Upwardly Mobile; Gift for The Community!
Title: Upwardly Mobile
Author: stillaseeker
Beta: groolover
Pairing(s): Albus/Scorpius, Harry/Draco (cameo)
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): This may be considered dubious consent.
Word Count: About 2,500
Summary: Following in the footsteps of his forefathers, Scorpius has ambitions involving a certain Potter of his acquaintance.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Prompts: "Sex makes everything more complicated. Even not having it, because the not having it... makes it complicated." [The Holiday]
Author's Notes: This fic was so much fun to write! I’d just like to say a heartfelt ‘Thank you!’ to the mods for organising this lovely fest, and to my very efficient and razor-eyed beta for spotting my missteps ♥
Upwardly Mobile
Albus relaxed his legs, spreading them wide against the embroidered bedspread. His long, adolescent limbs looked extraordinarily foolish (and hairy) against the fancy rosettes and curlicues painstakingly hand-knitted by some ancient Hufflepuff, awash in golds and pinks. The stripes on his boxer shorts - blue and bronze - did nothing to hide the soft rise of his erection, or the palm and fingers currently drifting toward it.
‘Don’t you look ravishing,’ Scorpius murmured, his grey eyes flicking up to meet Albus’ beneath his fringe, as he watched Albus move his fingers over the bulge, his back arching slightly. Albus’ mouth tightened into a crease of embarrassed arousal before loosening into a small pink o as Scorpius helped him tug his cock free of the waistband, lifting it up and out with a gentle caress.
‘You’re such a prick,’ Albus managed to huff out, as Scorpius, replete in his full Slytherin regalia - not a tie-pin out of place - crooked him a grin and darted out his tongue to lick Albus’ cock in one slow, long swipe. Albus fought not to have his eyes glaze over as Scorpius’ tongue flicked out to tease and twist around the underside of his cock, lapping at its tip. Scorpius’ hand rose up to surreptitiously adjust his shirt collar - Albus could feel him smile. ‘Mmm-mmphhh. ’
‘Keep your shirt on, Potter,’ Scorpius breathed. His fair hair glinted gold in the afternoon sunlight as he leaned down again. Albus reached out to grasp the pillow by his head, keening involuntarily, his movements releasing a small gathering of dust motes.
His toes curled inwards.
Scorpius was uncannily good with his mouth. Hexes, withering put-me-downs, rhetoric in debates and charming soiree-small talk - he was good at it all. Albus had always been envious of his skill, but that was before that pretty tongue licked all over his cock-head, melting it in his mouth.
Merlin, Obliviate me if I moan his name, Albus thought hazily, biting down on his lip as his upper body jerked with the effort not to thrust towards Scorpius’ bobbing head. He gave a low, rasping cry as Scorpius reached up to tweak his nipples, pimpled in the chill of the room. Cufflinks in the shape of the Malfoy crest grazed against his chest.
Dad is going to kill me when he hears of this - if he hears - but then Scorpius did something that made his cock slip further into his throat and pushed his flushed tight balls against that pointy face, and then Albus was thrusting - groaning - coming, coming down the hottest, silkiest vice.
‘Merlin - f…fuck - Malfoy!’
‘Mmm,’ Scorpius murmured, his lips reddened and wet as he pulled away from Albus’ crotch, licking a stray trail of viscous white. His eyes sparkled as he held Albus’ half-lidded gaze, absinthe green naked in more than one way in the stuffy, deserted room. The rich velvet of his cloak rustled as he moved up Albus’ body, and Albus couldn’t help but shiver.
Scorpius whispered, ‘Yummy,’ before claiming his mouth.
::
Scorpius had always known that he was born to be someone of consequence. He had an albino peacock as his first pet, a beautiful creature whose satin-soft feathers looked like they were dipped in snow and indigo. His father used to laugh when, at three years old, he tottered after the peacock in the garden, his precocious poise giving way to childish shrieks whenever the peacock spread its tail.
His nursery been filled with beautifully illustrated books, the pages gleaming with pressed gold-leaf, crackling with ancient Preservation Charms. Doodles and drawings from countless ancestors mushroomed in their margins, from the uninspired - I’m BORED!; to the solemn - of Beedle’s tales we can distinguish a fascination with the limits of magic, and the fluidity of these limits as they shift before the right individual; to the salacious - Merlin’s soggy underpants, Ascella and her stepfather are going at it. Again.
