfoy. “You’ve been moping about, Lysander.”
“I haven’t been -”
“Yes, you have. Normally you scorn the fine selections of literature on my bookshelf. This,” he gestured towards the book on the floor, voice rising at least twelve decibels, “has to be a sign of moping.”
“Lily said it was good,” Lysander shrugged. “I remembered seeing it on your shelf, so I figured I would give it a chance.”
“Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re not pining away after Malfoy -“
“I am not pining after anybody!”
“-why else would you have remained in the same position for six hours straight?”
“I have a cold, Lor,” Lysander said levelly, “and I got up twice, to make tea.”
“Lies!” Lorcan shrieked. “You are pining - but fear not!”
“Oh, Merlin.”
“Your charming, honourable, and roguishly handsome brother has it all under control.”
“The last time you had it under control, I ended up in the begonias wearing nothing but an old pair of Mother’s nylons.”
“That was all part of the plan.”
“The plan, you mean, that resulted in a muggle vagrant running off with my pants?”
“No,” Lorcan corrected, “the plan that resulted in your trousers becoming the new logo of Marks & Spencer.”
“… right. And that was a good plan, was it?”
“No, it was not good -“
“-finally -“
“-it was brilliant.”
“… leave me alone,” Lysander pressed a hand to his forehead, “please.”
“But Lysander,” Lorcan entreated him, “you need support in your hour of -“
“I’m pining,” Lysander said quickly. “I must be left in peace to … to pine. My very heart bleeds like Lavinia’s cut tongue, wounded far deeper than any arrow could strike. Pray, leave me, for I must press one elegant hand to my heartbroken bosom and bemoan my hopeless love … in solitude.”
And just like that, Lorcan was gone. Lysander wished he had known sooner that it was so easy. Smiling, he retrieved The Suitor’s Bloodied Bosom from the floor, and settled back to read.
***
Brunch with his parents was something Scorpius could never decide whether to look forward to or dread. Even when he was in Iran, he had found time to apparate over, once every three weeks, like clockwork. These brunches were sacred.
This one, however, was particularly awkward. Scorpius finally understood why so many Unspeakables left the Department due to ‘family issues.’ With the policy of secrecy, there was absolutely nothing to talk about.
“… So,” Draco said at last, setting down his fork. “Are you courting anyone?”
“Er …” Scorpius found himself hesitating. “There is a lady, yes.”
Eyebrows shot up on both sides of the table. “Really, darling?” his mother put in. “Who?”
You don’t have to sound so surprised. “Her name is Mary. I know her from work.”
“And her surname?” Draco asked. Astoria shot him a look.
“Morstan,” Scorpius replied. “Her father is Dravinius Morstan, I believe, manager for the Wasps.”
“Not a bad family,” Draco judged. “Are you going to marry her?”
“I … I’m sure Scorpius has no notions of marrying the girl just yet,” Astoria put in, looking flustered. “When did you meet her, dear?”
Well, this was new. He had expected his mother to be planning the piping on the cake by this time. “Two months ago,” he answered. “We’ve been formally dating for nearly three weeks.”
“Is that so,” Astoria’s voice was pleasant, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Scorpius couldn’t understand why. “How lovely.”
“It’s wonderful news, Scorpius,” his father’s smile was genuine. “Is she pretty?”
“Very,” Scorpius smiled to mask his confusion. “Charming, as well. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“Bring her to meet us Saturday,” Draco decided. “We’re holding a small event, in celebration of my new business deal with the Scamanders.”
“… the Scamanders?”
“That’s right,” Draco said blithely. “Rolf is launching a new expedition to the Balkans, in search of some rare - and very expensive - potions ingredients. I’ve made a major investment in the mission; it’s expected to be extremely lucrative.”
“Interesting,” Scorpius said, distracted. He had heard of the expedition - the Department was backing it as well - but hadn’t known Lysander’s father was behind it.
He had no desire to see any of the family, but couldn’t come up with a beleivable excuse. His parents had never known of his relationship with Lysander, and he hoped to keep it that way. “… I’ll find out if Mary is free.”
“Wonderful!” Draco said, then grew more serious. “Many important figures are behind this expedition, Scorpius. These components, if they were rediscovered - well, I’m sure you know all about what changes in Wizarding life they could bring. The mission could be a major step in bringing this family back to the honour we deserve.”
“I understand,” Scorpius said. He was needed there, a public face to show everyone that the Malfoys had a future. “I’ll be there.”
His father beamed. “I knew I could rely on you.”
***
Later, Scorpius mused on the mission as he relaxed into a tub of steaming water, Chopin’s Nocturnes playing softly in the background. Some of the components would indeed bring a new era in potions, if not in life - components that hadn’t been seen since the disappearance of Nicholas Flamel.
Some of the components, in fact, were part of Flamel’s antidote for the poison that was slowly driving him and Mary mad - maybe that was the trouble. But the modern equivelants were close enough that the chemistry ought to -
No. He leapt out of the bath, trailing soap suds, and ran to his desk for parchment and quill. They were going about it all wrong. Flamel’s lengthy, convoluted, impossibly difficult antidote wasn’t for another potion. It was for a single component.
***
The night was still and peaceful. Pale moonlight lanced throught the windows, shattered by the stained glass into segments of colour that danced across silk sheets.
“Scorpius?” Mary leaned closer, elegant hand reaching up to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind the other woman’s ear, and let out a laugh like dropped pennies sparkling in a fountain. “He has his mother’s eyes.”
Astoria tensed. “I don’t mind being one of your conquests, Mary. But I won’t allow my son to be.”
“I promise he’s not,” Mary soothed. “I promise.”
“And this will all stop, if he proposes?”
“Of course.” Though it wasn’t as if Astoria was faithful to her husband.
Astoria leaned back against the pillows, and Mary extracted herself from the tangled sheets, slipping out of bed and pulling on her robes.
On her way out, she paused by the door to Draco’s bedroom, and glanced down at his sleeping form, allowing herself a smirk. Everything was falling into place.
***
The party was as dull as any other Malfoy party had ever been. Scorpius moped around near the drinks, chugging champagne, snatching hors d’ouevers from passing house elf-borne trays, and answering greetings from purebloods he barely knew as politely as he could.
Mary, however, seemed to be in her element. She laughed and gossipped with absolutely everyone - she seemed to already know absolutely everyone, including those that even Scorpius couldn’t place. He supposed that, with her father being such a big name in the financial side of Quidditch, she was used to these sorts of functions.
And, of course, the Scamanders were there. Scorpius hoped that it would only have been Luna and Rolf, but fate was against him - although, thankfully, Lorcan was for once notable by his absence.
Lysander stood just fifteen feet away, chatting with Lily Potter. His back was to Scorpius, but every so often he would catch a glimpse of shining teeth, the corner of a laugh, a reflection of light off of green eyes. He must know Scorpius was there, but never turned around to notice him. It felt almost like the few months of heartache before they were together, both dancing around each other, doing there best to pretend the other wasn’t there.
