books by their covers
.books by their covers
when albus severus potter became an auror, he had certain expectations. researching crup fighting in the ministry library with scorpius malfoy was not among them.
pg13 . 11588 words . A03
When Albus became an Auror, he had somewhat stupidly assumed it would be a lot like being at Hogwarts, and even more like his father’s stories of being an Auror: having adventures, fighting evil.
The assumption proved stupid for two reasons, if you disregarded the obvious reason it was stupid (being that it was an assumption): (1) Dad’s memories of his time in the Corps proved to be extremely skewed--which is to say, his memories of the Aurors proved to be inaccurate, an inaccuracy that was exacerbated by the fact that crime levels had gone down since the tenuous post-war years; (2) even though he was only two years out of Hogwarts, Albus’ memories of school proved to be similarly inaccurate; and (3) the Aurors were a government institution. Maybe it was simple naivete (it was simple naivete), but really.
At least that’s what Stella told him, when Albus came to her to gripe about the research for his latest insignificant job.
“You just need to go to the Ministry Library,” she said. “It’s really lovely Al.”
“Are you quite sure you can’t do it?” he’d asked, and earned himself a look that would turn trees into wilting violets.
Hugo had sided with Stella. Ever since they’d married he’d been fixing Albus with a baleful look whenever disagreements surfaced and mouthing the word “sex.” Albus was not actually able to read lips, but Hugo had helpfully explained it to him (“It’s wonderful,” he whispered, and Albus had stopped him right there.)
So if anyone asked, that was how Albus ended up in the lift to the Ministry Library, which he was certain was located on a sad and dusty floor where no one ever went.
He turned out to be wrong, to the degree that the library appeared to be well dusted (by, Aunt Hermione would later claim, uncompensated house elves), and someone must have done sort of magic on the windows, because they were larger and better illuminated than made logical sense, given that, as far as Albus knew, the floor the Ministry Library was located on was no larger than any other floor at the Ministry, and, furthermore, there was another building next door that blocked most natural light.
Then again, maybe it was, because besides the large windows there were vast shelves, with ladders running along on rollers, waiting to be summoned.
And there was Scorpius Malfoy, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, sitting at the long wooden counter at the fore of the room. He didn’t see Albus; Albus didn’t want to see him, and ducked behind a bank of shelves.
He knew Scorpius Malfoy was the ministry librarian. Everyone knew--when Julia Buchner had passed and Malfoy had been named her successor, it had made the third page of the Prophet (Minute Ministry Minutes). Third page, bottom of column three, but it had been a prime piece of gossip shortly thereafter, so there was that. Albus had actually persuaded his rubbish bin to release that copy of the Prophet to confirm the news. He’d ironed out the sheet of paper and there it was, one line: Scorpius Malfoy will be replacing Julia Buchner as Head Librarian at the Ministry, making him the youngest ever Ministry Head Librarian...Looks like the Malfoy fortune is waning, if the heir needs to look to MoMCSS for income.
MoMCSS stood for Ministry of Magic Codex Sorting System. Albus realized he could care less, and returned the paper to the bin promptly. The bin then proceeded to spit up the spoiled beans from yesterday on him, and Albus had quietly blamed Malfoy for the whole ill-fated endeavor, for the fact that, Harry Potter’s son’s greatest travails were an ornery rubbish bin and the fact that his boss assigned him what could only be termed as shit cases.
Which brought him to the library, where Malfoy was peering at a large volume and jotting quick notes with his left hand. He was wrinkling his nose to keep his glasses up, and he looked vaguely constipated.
Albus snorted into the stacks, and then he felt like he was spying. It was--there was no reason for it. In school their relationship had been one of mutual dislike, because their fathers had been enemies or whatever and Albus thought someone ought to carry on the tradition, since James showed no interest and Rose and Stella seemed to consider Malfoy something of a friend (Rose and Scorpius were also academic rivals, but Rose always insisted it wasn’t that competitive, just, you know).
It turned out to be good that Albus choose to carry on the tradition, because Scorpius was a right twat and apparently Albus was the only one to notice. He had replaced the Malfoy’s blood-based system of judgment with something based on the number of OWLs or NEWTs obtained, and Albus came to dread shared Slytherin-Ravenclaw classes solely for Scorpius’ withering glances whenever Albus was called on to answer a question.
So if he was spying, it was because it simply won’t do to have Malfoy stumble upon Albus in his domain without knowing precisely what he was doing--and Albus didn’t quite know what he was doing.
Actually, Albus was supposed to be breaking up a crup-fighting ring. And in truth, he had already broken up a crup-fighting ring. It was simple, really: (1) obtain crup; (2) bring crup to dog park while dressed as shadily as possible (Albus had magicked himself a temporary tattoo expressly for this purpose, although he had rather liked it and had yet to remove it); (3) get crup to bite something; (4) reap rewards. Repeat steps one through three as necessary for a crup fighter to notice your crup and, subsequently, invite you to a fight. The problem was that now he had to write a report on crup-fighting and wizarding culture and whether it was related to Muggle dog fights and what sort of policies should be implemented to prevent crup fighting in the future.
Albus wished he could go back to fighting his crup, which James had christened Teeth, because he bit less when he occasionally had the opportunity to sink his teeth into another crup. But that was not the sort of thing one went about saying, especially to Rose or one’s boss. Still, thus far Teeth had damaged every piece of furniture in Albus’s flat, with the exception of the rubbish bin and the ottoman that smelled strongly of floral perfume.
Books on crups, if Stella was to be believed, should be filed under Beasts, Magical, Forked Tails, Canis domesticus magus (their Latin name).
Crup fighting, conversely, would be filed under Activities, Games and Sports, Magical, Pugnacious, Beasts.
Writing those two pieces of information down on a scrap of parchment was the sole help Stella had offered, but when Albus attempted to locate both of those sections he had no luck at all, and wound up somewhere in Dysfunctions, Physical, Sexual.
Which is where Scorpius Malfoy found him. He had a small cart of books trailing after him like a lost dog, making small whining noises as it rolled along on its undersized wheels, and he looked at Albus with something akin to amusement, if the amusement were mingled with dislike and perhaps a certain degree of smugness.
“Albus,” he said. “I know the Prophet’s been taking your break-up rather well, but wouldn’t they be interested to know it was because you--ah, how do you say?--because your wand wasn’t working properly.”
The break-up was a year ago, maybe more. Even Sean doesn’t care particularly anymore--even Albus doesn’t care anymore, and he probably took the whole thing worse. Albus tries not to look incredulous. He’s not sure if he manages, but Scorpius and his cart have halted in front of him like they’re both waiting for something, so Albus eventually says, “I’m looking for books about crup fighting.”
“Crup fighting, Potter,” Malfoy replies. “Are you certain you aren’t compensating for something?”
“It’s for a job,” Albus says flatly, and then he holds out the note from Stella. “Stella said I might find them here.”
Malfoy takes the parchment from him, pushes his eyeglasses up his nose, and inspects it.
“She would have been right last week, but--” Malfoy says. “Because of the lunar phase, they’ve been moved.”
Albus had actually stalled a week before coming to the library, and as he trails after Malfoy he considers commenting on it.
“Stella gave me that note a week ago,” he says eventually, and Malfoy nods.
“I thought so,” he says. “Longbottom knows MoMCSS as well as I do. So this just makes you a lazy arse.”
Albus considers defending himself, but Malfoy’s jab is mild, and he’s trying not to act like a schoolboy, and so instead he just says, “It’s Weasley, now,” even though Malfoy has to know because he was at the wedding. Malfoy does something only slightly more cultured than grunting, and Albus follows him through a warren of shelves until they reach Beasts, Crups, Fighting which is--
“The week leading up to the full moon is always the most sensible,” Malfoy says. And then he and his cart disappear.
Well, they don’t disappear exactly. They rattle off to another bank of shelves, and Albus chalks that up as one surprisingly non-hostile interaction with Malfoy. Although Albus didn’t talk much, which may explain it. He pulls books off the shelf at random, and goes to the front to check them out. There’s a witch there who Albus doesn’t recognize, examining her fingernails, and when Albus piles the books on the counter she glances at his ID badge disinterestedly before flicking her wand and marking them all as checked out.