Like his father and his grandfather before him, Scorpius was well cognisant of what it meant to be a Malfoy. It took a certain amount of lucre, a continuing string of ancestors, like pearls, weaving through the annals of Wizarding history, and above all, a rather debauched lust for the better things in life. A lust past generations had sought to quench through fear, infamy and war-mongering.
From an early age, watching his father pay the price for his choices as he proved - again and again - his readiness to make amends, Scorpius deliberated on choosing another, more pleasurable path to power. As his father worked tirelessly to replenish their coffers and kept up a stoic façade before the thinly veiled hatred and occasional spray of spittle on the streets of Diagon Alley, Scorpius decided that there was too much ugliness in the world to merit more.
Curling up with his father before the fireplace, listening to him and Grandmother speaking in hushed tones as his father carded his fingers through his hair, hearing their soft, familiar laughter echo around the vast emptiness of the manor - Scorpius thought there was more than one way to get what you want.
There was intimidation - and then there was persuasion.
::
Albus Potter’s room was, to put it mildly, a mess. A dystopian wilderness, strung with soiled parchments, underpants flung willy-nilly over lampshades, clothes ruched into ungainly corners; and over it all, a ubiquitous boysmell - the smell of sweat and grass and dirty socks - permeating Scorpius’ pores, causing his nose to wrinkle even as he dipped his tongue into Albus’ pout-pinkened mouth as they stumbled through the door.
Albus tasted like Muggle things - like powdery, cheap chocolate and mass-manufactured crisps and those weird pellet gums he was always chewing - and the taste made Scorpius lightheaded in a good way, a smug way, as he licked the uneven ridges of Albus’ teeth. Sliding his palm under the thin cotton of Albus’ t-shirt, he manoeuvred Albus onto the bed, nudging his pale legs apart, running his fingers over Albus’ light musculature and the dents of his hipbones.
Potters are odd creatures, Scorpius mused to himself even as Albus, eyes firing daggers at him, slowly lowered the hem of his boxers, revealing a wispy trail of black hair curling towards his groin. So brave, so utterly convinced of their need for self-sacrifice, yet - like a flame flickering in the wind, like Albus Potter splayed face-down, bottom-up against his well-washed childhood duvet, cursing with heavy, sob-laden breaths as Scorpius slowly inserted one finger, then two - so deliciously vulnerable.
Later, watching Albus’ pretty green eyes glaze over, like dew over grass, as he twisted his hips just so, watching Albus’ pretty cock bob, his thigh muscles straining as Scorpius spread his legs, stretching and filling him, the lewd glide of their sweat-slickened bodies squelching in counterpoint to the rhythmic squeaking of Muggle-made bedsprings, Scorpius felt, even as his orgasm crept upon him - as Potter made a low, keening sound, flinging his arm over his eyes - accomplished.
::
“I met Harry Potter yesterday, father.”
Scorpius pretended he didn’t see his father’s hand pause, infinitesimally, on its well-rehearsed path towards the marmalade, and continued to butter his bread. The chirping of the larks in the hedgerows formed a pleasant accompaniment to the windchimes on the trellis.
His father cleared his throat.
“He’s quite attractive, for his age. Pity about the glasses though.” Head bowed as he took a delicate bite of sunwarmed French brioche, Scorpius cast a sly glance at his father, catching the warm blush that, for a moment, suffused his father’s thin face.
“Is that so?” His father straightened the napkin on his lap, his heavy signet ring - which he had worn ever since grandfather’s death - glinting against white satin.
“You work quite closely with Harry Potter, don’t you, father?”
“We’ve - crossed paths. As Head Auror, he consults with the Potions division from time to time, yes.” Scorpius watched his father - unflappable even in the face of dozens of photographers screaming invectives - fidget uncomfortably with his cutlery, moving his bread knife a few millimetres to his right. Not without amusement, Scorpius thought his father looked quite good - charming, even - with a bit of blood in his cheeks; anything to dispel the wan complexion inherited from hours spent hunched over dreary Ministry cauldrons. “How - how did your meeting come about?”
“Oh, I happened to be at the Potter home yesterday. At Godric’s Hollow?” At this, Draco looked up, and Scorpius didn’t miss the momentary surprise - the alarm - that flickered across his father’s light eyes. Feeling a sudden burst of fondness, Scorpius added, “I’ve been teamed up with Albus Potter on a Charms assignment - we’re supposed to collaborate over the holidays.”
