Argument in an Office

oOo

Albus Severus Potter had sent him three owls in as many weeks. Draco had not opened one of them. The letters were lying in their envelopes on the mantelpiece, fluttering every once in a while. Draco would pass them, stop, even take one in his hands and touch the unremarkable script spelling his name in blue ink. Then he would put the letter back to its parchment companions.

He recalled – with fondness – their fuck at the pond on the night of Scorpius' wedding. Sometimes, when he was dripping Lethe water into a cauldron or fastening his shirt-cuffs before the mirror, a memory would emerge, of Albus' clear voice. Of his weight on Draco's thighs. Of his hands moving over Draco's stomach that had grown full in the last years. In the weeks after midsummer, Draco had wanked obsessively to those memories, re-living the encounter by the pond in his mind whilst sprawled naked on his bed on hot weekend afternoons. But lately, those wanks left him empty. He had found himself pressing his lips to the pillow. It was pathetic, really. He had returned to his usual practice, tossing off quickly in the shower. He tried to keep Albus out of his fantasies, but he had yet to come without the memory of the boy's voice at his ear. Wanted this... I wanted this for so long.

The owls had surprised Draco. He hadn't thought the boy would write him. He hadn't thought anything would come of it. Albus Severus Potter had not struck him as the type to linger on a quick fuck in the wild outdoors. He had been cool as a cucumber when he'd left Draco at the pond. There had been half a promise of a repeat performance at Samhain. A very oblique reference to pumpkin pie. Draco had forbidden himself to think about it. Time passed, relentlessly. Halloween would sneak up upon them no matter what he hoped or didn't hope for...

More often than not, Lily Potter (Lily Malfoy, he should say) was spending the nights at the Manor. Draco watched her and Scorpius at breakfast, open smiles and secret touches hidden by the table cloth, out of courtesy for Mother and himself. He could tell Mother was pleased with the match, with the girl. Draco didn't care much for her Weasley hair but even he could see that Lily was beautiful, with her boyish figure, small breasts and strong, expressive hands. Potter's hands, Harry Potter's. There was a gracefulness about her, much like with Albus. And that certainly wasn't Potter's, clumsy klutz that he still was, years of Auror training notwithstanding. Grudgingly Draco admitted that the dancer in Lily (in Albus) had come from their mother's side.

He caught himself staring at Scorpius and Lily, admiring distantly the glowing flush of their skin, the quiet, intense way they were attuned to each other, noting every gesture, every look. Scorpius would pass the marmalade to Lily without a word from her; Lily would take a bite from Scorpius' eggs without any protest or even just a scowl. Scorpius had always hated to share, an only child, raised in a family keenly aware of manners and privilege. But Lily took his fork and put the last of his eggs into her mouth as if it was the most natural thing to do. Scorpius leaned a bit to the side to give her room (unconsciously, Draco thought), and he licked his lips as if he could taste the fluffy, peppery eggs when Lily did. Draco couldn't finish his own eggs after watching them.

Every once in a while Lily would catch him staring and smile at him, a wide, quick smile so like Albus' that Draco felt his face heat and he had to look away. His daughter-in-law must think him odd, or at least uncomfortable, having a Potter spawn sit at the Malfoy breakfast table. Little did she know he was a pervert, tossing off to fantasies of her brother. Who was only a few years older than Lily herself.

Draco had thought a lot, those last weeks, about how he had felt at age twenty-three. What sex had been like. What he had hoped for in his life. Mostly, he didn't remember. He had been with Blaise then, Apparating back and forth between Wiltshire and his flat in London. Blaise never had had breakfast at the Manor, the idea alone was ridiculous, unthinkable. Back then, Mother had been set on securing a good match for Draco. Father, from exile in Croatia, had already entered negotiations with the Greengrasses. Draco remembered feeling rebellious and grateful at the same time. Blaise? A blur of wild desire, dark skin and the smell of come. He had introduced Draco to kinky stuff, things he had never even imagined. One memory was crystal-clear, his wrists hand-cuffed to a four-poster bed in Venice, his arse stretched painfully wide (so sweet, he remembers) and Blaise harder than Draco had ever seen him, before or after, with a look of bright awe on his face. Draco had never been into bondage, and perhaps this was why this memory was so remarkable. Or because most other times it had been his cock buried deep in Blaise's arse.

At age twenty-three, he had started his apprenticeship with de Montmorency. In hindsight, it had been the best time of his life, three golden years spent in those ancient potion labs in Old Windsor filled with strange smells and bubbling, hissing cauldrons. It was something he had wanted and done on his own, without any help from his parents. Something he had accomplished not because but despite the Malfoy name.