“Due in two weeks,” she says without meeting his eyes. “Looks pretty dull. I expect you’ll be returning them earlier.”
“I wish I could return them earlier,” Albus mumbles, and shifts them to his hip to carry them back to his cubicle.
Most of the books prove to be either completely useless or impossibly dry, but there’s one that’s relevant and traversable, at the very least, so Albus brings that home.
It should come as no surprise that Teeth eats it. He does it while Albus’s asleep, and by the morning the volume is almost completely mangled, and there are fat drops of saliva on the cloth cover. Teeth is sleeping curled around it, and Albus is certain that no spell on earth could fix the book when half of it is currently being digested.
He’s not sure what he’ll tell Malfoy, which maybe explains why he lets Teeth carry the book around the flat for the next two weeks. The crup seems to have grown attached to it, and he doesn’t gnaw terribly much on it or anything else, though Albus does come home one evening to find that Teeth is apparently mating with it. He makes a silent pact with himself never to tell Stella or anyone else, and then he pats Teeth on the head, changes out of his Auror robes and in to a jumper and jeans, and goes down to The Flying Ford Anglia to see if Hugo’s there.
The Flying Ford Anglia is Hugo’s bar, named for a story Uncle Ron likes to tell. It was christened Diagon Alley’s new hot spot by The Daily Prophet, and by The Quibbler a bar, owned by Hugo Weasley. Which is, frankly, good enough for Albus.
Also, Hugo makes his own butterbeer, and it tastes like sunshine. Although Albus only says that when he’s very, very drunk.
“Stella said you had to go to the Ministry Library,” Hugo says when he takes a break from tending bar to slide into a booth with Albus. He looks tired and happy, which is how he looks most of the time these days, and Albus kind of envies him. “Sorry about that, mate. How’s Malfoy?”
“Probably pissed at me, now,” Albus says, taking a swig from whatever it is that Hugo’s brought him, some mixture of something. “Teeth ate one of the books.”
“I can’t believe you’re keeping him,” Hugo says. “That Crup is terrible.”
“But what am I supposed to do with him?” Albus asks.
“Beatrice Ballificent’s Home for Magical Beasts, mate,” Hugo replies. “That’s where Rose used to volunteer.”
Albus thinks of Teeth, who is white with liver and black spots and one ear that won’t stay up, and feels inexplicably fond of him. Hugo shakes his head.
“You’re worse than the wife,” he says, and Albus wishes Hugo would stop calling Stella ‘the wife’ and he knows it’s a newlywed thing (because Stella told him, because Stella said “It’s a newlywed thing, he’ll get over it”), but it’s still stupid. “With your lost causes.”
“Teeth is not--” Albus starts.
“Teeth ate an entire pair of trousers,” Hugo says. “Give it up.”
Albus is not willing to give it up, but it is true that Teeth ate an entire pair of trousers. They were his favorites, too.
“Where is Stella?” Albus asks, instead, and Hugo shrugs.
“Studying, yeah?” he says. “Exams coming up. They’re on the DRAGONs.”
And it doesn’t--it doesn’t feel like exam season, which makes Albus realize how long exactly he’s been away from school, and it’s strange to remember that in Stella’s endless quest for graduate degrees she still hasn’t gotten around to not being in school. Hugo grins at him like he’s thinking the same thing.
“Glad it’s not me,” he says. “But she likes it.”
Hugo runs his hands along the dark wood of the booth, almost thoughtful, and then he glances up and then hisses at Albus, “Don’t look now, but your pal Malfoy is here.”
Albus doesn’t look.
“Does he come here a lot?” he asks, instead.
“Sometimes, yeah,” Hugo replies. “I’m not going to turn him away, am I? He’s Stella’s friend. And Stella stays we owe him one, since he lends her the books she can’t get at the uni library even though she doesn’t work for the Ministry.”
Albus really needs to take a moment and discuss that with Stella because if Malfoy grants her special favors Albus may need to call in a special favor, what with Teeth eating that book and all.
Malfoy’s weaving through the crowd, a flash of bright blond hair that stops intermittently to talk with--a pair of Ravenclaws, a girl dressed in bright colors who might be the one who checked out Albus’s books at the library, Henryk Zabini. Henryk is sitting at the bar and within easy view from Albus’s booth--he and Malfoy join their heads together, dark and pale, discussing something.
“Are they friends?” Albus asks Hugo, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the pair, because he doesn’t recall them being friends at Hogwarts. Henryk had been in Albus’ house, and he wasn’t all bad--a little mercenary, but completely transparent about it, and when he and Albus had gotten very drunk at a house party and woken up wrapped around one another Henryk and kissed him hard and said they didn’t need to talk about it.
“Hell if I know,” Hugo mumbles. “Not like I keep tabs on them or anything.”
Albus watches them for a moment, then turns back to Hugo and drinks the last swallow of his drink, which burns more than all the previous sips combined. When he comments on it, Hugo just nods.
“Neat bit of magic,” he says. “Uncle George came up with it, and Stella did a bit of arthimacy for us. Alcohol content increases in direct proportion to how much you’ve already had to drink.”
That sounds like a terrible bit of magic. Albus’s surprised Stella went along with it, but then not surprised at all, because the last time he saw Stella’s mother, Professor Lovegood, she spent most of the time looking at things that weren’t there and doodling arthimacy equations in the air.
Hugo goes back to the bar and leaves Albus there, drinking quietly. A few of his old housemates come over--Patrick Nott and Louise Trapper--and they talk briefly and superficially, and when Albus is finished with his dinner and the live music starts up, he leaves. On the way out he catches another glimpse of Malfoy leaning on the bar, all sharp angles of elbows and hips and nose. He’s not wearing glasses, and Albus envies him for that--every healer Albus went to talk to about it told him his eyesight was to bad for any sort of cure, or even Muggle contact lenses, something about nearsightedness and astigmatisms and terrible, terrible eyesight, how did he even do anything when his vision was that bad. His father had vaguely apologized, waving his hand and saying Albus got it from him, great genes, all that.
Malfoy, though, sans glasses, is sliding out onto the dance floor with Zabini, who suddenly stops and waves to Albus, which means Albus has to weave his way through the crowd to them, because it would probably be interpreted as some sort of slight if he didn’t.
“Scorpius,” he says, nodding. “Henryk.”
“Al,” Henryk says. “I suppose I shouldn’t say fancy meeting you here, seeing as your Hufflepuff friend owns it and all.”
“No,” Albus says dryly. “I suppose you shouldn’t.”
“How have you been?” he asks, reaching out to put a hand on Albus’ shoulder, and Albus wonders if he’s suddenly decided he’s wanted a repeat performance, even though Albus doesn’t remember precisely what the performance was. It was sixth year, after Albus declared himself gay, before he started dating Sean Thomas. Frankly, Albus is pretty certain the sex was terrible.
“I heard about the break-up,” Henryk finishes, and Albus wonders why two people, now, have brought up something that happened a year ago like it’s fresh news.
“Yes, a year ago,” Albus says. “I’m fine.” He glances at Scorpius, who looks faintly annoyed, and takes a step back from Henryk. “I’ll let you two get to the dance floor, then.”
“Nice to see you,” Henryk says, not taking his eyes off Albus’ face, and then he catches Scorpius’ hand and leads him away.
“Your books are due in one week, six days,” Scorpius calls as he leaves. “Don’t forget.”
Albus eventually gets a notice from the Ministry Library about the books, which are now overdue and will be fined at the rate of one knut per day. He already knew they were overdue, because the stamps on the cover that said ‘Checked Out’ had started flashing ‘Due’ and then ‘Overdue’, but he’d stuck them underneath a couch cushion and pretended it wasn’t happening. When he gets the notice it is then, and only then, that he goes to see Malfoy. He splays the remaining books across the desk and looks down at Malfoy, who is peering up at him over the silver frames of his glasses. Reading glasses, it figures.
“My krup ate the other book,” Albus says.
“And which book would that be?” Malfoy asks, and Albus blinks.