Lily acknowledged him, however - remarkable, as she had never approved of him before. She and Lysander had been friends long before even Hogwarts, and she was nearly as protective of him as Lorcan was. She had hit Scorpius with a mean bat-bogey hex after he had broken up with Lysander - but now she shot him a wave over Lysander’s shoulder, even a small smile.
Women. Scorpius reached for the champagne.
***
Scorpius didn’t want to admit it, but he was actually enjoying fencing. It was hard to believe that it had been invented by muggles, it had so much in common with wizard deuling - and yet there was something more to it, something that couldn’t be replicated by magic. Almost like chess, it could both clear and sharpen the mind at the same time.
Fencing was enjoyable. Lorcan, however, was irritating. Even when he was halfway across the room, it felt as if he was breathing down Scorpius’ neck, waiting for him to make a mistake, so that he could rush in and explain how it ought to be done, as a cover for comments as to how much Lysander was pining.
“Malfoy,” he whispered, on one occasion, “he’s dying to see you. Why don’t you meet him for tea? You can declare your plan to deul me.”
“I’ve told you, I’m only thinking about it,” Scorpius said through his teeth. “And I don’t even know why I’m doing that. I’m dating Mary and, frankly, the idea is ridiculous.”
“A more astute observation than I would have expected of you. Yes, dating Mary is ridiculous.”
“Mary is, among other fine qualities, female.”
“Merlin, Malfoy,” Lysander adjusted his pincenez, gesturing expansively at Scorpius’ pinstripe silk robes with his foil. “No one could possibly delude themselves into believing that you’re straight. I don’t know how Mary has.”
“I have a reputation to uphold, Lorcan. I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
“I do, as a matter of fact. Lysander, as you may know, is the heir to the Scamander estate, and it is my duty as his brother to insure that he does not starve himself to death for love of you.”
“Oh, please,” Scorpius sighed, pulling off an awkward parry. Fencing while talking wasn’t easy. “There is no Scamander estate. Your mother owns six acres of forest with a crumbling tower near Ottery St. Catchpole, and your father lives in a bus in the Speaker’s Corner of Hyde Park, from the top of which he holds press conferences.”
“Exactly,” Lorcan agreed. “A sprawling estate.”
“… I can’t understand why you believe your brother would be better off with me. I hurt him.”
“That,” Lorcan smiled like a teacher who’s student has finally wrapped his head around some difficult concept, “is the reason for the Duel of Honour.”
“Even if I wanted to have tea with Lysander,” which I do, Scorpius added mentally, “I doubt he would want to be anywhere near me.”
“Oh, he agreed to it.”
“You also say that I agreed to the duel,” Scorpius pointed out. “… Merlin help me. When is he free?”
“Tomorrow at four o’clock sharp,” Lorcan beamed. “Our estate.”
“By estate, do you mean the forest, or the bus?”
“The forest,” Lorcan said blithely. “The bus hasn’t any furniture yet.”
***
Apparating to Luna’s house after so long felt strange. He had only ever been there once, for Christmas - he had stayed a week, telling his father that he was visiting a potions training program in Zimbabwe.
Christmas day with Lysander had, honestly, been the happiest day of his life. The Scamanders had accepted him instantly as if he was one of them. Luna treated him as if he had been there forever.
Thank Merlin that Luna was away on business, or this would be triply awkward.
Adjusting his collar, then feeling like an idiot for doing so, he rapped smartly on the door. He opened it, and -- Fuck. Lysander.
He looked so good it was actually physically painful. His hair was slightly longer than it had been at school - when it reached that length, Scorpius remembered with a pang, it started to curl at the nape of his neck. He was wearing some sort of fitted yellow cardigan with an absurdly deep v-neck, over one of those hideous tartan lesbian-shirts that he was so fond of. On anyone else, the ensemble would have looked hideous. On Lysander, it looked enchanting.
Scorpius found himself fighting the urge to grab Lysander and kiss him, to run his fingers through that hair and his hand under that tartan monstrosity, to tell Lysander how much he loved him and how much of an undeserving idiot Scorpius was. But he had lost the right to do all of those things, long ago.
It felt horribly familiar and comforting, Lysander opening the door like this. Like it was Christmas again, and he was going to grin like an idiot and grab Scorpius by the hand and drag him upstairs, making some unconvincing excuse about ‘showing him his room’, and snog Scorpius utterly senseless in his eye-searingly yellow bedroom.
But he wasn’t.
Lysander smiled politely - always the Hufflepuff, damn him. “Come in, Scorpius.”
“I -” Merlin “ - thank you.”
“Would you like some tea?” Lysander inquired, clattering things about in the kitchen.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Still take it black?”
“I … yes,” Scorpius confirmed, surprised Lysander remembered.
Lysander served their tea in the drawing room, perching on the chaise lounge next to Scorpius. “I heard you’re an Unspeakable, now.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s wonderful, Scorpius,” Lysander said sincerely. “I always knew you could do it.”
“… yes. Thank you.”
Lysander sipped his tea, looking like someone who was doing a very good job of someone who was pretending not to be horribly uncomfortable. “Lily tells me you’re dating Mary Morstan.”
“That’s right,” Scorpius felt as if he ought to say something more, but his mind was at once a total blank, and filled with too many words.
“How nice,” Lysander said, completely levelly. He still wore the same cologne as he had at Hogwarts, vanilla and white musk.
“… are you seeing anyone?” Fuck.
“No, actually,” Lysander replied. “I haven’t really dated since Hogwarts. Too busy, you know.”
“…Oh. What - what have you been up to lately, then?”
“Writing everything I can think of,” Lysander said. “I’m nearly finished with a play, actually.”
“That’s brilliant,” Scorpius said, feeling suddenly more animated. “What’s it about?”
“A busker who discovers the meaning of life at the bottom of a pickle jar,” Lysander replied. “People tell me it’s quite funny.”
“It must be. I’d love to read it,” Scorpius said, then mentally slapped himself. Of course he couldn’t read it, he had no right.
“Oh, would you?” Lysander beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“… I -- really?”
“Of course. I’m terrible at criticizing my own work, and I know you’ll be honest.”
An hour passed quickly. Scorpius drank his tea while reading over the script, laughing frequently. When he came to the end, he looked up at Lysander, grinning. “It’s incredible, darling. I love it -- shit.”
He had royally fucked it all up. Things had been going well, they could have been friends, perhaps Scorpius could finally have stopped pining … but he had to fuck it all up.
“Scorpius.” Lysander’s voice was painfully soft, but not quite tender.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be here -”
“Scorpius. We need to talk, really. Lorcan said it as well - something about relieving our UST. Do you have any idea what that means?”
“… is it a timezone?”
“Who the hell knows what anything Lorcan says means,” Lysander shrugged. “But he’s right that we need to talk. I didn’t think so, at first, but … I can’t ignore it.”
“Can’t you, please? I was just --”
Lysander gripped his shoulder. “No. No, I can’t. As much as I want to believe it means absolutely nothing, that would be horribly irresponsible of me and would end in utter mayhem.”
Scorpius sagged. “I’d be alright with utter mayhem.”