At age twenty-three, nothing had been further from Draco's mind than taking an older lover. Blaise was his age; the men after Blaise had been about Draco's age or younger. Forty had seemed old, fifty dead. His sense of time had been divided into befores and afters. Before Hogwarts, before his O.W.L.S., before the Dark Lord returned. After he took the Mark, after Father left England, after Scorpius was born. Nothing like the muddy, indistinct flow the years were to him now, Yule reaching into Easter, summer touching snow, until one day the heart stopped and all came to an end.

Maudlin thoughts. The thoughts of a man growing old. Nothing that a boy like Albus Severus Potter would or even should understand. The years closing in on Draco were wide open for Albus, his to fill, to put his stamp upon. And this generation... An aura of curiosity surrounded them, a buoyant expectancy of things to come that nobody in Draco's generation had been innocent enough to feel. He could see it in Scorpius' assured strides in the Ministry, in the way Lily took the Manor for a home without any memory of darkness. It was all over Albus, too, right there in every one of his fluid gestures whenever Draco caught a glimpse of him on Diagon Alley.

An image flashed through Draco's mind, of morning sunlight in the breakfast room, glinting off the stark black hair of Albus Severus Potter. It was unthinkable to see him there, sitting in one of the Regency rosewood chairs and passing the butter. The notion alone...

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in." Draco put down the letter and turned away from the fireplace.

Scorpius stepped in, still in his Unspeakable robes. A Malfoy in Unspeakable training. It made Draco smile. Father had been disgusted, of course. A flood of owls had come from Croatia when Lucius Malfoy had been informed of both his grandson's occupation and his newly wedded wife.

"Grand-mère said you'd be upstairs." Scorpius' eyes darted to the letters on the mantelpiece.

Had Albus told him about their encounter that midsummer night? Draco could not imagine it. The boys were best friends, had been since their second year at Hogwarts. Scorpius had had to endure some unpleasantness at school, because of his name, because of the war. Albus had put a stop to it, likely using the weight of his name. Draco never learned what exactly had transpired. But whatever it was, it had created an unbreakable bond of friendship between them, despite their many difference, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, straight, gay, Unspeakable acolyte and potions student. Sometimes Draco wondered whether Scorpius would have fallen in love with Lily Potter so deeply had she not been Albus' sister. And it struck him that of course Albus could sit at the Manor's breakfast table, as Scorpius' best friend, as Lily's brother (never as Draco's lover).

Still. Albus Severus Potter didn't strike Draco as someone who'd sprout of about a one-off with his best friend's father.

"I'll be down for dinner in a minute." He reached for the tie hanging loosely around his neck.

Wordlessly, Scorpius stepped close and took the ends of the tie from him. With a few deft moves he tied a perfect Windsor. He was as tall as Draco, hair longer, brighter than his; features elegant where Draco's were sharp. Draco's heart ached at the vision of the beautiful man his son had grown into.

"There." The corners of Scorpius' mouth twitched as he gave the knot a last tug.

"Thank you." Draco checked his appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. The seal of the topmost of Albus' letters was clearly visible.

"And you?" He gestured at Scorpius' Unspeakable robes, touching his arm and letting his hand rest there for a moment. "You know Mother will not tolerate work clothes at the dinner table." In the mirror, they shared a conspiratorial wink. Narcissa Malfoy, now well into her seventies, would not let manners slide, no matter how informal a dinner they were having on a week-night.

"I just have to put on another set of robes." Scorpius walked back to leave the bedroom. He had the door half opened when he turned around. His face had shifted in a serious expression.

"What is it?" Draco slipped into his own dress robes.

"Will you ever open Albus' letters, Father?"

Before Draco could come up with a suitable reply, Scorpius had left.

o0o

Draco sat on his own in a private booth that could have easily accommodated a party of four, a privilege granted to certain well-paying members of the Shadow Lounge. He should have come earlier, he thought, glancing over the crowd. Sporting just the right degree of plush seediness, the club was the perfect Muggle venue for a gay wizard who did not want to draw further notoriety to his already blemished reputation. And Muggles had secrets, too, one of which was tucked away in the basement of the club – an old-fashioned darkroom, or in the common parlance of the day, facilities for anonymous sex on the premises.

After midnight and three whiskies into the game, Draco rose and crossed the dance-floor. His shirt, luminous white in the black strobe light, seemed to draw attention; he could feel bodies turn towards him. Male bodies. For a few seconds the movements of the dancers pressed against him from all sides, then he was squeezed out again on the other side, the booming bass still vibrating under the soles of his shoes. The shallow steps to the basement passed the queues of men waiting in front of the loos.