“A History of Crups in Culture. Ah--”
“Michaelsen, I’ll expect,” Malfoy interjects. “And you didn’t read the backflap.”
“What?” Albus asks.
“Crup pheromones,” Malfoy says. “You need to be careful with that one.”
That does explain some things. When Albus looks back at Malfoy, he might be grinning--not smirking, but grinning properly, but it’s a foreign expression on Malfoy’s face, so Albus’s not entirely sure.
“Potter,” he says. “Were you afraid to tell me?”
It’s no use lying.
“The book’s completely destroyed,” Albus says.
“Honestly, Potter,” Malfoy says. “It was outdated, anyway. You’d be better off with--” Malfoy pauses and hums to himself. “Follow me.”
This week the books are back where Stella said they’d be, the first week, so they wind up in Activities, Games and Sports, Magical, Pugnacious, Beasts, with Scorpius pulling volumes off the shelves and piling them in Albus’ arms.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t take these the first time around,” he says. “Really, do you Slytherins not know how to read?”
“Your parents were both Slytherins,” Albus points out helpfully, and Scorpius shoots him a scowl.
“When I said ‘you Slytherins,’” he says. “I meant you specifically.”
“Then what does my house have to do with it?” Albus asks, disgruntled. First year he had hated his house, but somewhere in there he came to terms with it, and then he developed something that could be only described as house spirit.
Mostly because it was either that or let James make him feel ashamed for the rest of his life, and Albus figured if he was going to be in Slytherin for the next six years he might as well accept it and move on to better things, like embarrassing James in front of every potential girlfriend ever (why Violet kept him remains a mystery).
“If you were a Ravenclaw,” Scorpius says. “I wouldn’t even have to ask that question.”
“Not all Ravenclaws like reading,” Albus counters.
And then he feels--he’s trying to rise above schoolboy whatevers. Fighting about houses feels like going back to first year, and Albus is not going to fall for it.
“Are there any more books I should be looking at?” he says, looking down at the heap in his arms.
“This will do for now,” Scorpius replies. “Let me know what you think when you’re done with them, and I’ll see if there’s anything else that would help.”
It all sounds surprisingly helpful, and Albus tries not to let his astonishment show on his face.
“Thanks,” he says, and Scorpius shrugs.
“Let it not be said that I never did anything for our esteemed Auror Corps,” he says, and then leads Albus back to the counter, where he himself checks out the books.
“Bring them back on time this time,” Scorpius tells him after the books are stamped. “I added something a little extra to the charm.”
“Of course you did,” Albus mutters, and Scorpius looks up at him with a smirk.
“Red is really not your color,” he says, instead of anything to do with their conversation. Albus pretends he doesn’t hear, because he’s heard it before. Usually he just says “Good thing I didn’t wind up in Gryffindor, then,” but he’s not sure what Scorpius would do with that, and he would say “Blue isn’t yours” but that’s not precisely true.
The deep blue librarian robes actually suit Scorpius. Albus doesn’t want to talk about it, or think about it, or look at it any longer than necessary. He goes back to his office, wades through the books--which are tomes, really, too long and too dense, but he manages to extract bits and pieces of useful information from them, though he still feels like the information he’s finding is somewhere besides the point. Because he’s just not a Ravenclaw. He doesn’t like collecting knowledge, only wades through books gleaning information to the extent that it’s useful or interesting. That doesn’t make him dumb.
He mentions that to Stella when he meets her at The Flying Ford Anglia for dinner.
“You aren’t dumb. No one thinks you’re dumb,” she says, fixing him with an even stare. Stella’s eyes have always been too large for her face and an unnervingly pale blue, and for a long time Albus had trouble holding her gaze for extended periods of time.
He does, still.
“Scorpius thinks I’m dumb,” he says.
“No he doesn’t,” Stella says, and reaches across the table to give Albus’ hand a squeeze. “You know he’ll help you if you just ask.”
But Albus doesn’t want to ask for Scorpius Malfoy’s help.
“Albus,” Stella says. “Scorpius Malfoy is a Ministry Librarian. It’s his job to help Ministry employees with research.”
“Malfoy, again?” Hugo asks, sliding into the booth besides Stella. “Al, really.”
“Really what?” Albus asks, because he is really not sure.
“You realize Scorp is Stella’s friend, right? He’s coming by in a couple days for dinner.”
Albus looks between the pair of them. Stella shrugs.
“It’s true.”
It’s not surprising. Albus doesn’t know why he feels surprised.
“You should come,” Hugo says. “Maybe the pair of you could get along if you weren’t in school. You have a lot in common.”
“Being gay is not a lot in common,” Albus mutters, looking down at his plate of food. Half the chips are getting cold. He can practically see them getting cold, grease congealing on the potato skins.
“You both are very concerned with your fathers’ opinions,” Stella offers in the way she does, saying something mildly that cuts to the very quick.
Albus is not--but he is. Half the reason he joined the Aurors was for adventure, but he also joined it to prove something to Harry, that the strange, worried look in his eye when Albus had flooed home after the sorting to tell his parents he was in Slytherin was all for naught.
Before he got on the train Harry had knelt down and told Albus that the Hat would listen if Albus said he didn’t want to be in Slytherin.
The thing that Albus suspected his father knew was that by the time the Hat got off his head, Albus wanted to be in Slytherin. He had the option, Slytherin or Hufflepuff, and he picked the den of snakes.
And by the time he graduated, he liked it. He liked his housemates, because he knew where he stood with them, and for the most part they respected him, which was all he really wanted. He was a Chaser on the House team. He was Quidditch Captain. His house expected him to lead the team to victory, the expectation was clear and simple and there were no caveats--he wasn’t expected to be everyone’s friend, or to be a particularly brilliant example, or to be anyone other than Albus Severus Potter.
Sixth year, when he came out, his mum had folded him up in her arms and said it was okay, like something was wrong, and his dad had studied him and nodded succinctly, like Albus was confirming expectations. His house immediately began to shift the gossip about his relationships in the direction of his orientation, and otherwise their treatment of him hadn’t changed at all. Even his siblings and cousins had taken time to adjust, like they suddenly weren’t sure who he was. Outside his house, only Stella took it in stride, saying, “Well, of course,” and continuing with the conversation they had been having.
“So you’ll come, then?” Stella asks, now, and Albus blinks back at her.
“What?”
“Our flat,” Hugo says. “Tuesday night.”
Albus completely, absolutely does not want to go, but he doesn’t see how he has any choice.
“I can bring dessert,” he replies.
Albus takes Teeth out for a walk that night, casts an illusion on the forked bit of his tail and clips him to his thin leather lead. They trot down Diagon Alley and out into muggle London, where there’s a park Albus likes at night--quiet and ringed by street lights, in a neighborhood where Albus imagines all the families have children and are sweetly happy with their lives. Albus has an inexplicable envy of muggles that can’t be traced to any of his interactions with them, that has nothing to do with the stilted, painful dinner with his Great Aunt Petunia when he was nine or the muggle girl he dated and then messily broke up with (“There’s something about me you’ll never understand” he told her, melodramatically) over one summer vacation in Spain when he was eleven.
It’s early autumn and cool out, anyway, and so maybe it’s just nice to be walking regardless of the neighborhood. Teeth picks up a stick somewhere along the way, and carries it proudly all the way back to Diagon Alley, where Albus lets him chew it to splinters on the floor, because it’s a better use of chewing than if Teeth were chewing on his wand.
Over the course of the next few days, Albus sorts through the library books Scorpius selected for him and creates an elaborately color coded system of note taking, mostly because the colors entertain him. He ends up with five sheets of parchment all scrawled with notes, under the headers History (Crups), Biology + Breeding (Crups), History (Crup Fighting), Dog Fighting, and Crup Culture (??).
When he looks at them after the fact, it’s not very helpful. Albus draws a picture of Teeth in the corner of each page and magics them to scurry around, but seeing ink drawings of Teeth gnawing on his handwriting doesn’t actually improve his mood any.