Lysander shook his head, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms. “I do still like you a bit, Scorpius.”
“Fuck.”
“Well said,” Lysander smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “Scorpius, I might be better off without you, I’m certainly happier, but I’m also rather fond of you. For some utterly fucked up reason, that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you look bloody incredible in those trousers.”
“Your brother wants to duel me.”
“I know,” Lysander rolled his eyes. “He’s an idiot - and you’re considering it, which makes you more of one. Right now, I have no desire to date you. You’re more concerned with proving to Lorcan, who is considered insane even by our mum, that you want me, than with proving it to me. I don’t really need you to prove anything to me. But Scorpius, you need to get some things straight in your own mind. How the fuck do you even feel about me? What, exactly, am I to you, Scorpius?
“When you can answer that question, then I might be interested. Or you can just leave it, if you have no feelings for me. But for the love of Merlin, don’t duel my brother. You’re not that stupid.”
Lysander inhaled for the first time in three minutes straight. “You’re sweet, Scorpius. You just care too much about honour.”
***
He had only been seventeen. For a year, life hadn’t been life, it had been Life, with a capital L and illumination hand-painted by 14th century monks. And then the real world had hit him like a speeding train.
Hit them both, really, but Scorpius couldn’t help but feel that he had the worse end of it, and it was all the fault of people who had died years before Scorpius was born. The fucking Second War, and how it had ruined the Malfoys’ honour.
Well, not entirely ruined. Once Scorpius’ grandfather was dead and his grandmother safely stowed away in the south of France, things weren’t so bad. The Malfoys were able to attend parties and functions without anyone laughing in their face. Behind their backs, yes, but not in their face.
But Scorpius, only a few months old at the time, was the only hope for any restoration of their former glory.
Scorpius had never been particularly interested in wealth or power. Knowledge, yes, but not anything that would likely get him killed just to get at what was in his safe. He did know, however, that family was the single most important thing.
His father had worked so hard to keep Narcissa out of Azkaban. He had driven himself nearly insane, telling reporter after reporter his story of the war - a story that Scorpius knew haunted his nightmares, to this day. Not for himself, but for the future of the Malfoys - in other words, for Scorpius.
Family was more important than anything. More than work, more than Lysander, more than all the Chopin records in the world.
And that was why he had to propose to Mary.
***
Three months passed like they were nothing. Rolf Scamander’s expedition launched, and Scorpius still chased after the idea that had come to him in the bath. He found himself stalking the shadowy stacks of the Department’s library nearly every day, searching for some hint that would back up his hypothesis.
There was no way he could even suggest the possibility to Mary before he had found something, anything - a few vague legends and one wildly improbable idea weren’t much to go off of, and at this point he would be thankful even for a one-sentence clue in some dusty footnote.
Rising, brushing the flecks of centuries-old parchment out of his hair, Scorpius made for the exit. Lunch with Mary had become a regular thing, and Scorpius found he rather enjoyed her company. She had the charming and yet strangely insulting sort of wit that Beuxbatons alumni were famous for.
Of course, he dreaded the day he had to see her naked. At least, if all went well, it would only have to happen once.
“Alright, Scorpius?” she asked, as they sat down at the little café table. “You look exhausted.”
“I am,” he admitted. “I think I’m on to something, but … Merlin, I have no idea.”
“Well, tell me.”
“I can’t, not yet,” he protested. “Not until I’ve got at least a modicum of evidence -”
“Not as your coworker, then, as your fiancée,” she pressed.
“But telling my fiancée would go against policy.”
“Not if you work with me,” Mary pointed out.
“But that would make you my coworker,” Scorpius sighed, head dropping between his shoulders. “I just … I know I’m right, I’m sure of it, but there’s not enough evidence to excuse pursuing such a slim possibility.”
“Scorpius,” she entreated, reaching across the table to cover his hand with her’s. “You’ve been spending all your time in the library for months now, and getting nowhere. If it’s not in the Department’s library, it’s not anywhere.”
“I know,” he said. “Merlin. I’m just stressed lately. Remind me when the wedding is?”
“Two weeks,” she smirked. “I know, it’s going fast.”
“That’s the pureblood way.”
She was silent for some time, looking down at their interlaced fingers, then up at him, biting her lower lip. “Scorpius, are you happy?”
“Of course I am,” he smiled. “What man wouldn’t be?”
She beamed, and she was absolutely stunning, and he was sure she was worth it. He was sure.
Read Part 2...
Title: Everything
Prompt: #17 Submitted by alley_skywalker
Pairing: Scorpius/Lysander, Scorpius/FemaleOC, Astoria/FemaleOC
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild sexual situations, violence with pointy swords,
lots and lots of swearing, character death. May also contain traces of
humour.
Word Count: 14,353
Summary: As Oscar Wilde would say, “The exploits of purebloods
are rarely pure and always bloody.” Scorpius finds a wife, Lorcan
challenges him to a duel of honor, Lily buys everyone drinks (let’s
hope they’re not poisoned), and Lysander looks on in confusion.
Notes: A thousand thanks to the fest mods for making this all
possible, and to my glorious betas, H and K, as well as the D key on
my laptop, may it rest in peace.
EVERYTHING
“It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.” - Sherlock Holmes
Scorpius picked the book up with a sigh, staring at the forest of empty boxes around him. It was the last item he had packed away from the Manor, and now it was the last item he unpacked at his (modest, but nice) new flat.
He set it down on the shelf with a final thump, turned away, then paused. He felt a tingling at the back of his neck, as if the book was calling to him. Look at me, Scorpius. Just once.
There was a reason he had waited so long to unpack it. This book was special. He convinced himself it was one of his favorites to have an excuse to keep it around, then trained himself not to pick it up, not to even look at it as he passed its place on the shelves in his old room.
But just one look wouldn’t hurt. After all, he didn’t even think of that time any more, did he? Scorpius turned on his heel, setting his face into a brave glare, as though he was about to face the legendary monster from the Chamber of Secrets.
There was nothing monstrous about it. It was a volume of moderate size, neither thick nor thin, old but not ancient, with peeling gilt letters on the leather spine: 100 Magical Herbs and Fungi. Scorpius reached out to it, and was surprised at the steadiness of his hand.
The book itself really wasn’t special at all. Scorpius had never particularly liked or disliked herbology, only had a passing interest in it as an extention of his love of potions, and it wasn’t the best book there was on the subject. It had been a gift, and Scorpius knew that … the giver (Merlin, Scorpius, can’t you even think his name?) had aquired it from the second hand shelf at Flourish and Blots.
There was nothing of interest about the book. No, the only thing about it that was remotely special was the inside cover. And that was very, very special.
The inscription, untidily scrawled in blue ink, read,
For my Scorpius,
I know you’ll get that O in Herbology. Think of the Department of Mysteries!
Yours always,
Lysander.
Now Scorpius’ hands shook. This was why he had trained himself not to think about Lysander. Because every time he did, this strange emotion came over him, and he wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia or rage or pain.
Yours always.
Tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he threw the book down onto the floor. It lay there, pathetic, spine bent at an awkward angle, and Scorpius fell to his knees, pressing a hand over his mouth.
“Oh no,” he whispered, picking it up gently and placing it back on its shelf. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
He sat there for a moment, staring down at his hands. They were pale and thin, and the edges of his fingers were stained with potions ingredients, various shades of black and green and scarlet.
They had always been stained during seventh year, when he could think of nothing but NEWTs. NEWTs and Lysander, who had always been at the corner of his mind, taking away a little of the stress every time Scorpius thought of him.
Always. They had been so bloody naïve, with their little promises that they would be together forever. All their friends had known it wouldn’t last past graduation, but they were caught in their fantasy. As beautiful as a soap bubble, and as fragile.
Then it had popped, and Scorpius held the needle.
Merlin, Scorpius, apologizing to a book. You really have gone mad. Tea. Tea was what he needed now. He pulled himself shakily to his feet and toddled to the small kitchen.
His flat was the cheapest he could find that was close to the Ministry, had a floo connection, and was nice enough that his parents wouldn’t convince themselves that their son needed to be rescued from a squalid life of drunken debauchery. They would have bought him an entire house in Hampstead if he had allowed it, but if Scorpius was going to be independent, he thought he should do it properly.
It was a new job, a new house, a new life. His alchemical training in Paris and later Tehran was behind him, and school behind that, and Lysander behind that, far in the past. It had been nearly four years, and Scorpius had no reason to think of him.
He would settle himself solidly in a career, marry a pretty blonde girl of good family, and inherit the Manor. Everyone would be happy, and yes, that included him. It did.
***
Scorpius found his new coworkers in the Department of Mysteries surprisingly friendly and open, if only among themselves. The skill at conversation his mother had instilled in him nearly from birth came to good use, and he found himself with more popularity than he knew what to do with.
He was invited out for drinks nearly every night - it seemed popular among the Unspeakables to drown the stresses of the job in strong drink - and nearly always declined, pleading fatigue. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he convinced himself that he just needed to settle into his new life, before he could deal with people.
A few weeks later, Scorpius was given his first major project.
“It’s only in its preliminary stages, of course, but it’s shaping up to be quite a big thing,” Unspeakable Corner, the department’s Head of Potions, had assured Scorpius. “Some of Nicolas Flamel’s works mention an utterly undetectable poison. We’re hoping to develop some way to detect it. The poison itself is lost to time, but Flamel wrote an antidote, and your job is to work backwards from that.”
Unfortunately, working it backwards was easier said than done. Scorpius and his partner, a Mary Morstan, had tried what seemed like nearly every possible combination of base potions, nearly every additional key ingredient, and though they had come close several times, nothing was quite right.
“I can’t think what else to try,” Scorpius bemoaned one afternoon, slumping against a counter and pushing his goggles up onto his forehead. It was technically Laboratory Policy to Wear Protective Eyewear at All Times while in the lab, but Scorpius had quickly discovered that few Unspeakables really followed the rule. Anyway, he was wearing his goggles. As a hat.
“Oh, don’t lose hope,” Mary scolded him, leaning on the counter close beside him. “Maybe what we need is a bit of stress relief. Do you … do anything to relieve your stress?”
She was really quite close beside him. Perhaps a bit too close. Was he imagining the sultry edge to her tone?
“Er,” he said noncomitally, resisting the overwhelming urge to ask her what the hell she was implying, “like what?”
“Like fencing,” Mary said brightly, and the sensation that someone was inching a match slowly closer to his face was gone as soon as it had arrived.
“Fencing,” Scorpius repeated. “Right. Isn’t that some mental old Muggle sport?”
“Yes, but it was quite popular with wizards in the 1700s,” Mary informed him, “and our generation has started a revival. It’s more fun than it sounds, and great for relieving excess agression. You should give it a go.”
“If we could get this potion right, no one would have any excess agression,” Scorpius muttered, but he agreed to go to a practice with Mary that weekend. Lysander had haunted his dreams the last few nights, and he could do with another distraction.
***
Saturdays for Scorpius were strange, in that he could never decide if they were heaven or hell. Usually he spent them pottering about in his flat, making tea and reading large, dusty books. It was a time to relax, and would have been nice, if it wasn’t for Lysander’s constant haunting of the corners of his mind.
Scorpius had been doing well before he opened the book. He had far from forgotten Lysander, but he had put him well out of mind. His year in Tehran had been the most free time of his life, with no one who knew him or his parents around, no reputation to maintain. He had bedded many men in those twelve months, with nearly no regrets.
While Lysander had never been entirely out of his mind, Scorpius could finally breathe. He could face living on his own and beginning work at the Department with a free mind, if not a free heart. He had left Tehran a different person, Potions Mastership in hand, prepared to face the real world.
And he had just had to screw that all up by opening the book. Now he was back in the morass of loneliness, despair, guilt, and regret that he had sheltered himself under in Paris. It was interfering with his work, and he had to stop.
The solution was simple: find himself a girlfriend. A pretty, blonde girlfriend of good family, who he could conceive a child by and never sleep with again. But who?
The answer came to him as quickly as the question.
Mary.
He detached himself from his depressive nest on the sofa and stumbled to the floo. He had gotten her floo coordinates on a purely business level, but she had hinted heavily that they could go to lunch sometime … just to chat about work, of course.
“Mary,” he called when her flat appeared through the back of his fireplace. Her head appeared around a doorframe, and she squatted at the hearth, looking pleased to see him.
“Scorpius! Still up for fencing tomorrow?”
“Of course,” he forced a smile. “But I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee or something before the class?”
She gave a broad smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes in a most winsome manner. “I’d love to.”
“Er, great. Well, see you then, I suppose?” he asked, feeling awkward. He had never really asked anyone on a proper date before - he and Lysander had just sort of happened, and he was pretty sure one night stands met at shady bars in Tehran didn’t count, either. “When … when shall I pick you up?”
“Oh, how does eleven sound?” she smirked. “The class is at twelve-thirty, so that should give us time for our coffee. Or something.”
She stood then, and Scorpius had about ten seconds to realize that she was wearing a very short skirt, before she walked off, saying over her shoulder, “Later, Scorpius.”
He withdrew his head from the fireplace very suddenly, scraping his head on the mantle, and found himself flat on his back in his own flat, feeling slightly dazed.
***
Thankfully, when Scorpius next saw Mary she sported trousers, and he wasn’t once again subjected to the sight of a vast, unplottable expanse of female leg.
“Good morning,” Scorpius said. It was strange that he felt so awkward - she was pretty, and pleasant, and intelligent. She was also certainly blonde, and he was fairly sure her blood was as close to pure as it got these days. There was absolutely nothing about her that should make him feel so ill at ease.
“Morning, Scorpius,” she smiled, taking his arm. “So … coffee, or something?”
“Just … just coffee, I think,” he stammered. Smooth, Scorpius, he berated himself.
“There’s a nice place not far from here,” she carried on. “The Bean, have you heard of it?”