When Draco stepped into the darkened room, the pulsating light from the dance-floor flashed brightly, then the door swung close behind him without a sound. A grid of blue strips on the floor illuminated the men in the room. Shoulders, biceps, chests, arses, clad and unclad, were moving to the low monotone rhythm of Muggle music. The smell of sweat and sex was heavy in the air. Draco reached for the wall to steady himself and find a spot to watch. For now.

The low-ceilinged darkroom in the Shadow Lounge always saw a lot of action, and in the dim light it seemed as if the entire space was undulating. Not far from Draco a man knelt on the floor, blowing a tall, dark-skinned bloke. The man was leaning against the wall, his head turned towards Draco with his eyes closed. In the strange not-quiet of the darkroom, sounds were everywhere, gasps, groans, the thudding of fucking, whispered words. The man beside Draco was moaning softly.

The door swung open again, and a beam of light cut through the dark blue sea of shadows. It caught a man on the other side of the room standing directly opposite Draco. Something about him seemed familiar, his easy stance and the way he was pressing the palms of his hands against the wall behind him. The light reflected on a shock of raven black hair, and Draco's heart clenched. But it could not be him even when the man seemed to be about Albus' age. Yet Albus Severus Potter would never frequent an old-fashioned, members-only club like the Shadow Lounge, and especially not on Hustlers Night.

The man who had just come in was top-less, with short hair. He moved carefully into the room, while his eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden darkness. But his hands were already exploring. Passing Draco, he lightly cupped his groin and stopped.

"Nice," he whispered and leaned closer. "Nice."

Draco spread his legs and put his hands low on the man's hips, just where the waist band met naked flesh. The man was muscular, his body eager for sex. This was what Draco had come here for. The alcohol was buzzing in his veins; his cock, which had been half hard already, was getting fully erect. The man smelled of leather and mint, and he was rubbing the heel of his hand against Draco's erection. It felt dirty and vicious and incredibly good. Draco spread his legs even wider, pulling the man close. Their groins touched and their bellies; there was a small gasp from the man. His hands moved upwards, circling the swell of Draco's stomach, then he put them on Draco's chest and took a step back.

"Sorry, pal. Not my type. Nice package, though."

With an apologetic shrug he moved on, passed the blowjob without a glance and started in on another figure who was tossing off on his own, judging from his rapid hand movements. Draco turned away, eyes drawn to the opposite side, but the young dark-haired man was gone. He couldn't help looking back at the top-less stranger whose hand he still felt on his prick, like a lingering aftershock of the abrupt dismissal. The man's back gleamed white in the murkiness; he was wrapped into a messy kiss with the wanker.

Who wasn't a wanker anymore. Whereas Draco's prick was aching and he was almost ready to toss himself off, too. But he'd be damned if he came to a Muggle club to do what he could just as easily (and more comfortably) do at home.

Two, three other blokes were watching from the sidelines. They were perhaps in their thirties and more athletically built than him, from what he could see in the gloom. And yet, apparently they were not young and fit enough to be getting in on the action. This was going nowhere. He pushed himself away from the wall, aware of the tightness of his trousers.

There was a sudden movement in the crowd as a large group of men were heading towards the swing door at the same time. Draco let himself be swept along. At the door, newcomers entered and he found himself in a throng of sweaty bodies. Draco was not claustrophobic but for a moment he fell short of breath. It was then that he felt an erection pressing against his arse. It was not something unusual to happen in a darkroom, and not unwelcome, either. Draco leaned back and moved his hips against the man's groin. At this point he was not above some accidental groping, especially with a cock that hard and thick. The bloke pressed closer. Not wholly accidental then. Draco felt an arm around him, and a warm hand took hold of his belly. For a moment the man seemed to test the silky fabric of the shirt, then he started to slowly rub Draco's bulge. It was a gentle touch, too intimate for the situation and the place, and so arousing Draco couldn't rein in a stifled moan.

As sudden as it had started the scuffle dissipated, and the door swung wide open. Draco turned as quickly as he managed within the mass of bodies but in the over-bright light he saw no one who might have been the man holding him.

Just as well. Hustlers Night was named for a reason.

From his red-walled booth Draco had an unobstructed view on the dance floor and the bar. A couple of young men were sitting there, nursing beers, and obviously waiting for tricks. A head of dark blond caught Draco's attention with its reddish shine. The man looked older than the others, who seemed barely legal. Full lips, nice body, a certain wry grace to his movements. He wasn't Albus Severus Potter but he would do. Draco gestured to the waiter and had the blond served a Pink Gin. He looked like a Pink Gin guy when he turned a shy smile at Draco and toasted him.