That’s how Monday afternoon finds Albus, and his mood is worsened when he remembers that he agreed to have dinner with Scorpius Malfoy (and his friends, yes) and bring dessert and there’s nothing in his flat that could be reasonably expected to shape itself into dessert. When he gets off work he goes to the grocery and buys the ingredients for the chocolate cake Grandmum Weasley taught him to make, which also happens to be the only dessert he can actually make. Despite a run-in with the kitchen timer everything turns out, and Albus is shrinking the cake down to bring to Hugo and Stella’s when Teeth pisses all over the kitchen floor.
Albus looks at him.
“Teeth,” he says, in what he imagines is a firm tone, and Teeth sort of cowers and looks guilty, lowering his tail and wagging it apologetically.
“Don’t do that, Teeth,” Albus says, and then he has to clean it up, and the whole time Teeth prances around looking pathetic and like he would probably like to be taken for a walk.
Albus firecalls Stella.
“Can I bring Teeth?” he asks, and she smiles at him benignly.
“A crup in the house means food in the coffer,” she says, which is an old phrase from when crups were used for killing rats and at this point is little more than nonsense. Albus blinks.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, because he can’t imagine someone would willingly let Teeth into their home.
“If I say no, you’ll just say you can’t come because you need to take Teeth for a walk, and then there will be no dessert,” Stella states succinctly, and then she leaves the fire and effectively ends the call.
She’s right. Albus puts the cake in his pocket and hitches Teeth to his lead, and the pair of them are off. Teeth looks pleased with himself, and trots along waving his tail jauntily. Albus wishes he were a crup.
When they get to Hugo and Stella’s place, Scorpius is just arriving, sending a small rock upstairs to tap on the window. He’s dressed in muggle clothes, slim trousers and a dark wool jacket, and he looks--not good, precisely. He looks nice, though.
“Potter,” he says nodding towards them dropping the pebble when they approach. “Potter’s crup.”
“Malfoy,” Albus replies. “This is Teeth.”
“Clever,” Scorpius says, raising a thin eyebrow, and this is the thing about Scorpius, the very thing that makes him so exasperating.
“I thought so,” Albus says, meeting Scorpius’ gaze and silently wishing Teeth would bite him, but then the door is opening and Hugo is there, to let them up.
“Albus,” he says. “You brought Teeth.”
“Stella said I could,” Albus says, trying not to sound defensive. “I also brought a cake.”
“Grandmum’s recipe?” Hugo asks, and when Albus nods the affirmative Hugo sighs a little and lets them all in. When they get upstairs Albus unclasps the lead from Teeth’s collar, and he immediately goes to Scorpius and begins to nuzzle his leg, and then to mount it, which.
“He doesn’t usually do that,” Albus says, diving for Teeth’s collar and reigning him in.
“I’m just special?” Scorpius asks, looking amused. Albus wishes he didn’t. Albus wishes he weren’t sitting on the floor, clutching his crup by the collar and looking up Scorpius’ long legs, but it doesn’t look like that wish is going to be granted, either.
“You must be,” Stella says, sliding in from the kitchen. “Usually he just bites.”
Albus gives Teeth a shake and gets to his feet.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says, and Scorpius actually laughs, not at Albus but like maybe he actually thought that was a funny joke.
It wasn’t funny, but Albus will take what he can get.
“I brought cake,” he tells Stella, and they return it to its proper size and set it on the kitchen counter, and then they have dinner.
Stella and Hugo insist that they should eat at the tiny table in the kitchen, because otherwise they’ll get too spread out, and so the four of them wind up seated in a neat square. Hugo plies them with wine, because Aunt Hermione believes in serving wine with dinner and raised her children to believe the same. And the conversation doesn’t exactly flow, but it comes. Albus manages to get Teeth to sit between his feet and holds him there, so he can neither molest Scorpius nor chew on furniture, and Stella switch from a conversation about new developments in the historical understanding of muggle-magic relations that Albus is only marginally interested in to one about muggle literature that Albus is very interested in.
Albus remembers, then, why he always liked muggles. He tries to articulate it to the table at large--something about how magic isn’t quite the right substitute for imagination, something about the collection of Calvin and Hobbes comics Aunt Hermione gave him one Christmas when he was not terribly old, something else again. Stella and Hugo have heard it all before but Scorpius--Scorpius has things to say.
Albus is surprised to find he doesn’t mind hearing them, and when he eases up and uses his hands to start articulating a point, Stella shoots him a grin.
He knows what she’s trying to say. He wishes he didn’t. Albus always keeps his hands still unless he’s comfortable, because his fingers are long and thin and spidery and easy to talk with but somehow seem embarrassing. If Scorpius thought Albus was stupid already, he must think he’s terribly dumb now that he’s using his hands when words fail him, drawing sweeping explanations in the air. But Albus--Albus is not sure if he doesn’t care, or if he just doesn’t think Scorpius thinks he’s dumb. Either way, it’s disconcerting, because Albus is suddenly, unexpectedly comfortable.
They get through dinner to the cake, which is thick and spongy, with cream between the layers and too much frosting. They used to only bring it out for birthdays when they were kids, but all the cousins loved it to much and insisted on it for every occasion, and Albus loved it most of all and insisted on learning to make it. Now he almost regrets that it’s the only dessert he knows how to make, because Scorpius is licking frosting off his fingers and making little mewling noises of pleasure, and Albus doesn’t want to think of Scorpius and frosting or those muted noises, which sound like muffled sex.
“This is delicious,” Scorpius says around a forkful, and Stella nods.
“Thanks for bringing it, Al,” she says. “Really elevates the occasion.”
“Don’t get sick of it,” he says. “You know Lil’s birthday is in two weeks.”
“Like we could,” Hugo says. “Seriously, you make it better than Grandmum.”
“Blasphemy,” Albus says, but he’s grinning. “I have to do it well, since it’s the only thing I make.”
“Well, yes,” Stella replies. “Although you do put together an alright cheese sandwich.”
“Cake and cheese sandwiches?” Scorpius says. “It’s a wonder you’re so scrawny.”
“That’s Uncle Harry,” Hugo says mildly as he wipes crumbs off his plate with his thumb.
It’s true. Albus would actually prefer not to talk about it--the untamable hair, the wiry frame, the terrible eyesight. Everything he got from his father makes him uncomfortable, because while Harry wears it well, the features seem to fit Albus like another man’s clothes.
“My father used to call you Harry Potter’s miniature,” Scorpius offers, and Albus frowns at him.
“Yeah,” he says, trying not to betray how little he likes that moniker, which The Daily Prophet gave him as well. “I get that sometimes. Pity I was in Slytherin.”
“Pity I was in Ravenclaw,” Scorpius says, meeting Albus’ gaze, and for a moment Albus understands.
Draco Malfoy is a recluse, since his wife died or maybe before, but Albus saw him a few times at Kings’ Cross, a few times in the paper. And, yes, he could see how he might not be the only one wearing his father’s features without actually being able to fit his father’s shoes, for good or ill.
Stella saves Albus from trying to think this through too deeply, slipping into a new subject, thanking Albus and Scorpius for coming, saying other things--Albus only picks up every other word, maybe. It might be the wine or the conversation, but Albus is tired. Exhausted. Not thinking clearly, which is maybe why he actually asks Scorpius for help.
“Think you could help me with with my crup fighting research?” Albus says, but only when they’re leaving--when Teeth is back on his leash and only the gold-tinged streetlamps illuminate Scorpius’ thin face, fine hair. Cast in gold Scorpius looks--Albus’ first thought is that he looks warmer, and that might push him, too.
“That’s my job,” Scorpius says wryly. “Come by the library tomorrow.”
Albus nods, and then he tugs at Teeth’s leash and the pair of them set off down down the street, until Scorpius catches up with him, matching his stride.
“I’m going this way, too,” he offers after they’ve been walking more or less together for a moment, even though that should be obvious. Albus hitches up his collar against the cold breeze, and nods before he realizes Scorpius might not be able to see it.
“I figured,” he says. Teeth’s toenails clatter across the cobblestones, and if there’s anything else to say Albus doesn’t know what it is. They reach Albus’ flat before where ever it is that Scorpius lives, and stop outside the heavy door.
“See you tomorrow,” Albus offers, and Scorpius nods.