They bantered wittily over coffee, and as Scorpius collected facts about Mary, she only seemed a more perfect wife to satisfy his family. Her blood was indeed pure, and she was clearly interested - her flirting style was rather unsubtle for Scorpius’ tastes, but at least it got the message across.
Leaving the coffee shop, Scorpius offered his arm, and she took it with a smile. Her wrist draped with all the elegance of a lady just out of finishing school. “Where’s the class?”
“There’s a wizarding community center a few blocks from the ministry,” Mary replied.
“Shall we apparate?” No sooner had she nodded, than he felt her grip on his arm tighten, and that strange tension at his navel.
He had heard of the community center before - it had been built not long after the last war, in an attempt to ‘build a greater sense of comradery amongst London’s wizarding youth,’ and had since flourished modestly. However, he had never found time in his schedule to visit before.
What he saw surprised him. The interior was all large rooms and wood panelling, clearly not a cheap project, and something seemed to be going on in every room he passed.
Mary led him to a large, open room on the second floor.
It was only noon, but several people were already milling about, swishing long swords in each others faces. Scorpius couldn’t see how this was any better than duelling with wands, but he was willing to give it a try.
He was examining a set of antique foils mounted on one wall, when Mary’s hand brushed his shoulder, and he turned. “Scorpius? This is our instructor. Lorcan.”
Scorpius knew who it was before Mary said the name -- he knew it from the instant he saw the man. Lorcan had hardly changed since Hogwarts.
From the neck up, Lorcan looked like the most poncy, affected man you could possibly imagine. A gold pince-nez perched on his delicate, round nose, and his silky golden hair seemed to fly back from his smooth, alabaster forehead in a single immaculate wave. But once you reached his shoulders, that impression had to be thrown out.
Those shoulders had intimidated many a first year in the old days, and the tightly muscled arms that followed had earned Lorcan a name as the best beater Hufflepuff had seen in three centuries. And, at his waist, a belt held several objects of varying length that could easily run Scorpius straight through the heart and out the other side.
Lysander had always been the delicate one. Lorcan was always the first to start a duel, always the first to call you out on even the smallest offense if he thought it dishonoured his twin. Though he would never admit it, Scorpius had always lived in mortal fear of the man.
“Alright there, Malfoy?” Lorcan said pleasantly.
“Oh, you’ve met!” Mary clapped. “How lovely.”
“Yes,” Lorcan’s smile could only be read as predatory if you knew the man, “we were at Hogwarts together. And of course it’s not difficult to recognize his breed. The blonde hair, the pointed face, the immaculate - dare I say flamboyant -- dress sense …” Lorcan eyed his finely tailored purple robes with obvious amusement. “Well. I can only say it’s remarkable to see you in the company of a lady.”
Scorpius opened his mouth to retaliate, but Lorcan cleanly interjected, “Let’s get you kitted up, shall we, Scorpius?”
As Lorcan found him a foil and ran through the protective charms necessary for practice, Scorpius couldn’t help waiting for the last thread to finally snap. He knew there was tension between the two of them, but he wondered if Lorcan even felt it. If he did, he was doing a commendable job of concealing it.
The thread finally broke when Lorcan was teaching him a parry. Scorpius found himself wedged into a corner of the room, his blade and Lorcan’s crossed an inch from his cheek. He could see the fine metal quivering slightly.
Lorcan leaned in close to his ear. “Talk to me after.”
“I can’t,” Scorpius protested through clenched teeth. “I have to escort Mary home. That would be no way to treat a lady.”
Lorcan smirked, showing sinisterly glistening teeth. “Because you really care about ladies,” he muttered, shoving enough subtext into the sentence to set a world record.
“Find time. It’s about Lysander.” Lorcan’s blade flew down to his hip. “Well done, Malfoy,” he said loudly, and they were apart as quickly as if they had never moved.
Of course it’s about Lysander, Scorpius thought, twirling his blade in the same absent way he treated his wand. I might just have to find a way to distract Mary for a bit.
In spite of himself, Scorpius was awaiting the end of the class - and not just so that he could go home, have a hot soak, and listen to his vinyl Chopin records.
***
Mary, fortunately, needed no distraction. She headed off for tea with a friend from the fencing class, Audrey Weasley, as soon as it ended.
“Are - are you sure you wouldn’t like me too … walk you home?” Scorpius stammered after her, for chivalry’s sake - he would admit to being a little indignant, to be left in the dust like this.
“Oh, no, Scorpius,” she smiled. “Don’t worry about me, I’m sure I can manage.”
“Right. Well, I’ll … see you at work, then?” he cried after her retreating figure. She was already gone, and he gave up, turning back to Lorcan. They were alone.
“She certainly cuts a fine figure in those trousers,” Lorcan remarked, adjusting his pince-nez. “Are you planning on marrying her?”
“Oh, probably,” Scorpius said sullenly, slouching back against the wall. “Give it another two dates or so, and my mother will be planning the wedding.”
“Indeed? Well, you may want to reconsider dating her at all,” Lorcan walked a few steps away, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back as he gazed out a window.
“I don’t see why,” Scorpius snapped, wondering what Lorcan could possibly be getting at. “The girl is smart, funny in her way, certainly beautiful - and blonde. What more could any Malfoy man desire?”
“Lysander is also blonde,” Lorcan noted, his tone strangely offhand, “and probably beautiful. Smart and funny I cannot vouch for, though I am his brother, and my judgment is therefore clouded.”
“He is, actually,” Scorpius confirmed, caught off guard. “He’s also male.”
“An unfortunate fact of chromosomes. It hasn’t stopped Malfoys of the past, however. Many of your ancestors were known to take male lovers in addition to -“
“I don’t want a mistress, Scamander,” Scorpius snapped. I want my bloody boyfriend back.
“Goal one for you, then,” Lorcan smiled, apparently pleased. “You’ve proven you have some modicum of honour in that pale, pointy body.”
“What are you getting at, Scamander?”
“Now, that is a question,” Lorcan pondered, steepling his fingers in midair. “This matter, as I told you before, has to do with Lysander …”
“Get on with it, then!”
“I was, Scorpius, for Merlin’s sake!” Lorcan exclaimed, looking put out. “Well, I shall hasten to explain, if only for fear of bodily harm.” He cleared his throat genteely. “Lysander, you see, has been … pining.”
“Pining?”
“Pining.”
“For what?”
“For, oh unobservant one, you.” Lorcan sniffed.
“That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” Lorcan said mysteriously, turning on his leather-shod heel and pacing towards Scorpius, putting him in mind of an extremely flamboyant wolf stalking its prey. “Why, my dear fellow, I think you’ll find you are mistaken.”
“Listen,” Scorpius said, trying to inch away without being painfully obvious, “can you stop sounding like the villain out of a bad Victorian mystery novel and explain what the hell it is you’re on about?”
Lorcan crossed his arms, lips pressed into a thin line. “I have been trying to.”
“Make it quick, then, and I promise I won’t say a word.”
“No more interruptions?”
“None.”