“Ah, I see.” Visibly relaxing, Draco leaned back against his wrought iron chair - Grandmother had always been fond of goblin-wrought silver; they created such an elegant juxtaposition, framed by the narcissi in the conservatory. “And how is the assignment going?”
Lips curling, Scorpius murmured, “It’s been extremely educational so far. In fact, I believe our - association will continue even after the assignment ends. I find Albus rather diverting. Did you know, he looks very like his father? Some people claim they’re carbon copies of each other.”
Brow furrowing, Draco’s “Is that so,” was muffled by his hurried sip of his favourite dragonwell tea.
Smiling, Scorpius pushed back his shirtcuff. Exitus acta probat - the Malfoy family motto - glittered like a serpent sunning its scales in the diffused light.
“Is that the time? I’m afraid Albus and I have an early meeting.” His father muttered something indecipherable in response.
Scorpius rose unhurriedly, neatly sidestepping the house elf which had appeared to clear his breakfast things.
Leaning by his father’s chair, where Draco had lifted his head for his customary kiss on the cheek, Scorpius whispered, his voice a barely rising above the tinkling of china,
“I love you, father. But you don’t have any secrets from me.”
::
Albus cursed the day he had ever agreed to meet the evil, albino son of a git in the abandoned third classroom halfway up the Astronomy tower. Scorpius Malfoy - the urbane, impeccably dressed scion of the Malfoy legacy; the undisputed leader of the Slytherins in his year; Hogwarts’ new Head Boy.
The Head Boy who was currently licking daintily at the cleft between Albus’ arse-cheeks, making sweat break out, like blood drawn from a wound, over the surface of Albus’ body - the same bastard who had purloined black lacy knickers from Merlin knew where and was persuading, with little, kittenish flicks of his tongue, Albus to wear them.
“Oh fuck,” Albus gasped, burying his face in his pillow, in the comforting scent of Dad’s favourite fabric softener as he heard Scorpius cast a Charm - Incarcerous - causing deep green ribbons to spin out and affix his wrists to the sturdy bedposts, drawing his arms taut across the bed. “Oh fuck.”
“Mmm,” Scorpius purred in pleasure, curling his tongue and stabbing at the sweet, musky hole his fingers had pried open, his half-open shirt rustling against the contentious wisp of black lace that lay momentarily abandoned on the bed.
“Fucking git!” Albus moaned as he felt Scorpius’ clever fingers creep up his naked torso, sliding over the sensitive muscles of his stomach to tweak, then pinch at his pebbling nipples.
He hadn’t known what to expect - as the lone Ravenclaw in a family of hotheaded lions, he was somewhat used to being overlooked; sheltered as he was within a tight circle of family and like-minded housemates, he had never ventured into the shark-infested social politics of Hogwarts. He’d not thought anything when Scorpius, sly grey eyes twinkling, bookbag slung nonchalantly over one shoulder, had stopped him as they were leaving a Charms lesson, and asked to meet him after dinner. He’d thought it was some question on Magical Theory or other - Albus was, after all, top student in more than a handful of their subjects.
He sought not to hyperventilate as Scorpius, humming, ventured an agile tongue southwards, lapping firmly at his tightly-drawn balls, stealing one, then the other, into the wet cocoon of his mouth.
What he definitely hadn’t expected, what had made him stand stock-still, slack-jawed for a good thirty seconds - was the photograph that Scorpius had insouciantly pulled out, as soon as the classroom was warded. Albus remembered the moment exactly - he had just entered the classroom, surprised to find Scorpius already there, colourless hair backlit by bluebell flames, an odd expression of satisfaction on his face, when Scorpius had pulled out -
That.
A photograph, damning in its clarity, of Albus’ dad, scar outlined in harsh artificial light, bending Scorpius’ father over his office desk - an office desk all the Potter children were quite familiar with, from their visits to Dad’s Auror headquarters over the years. Albus remembered the odd shock of recognition he had felt - seeing his own face staring back at him from the family photo Dad always kept at his desk, now toppled on its side, brushed away by Mr Malfoy’s outflung hand, as Dad - Dad! - thrust enthusiastically against the pale globes of Mr Malfoy’s backside, face scrunched in rapture.