“Sure,” he replies, and then Teeth trails Albus up the thin staircase to home, to bed.
part 2
when albus severus potter became an auror, he had certain expectations. researching crup fighting in the ministry library with scorpius malfoy was not among them.
pg13 . 11588 words . A03
When Albus became an Auror, he had somewhat stupidly assumed it would be a lot like being at Hogwarts, and even more like his father’s stories of being an Auror: having adventures, fighting evil.
The assumption proved stupid for two reasons, if you disregarded the obvious reason it was stupid (being that it was an assumption): (1) Dad’s memories of his time in the Corps proved to be extremely skewed--which is to say, his memories of the Aurors proved to be inaccurate, an inaccuracy that was exacerbated by the fact that crime levels had gone down since the tenuous post-war years; (2) even though he was only two years out of Hogwarts, Albus’ memories of school proved to be similarly inaccurate; and (3) the Aurors were a government institution. Maybe it was simple naivete (it was simple naivete), but really.
At least that’s what Stella told him, when Albus came to her to gripe about the research for his latest insignificant job.
“You just need to go to the Ministry Library,” she said. “It’s really lovely Al.”
“Are you quite sure you can’t do it?” he’d asked, and earned himself a look that would turn trees into wilting violets.
Hugo had sided with Stella. Ever since they’d married he’d been fixing Albus with a baleful look whenever disagreements surfaced and mouthing the word “sex.” Albus was not actually able to read lips, but Hugo had helpfully explained it to him (“It’s wonderful,” he whispered, and Albus had stopped him right there.)
So if anyone asked, that was how Albus ended up in the lift to the Ministry Library, which he was certain was located on a sad and dusty floor where no one ever went.
He turned out to be wrong, to the degree that the library appeared to be well dusted (by, Aunt Hermione would later claim, uncompensated house elves), and someone must have done sort of magic on the windows, because they were larger and better illuminated than made logical sense, given that, as far as Albus knew, the floor the Ministry Library was located on was no larger than any other floor at the Ministry, and, furthermore, there was another building next door that blocked most natural light.
Then again, maybe it was, because besides the large windows there were vast shelves, with ladders running along on rollers, waiting to be summoned.
And there was Scorpius Malfoy, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, sitting at the long wooden counter at the fore of the room. He didn’t see Albus; Albus didn’t want to see him, and ducked behind a bank of shelves.
He knew Scorpius Malfoy was the ministry librarian. Everyone knew--when Julia Buchner had passed and Malfoy had been named her successor, it had made the third page of the Prophet (Minute Ministry Minutes). Third page, bottom of column three, but it had been a prime piece of gossip shortly thereafter, so there was that. Albus had actually persuaded his rubbish bin to release that copy of the Prophet to confirm the news. He’d ironed out the sheet of paper and there it was, one line: Scorpius Malfoy will be replacing Julia Buchner as Head Librarian at the Ministry, making him the youngest ever Ministry Head Librarian...Looks like the Malfoy fortune is waning, if the heir needs to look to MoMCSS for income.
MoMCSS stood for Ministry of Magic Codex Sorting System. Albus realized he could care less, and returned the paper to the bin promptly. The bin then proceeded to spit up the spoiled beans from yesterday on him, and Albus had quietly blamed Malfoy for the whole ill-fated endeavor, for the fact that, Harry Potter’s son’s greatest travails were an ornery rubbish bin and the fact that his boss assigned him what could only be termed as shit cases.
Which brought him to the library, where Malfoy was peering at a large volume and jotting quick notes with his left hand. He was wrinkling his nose to keep his glasses up, and he looked vaguely constipated.
Albus snorted into the stacks, and then he felt like he was spying. It was--there was no reason for it. In school their relationship had been one of mutual dislike, because their fathers had been enemies or whatever and Albus thought someone ought to carry on the tradition, since James showed no interest and Rose and Stella seemed to consider Malfoy something of a friend (Rose and Scorpius were also academic rivals, but Rose always insisted it wasn’t that competitive, just, you know).
It turned out to be good that Albus choose to carry on the tradition, because Scorpius was a right twat and apparently Albus was the only one to notice. He had replaced the Malfoy’s blood-based system of judgment with something based on the number of OWLs or NEWTs obtained, and Albus came to dread shared Slytherin-Ravenclaw classes solely for Scorpius’ withering glances whenever Albus was called on to answer a question.
So if he was spying, it was because it simply won’t do to have Malfoy stumble upon Albus in his domain without knowing precisely what he was doing--and Albus didn’t quite know what he was doing.
Actually, Albus was supposed to be breaking up a crup-fighting ring. And in truth, he had already broken up a crup-fighting ring. It was simple, really: (1) obtain crup; (2) bring crup to dog park while dressed as shadily as possible (Albus had magicked himself a temporary tattoo expressly for this purpose, although he had rather liked it and had yet to remove it); (3) get crup to bite something; (4) reap rewards. Repeat steps one through three as necessary for a crup fighter to notice your crup and, subsequently, invite you to a fight. The problem was that now he had to write a report on crup-fighting and wizarding culture and whether it was related to Muggle dog fights and what sort of policies should be implemented to prevent crup fighting in the future.
Albus wished he could go back to fighting his crup, which James had christened Teeth, because he bit less when he occasionally had the opportunity to sink his teeth into another crup. But that was not the sort of thing one went about saying, especially to Rose or one’s boss. Still, thus far Teeth had damaged every piece of furniture in Albus’s flat, with the exception of the rubbish bin and the ottoman that smelled strongly of floral perfume.
Books on crups, if Stella was to be believed, should be filed under Beasts, Magical, Forked Tails, Canis domesticus magus (their Latin name).
Crup fighting, conversely, would be filed under Activities, Games and Sports, Magical, Pugnacious, Beasts.
Writing those two pieces of information down on a scrap of parchment was the sole help Stella had offered, but when Albus attempted to locate both of those sections he had no luck at all, and wound up somewhere in Dysfunctions, Physical, Sexual.
Which is where Scorpius Malfoy found him. He had a small cart of books trailing after him like a lost dog, making small whining noises as it rolled along on its undersized wheels, and he looked at Albus with something akin to amusement, if the amusement were mingled with dislike and perhaps a certain degree of smugness.
“Albus,” he said. “I know the Prophet’s been taking your break-up rather well, but wouldn’t they be interested to know it was because you--ah, how do you say?--because your wand wasn’t working properly.”
The break-up was a year ago, maybe more. Even Sean doesn’t care particularly anymore--even Albus doesn’t care anymore, and he probably took the whole thing worse. Albus tries not to look incredulous. He’s not sure if he manages, but Scorpius and his cart have halted in front of him like they’re both waiting for something, so Albus eventually says, “I’m looking for books about crup fighting.”
“Crup fighting, Potter,” Malfoy replies. “Are you certain you aren’t compensating for something?”
“It’s for a job,” Albus says flatly, and then he holds out the note from Stella. “Stella said I might find them here.”
Malfoy takes the parchment from him, pushes his eyeglasses up his nose, and inspects it.
“She would have been right last week, but--” Malfoy says. “Because of the lunar phase, they’ve been moved.”
Albus had actually stalled a week before coming to the library, and as he trails after Malfoy he considers commenting on it.
“Stella gave me that note a week ago,” he says eventually, and Malfoy nods.
“I thought so,” he says. “Longbottom knows MoMCSS as well as I do. So this just makes you a lazy arse.”
Albus considers defending himself, but Malfoy’s jab is mild, and he’s trying not to act like a schoolboy, and so instead he just says, “It’s Weasley, now,” even though Malfoy has to know because he was at the wedding. Malfoy does something only slightly more cultured than grunting, and Albus follows him through a warren of shelves until they reach Beasts, Crups, Fighting which is--
“The week leading up to the full moon is always the most sensible,” Malfoy says. And then he and his cart disappear.
Well, they don’t disappear exactly. They rattle off to another bank of shelves, and Albus chalks that up as one surprisingly non-hostile interaction with Malfoy. Although Albus didn’t talk much, which may explain it. He pulls books off the shelf at random, and goes to the front to check them out. There’s a witch there who Albus doesn’t recognize, examining her fingernails, and when Albus piles the books on the counter she glances at his ID badge disinterestedly before flicking her wand and marking them all as checked out.