While they negotiated through looks and the waiter, Draco thought about the black-haired man in the darkroom. It couldn't have been Albus, no matter the inappropriate (the irresistible) caress. If the young Potter frequented the London clubs at all, he'd be at Heaven or any of the other venues that catered to the younger crowd. Few in the wizarding world even knew of the Shadow Lounge. Draco's mind must be playing tricks on him. Or rather, his overwrought libido. Damn! He had come here to forget, not to be reminded of the boy.

He tossed his whisky down, wondering idly whether it had been his fourth or fifth. The blond was already moving towards the club's exit doors. Draco followed him. It was hard to not lose him in the sea of Muggle jeans and light coloured t-shirts. Outside, they ducked into Walker's Court, a narrow alley off of Brewer Street. The night was chilly, a taste of fall already the air. Draco divested the blond of his shirt; he couldn't keep his hands from caressing the warm skin. In this moment it didn't matter that the man's responsiveness was bought with Muggle money. His hair was soft, his kisses tasted sweet, with a hint of juniper. He had a nice arse that one day Draco might want to fuck. The way he expertly slipped a condom on Draco's full erection spoke of professional experience. Draco came quickly, before the blond could even start to suck him off for real. With his orgasm ebbing away, sheer physical relief spread through him, like he had not felt in weeks.

He licked at the ear of the blond who brought himself off with fast strokes. He pinched his nipples, which were hard from the cold and lust. The blond came in his own fist, mumbling slurred words against Draco's shoulder. It sounded like "fuck me, daddy" but Draco might have misheard. Even in orgasm the blond was careful not to get his spunk on Draco's bespoke trousers.

Relief, that was all he'd wanted from the clubs, all that was to be expected. But the blond kept kissing him, slow, sated kisses Draco had not expected after he had stuffed some Muggle bills into the back-pocket of his jeans. Only when Draco broke their kiss, did the man let go and walked back to the club, shirt slung over his bony shoulders.

The encounter had burned the alcohol from Draco's blood but he still felt calm and content. If that's what it took to chase Albus Potter from his mind... Yes, he would be back to the Shadow Lounge for a couple of drinks and a fuck in the dark. He zipped up and reached for his wand. Walker's Court was as safe as any place for Apparition.

o0o

Draco had made it a habit to hold the meetings with Briggs, the family lawyer, in Father's old office. It was a large room, certainly larger than Draco's study, with double-winged, heavy oak-wood doors at one side, leading directly into the library. Nothing in the room had been changed since Lucius Malfoy had fled England to escape Azkaban. At one point, Draco had asked whether he could use the room to house his extensive collection of potions books but Mother had forbidden it.

He accompanied Briggs to the great fireplace in the entrance hall. Briggs had gone over the estate records with Draco and Scorpius. The lawyer kept the books meticulously, and rent payments had come in regularly despite heavy summer storms and a warm winter.

When he returned to the office Scorpius still sat in one of the heavy Captain's chairs. For as long as Draco could think, the pair of dark mahogany chairs had stood facing Father's broad desk. He sat behind it, feeling drained and heavy, his robes too warm and tight around him. He was much more comfortable in the lab; it was no secret to anyone in the family that he'd never perfected the art of managing the Manor estates with the aristocratic ease of Lucius Malfoy.

"What are we going to do about Harris?" he asked with a sigh, already dreading the argument that was bound to follow.

The harvest had been good; they'd be celebrating festivals during the weeks leading up to Samhain all over Wiltshire. The Masters of the Manor were expected to put in an appearance wherever they owned land: West Overton, Avebury and of course Winterbourne Monkton. With the enthusiasm of the post-war generation for all things shared by Muggles and wizarding kind, Scorpius and Lily had offered to go. It was a relief for Draco but the problem with Harris would not be solved by wizards pretending to be Muggles.

"Let's give him another year," Scorpius said slowly. He lifted his chin in a stubborn tilt, the unconscious gesture so very much like Mother's, Draco was struck with the similarity between grandmother and grandson. For all the soft grace Scorpius had inherited from the Greengrass side, there was a Black core coming out ever stronger in his character.

"He's a drunk," Draco said because it needed to be stated bluntly, at least once. "He's months behind with his rent, nothing has been done on the farm since planting. Harris should be well into harvesting but all I hear is that the crop is running to seed." Harris was also a Muggle, but far be it from Draco to be the one to bring that up.

All through the meeting Scorpius had been behaving rather belligerently, defending the new Muggle tenants. Hidden behind his professional calm, even Briggs had been surprised at Scorpius' sharp tone. Which was entirely misplaced as Briggs was one of the few wizards who could interact well with Muggles, playing the gentile country solicitor when in fact he was an esteemed speaker in the Wizengamot, representing many of the pureblood families.