“… Alright,” the Fencing Master adjusted his perfectly starched collar. “Lysander is pining after you. He has been since the day you broke his fragile heart. For some reason far beyond my ken, he still has feelings for you. I would be willing to allow a continuation of your previous itemisation - no interruptions - on one condition.” He paused dramatically. “What, aren’t you going to ask what the condition is?”
“Sorry, I thought you told me to keep quiet.”
Lorcan sighed, as if to indicate that Scorpius’ understanding of these matters was woefully plebean. “Naturally you are allowed to speak in dramatically appropriate situations.”
“… what’s the condition?”
Lorcan drew his rapier, flourishing it dramatically. “You must defeat me in an honourable duel.”
Scorpius flinched in spite of himself. “What, now?”
“Of course not, you idiot,” Lorcan snapped, letting the blade drop to his side. “That was merely for dramatic effect.”
“… Right. I’ll think about it.”
“You can’t ‘think about’ a duel, man, it’s all to do with honour! Either you accept the challenge, or you slink away in ignominy like a lily-livered woman.”
“You have women in this class,” Scorpius pointed out. “Mary is one of your best students.”
“That’s beside the point,” Lorcan spat out. “Fine. You have five months in which to train and make your decision. If you back out, you lose every chance you had with Lysander.”
Scorpius knew he couldn’t follow through with it, knew he had more honour to uphold elsewhere … but he found himself holding out his hand. “Deal.”
They shook on it, and Scorpius found himself walking out with a pounding headache, and new wonderment at the impossible fact that Lorcan wasn’t completely gay.
***
“I’ve arranged things,” Lorcan proclaimed, flinging his coat dramatically across the chaise lounge - or, more accurately, across Lysander, who had already flung himself dramatically across the chaise lounge.
“Arranged what?” his brother replied listlessly, not bothering to extrecate himself from the carelessly flung coat.
“Things,” Lorcan repeated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Merlin, Lysander.”
“What?”
“You’re exactly where I left you six hours ago,” Lorcan stalked over to the chaise and grabbed a paperback out of his brother’s lax grip. “Is this another of those terrible muggle romances? Be sensible, man!”
“As if you’re ever sensible,” Lysander scoffed, making no attempts to retrieve the novel. “I got that off your bookshelf.”
Lorcan dropped the book, as though he had just realized it was a dead rat. “That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“Oh, no rhetorical questions,” Lorcan scolded. “Life is full of … of happiness and laughter. If you fail to see it, you’re not living.”
“That wasn’t rhetorical, Lor. I meant, what the hell are you on about?”
Lorcan flinched. His brother nearly never swore, and when he did, he sounded disturbingly like Scorpius Malfoy. “You’ve been moping about, Lysander.”
“I haven’t been -”
“Yes, you have. Normally you scorn the fine selections of literature on my bookshelf. This,” he gestured towards the book on the floor, voice rising at least twelve decibels, “has to be a sign of moping.”
“Lily said it was good,” Lysander shrugged. “I remembered seeing it on your shelf, so I figured I would give it a chance.”
“Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re not pining away after Malfoy -“
“I am not pining after anybody!”
“-why else would you have remained in the same position for six hours straight?”
“I have a cold, Lor,” Lysander said levelly, “and I got up twice, to make tea.”
“Lies!” Lorcan shrieked. “You are pining - but fear not!”
“Oh, Merlin.”
“Your charming, honourable, and roguishly handsome brother has it all under control.”
“The last time you had it under control, I ended up in the begonias wearing nothing but an old pair of Mother’s nylons.”
“That was all part of the plan.”
“The plan, you mean, that resulted in a muggle vagrant running off with my pants?”
“No,” Lorcan corrected, “the plan that resulted in your trousers becoming the new logo of Marks & Spencer.”
“… right. And that was a good plan, was it?”
“No, it was not good -“
“-finally -“
“-it was brilliant.”
“… leave me alone,” Lysander pressed a hand to his forehead, “please.”
“But Lysander,” Lorcan entreated him, “you need support in your hour of -“
“I’m pining,” Lysander said quickly. “I must be left in peace to … to pine. My very heart bleeds like Lavinia’s cut tongue, wounded far deeper than any arrow could strike. Pray, leave me, for I must press one elegant hand to my heartbroken bosom and bemoan my hopeless love … in solitude.”
And just like that, Lorcan was gone. Lysander wished he had known sooner that it was so easy. Smiling, he retrieved The Suitor’s Bloodied Bosom from the floor, and settled back to read.
***
Brunch with his parents was something Scorpius could never decide whether to look forward to or dread. Even when he was in Iran, he had found time to apparate over, once every three weeks, like clockwork. These brunches were sacred.
This one, however, was particularly awkward. Scorpius finally understood why so many Unspeakables left the Department due to ‘family issues.’ With the policy of secrecy, there was absolutely nothing to talk about.
“… So,” Draco said at last, setting down his fork. “Are you courting anyone?”
“Er …” Scorpius found himself hesitating. “There is a lady, yes.”
Eyebrows shot up on both sides of the table. “Really, darling?” his mother put in. “Who?”
You don’t have to sound so surprised. “Her name is Mary. I know her from work.”
“And her surname?” Draco asked. Astoria shot him a look.
“Morstan,” Scorpius replied. “Her father is Dravinius Morstan, I believe, manager for the Wasps.”
“Not a bad family,” Draco judged. “Are you going to marry her?”
“I … I’m sure Scorpius has no notions of marrying the girl just yet,” Astoria put in, looking flustered. “When did you meet her, dear?”
Well, this was new. He had expected his mother to be planning the piping on the cake by this time. “Two months ago,” he answered. “We’ve been formally dating for nearly three weeks.”
“Is that so,” Astoria’s voice was pleasant, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Scorpius couldn’t understand why. “How lovely.”
“It’s wonderful news, Scorpius,” his father’s smile was genuine. “Is she pretty?”
“Very,” Scorpius smiled to mask his confusion. “Charming, as well. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“Bring her to meet us Saturday,” Draco decided. “We’re holding a small event, in celebration of my new business deal with the Scamanders.”
“… the Scamanders?”
“That’s right,” Draco said blithely. “Rolf is launching a new expedition to the Balkans, in search of some rare - and very expensive - potions ingredients. I’ve made a major investment in the mission; it’s expected to be extremely lucrative.”
“Interesting,” Scorpius said, distracted. He had heard of the expedition - the Department was backing it as well - but hadn’t known Lysander’s father was behind it.
He had no desire to see any of the family, but couldn’t come up with a beleivable excuse. His parents had never known of his relationship with Lysander, and he hoped to keep it that way. “… I’ll find out if Mary is free.”
“Wonderful!” Draco said, then grew more serious. “Many important figures are behind this expedition, Scorpius. These components, if they were rediscovered - well, I’m sure you know all about what changes in Wizarding life they could bring. The mission could be a major step in bringing this family back to the honour we deserve.”
“I understand,” Scorpius said. He was needed there, a public face to show everyone that the Malfoys had a future. “I’ll be there.”
His father beamed. “I knew I could rely on you.”
