Title: The Familiar Sting: A Coming of Age Story
Author: luna_plath
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, Angst, Romance
Word count: 10,504
Characters: Albus/OFC, Lily/Scorpius, Harry/Ginny, Neville, Rose, various OCs
Warnings: drug use/abuse, sexual situations, language
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the song "Hurt," from which this fic title originates. I am only experimenting with characters JKR has given us.
Summary: Al steals information from his father, sells drugs to his classmates, and looses his virginity-all during the span of only a few weeks. But letting go of his innocence is more difficult than he realized.
Author's Notes: A big thank you to my beta Beezie, who offered me such wonderful advice on characterizations and sentence structure. "The familiar sting" comes from a NIN track and the idea of a purely wizarding drug didn't occur to me until I read anon_drarry's Promising, But Then . . . which is amazing, by the way. I encourage all of you to check it out. I also feel like I've been influenced by ginger_veela's portrayal of Al Potter in her next gen universe, but that credit may just stem from admiration. Thanks for taking the time to read the fic and please let me know what you think.
The Familiar Sting: A Coming of Age Story
Albus slowly turned the door handle to his father's study, tension forming in his neck from the contact with the cool metal. The stained, hardwood door was silent on its hinges and Al exhaled in relief, taking a step forward in his stocking-feet. It was midday, hours before either of his parents were due home from work, but he couldn't help feeling guilty.
His father had never outright forbidden him from looking through the books their family had on more questionable magic, and Al wouldn't have hesitated to look for something or ask a question if his dad had been working in the study himself, but as it stood Albus had the distinct impression that he was not looking for anything his parents would encourage an interest in. As a child he had never paid much interest to the numerous dark volumes that lined the back wall, but as a teenager he'd started to form questions. Al had argued with himself plenty of times: why didn't he just ask his dad about the magic they didn't teach at Hogwarts? Why didn't he ask him to talk about the war, or his work, or the Death Eaters? How many times had he heard the stories about his father and Dumbledore fighting the inferi or his dad and uncle Ron looking for the giant spiders in the Forbidden Forrest—couldn't he just probe him further? These questions spun around in his head as he closed the door behind him and took the few steps to the bookshelf, a tingle of nervousness (or maybe excitement) tickling down his spine.
Being sorted into Slytherin had opened up his whole world in terms of what his mother referred to as "questionable activity." So had befriending Scorpius Malfoy, son of his father's school-aged enemy and wartime rival. Al was naturally curious, a characteristic that had no doubt lead him to his father's study when the house was cool and deserted, and sometimes careless when it came to risk. He often found himself in paradoxical situations: employing structured logic and forethought only to arrive at undoubtedly dangerous, irrational conclusions that never sounded very convincing when he tried to explain them after the fact.
He inched his head sideways to read the titles of the leather-bound volumes, wondering if his usually disorganized dad had any kind of organization system.
Aunt Hermione must have arranged the books herself, because they were organized using the same system as the libraries at Hogwarts and the Ministry. How many times had he snuck into the Department of Magical Records with James, waiting for his dad or uncle Ron to finish up work in the Auror Office, only to be bored out of his mind by the ledgers of names, dates, and facts? They'd never actually found an interesting book in the whole place. However, spying a beaten-looking copy of Magical Drugs: Production, Distribution, Effects, and the Law, Al suspected that his father's private collection would prove more interesting.
He settled onto the floor with the thick, pocket-sized volume and leaned against the far wall. The book was divided into sections based on the substance, and he quickly thumbed to the entry on grandmortium that he'd been looking for since the start. Shaking his shaggy black hair out of his eyes, Al began to read.
Grandmortium is a hallucinogenic depressant with analgesic, anxiolytic, and deleriant properties. It is a relatively new drug, cultivated within the past fifteen years, and is highly addictive. Within the magical British community grandmortium is considered an A Level substance, meaning that it warrants the highest level of penalty for its production, distribution, or possession. Grandmortium has found a solid user-base in the younger generations and has persisted to become a "social problem" in the eyes of the Ministry.
Al continued to read, slowly turning the pages while a frown grew across his mouth. The text's allusion to "the younger generations" made the back of his neck heat up at the memory of his sixth year, and he tried not to visibly fidget in his seat on the floor of the study.
There were complicated diagrams of the chemical structure of the grandmortium compound, as well as pictures displaying it in varying stages of production. Merlin, there were even instructions on how it was commonly manufactured, with the intention that the setup would be "recognizable to law enforcement even if they came across the substance while in the production stages."
Albus read for nearly an hour, the bottom left corner of his lip pulled between his teeth in concentration, before he looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin. A pair of large, round eyes were blinking back at him from underneath his father's desk, and initially they had startled the guilty teenager.