"Harris is ill, Father, and you know it. Alcoholism is a disease, not a Muggle weakness as you make it out to be. Don't think I didn't notice what you were implying in your little discussion with Mr Briggs."

Something was wrong. Draco could see it in the way Scorpius held the quill, his grip so tight he seemed to be set on breaking the barbs of the swan feather. And Scorpius didn't meet his eyes, which meant this was not about Harris.

"Don't put words in my mouth, Scorpius. Muggles don't have Hangover Potion, and their bodies do not react to magical treatment. That is all I was saying to Briggs. I didn't imply anything."

Scorpius shrugged, his fingers still wrapped around the quill. Draco shuffled papers around while he wracked his memory for anything that might explain Scorpius' odd mood.

They had rented land out to Muggles, on Scorpius' suggestion. And it had paid them well, what with the lack of wizards and witches available for agricultural labour. Granted, Draco had yet to inform his father about these changes (he didn't plan to tell Father anytime soon; even Mother agreed this was the best course of action) but it had worked out remarkably well for the war-depleted Malfoy vaults. Harris and his love for hard liquors was a minor unpleasantness. If Draco had been still running the estates by himself, he would have kicked the man from the land and been done with him. Scorpius disagreed, and they would have to work out a solution amongst the two of them. It certainly wasn't anything worth fighting about.

Scorpius was twirling his quill slowly between thumb and middle-finger. Ever so often, the feather shaft clacked on his marriage ring. For an awkward while, it was the only sound in the room. Green ink, Draco noticed. Green ink had always been popular amongst Slytherins but he doubted Scorpius was using this colour to indicate his allegiance to the House of the Snake. Like many of his generation, Scorpius was a firm believer in abolishing the Hogwarts house system altogether. From the library came the fluttering noises of a Self-De-dusting Duster, softer when the duster disappeared within the shelving, louder when it cleaned the spines of the books.

Finally, Draco couldn't stand it anymore. He pushed back the chair from the desk with a loud screech. "I want to terminate Harris' lease, Scorpius. I've been very patient. But there will be no rent coming from his place. All that Ethel is making with the sheep and her herb garden goes to feed the family." He spoke slowly, trying to put a reasonable tone into his voice.

Scorpius was staring at the life-size portrait of Abraxas Malfoy on the wall. Draco didn't need to turn to see the disdainful sneer on his grandfather's face. Most portraits in the Manor were charmed silent, otherwise this whole conversation would have been peppered with pure-blooded commentary from the grave. Sometimes Draco envied the Muggles their lifeless, silent photographs.

"Don't call her that." Scorpius' voice was so low that Draco for a moment thought he'd misheard.

"Call her what? Ethel, you mean?"

"That. You call her by her first name as if you know her, Father." Scorpius was shaking his head. "You don't know her at all. You don't know any Muggles. Not really, like they are... people. You just use them."

"I've known Ethel Harris since I was child. You don't know her. Or you wouldn't call her a Muggle. She's a Squib. Merlin, Scorpius, what is the matter with you?" He'd spoken louder than he'd intended to, more bluntly, too. But what was wrong with the boy?

"So this is why you rented North Farm to Harris? I was wondering why you'd agree to rent one of the old places to a Muggle." Scorpius had gone pale but his eyes flashed angrily.

Ravenclaw, Draco couldn't help thinking. Always drawing conclusions, always solving puzzles. And he couldn't even deny what Scorpius surmised. You just use them. But there was no way he would have had prime Malfoy land be worked by only Muggles. There was a magic to the growing of the crop; Ethel Harris was a Squib, but Squibs were aware of that kind of magic. To have the land mismanaged and revert back to its wild state was unacceptable. Scorpius should know this, Draco thought. It was one of those rare moments when he wished Lucius had been around when the boy was growing up, to instil some of the old ways into him.

"Ethel's family has been working for the Malfoys for generations. There's magic in her blood, and North Farm is part of the Malfoy Estate. I did what I had to do, to keep the land together. Having Harris in the official contract was compro–"

"You're one to talk about blood." Scorpius' words were the softest mutter, barely audible over the swish-swash of the duster in the library. But they cut off Draco as effectively as if he had been screaming them.

Father's desk was a polished expanse between him and his son. Draco felt his body straighten involuntarily. He must have misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

Scorpius' lips were a sharp hard line. He looked clearly unhappy, staring at his hands. Somewhere in their talk he had dropped the quill. Draco saw the snow-white feather lying on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.

"Scorpius?"

"I... I don't understand..." He faltered.