As the Wizarding photograph had continued to loop insidiously, as Albus watched Dad fuck Mr Malfoy again and again and again - Scorpius’ whisper had intruded into his speechless daze.
“Let me blow you, and I won’t Owl the photograph to the Prophet.”
That threat, and Scorpius leaning forward, cradling Albus’ chin in his palm as he slowly licked Albus’ mouth shut, had effectively dissolved Albus’ clever brain into a watery pile of decimated pulp.
It was so easy to scoff at blackmail when it was aimed at other people - it was wholly another matter, Albus had learnt, when one demand succeeded another like waves breaching a shore, when Let me blow you morphed into Let me fuck you, murmured silkenly when Albus was a hairsbreadth away from orgasm, by a sloe-eyed, quick-tongued demon.
“Scorpius,” Albus moaned, hips bucking, as Scorpius slipped another finger into his well-lubed arse; his fingers were crooked, grazing his prostate, jabbing it with miniscule thrusts. He felt the damp tendrils of Scorpius’ hair brush against his lower back as Scorpius leaned forward, creeping up his trussed body, cloth-covered erection sliding, like a lover’s stroke, up between Albus’ thighs.
“Yes, Albus?” Murmured into his neck, as Scorpius put that filthy mouth to work, sucking at Albus’ pulse, as his fingers pressed relentlessly against his prostate, those infernal Malfoy cufflinks a cold shock against Albus’ perineum.
“I’ll do it! I’ll wear them!” Albus sobbed, hips bucking, his face turning helplessly away from Scorpius’ triumphant grin, and the odd, almost affectionate, glint in those grey eyes.
“I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking,” Scorpius murmured, and flicked his fingers, causing Albus to buckle, body convulsing in paroxysmal desire, his drawn-out scream muffled by the miniature snitches and broomsticks darting across his pillow.
Casting a satisfied glance over his handiwork, Scorpius unhurriedly unbuckled his trousers, palming his erection as he watched Albus Potter’s back rise and fall in rhythm with his trembling breaths.
Grandmother was right, after all - there was more than one way to score a Potter.
Fin
Note:
Exitus acta probat - The result justifies the deed (Ovid, Heorides)
Author: stillaseeker
Beta: groolover
Pairing(s): Albus/Scorpius, Harry/Draco (cameo)
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): This may be considered dubious consent.
Word Count: About 2,500
Summary: Following in the footsteps of his forefathers, Scorpius has ambitions involving a certain Potter of his acquaintance.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Prompts: "Sex makes everything more complicated. Even not having it, because the not having it... makes it complicated." [The Holiday]
Author's Notes: This fic was so much fun to write! I’d just like to say a heartfelt ‘Thank you!’ to the mods for organising this lovely fest, and to my very efficient and razor-eyed beta for spotting my missteps ♥
Upwardly Mobile
Albus relaxed his legs, spreading them wide against the embroidered bedspread. His long, adolescent limbs looked extraordinarily foolish (and hairy) against the fancy rosettes and curlicues painstakingly hand-knitted by some ancient Hufflepuff, awash in golds and pinks. The stripes on his boxer shorts - blue and bronze - did nothing to hide the soft rise of his erection, or the palm and fingers currently drifting toward it.
‘Don’t you look ravishing,’ Scorpius murmured, his grey eyes flicking up to meet Albus’ beneath his fringe, as he watched Albus move his fingers over the bulge, his back arching slightly. Albus’ mouth tightened into a crease of embarrassed arousal before loosening into a small pink o as Scorpius helped him tug his cock free of the waistband, lifting it up and out with a gentle caress.
‘You’re such a prick,’ Albus managed to huff out, as Scorpius, replete in his full Slytherin regalia - not a tie-pin out of place - crooked him a grin and darted out his tongue to lick Albus’ cock in one slow, long swipe. Albus fought not to have his eyes glaze over as Scorpius’ tongue flicked out to tease and twist around the underside of his cock, lapping at its tip. Scorpius’ hand rose up to surreptitiously adjust his shirt collar - Albus could feel him smile. ‘Mmm-mmphhh. ’
‘Keep your shirt on, Potter,’ Scorpius breathed. His fair hair glinted gold in the afternoon sunlight as he leaned down again. Albus reached out to grasp the pillow by his head, keening involuntarily, his movements releasing a small gathering of dust motes.