“Due in two weeks,” she says without meeting his eyes. “Looks pretty dull. I expect you’ll be returning them earlier.”
“I wish I could return them earlier,” Albus mumbles, and shifts them to his hip to carry them back to his cubicle.
Most of the books prove to be either completely useless or impossibly dry, but there’s one that’s relevant and traversable, at the very least, so Albus brings that home.
It should come as no surprise that Teeth eats it. He does it while Albus’s asleep, and by the morning the volume is almost completely mangled, and there are fat drops of saliva on the cloth cover. Teeth is sleeping curled around it, and Albus is certain that no spell on earth could fix the book when half of it is currently being digested.
He’s not sure what he’ll tell Malfoy, which maybe explains why he lets Teeth carry the book around the flat for the next two weeks. The crup seems to have grown attached to it, and he doesn’t gnaw terribly much on it or anything else, though Albus does come home one evening to find that Teeth is apparently mating with it. He makes a silent pact with himself never to tell Stella or anyone else, and then he pats Teeth on the head, changes out of his Auror robes and in to a jumper and jeans, and goes down to The Flying Ford Anglia to see if Hugo’s there.
The Flying Ford Anglia is Hugo’s bar, named for a story Uncle Ron likes to tell. It was christened Diagon Alley’s new hot spot by The Daily Prophet, and by The Quibbler a bar, owned by Hugo Weasley. Which is, frankly, good enough for Albus.
Also, Hugo makes his own butterbeer, and it tastes like sunshine. Although Albus only says that when he’s very, very drunk.
“Stella said you had to go to the Ministry Library,” Hugo says when he takes a break from tending bar to slide into a booth with Albus. He looks tired and happy, which is how he looks most of the time these days, and Albus kind of envies him. “Sorry about that, mate. How’s Malfoy?”
“Probably pissed at me, now,” Albus says, taking a swig from whatever it is that Hugo’s brought him, some mixture of something. “Teeth ate one of the books.”
“I can’t believe you’re keeping him,” Hugo says. “That Crup is terrible.”
“But what am I supposed to do with him?” Albus asks.
“Beatrice Ballificent’s Home for Magical Beasts, mate,” Hugo replies. “That’s where Rose used to volunteer.”
Albus thinks of Teeth, who is white with liver and black spots and one ear that won’t stay up, and feels inexplicably fond of him. Hugo shakes his head.
“You’re worse than the wife,” he says, and Albus wishes Hugo would stop calling Stella ‘the wife’ and he knows it’s a newlywed thing (because Stella told him, because Stella said “It’s a newlywed thing, he’ll get over it”), but it’s still stupid. “With your lost causes.”
“Teeth is not--” Albus starts.
“Teeth ate an entire pair of trousers,” Hugo says. “Give it up.”
Albus is not willing to give it up, but it is true that Teeth ate an entire pair of trousers. They were his favorites, too.
“Where is Stella?” Albus asks, instead, and Hugo shrugs.
“Studying, yeah?” he says. “Exams coming up. They’re on the DRAGONs.”
And it doesn’t--it doesn’t feel like exam season, which makes Albus realize how long exactly he’s been away from school, and it’s strange to remember that in Stella’s endless quest for graduate degrees she still hasn’t gotten around to not being in school. Hugo grins at him like he’s thinking the same thing.
“Glad it’s not me,” he says. “But she likes it.”
Hugo runs his hands along the dark wood of the booth, almost thoughtful, and then he glances up and then hisses at Albus, “Don’t look now, but your pal Malfoy is here.”
Albus doesn’t look.
“Does he come here a lot?” he asks, instead.
“Sometimes, yeah,” Hugo replies. “I’m not going to turn him away, am I? He’s Stella’s friend. And Stella stays we owe him one, since he lends her the books she can’t get at the uni library even though she doesn’t work for the Ministry.”
Albus really needs to take a moment and discuss that with Stella because if Malfoy grants her special favors Albus may need to call in a special favor, what with Teeth eating that book and all.
Malfoy’s weaving through the crowd, a flash of bright blond hair that stops intermittently to talk with--a pair of Ravenclaws, a girl dressed in bright colors who might be the one who checked out Albus’s books at the library, Henryk Zabini. Henryk is sitting at the bar and within easy view from Albus’s booth--he and Malfoy join their heads together, dark and pale, discussing something.
“Are they friends?” Albus asks Hugo, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the pair, because he doesn’t recall them being friends at Hogwarts. Henryk had been in Albus’ house, and he wasn’t all bad--a little mercenary, but completely transparent about it, and when he and Albus had gotten very drunk at a house party and woken up wrapped around one another Henryk and kissed him hard and said they didn’t need to talk about it.
“Hell if I know,” Hugo mumbles. “Not like I keep tabs on them or anything.”
Albus watches them for a moment, then turns back to Hugo and drinks the last swallow of his drink, which burns more than all the previous sips combined. When he comments on it, Hugo just nods.
“Neat bit of magic,” he says. “Uncle George came up with it, and Stella did a bit of arthimacy for us. Alcohol content increases in direct proportion to how much you’ve already had to drink.”
That sounds like a terrible bit of magic. Albus’s surprised Stella went along with it, but then not surprised at all, because the last time he saw Stella’s mother, Professor Lovegood, she spent most of the time looking at things that weren’t there and doodling arthimacy equations in the air.
Hugo goes back to the bar and leaves Albus there, drinking quietly. A few of his old housemates come over--Patrick Nott and Louise Trapper--and they talk briefly and superficially, and when Albus is finished with his dinner and the live music starts up, he leaves. On the way out he catches another glimpse of Malfoy leaning on the bar, all sharp angles of elbows and hips and nose. He’s not wearing glasses, and Albus envies him for that--every healer Albus went to talk to about it told him his eyesight was to bad for any sort of cure, or even Muggle contact lenses, something about nearsightedness and astigmatisms and terrible, terrible eyesight, how did he even do anything when his vision was that bad. His father had vaguely apologized, waving his hand and saying Albus got it from him, great genes, all that.
Malfoy, though, sans glasses, is sliding out onto the dance floor with Zabini, who suddenly stops and waves to Albus, which means Albus has to weave his way through the crowd to them, because it would probably be interpreted as some sort of slight if he didn’t.
“Scorpius,” he says, nodding. “Henryk.”
“Al,” Henryk says. “I suppose I shouldn’t say fancy meeting you here, seeing as your Hufflepuff friend owns it and all.”
“No,” Albus says dryly. “I suppose you shouldn’t.”
“How have you been?” he asks, reaching out to put a hand on Albus’ shoulder, and Albus wonders if he’s suddenly decided he’s wanted a repeat performance, even though Albus doesn’t remember precisely what the performance was. It was sixth year, after Albus declared himself gay, before he started dating Sean Thomas. Frankly, Albus is pretty certain the sex was terrible.
“I heard about the break-up,” Henryk finishes, and Albus wonders why two people, now, have brought up something that happened a year ago like it’s fresh news.
“Yes, a year ago,” Albus says. “I’m fine.” He glances at Scorpius, who looks faintly annoyed, and takes a step back from Henryk. “I’ll let you two get to the dance floor, then.”
“Nice to see you,” Henryk says, not taking his eyes off Albus’ face, and then he catches Scorpius’ hand and leads him away.
“Your books are due in one week, six days,” Scorpius calls as he leaves. “Don’t forget.”
Albus eventually gets a notice from the Ministry Library about the books, which are now overdue and will be fined at the rate of one knut per day. He already knew they were overdue, because the stamps on the cover that said ‘Checked Out’ had started flashing ‘Due’ and then ‘Overdue’, but he’d stuck them underneath a couch cushion and pretended it wasn’t happening. When he gets the notice it is then, and only then, that he goes to see Malfoy. He splays the remaining books across the desk and looks down at Malfoy, who is peering up at him over the silver frames of his glasses. Reading glasses, it figures.
“My krup ate the other book,” Albus says.
“And which book would that be?” Malfoy asks, and Albus blinks.
“A History of Crups in Culture. Ah--”
“Michaelsen, I’ll expect,” Malfoy interjects. “And you didn’t read the backflap.”