"What? Merlin, talk to me. What is it, Scorpius?" Draco had to put his arms on the desk, to steady himself. Something sharp and painful had come between him and his son. You just use them. A memory from breakfast flashed through Draco's mind, the girl, Lily, watching him from large brown eyes with a pensive look. He had smiled at her but she hadn't returned his smile.

Scorpius raised his head; he sought Draco's eyes, then stared at a point on the wall. "I wish," he said, words clipped and devoid of feeling, "you wouldn't feel the need to flaunt your homosexuality so much."

"W... what?" Draco's mouth went dry; the fine scar running across his heart grew hot, then cold as ice. His chair crashed to the floor, he was standing before he realised he had got up. Scorpius was rising slowly from his chair, eyes wide and startled and dark blue like his mother's. Of all the things ...

"You," Draco pressed out through clenched teeth. "How dare you speak to me like this? You... Do you have any idea how much it cost me to put on that wedding of yours to the Potter girl, just so you could flaunt your heterosexuality in front of the whole of the wizarding world? Let me tell you, young man, it was not a cheap affair, not by any standards. How can you –"

He stopped. The cold in his chest was painful, and there was no air to breathe in the room. He swayed against Father's desk, the sharp edge digging into his thighs, his belly huge over the polished wood. "Get out," he said, his voice a croak.

Scorpius stood before him, hands in fists, his face a pale mask of misery. "Please, father, I didn't –"

"Get the fuck out!" He couldn't stand the sight of his son anymore. His own flesh and blood, damn it, and there he'd thought... had never doubted, not for a moment, that Scorpius understood, that...

On the desk, just at the side of the leather pad, stood a small silver box, still half filled with father's visiting cards, thick crème-coloured paper, the Malfoy crest embossed in silver and the name printed in stark black ink – Lucius Septimus Malfoy. Visiting cards had long gone out of fashion even in the old circles, and Draco had never bothered to get his own. When he would have needed them, no one had cared for his visits; when people were welcoming him again – esteemed Potions Master at the Ministry, and one of the most generous benefactors of St Mungo's and the new Primary School for All Magical Children – no visiting cards were required of him or his elf. He still should have designed his own set, Draco thought, the silver box a blur before his eyes.

The creaking of his shoes was the only indication that Scorpius followed his order and was leaving the office. Three light steps on the hard-wood floor, then the smooth gliding sound of the heavy door being opened.

"Scorpius."

"Sir?"

Draco looked up to see his son stand in the opened door. His back was turned to him, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.

"Please come back."

A breath of relief came from the door, and Draco almost had to smile. Scorpius carefully closed the door, then turned. His eyes were glistening, his cheeks a high pink, as he stumbled back over the rug.

They stood, facing each other, Draco below his grandfather's portrait, Scorpius a step away from the desk, a deploring look in his eyes and waiting. Fine-spun heat slithered across Draco's chest again.

"Take a seat," he said and turned to look for his own chair.

Scorpius was at his side at once and grabbed the upturned chair lying against the wall. He put it back on its legs and gestured for Draco to sit without a word. Only then did he take a seat. He sat upright on the edge of the large chair, both feet firmly pressed to the floor, his hands in his lap. He was looking straight at Draco. The quill on the carpet, Draco realised, was gone, scooped up by Scorpius' wordless, wandless Accio, was his best guess. For once he was glad for the distance between them that the desk provided.

"I am sorry, Scorpius. I should never have said that. And I didn't mean it, not a word of it. I loved arranging your wedding. Yours and Lily's. Every Knut I spent on it was well spent. I would not have had it any other way. Please accept my apologies."

Scorpius nodded slowly. Draco could see him swallow.

"I don't..." he started, voice rough. He swallowed again. "I don't know why I said you were... you were... what I said. I didn't mean it. I don't want you to be straight. You wouldn't be you then." He spoke faster now, more fluid, and his cheeks turned an uncharacteristic red. There was not much that could embarrass Scorpius Malfoy, but now he was ashamed. "You are alone here too often, and it's perfectly fine, of course, if you go to... go into London, I mean. To find... Well, you are single, and I can't imagine you'd be willingly celibate, and what with Grand-mère around, I understand, I really do. I'd do the same, if I didn't have Lily, and it's perfectly fine, really, I don't mind it at all and if you find someone in the clubs, I'd like to meet him, really. Er, if you want to, that is. If you just go for the sex, it is fine, too. I don't mind it, not at all, I swear, I…"

"Scorpius." Draco couldn't suppress a grin.

"Yes, Sir?"

"You're babbling."

"Shit." Scorpius' face turned an even brighter shade of red. "I am sorry, Sir. That's what I meant to say. I am sorry."

"Apology accepted."