His toes curled inwards.
Scorpius was uncannily good with his mouth. Hexes, withering put-me-downs, rhetoric in debates and charming soiree-small talk - he was good at it all. Albus had always been envious of his skill, but that was before that pretty tongue licked all over his cock-head, melting it in his mouth.
Merlin, Obliviate me if I moan his name, Albus thought hazily, biting down on his lip as his upper body jerked with the effort not to thrust towards Scorpius’ bobbing head. He gave a low, rasping cry as Scorpius reached up to tweak his nipples, pimpled in the chill of the room. Cufflinks in the shape of the Malfoy crest grazed against his chest.
Dad is going to kill me when he hears of this - if he hears - but then Scorpius did something that made his cock slip further into his throat and pushed his flushed tight balls against that pointy face, and then Albus was thrusting - groaning - coming, coming down the hottest, silkiest vice.
‘Merlin - f…fuck - Malfoy!’
‘Mmm,’ Scorpius murmured, his lips reddened and wet as he pulled away from Albus’ crotch, licking a stray trail of viscous white. His eyes sparkled as he held Albus’ half-lidded gaze, absinthe green naked in more than one way in the stuffy, deserted room. The rich velvet of his cloak rustled as he moved up Albus’ body, and Albus couldn’t help but shiver.
Scorpius whispered, ‘Yummy,’ before claiming his mouth.
::
Scorpius had always known that he was born to be someone of consequence. He had an albino peacock as his first pet, a beautiful creature whose satin-soft feathers looked like they were dipped in snow and indigo. His father used to laugh when, at three years old, he tottered after the peacock in the garden, his precocious poise giving way to childish shrieks whenever the peacock spread its tail.
His nursery been filled with beautifully illustrated books, the pages gleaming with pressed gold-leaf, crackling with ancient Preservation Charms. Doodles and drawings from countless ancestors mushroomed in their margins, from the uninspired - I’m BORED!; to the solemn - of Beedle’s tales we can distinguish a fascination with the limits of magic, and the fluidity of these limits as they shift before the right individual; to the salacious - Merlin’s soggy underpants, Ascella and her stepfather are going at it. Again.
Like his father and his grandfather before him, Scorpius was well cognisant of what it meant to be a Malfoy. It took a certain amount of lucre, a continuing string of ancestors, like pearls, weaving through the annals of Wizarding history, and above all, a rather debauched lust for the better things in life. A lust past generations had sought to quench through fear, infamy and war-mongering.
From an early age, watching his father pay the price for his choices as he proved - again and again - his readiness to make amends, Scorpius deliberated on choosing another, more pleasurable path to power. As his father worked tirelessly to replenish their coffers and kept up a stoic façade before the thinly veiled hatred and occasional spray of spittle on the streets of Diagon Alley, Scorpius decided that there was too much ugliness in the world to merit more.
Curling up with his father before the fireplace, listening to him and Grandmother speaking in hushed tones as his father carded his fingers through his hair, hearing their soft, familiar laughter echo around the vast emptiness of the manor - Scorpius thought there was more than one way to get what you want.
There was intimidation - and then there was persuasion.
::
Albus Potter’s room was, to put it mildly, a mess. A dystopian wilderness, strung with soiled parchments, underpants flung willy-nilly over lampshades, clothes ruched into ungainly corners; and over it all, a ubiquitous boysmell - the smell of sweat and grass and dirty socks - permeating Scorpius’ pores, causing his nose to wrinkle even as he dipped his tongue into Albus’ pout-pinkened mouth as they stumbled through the door.
Albus tasted like Muggle things - like powdery, cheap chocolate and mass-manufactured crisps and those weird pellet gums he was always chewing - and the taste made Scorpius lightheaded in a good way, a smug way, as he licked the uneven ridges of Albus’ teeth. Sliding his palm under the thin cotton of Albus’ t-shirt, he manoeuvred Albus onto the bed, nudging his pale legs apart, running his fingers over Albus’ light musculature and the dents of his hipbones.
Potters are odd creatures, Scorpius mused to himself even as Albus, eyes firing daggers at him, slowly lowered the hem of his boxers, revealing a wispy trail of black hair curling towards his groin. So brave, so utterly convinced of their need for self-sacrifice, yet - like a flame flickering in the wind, like Albus Potter splayed face-down, bottom-up against his well-washed childhood duvet, cursing with heavy, sob-laden breaths as Scorpius slowly inserted one finger, then two - so deliciously vulnerable.