***
Later, Scorpius mused on the mission as he relaxed into a tub of steaming water, Chopin’s Nocturnes playing softly in the background. Some of the components would indeed bring a new era in potions, if not in life - components that hadn’t been seen since the disappearance of Nicholas Flamel.
Some of the components, in fact, were part of Flamel’s antidote for the poison that was slowly driving him and Mary mad - maybe that was the trouble. But the modern equivelants were close enough that the chemistry ought to -
No. He leapt out of the bath, trailing soap suds, and ran to his desk for parchment and quill. They were going about it all wrong. Flamel’s lengthy, convoluted, impossibly difficult antidote wasn’t for another potion. It was for a single component.
***
The night was still and peaceful. Pale moonlight lanced throught the windows, shattered by the stained glass into segments of colour that danced across silk sheets.
“Scorpius?” Mary leaned closer, elegant hand reaching up to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind the other woman’s ear, and let out a laugh like dropped pennies sparkling in a fountain. “He has his mother’s eyes.”
Astoria tensed. “I don’t mind being one of your conquests, Mary. But I won’t allow my son to be.”
“I promise he’s not,” Mary soothed. “I promise.”
“And this will all stop, if he proposes?”
“Of course.” Though it wasn’t as if Astoria was faithful to her husband.
Astoria leaned back against the pillows, and Mary extracted herself from the tangled sheets, slipping out of bed and pulling on her robes.
On her way out, she paused by the door to Draco’s bedroom, and glanced down at his sleeping form, allowing herself a smirk. Everything was falling into place.
***
The party was as dull as any other Malfoy party had ever been. Scorpius moped around near the drinks, chugging champagne, snatching hors d’ouevers from passing house elf-borne trays, and answering greetings from purebloods he barely knew as politely as he could.
Mary, however, seemed to be in her element. She laughed and gossipped with absolutely everyone - she seemed to already know absolutely everyone, including those that even Scorpius couldn’t place. He supposed that, with her father being such a big name in the financial side of Quidditch, she was used to these sorts of functions.
And, of course, the Scamanders were there. Scorpius hoped that it would only have been Luna and Rolf, but fate was against him - although, thankfully, Lorcan was for once notable by his absence.
Lysander stood just fifteen feet away, chatting with Lily Potter. His back was to Scorpius, but every so often he would catch a glimpse of shining teeth, the corner of a laugh, a reflection of light off of green eyes. He must know Scorpius was there, but never turned around to notice him. It felt almost like the few months of heartache before they were together, both dancing around each other, doing there best to pretend the other wasn’t there.
Lily acknowledged him, however - remarkable, as she had never approved of him before. She and Lysander had been friends long before even Hogwarts, and she was nearly as protective of him as Lorcan was. She had hit Scorpius with a mean bat-bogey hex after he had broken up with Lysander - but now she shot him a wave over Lysander’s shoulder, even a small smile.
Women. Scorpius reached for the champagne.
***
Scorpius didn’t want to admit it, but he was actually enjoying fencing. It was hard to believe that it had been invented by muggles, it had so much in common with wizard deuling - and yet there was something more to it, something that couldn’t be replicated by magic. Almost like chess, it could both clear and sharpen the mind at the same time.
Fencing was enjoyable. Lorcan, however, was irritating. Even when he was halfway across the room, it felt as if he was breathing down Scorpius’ neck, waiting for him to make a mistake, so that he could rush in and explain how it ought to be done, as a cover for comments as to how much Lysander was pining.
“Malfoy,” he whispered, on one occasion, “he’s dying to see you. Why don’t you meet him for tea? You can declare your plan to deul me.”
“I’ve told you, I’m only thinking about it,” Scorpius said through his teeth. “And I don’t even know why I’m doing that. I’m dating Mary and, frankly, the idea is ridiculous.”
“A more astute observation than I would have expected of you. Yes, dating Mary is ridiculous.”
“Mary is, among other fine qualities, female.”
“Merlin, Malfoy,” Lysander adjusted his pincenez, gesturing expansively at Scorpius’ pinstripe silk robes with his foil. “No one could possibly delude themselves into believing that you’re straight. I don’t know how Mary has.”
“I have a reputation to uphold, Lorcan. I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
“I do, as a matter of fact. Lysander, as you may know, is the heir to the Scamander estate, and it is my duty as his brother to insure that he does not starve himself to death for love of you.”
“Oh, please,” Scorpius sighed, pulling off an awkward parry. Fencing while talking wasn’t easy. “There is no Scamander estate. Your mother owns six acres of forest with a crumbling tower near Ottery St. Catchpole, and your father lives in a bus in the Speaker’s Corner of Hyde Park, from the top of which he holds press conferences.”
“Exactly,” Lorcan agreed. “A sprawling estate.”
“… I can’t understand why you believe your brother would be better off with me. I hurt him.”
“That,” Lorcan smiled like a teacher who’s student has finally wrapped his head around some difficult concept, “is the reason for the Duel of Honour.”
“Even if I wanted to have tea with Lysander,” which I do, Scorpius added mentally, “I doubt he would want to be anywhere near me.”
“Oh, he agreed to it.”
“You also say that I agreed to the duel,” Scorpius pointed out. “… Merlin help me. When is he free?”
“Tomorrow at four o’clock sharp,” Lorcan beamed. “Our estate.”
“By estate, do you mean the forest, or the bus?”
“The forest,” Lorcan said blithely. “The bus hasn’t any furniture yet.”
***
Apparating to Luna’s house after so long felt strange. He had only ever been there once, for Christmas - he had stayed a week, telling his father that he was visiting a potions training program in Zimbabwe.
Christmas day with Lysander had, honestly, been the happiest day of his life. The Scamanders had accepted him instantly as if he was one of them. Luna treated him as if he had been there forever.
Thank Merlin that Luna was away on business, or this would be triply awkward.
Adjusting his collar, then feeling like an idiot for doing so, he rapped smartly on the door. He opened it, and -- Fuck. Lysander.
He looked so good it was actually physically painful. His hair was slightly longer than it had been at school - when it reached that length, Scorpius remembered with a pang, it started to curl at the nape of his neck. He was wearing some sort of fitted yellow cardigan with an absurdly deep v-neck, over one of those hideous tartan lesbian-shirts that he was so fond of. On anyone else, the ensemble would have looked hideous. On Lysander, it looked enchanting.
Scorpius found himself fighting the urge to grab Lysander and kiss him, to run his fingers through that hair and his hand under that tartan monstrosity, to tell Lysander how much he loved him and how much of an undeserving idiot Scorpius was. But he had lost the right to do all of those things, long ago.
It felt horribly familiar and comforting, Lysander opening the door like this. Like it was Christmas again, and he was going to grin like an idiot and grab Scorpius by the hand and drag him upstairs, making some unconvincing excuse about ‘showing him his room’, and snog Scorpius utterly senseless in his eye-searingly yellow bedroom.
But he wasn’t.
Lysander smiled politely - always the Hufflepuff, damn him. “Come in, Scorpius.”