“What?” Albus asks.
“Crup pheromones,” Malfoy says. “You need to be careful with that one.”
That does explain some things. When Albus looks back at Malfoy, he might be grinning--not smirking, but grinning properly, but it’s a foreign expression on Malfoy’s face, so Albus’s not entirely sure.
“Potter,” he says. “Were you afraid to tell me?”
It’s no use lying.
“The book’s completely destroyed,” Albus says.
“Honestly, Potter,” Malfoy says. “It was outdated, anyway. You’d be better off with--” Malfoy pauses and hums to himself. “Follow me.”
This week the books are back where Stella said they’d be, the first week, so they wind up in Activities, Games and Sports, Magical, Pugnacious, Beasts, with Scorpius pulling volumes off the shelves and piling them in Albus’ arms.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t take these the first time around,” he says. “Really, do you Slytherins not know how to read?”
“Your parents were both Slytherins,” Albus points out helpfully, and Scorpius shoots him a scowl.
“When I said ‘you Slytherins,’” he says. “I meant you specifically.”
“Then what does my house have to do with it?” Albus asks, disgruntled. First year he had hated his house, but somewhere in there he came to terms with it, and then he developed something that could be only described as house spirit.
Mostly because it was either that or let James make him feel ashamed for the rest of his life, and Albus figured if he was going to be in Slytherin for the next six years he might as well accept it and move on to better things, like embarrassing James in front of every potential girlfriend ever (why Violet kept him remains a mystery).
“If you were a Ravenclaw,” Scorpius says. “I wouldn’t even have to ask that question.”
“Not all Ravenclaws like reading,” Albus counters.
And then he feels--he’s trying to rise above schoolboy whatevers. Fighting about houses feels like going back to first year, and Albus is not going to fall for it.
“Are there any more books I should be looking at?” he says, looking down at the heap in his arms.
“This will do for now,” Scorpius replies. “Let me know what you think when you’re done with them, and I’ll see if there’s anything else that would help.”
It all sounds surprisingly helpful, and Albus tries not to let his astonishment show on his face.
“Thanks,” he says, and Scorpius shrugs.
“Let it not be said that I never did anything for our esteemed Auror Corps,” he says, and then leads Albus back to the counter, where he himself checks out the books.
“Bring them back on time this time,” Scorpius tells him after the books are stamped. “I added something a little extra to the charm.”
“Of course you did,” Albus mutters, and Scorpius looks up at him with a smirk.
“Red is really not your color,” he says, instead of anything to do with their conversation. Albus pretends he doesn’t hear, because he’s heard it before. Usually he just says “Good thing I didn’t wind up in Gryffindor, then,” but he’s not sure what Scorpius would do with that, and he would say “Blue isn’t yours” but that’s not precisely true.
The deep blue librarian robes actually suit Scorpius. Albus doesn’t want to talk about it, or think about it, or look at it any longer than necessary. He goes back to his office, wades through the books--which are tomes, really, too long and too dense, but he manages to extract bits and pieces of useful information from them, though he still feels like the information he’s finding is somewhere besides the point. Because he’s just not a Ravenclaw. He doesn’t like collecting knowledge, only wades through books gleaning information to the extent that it’s useful or interesting. That doesn’t make him dumb.
He mentions that to Stella when he meets her at The Flying Ford Anglia for dinner.
“You aren’t dumb. No one thinks you’re dumb,” she says, fixing him with an even stare. Stella’s eyes have always been too large for her face and an unnervingly pale blue, and for a long time Albus had trouble holding her gaze for extended periods of time.
He does, still.
“Scorpius thinks I’m dumb,” he says.
“No he doesn’t,” Stella says, and reaches across the table to give Albus’ hand a squeeze. “You know he’ll help you if you just ask.”
But Albus doesn’t want to ask for Scorpius Malfoy’s help.
“Albus,” Stella says. “Scorpius Malfoy is a Ministry Librarian. It’s his job to help Ministry employees with research.”
“Malfoy, again?” Hugo asks, sliding into the booth besides Stella. “Al, really.”
“Really what?” Albus asks, because he is really not sure.
“You realize Scorp is Stella’s friend, right? He’s coming by in a couple days for dinner.”
Albus looks between the pair of them. Stella shrugs.
“It’s true.”
It’s not surprising. Albus doesn’t know why he feels surprised.
“You should come,” Hugo says. “Maybe the pair of you could get along if you weren’t in school. You have a lot in common.”
“Being gay is not a lot in common,” Albus mutters, looking down at his plate of food. Half the chips are getting cold. He can practically see them getting cold, grease congealing on the potato skins.
“You both are very concerned with your fathers’ opinions,” Stella offers in the way she does, saying something mildly that cuts to the very quick.
Albus is not--but he is. Half the reason he joined the Aurors was for adventure, but he also joined it to prove something to Harry, that the strange, worried look in his eye when Albus had flooed home after the sorting to tell his parents he was in Slytherin was all for naught.
Before he got on the train Harry had knelt down and told Albus that the Hat would listen if Albus said he didn’t want to be in Slytherin.
The thing that Albus suspected his father knew was that by the time the Hat got off his head, Albus wanted to be in Slytherin. He had the option, Slytherin or Hufflepuff, and he picked the den of snakes.
And by the time he graduated, he liked it. He liked his housemates, because he knew where he stood with them, and for the most part they respected him, which was all he really wanted. He was a Chaser on the House team. He was Quidditch Captain. His house expected him to lead the team to victory, the expectation was clear and simple and there were no caveats--he wasn’t expected to be everyone’s friend, or to be a particularly brilliant example, or to be anyone other than Albus Severus Potter.
Sixth year, when he came out, his mum had folded him up in her arms and said it was okay, like something was wrong, and his dad had studied him and nodded succinctly, like Albus was confirming expectations. His house immediately began to shift the gossip about his relationships in the direction of his orientation, and otherwise their treatment of him hadn’t changed at all. Even his siblings and cousins had taken time to adjust, like they suddenly weren’t sure who he was. Outside his house, only Stella took it in stride, saying, “Well, of course,” and continuing with the conversation they had been having.
“So you’ll come, then?” Stella asks, now, and Albus blinks back at her.
“What?”
“Our flat,” Hugo says. “Tuesday night.”
Albus completely, absolutely does not want to go, but he doesn’t see how he has any choice.
“I can bring dessert,” he replies.
Albus takes Teeth out for a walk that night, casts an illusion on the forked bit of his tail and clips him to his thin leather lead. They trot down Diagon Alley and out into muggle London, where there’s a park Albus likes at night--quiet and ringed by street lights, in a neighborhood where Albus imagines all the families have children and are sweetly happy with their lives. Albus has an inexplicable envy of muggles that can’t be traced to any of his interactions with them, that has nothing to do with the stilted, painful dinner with his Great Aunt Petunia when he was nine or the muggle girl he dated and then messily broke up with (“There’s something about me you’ll never understand” he told her, melodramatically) over one summer vacation in Spain when he was eleven.
It’s early autumn and cool out, anyway, and so maybe it’s just nice to be walking regardless of the neighborhood. Teeth picks up a stick somewhere along the way, and carries it proudly all the way back to Diagon Alley, where Albus lets him chew it to splinters on the floor, because it’s a better use of chewing than if Teeth were chewing on his wand.
Over the course of the next few days, Albus sorts through the library books Scorpius selected for him and creates an elaborately color coded system of note taking, mostly because the colors entertain him. He ends up with five sheets of parchment all scrawled with notes, under the headers History (Crups), Biology + Breeding (Crups), History (Crup Fighting), Dog Fighting, and Crup Culture (??).
When he looks at them after the fact, it’s not very helpful. Albus draws a picture of Teeth in the corner of each page and magics them to scurry around, but seeing ink drawings of Teeth gnawing on his handwriting doesn’t actually improve his mood any.