Later, watching Albus’ pretty green eyes glaze over, like dew over grass, as he twisted his hips just so, watching Albus’ pretty cock bob, his thigh muscles straining as Scorpius spread his legs, stretching and filling him, the lewd glide of their sweat-slickened bodies squelching in counterpoint to the rhythmic squeaking of Muggle-made bedsprings, Scorpius felt, even as his orgasm crept upon him - as Potter made a low, keening sound, flinging his arm over his eyes - accomplished.
::
“I met Harry Potter yesterday, father.”
Scorpius pretended he didn’t see his father’s hand pause, infinitesimally, on its well-rehearsed path towards the marmalade, and continued to butter his bread. The chirping of the larks in the hedgerows formed a pleasant accompaniment to the windchimes on the trellis.
His father cleared his throat.
“He’s quite attractive, for his age. Pity about the glasses though.” Head bowed as he took a delicate bite of sunwarmed French brioche, Scorpius cast a sly glance at his father, catching the warm blush that, for a moment, suffused his father’s thin face.
“Is that so?” His father straightened the napkin on his lap, his heavy signet ring - which he had worn ever since grandfather’s death - glinting against white satin.
“You work quite closely with Harry Potter, don’t you, father?”
“We’ve - crossed paths. As Head Auror, he consults with the Potions division from time to time, yes.” Scorpius watched his father - unflappable even in the face of dozens of photographers screaming invectives - fidget uncomfortably with his cutlery, moving his bread knife a few millimetres to his right. Not without amusement, Scorpius thought his father looked quite good - charming, even - with a bit of blood in his cheeks; anything to dispel the wan complexion inherited from hours spent hunched over dreary Ministry cauldrons. “How - how did your meeting come about?”
“Oh, I happened to be at the Potter home yesterday. At Godric’s Hollow?” At this, Draco looked up, and Scorpius didn’t miss the momentary surprise - the alarm - that flickered across his father’s light eyes. Feeling a sudden burst of fondness, Scorpius added, “I’ve been teamed up with Albus Potter on a Charms assignment - we’re supposed to collaborate over the holidays.”
“Ah, I see.” Visibly relaxing, Draco leaned back against his wrought iron chair - Grandmother had always been fond of goblin-wrought silver; they created such an elegant juxtaposition, framed by the narcissi in the conservatory. “And how is the assignment going?”
Lips curling, Scorpius murmured, “It’s been extremely educational so far. In fact, I believe our - association will continue even after the assignment ends. I find Albus rather diverting. Did you know, he looks very like his father? Some people claim they’re carbon copies of each other.”
Brow furrowing, Draco’s “Is that so,” was muffled by his hurried sip of his favourite dragonwell tea.
Smiling, Scorpius pushed back his shirtcuff. Exitus acta probat - the Malfoy family motto - glittered like a serpent sunning its scales in the diffused light.
“Is that the time? I’m afraid Albus and I have an early meeting.” His father muttered something indecipherable in response.
Scorpius rose unhurriedly, neatly sidestepping the house elf which had appeared to clear his breakfast things.
Leaning by his father’s chair, where Draco had lifted his head for his customary kiss on the cheek, Scorpius whispered, his voice a barely rising above the tinkling of china,
“I love you, father. But you don’t have any secrets from me.”
::
Albus cursed the day he had ever agreed to meet the evil, albino son of a git in the abandoned third classroom halfway up the Astronomy tower. Scorpius Malfoy - the urbane, impeccably dressed scion of the Malfoy legacy; the undisputed leader of the Slytherins in his year; Hogwarts’ new Head Boy.
The Head Boy who was currently licking daintily at the cleft between Albus’ arse-cheeks, making sweat break out, like blood drawn from a wound, over the surface of Albus’ body - the same bastard who had purloined black lacy knickers from Merlin knew where and was persuading, with little, kittenish flicks of his tongue, Albus to wear them.
“Oh fuck,” Albus gasped, burying his face in his pillow, in the comforting scent of Dad’s favourite fabric softener as he heard Scorpius cast a Charm - Incarcerous - causing deep green ribbons to spin out and affix his wrists to the sturdy bedposts, drawing his arms taut across the bed. “Oh fuck.”