“I -” Merlin “ - thank you.”
“Would you like some tea?” Lysander inquired, clattering things about in the kitchen.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Still take it black?”
“I … yes,” Scorpius confirmed, surprised Lysander remembered.
Lysander served their tea in the drawing room, perching on the chaise lounge next to Scorpius. “I heard you’re an Unspeakable, now.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s wonderful, Scorpius,” Lysander said sincerely. “I always knew you could do it.”
“… yes. Thank you.”
Lysander sipped his tea, looking like someone who was doing a very good job of someone who was pretending not to be horribly uncomfortable. “Lily tells me you’re dating Mary Morstan.”
“That’s right,” Scorpius felt as if he ought to say something more, but his mind was at once a total blank, and filled with too many words.
“How nice,” Lysander said, completely levelly. He still wore the same cologne as he had at Hogwarts, vanilla and white musk.
“… are you seeing anyone?” Fuck.
“No, actually,” Lysander replied. “I haven’t really dated since Hogwarts. Too busy, you know.”
“…Oh. What - what have you been up to lately, then?”
“Writing everything I can think of,” Lysander said. “I’m nearly finished with a play, actually.”
“That’s brilliant,” Scorpius said, feeling suddenly more animated. “What’s it about?”
“A busker who discovers the meaning of life at the bottom of a pickle jar,” Lysander replied. “People tell me it’s quite funny.”
“It must be. I’d love to read it,” Scorpius said, then mentally slapped himself. Of course he couldn’t read it, he had no right.
“Oh, would you?” Lysander beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“… I -- really?”
“Of course. I’m terrible at criticizing my own work, and I know you’ll be honest.”
An hour passed quickly. Scorpius drank his tea while reading over the script, laughing frequently. When he came to the end, he looked up at Lysander, grinning. “It’s incredible, darling. I love it -- shit.”
He had royally fucked it all up. Things had been going well, they could have been friends, perhaps Scorpius could finally have stopped pining … but he had to fuck it all up.
“Scorpius.” Lysander’s voice was painfully soft, but not quite tender.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be here -”
“Scorpius. We need to talk, really. Lorcan said it as well - something about relieving our UST. Do you have any idea what that means?”
“… is it a timezone?”
“Who the hell knows what anything Lorcan says means,” Lysander shrugged. “But he’s right that we need to talk. I didn’t think so, at first, but … I can’t ignore it.”
“Can’t you, please? I was just --”
Lysander gripped his shoulder. “No. No, I can’t. As much as I want to believe it means absolutely nothing, that would be horribly irresponsible of me and would end in utter mayhem.”
Scorpius sagged. “I’d be alright with utter mayhem.”
Lysander shook his head, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms. “I do still like you a bit, Scorpius.”
“Fuck.”
“Well said,” Lysander smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “Scorpius, I might be better off without you, I’m certainly happier, but I’m also rather fond of you. For some utterly fucked up reason, that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you look bloody incredible in those trousers.”
“Your brother wants to duel me.”
“I know,” Lysander rolled his eyes. “He’s an idiot - and you’re considering it, which makes you more of one. Right now, I have no desire to date you. You’re more concerned with proving to Lorcan, who is considered insane even by our mum, that you want me, than with proving it to me. I don’t really need you to prove anything to me. But Scorpius, you need to get some things straight in your own mind. How the fuck do you even feel about me? What, exactly, am I to you, Scorpius?
“When you can answer that question, then I might be interested. Or you can just leave it, if you have no feelings for me. But for the love of Merlin, don’t duel my brother. You’re not that stupid.”
Lysander inhaled for the first time in three minutes straight. “You’re sweet, Scorpius. You just care too much about honour.”
***
He had only been seventeen. For a year, life hadn’t been life, it had been Life, with a capital L and illumination hand-painted by 14th century monks. And then the real world had hit him like a speeding train.
Hit them both, really, but Scorpius couldn’t help but feel that he had the worse end of it, and it was all the fault of people who had died years before Scorpius was born. The fucking Second War, and how it had ruined the Malfoys’ honour.
Well, not entirely ruined. Once Scorpius’ grandfather was dead and his grandmother safely stowed away in the south of France, things weren’t so bad. The Malfoys were able to attend parties and functions without anyone laughing in their face. Behind their backs, yes, but not in their face.
But Scorpius, only a few months old at the time, was the only hope for any restoration of their former glory.
Scorpius had never been particularly interested in wealth or power. Knowledge, yes, but not anything that would likely get him killed just to get at what was in his safe. He did know, however, that family was the single most important thing.
His father had worked so hard to keep Narcissa out of Azkaban. He had driven himself nearly insane, telling reporter after reporter his story of the war - a story that Scorpius knew haunted his nightmares, to this day. Not for himself, but for the future of the Malfoys - in other words, for Scorpius.
Family was more important than anything. More than work, more than Lysander, more than all the Chopin records in the world.
And that was why he had to propose to Mary.
***
Three months passed like they were nothing. Rolf Scamander’s expedition launched, and Scorpius still chased after the idea that had come to him in the bath. He found himself stalking the shadowy stacks of the Department’s library nearly every day, searching for some hint that would back up his hypothesis.
There was no way he could even suggest the possibility to Mary before he had found something, anything - a few vague legends and one wildly improbable idea weren’t much to go off of, and at this point he would be thankful even for a one-sentence clue in some dusty footnote.
Rising, brushing the flecks of centuries-old parchment out of his hair, Scorpius made for the exit. Lunch with Mary had become a regular thing, and Scorpius found he rather enjoyed her company. She had the charming and yet strangely insulting sort of wit that Beuxbatons alumni were famous for.
Of course, he dreaded the day he had to see her naked. At least, if all went well, it would only have to happen once.
“Alright, Scorpius?” she asked, as they sat down at the little café table. “You look exhausted.”
“I am,” he admitted. “I think I’m on to something, but … Merlin, I have no idea.”
“Well, tell me.”
“I can’t, not yet,” he protested. “Not until I’ve got at least a modicum of evidence -”
“Not as your coworker, then, as your fiancée,” she pressed.
“But telling my fiancée would go against policy.”
“Not if you work with me,” Mary pointed out.
“But that would make you my coworker,” Scorpius sighed, head dropping between his shoulders. “I just … I know I’m right, I’m sure of it, but there’s not enough evidence to excuse pursuing such a slim possibility.”
“Scorpius,” she entreated, reaching across the table to cover his hand with her’s. “You’ve been spending all your time in the library for months now, and getting nowhere. If it’s not in the Department’s library, it’s not anywhere.”
“I know,” he said. “Merlin. I’m just stressed lately. Remind me when the wedding is?”
“Two weeks,” she smirked. “I know, it’s going fast.”
“That’s the pureblood way.”
She was silent for some time, looking down at their interlaced fingers, then up at him, biting her lower lip. “Scorpius, are you happy?”
“Of course I am,” he smiled. “What man wouldn’t be?”
She beamed, and she was absolutely stunning, and he was sure she was worth it. He was sure.
Read Part 2...