"And I accept your apology, Sir, of course. I provoked you. Merlin, father, I'm so sorry." It wasn't very noticeable but a ripple went through Scorpius' body, and he slumped slightly backwards against the chair for support. It felt good to see his son so relieved at being forgiven.

"Now stop that 'Sir' nonsense," Draco said, "and tell me what this is about." He wouldn't let this pass without an explanation, he couldn't. Not when they had started hurting each other because of it.

Another swallow. "It's about Albus."

Albus ...

"I don't understand why you won't sponsor him." Scorpius was searching his face. Draco could feel his cheeks heat under his son's gaze.

"Sponsor?" he asked weakly.

Scorpius nodded, not turning his eyes from Draco. "For the potion lab in Old Windsor. They won't admit anyone with a pristine blood line if they cannot find a pure-blood sponsor. Well, they don't put it like that but you know... Albus didn't want to ask you but I said he should. He is family. And he wants to go to that place, Merlin knows why." He shook his head, gaze still fixed on Draco.

"When ..." Draco had problems keeping his voice from trembling. Al's letters. That was what they were about.

Scorpius cast him a puzzled glance. "You sponsored other half-bloods before, didn't you? And ..." He took a deep breath. "Well, I thought you've come to like Albus. Since the wedding. You keep mentioning his name. You two talked, didn't you? At the wedding." His lips twitched into a shy smile, and Draco had to force himself to not read something into it.

Scorpius was simply happy that his father and his best friend got along. And Albus hadn't written Draco because of their "talk" at the wedding. He had merely asked a professional favour. A favour that Draco was happy to grant. Albus Potter had come out of Hogwarts with a potions N.E.W.T. exceeding expectations, and Draco's colleagues over at the Institute of Magical Draughts and Beverages had nothing but praise for the boy's talent. It would be a mark of honour, for Draco to sponsor the son of Harry Potter.

Family, Scorpius had said, and yes, this is what the Prophet would insinuate: that Draco in his capacity as the Ministry's Potions Master would sponsor his new daughter-in-law's brother, to reap profit from the Potter name, no doubt. That kind of insinuation, Draco could live with.

He cleared his throat. "I like Albus well enough... That's not it." He needed to go to his rooms and open the letters. Albus' request for a sponsorship. How could he have been so sure, so clueless, so pathetically conceited? As if Albus Severus Potter would be writing love letters to him when it was he who was obsessing over the boy.

Scorpius was watching him. There was still some bright colour on his cheeks but his eyes had darkened to a curious, a calculating blue. He was well versed in reading emotions, more so than you'd expect from a brainy Ravenclaw. Draco knew there was not much he could hide from his son, despite the long years Father had trained him to never show his feelings, not even to family.

"A... misunderstanding," he finally said, stumbling over the word.

Scorpius only raised a brow. The quill was tucked in the breast pocket of his robes, nestled beside his wand.

"I'll explain later." Draco rose and pushed together the papers on the desk. They could talk about Harris later, too. He had more important business to attend to. Urgent business, long overdue. "I need to send an owl to the Windsor labs. And write Al. Merlin, he must wonder what..."

Scorpius nodded before Draco could finish and rose as well, averting his face but not quickly enough for Draco to miss the disappointed twitch of his mouth.

"I'll owl Briggs that we decide about Harris next week," Scorpius said, already reaching for the roll of parchment on the desk. He looked up, eyes veiled, asking wordlessly for Draco's agreement.

In this moment it hit Draco what Albus must have wondered; what Scorpius and Lily must have surmised.

He wouldn't sponsor Albus Severus because Al was a Potter, and apparently in his heart of heart Draco Malfoy still hated all things Potter.

He wouldn't sponsor Albus Severus because Al was a half-blood, and despite appearances to the opposite, Draco Malfoy still wore the faded Mark and believed in pure-blood superiority. He was using people – the girl, Lily, as much as the Muggle men he'd been paying for sex these last weeks. (And how the bloody fuck did Scorpius know about his visits to the Shadow Lounge?)

The threads of cold were back on his chest, crossing and re-crossing. The past was back, dark and pure and inescapable. Draco reached for the parchment before Scorpius could take it. Their hands touched, warmth jolting up through Draco's arm.

"I will explain, Scorpius, later. You have my promise. And it really is a misunderstanding. I never opened those letters Al sent me."

Scorpius stood stiffly, his hand underneath Draco's unmoving. "You didn't open... But why wouldn't you open Al's letters? He sent them weeks ago." He paused, then seemed to come to a decision. Swiftly he moved around the desk to stand closer to Draco. "I was wondering why you kept them on the mantelpiece."

"It's really just my own stupidity." Merlin, this was pathetic. And he had no idea how he would explain it to Scorpius.