That’s how Monday afternoon finds Albus, and his mood is worsened when he remembers that he agreed to have dinner with Scorpius Malfoy (and his friends, yes) and bring dessert and there’s nothing in his flat that could be reasonably expected to shape itself into dessert. When he gets off work he goes to the grocery and buys the ingredients for the chocolate cake Grandmum Weasley taught him to make, which also happens to be the only dessert he can actually make. Despite a run-in with the kitchen timer everything turns out, and Albus is shrinking the cake down to bring to Hugo and Stella’s when Teeth pisses all over the kitchen floor.
Albus looks at him.
“Teeth,” he says, in what he imagines is a firm tone, and Teeth sort of cowers and looks guilty, lowering his tail and wagging it apologetically.
“Don’t do that, Teeth,” Albus says, and then he has to clean it up, and the whole time Teeth prances around looking pathetic and like he would probably like to be taken for a walk.
Albus firecalls Stella.
“Can I bring Teeth?” he asks, and she smiles at him benignly.
“A crup in the house means food in the coffer,” she says, which is an old phrase from when crups were used for killing rats and at this point is little more than nonsense. Albus blinks.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, because he can’t imagine someone would willingly let Teeth into their home.
“If I say no, you’ll just say you can’t come because you need to take Teeth for a walk, and then there will be no dessert,” Stella states succinctly, and then she leaves the fire and effectively ends the call.
She’s right. Albus puts the cake in his pocket and hitches Teeth to his lead, and the pair of them are off. Teeth looks pleased with himself, and trots along waving his tail jauntily. Albus wishes he were a crup.
When they get to Hugo and Stella’s place, Scorpius is just arriving, sending a small rock upstairs to tap on the window. He’s dressed in muggle clothes, slim trousers and a dark wool jacket, and he looks--not good, precisely. He looks nice, though.
“Potter,” he says nodding towards them dropping the pebble when they approach. “Potter’s crup.”
“Malfoy,” Albus replies. “This is Teeth.”
“Clever,” Scorpius says, raising a thin eyebrow, and this is the thing about Scorpius, the very thing that makes him so exasperating.
“I thought so,” Albus says, meeting Scorpius’ gaze and silently wishing Teeth would bite him, but then the door is opening and Hugo is there, to let them up.
“Albus,” he says. “You brought Teeth.”
“Stella said I could,” Albus says, trying not to sound defensive. “I also brought a cake.”
“Grandmum’s recipe?” Hugo asks, and when Albus nods the affirmative Hugo sighs a little and lets them all in. When they get upstairs Albus unclasps the lead from Teeth’s collar, and he immediately goes to Scorpius and begins to nuzzle his leg, and then to mount it, which.
“He doesn’t usually do that,” Albus says, diving for Teeth’s collar and reigning him in.
“I’m just special?” Scorpius asks, looking amused. Albus wishes he didn’t. Albus wishes he weren’t sitting on the floor, clutching his crup by the collar and looking up Scorpius’ long legs, but it doesn’t look like that wish is going to be granted, either.
“You must be,” Stella says, sliding in from the kitchen. “Usually he just bites.”
Albus gives Teeth a shake and gets to his feet.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says, and Scorpius actually laughs, not at Albus but like maybe he actually thought that was a funny joke.
It wasn’t funny, but Albus will take what he can get.
“I brought cake,” he tells Stella, and they return it to its proper size and set it on the kitchen counter, and then they have dinner.
Stella and Hugo insist that they should eat at the tiny table in the kitchen, because otherwise they’ll get too spread out, and so the four of them wind up seated in a neat square. Hugo plies them with wine, because Aunt Hermione believes in serving wine with dinner and raised her children to believe the same. And the conversation doesn’t exactly flow, but it comes. Albus manages to get Teeth to sit between his feet and holds him there, so he can neither molest Scorpius nor chew on furniture, and Stella switch from a conversation about new developments in the historical understanding of muggle-magic relations that Albus is only marginally interested in to one about muggle literature that Albus is very interested in.
Albus remembers, then, why he always liked muggles. He tries to articulate it to the table at large--something about how magic isn’t quite the right substitute for imagination, something about the collection of Calvin and Hobbes comics Aunt Hermione gave him one Christmas when he was not terribly old, something else again. Stella and Hugo have heard it all before but Scorpius--Scorpius has things to say.
Albus is surprised to find he doesn’t mind hearing them, and when he eases up and uses his hands to start articulating a point, Stella shoots him a grin.
He knows what she’s trying to say. He wishes he didn’t. Albus always keeps his hands still unless he’s comfortable, because his fingers are long and thin and spidery and easy to talk with but somehow seem embarrassing. If Scorpius thought Albus was stupid already, he must think he’s terribly dumb now that he’s using his hands when words fail him, drawing sweeping explanations in the air. But Albus--Albus is not sure if he doesn’t care, or if he just doesn’t think Scorpius thinks he’s dumb. Either way, it’s disconcerting, because Albus is suddenly, unexpectedly comfortable.
They get through dinner to the cake, which is thick and spongy, with cream between the layers and too much frosting. They used to only bring it out for birthdays when they were kids, but all the cousins loved it to much and insisted on it for every occasion, and Albus loved it most of all and insisted on learning to make it. Now he almost regrets that it’s the only dessert he knows how to make, because Scorpius is licking frosting off his fingers and making little mewling noises of pleasure, and Albus doesn’t want to think of Scorpius and frosting or those muted noises, which sound like muffled sex.
“This is delicious,” Scorpius says around a forkful, and Stella nods.
“Thanks for bringing it, Al,” she says. “Really elevates the occasion.”
“Don’t get sick of it,” he says. “You know Lil’s birthday is in two weeks.”
“Like we could,” Hugo says. “Seriously, you make it better than Grandmum.”
“Blasphemy,” Albus says, but he’s grinning. “I have to do it well, since it’s the only thing I make.”
“Well, yes,” Stella replies. “Although you do put together an alright cheese sandwich.”
“Cake and cheese sandwiches?” Scorpius says. “It’s a wonder you’re so scrawny.”
“That’s Uncle Harry,” Hugo says mildly as he wipes crumbs off his plate with his thumb.
It’s true. Albus would actually prefer not to talk about it--the untamable hair, the wiry frame, the terrible eyesight. Everything he got from his father makes him uncomfortable, because while Harry wears it well, the features seem to fit Albus like another man’s clothes.
“My father used to call you Harry Potter’s miniature,” Scorpius offers, and Albus frowns at him.
“Yeah,” he says, trying not to betray how little he likes that moniker, which The Daily Prophet gave him as well. “I get that sometimes. Pity I was in Slytherin.”
“Pity I was in Ravenclaw,” Scorpius says, meeting Albus’ gaze, and for a moment Albus understands.
Draco Malfoy is a recluse, since his wife died or maybe before, but Albus saw him a few times at Kings’ Cross, a few times in the paper. And, yes, he could see how he might not be the only one wearing his father’s features without actually being able to fit his father’s shoes, for good or ill.
Stella saves Albus from trying to think this through too deeply, slipping into a new subject, thanking Albus and Scorpius for coming, saying other things--Albus only picks up every other word, maybe. It might be the wine or the conversation, but Albus is tired. Exhausted. Not thinking clearly, which is maybe why he actually asks Scorpius for help.
“Think you could help me with with my crup fighting research?” Albus says, but only when they’re leaving--when Teeth is back on his leash and only the gold-tinged streetlamps illuminate Scorpius’ thin face, fine hair. Cast in gold Scorpius looks--Albus’ first thought is that he looks warmer, and that might push him, too.
“That’s my job,” Scorpius says wryly. “Come by the library tomorrow.”
Albus nods, and then he tugs at Teeth’s leash and the pair of them set off down down the street, until Scorpius catches up with him, matching his stride.
“I’m going this way, too,” he offers after they’ve been walking more or less together for a moment, even though that should be obvious. Albus hitches up his collar against the cold breeze, and nods before he realizes Scorpius might not be able to see it.
“I figured,” he says. Teeth’s toenails clatter across the cobblestones, and if there’s anything else to say Albus doesn’t know what it is. They reach Albus’ flat before where ever it is that Scorpius lives, and stop outside the heavy door.
“See you tomorrow,” Albus offers, and Scorpius nods.
“Sure,” he replies, and then Teeth trails Albus up the thin staircase to home, to bed.
part 2