“Mmm,” Scorpius purred in pleasure, curling his tongue and stabbing at the sweet, musky hole his fingers had pried open, his half-open shirt rustling against the contentious wisp of black lace that lay momentarily abandoned on the bed.
“Fucking git!” Albus moaned as he felt Scorpius’ clever fingers creep up his naked torso, sliding over the sensitive muscles of his stomach to tweak, then pinch at his pebbling nipples.
He hadn’t known what to expect - as the lone Ravenclaw in a family of hotheaded lions, he was somewhat used to being overlooked; sheltered as he was within a tight circle of family and like-minded housemates, he had never ventured into the shark-infested social politics of Hogwarts. He’d not thought anything when Scorpius, sly grey eyes twinkling, bookbag slung nonchalantly over one shoulder, had stopped him as they were leaving a Charms lesson, and asked to meet him after dinner. He’d thought it was some question on Magical Theory or other - Albus was, after all, top student in more than a handful of their subjects.
He sought not to hyperventilate as Scorpius, humming, ventured an agile tongue southwards, lapping firmly at his tightly-drawn balls, stealing one, then the other, into the wet cocoon of his mouth.
What he definitely hadn’t expected, what had made him stand stock-still, slack-jawed for a good thirty seconds - was the photograph that Scorpius had insouciantly pulled out, as soon as the classroom was warded. Albus remembered the moment exactly - he had just entered the classroom, surprised to find Scorpius already there, colourless hair backlit by bluebell flames, an odd expression of satisfaction on his face, when Scorpius had pulled out -
That.
A photograph, damning in its clarity, of Albus’ dad, scar outlined in harsh artificial light, bending Scorpius’ father over his office desk - an office desk all the Potter children were quite familiar with, from their visits to Dad’s Auror headquarters over the years. Albus remembered the odd shock of recognition he had felt - seeing his own face staring back at him from the family photo Dad always kept at his desk, now toppled on its side, brushed away by Mr Malfoy’s outflung hand, as Dad - Dad! - thrust enthusiastically against the pale globes of Mr Malfoy’s backside, face scrunched in rapture.
As the Wizarding photograph had continued to loop insidiously, as Albus watched Dad fuck Mr Malfoy again and again and again - Scorpius’ whisper had intruded into his speechless daze.
“Let me blow you, and I won’t Owl the photograph to the Prophet.”
That threat, and Scorpius leaning forward, cradling Albus’ chin in his palm as he slowly licked Albus’ mouth shut, had effectively dissolved Albus’ clever brain into a watery pile of decimated pulp.
It was so easy to scoff at blackmail when it was aimed at other people - it was wholly another matter, Albus had learnt, when one demand succeeded another like waves breaching a shore, when Let me blow you morphed into Let me fuck you, murmured silkenly when Albus was a hairsbreadth away from orgasm, by a sloe-eyed, quick-tongued demon.
“Scorpius,” Albus moaned, hips bucking, as Scorpius slipped another finger into his well-lubed arse; his fingers were crooked, grazing his prostate, jabbing it with miniscule thrusts. He felt the damp tendrils of Scorpius’ hair brush against his lower back as Scorpius leaned forward, creeping up his trussed body, cloth-covered erection sliding, like a lover’s stroke, up between Albus’ thighs.
“Yes, Albus?” Murmured into his neck, as Scorpius put that filthy mouth to work, sucking at Albus’ pulse, as his fingers pressed relentlessly against his prostate, those infernal Malfoy cufflinks a cold shock against Albus’ perineum.
“I’ll do it! I’ll wear them!” Albus sobbed, hips bucking, his face turning helplessly away from Scorpius’ triumphant grin, and the odd, almost affectionate, glint in those grey eyes.
“I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking,” Scorpius murmured, and flicked his fingers, causing Albus to buckle, body convulsing in paroxysmal desire, his drawn-out scream muffled by the miniature snitches and broomsticks darting across his pillow.
Casting a satisfied glance over his handiwork, Scorpius unhurriedly unbuckled his trousers, palming his erection as he watched Albus Potter’s back rise and fall in rhythm with his trembling breaths.
Grandmother was right, after all - there was more than one way to score a Potter.
Fin
Note:
Exitus acta probat - The result justifies the deed (Ovid, Heorides)