"Are you in some kind of trouble, father?" Scorpius moved his hand now, and curled it around Draco's, a tightly reassuring grip.

"Trouble? No, no." Salazar. Was everybody worried about him? He only hoped Scorpius had not confided in Mother. "Everything will be fine," Draco said. "I'll send an owl right away. De Montmorency will be pleased to have a Potter apprentice with him. He's not big on blood politics. And Al will like working in the old labs. They are the best in wizarding England."

Scorpius nodded slowly, then took a deep breath. He was still holding Draco's hand and not letting go. "You've been behaving... oddly, this summer. Is it because of Lily?"

His expression was so earnest, Draco could not brush the question off with a half-hearted evasive remark. "It... well, I won't say that it has not taken some getting used to, having Lily live with us in the Manor," he started, but Scorpius deserved some sort of truth. "I am happy for you, I am, Scorpius, truly. You've found someone you love to share your life with. I will never have that."

He hoped Scorpius understood because he couldn't say more. His skin itched underneath the robes, with the awkwardness of the situation. Not for the first time he thought he should just leave England and join Father in Croatia. The Split cruising grounds were famously infamous, and here in England, he would always be Lucius Malfoy's Death Eater son.

Scorpius was stroking his hand, making small movements with his thumb. "I am glad it's not Lily," he said, voice softer than before.

"I like her. I do." Draco wanted to get away, rush to his rooms and rip open those letters.

But Scorpius kept watching him with those dark eyes, still not letting go of his hand. "And you like Albus," his voice was even softer, a whisper of words, "don't you, father?"

The answer was easy, and Draco did not even have to lie. It struck him, as Scorpius was searching his face, that maybe all the half-formed excuses and explanations in the back of his mind were not necessary, not necessary at all, because Scorpius had understood all along.

"I like Albus," Draco said, a vision in his mind of the boy's silhouette before the fire-tinged darkness of a summer night. "I like him very much."

oOo

London, Aug 8

Dear Draco –

Scorpius encouraged me to approach you in this matter, otherwise I would not have dared to ask such a big favour of you.

I will finish my theoretical studies with the Institute of Magical Draughts and Beverages by the end of summer and am looking for an apprenticeship with a potioneer. My preferred choice are the Potions Labs at Old Windsor. I've heard many good things about the training there, and would like to acquire the qualifications to eventually enter their Master class. I wish to apply myself fully to all practical aspects of potion brewing and can think of no better place to learn all there is to learn in a potion lab that is brewing potions for the entire wizarding world.

There is one difficulty; you will easily guess what I am speaking of. Being half a Potter (even if half a Weasley), Old Windsor Labs requires that I present a sponsor from one of the Old Families. Would you be willing to sponsor me, Sir? My results from the final exams at the Institute are not yet in but I am confident that I did well. I'd be very proud to be sponsored by you.

I hope you are well. I've been thinking about owling you to go for lunch or an after-work beer as I am quite often in the Ministry. But we'll see each other at Halloween. You haven't forgotten the pumpkin pie, have you? It's the most delicious treat, nothing like the stale stuff they used to serve us at Hogwarts.

Yours sincerely

Albus

August 19

Dear Draco –

I was wondering whether you received my owl from last week. Errol is a bit of a clumsy owl, and while he did return and seemed to have delivered my letter, there is always a chance that the parchment got lost somewhere on the way from London to Malfoy Manor.

Please owl me.

Sincerely

Albus Severus

Cadogan Place, London,

August 24

Dear Sir –

I deeply apologise for having made that untoward request in my owl from two weeks ago. I have since come to understand that a sponsorship for the Old Windsor Potions Laboratories is a more serious matter than I imagined, and that of course you should have offered the favour, and not me request it.

I am truly sorry about this.

If you could just Incendio that silly letter of mine, I'd be much obliged.

Faithfully yours

Albus Severus Potter

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

Friday, October 12th, A.D. MMXXIX

Dear Albus –

please accept my heartfelt apologies for not answering your owls for such a long time. It is inexcusable, but I will explain – or try to – when we meet again. At least I hope we will still meet and share a taste of that pumpkin pie you were speaking so highly of.

Enclosed you find my Statement of Sponsorship for you for the Potions Laboratories at Old Windsor. I already sent a Letter of Recommendation to the Head Potions Master de Montmorency. He is awaiting your application within the month. If you need advice on any part of the application process, please don't hesitate to owl me. I promise, my reply will come more swiftly this time.

I hope you can forgive me my misunderstanding and will let me apologise in person when we see each other again at the Samhain celebrations.

With kind regards –

Draco Malfoy

the end (for now)