"Fuck," he swore, looking down at his sister's Siamese cat, Faust. "What are you doing down there?"
Normally Al was good with animals; he had two pet snakes that liked to curl around his arms and torso whenever they were out of their vivariums. However, Lily's cat was very particular, and the only person it seemed to like apart from its owner was his dad. James had lovingly given Faust the title of "Lily's demon familiar" and there had been many occasions where Albus had been inclined to agree, including the time he ran around the dining room with Al's newest pet snake clutched in its mouth. Eliza, his young ball python, had never been the same after being nearly eaten, and Al's dislike for the cat had only increased since the encounter.
At least cats can keep secrets, he thought, taking comfort in the fact that, however temperamental Faust was, he wouldn't be able to tattle to his dad that his youngest son had been snooping through his books on illegal drugs.
Not that his father would be very surprised. Al had the sense that his dad knew much more than he let on, and even though they had never spoken about his casual drug use Albus got the impression that his father had at least an idea that it was occurring. There had been incidents last year at school—times when he'd nearly gotten caught with mort, letters that had been sent home about his "constant fatigue and disengaged attitude," as his head of house had put it. His parents had thought little of the incidents, judging them to be minor, especially when they were compared to the major fights and all-around crazy behavior that James had exhibited at his brother's age, let alone what their dad had gotten up to at sixteen.
In the Potter household he wasn't considered the problem child, even if Darcy Eads, head of Slytherin house, watched him with an increasingly scrutinizing eye. By his family's standards Al's behavior—acting moody, falling asleep in Transfiguration, always looking tired—was normal. He was still pulling in top marks in potions and defense and managing consistent marks in his other courses, so his parents had little to complain about.
Albus clamored to his feet, stuffing the black book in his trouser pocket. Faust's icy blue eyes followed him as he exited the study, a scheme forming in his mind.
"Don't touch my snakes," Al said, hunched over the messy, cherry wood desk in his bedroom, a black quill in his hand.
"Why not?" his fifteen-year-old sister asked.
He leaned back in his chair like he'd seen his father do a million times, the front two legs lifting off the carpet. "Because you haven't washed your hands. There's probably Faust germs all over them."
She huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like, "don't be such a pratt," but Lily did leave his bedroom to wash, returning quickly and shaking little drops of water onto his carpet and various Quidditch magazines.
"Better?"
"Yeah, but don't pick up Eliza unless you want to get bitten. She'll be shedding soon and she's feeling a bit testy," he warned.
Lily took his advice and reached for Rez, his shinny, black-and-white banded king snake. "Let's go for a walk in the sunshine," Lily said, letting the fast-moving animal curl around her hand and up her arm. "You're so pretty. And Al never takes you out of his cave anymore."
He rolled his eyes at his sister's ribbing, twirling his quill in his fingers until he heard the click of his door shutting. Al dropped the quill and flipped over the concealed hand mirror he'd been speaking into before Lily had barged into the room.
"Scor? You still there?"
"Yeah, mate," came his best friend's voice. Suddenly the teenaged blond came into view. "Was that Lily?"
"Who else? Mum and dad are at work and James is at practice."
"I figured," he amended. "But I have something that may liven you up a bit."
Through the square two-way mirror Scorpius held up a small, clear bag of fine gray powder. "It's really dark this time. I think the instructions you gave me worked—I haven't tried it yet, but I've never seen a batch of mort turn out so pure."
The hushed excitement in his best friend's voice was infectious, and Al couldn't help the spike of curiosity that shot through him at the words pure and haven't tried it yet.
"I could make more," Al said, thinking out loud. "We could sell some at Ainslie's party next weekend."
"Good idea," Scorpius agreed. "Not that either of us need the money, but if you show up with drugs then I can guarantee that she'll be impressed."
Ainslie Desmarais was in the same house and year as Al but she didn't have any siblings at Hogwarts that he knew of. From what Al had gathered in casual conversation over their time at school together he thought that Mr. and Mrs. Desmarais were older than his own parents and quite wealthy, spending much of their time traveling while Ainslie was cared for by a widowed aunt.
Al had fancied her since third year when he noticed her after she defended him in front of a group of older students in the common room. It was a bit of an oddity for someone from such a Gryffindor background to have ended up in Slytherin, and it had proven to be a sore spot for him socially. Ainslie had never had any problems making friends in her own house like Al but she repeatedly took his side in front of their classmates. At fourteen, she'd been the first girl in their year to start smoking and wearing eyeliner, and he couldn't remember a time when she had ever gone home for the Christmas holidays. Ainslie was worlds away from the well-brought-up girls in his family and he couldn't help being inexplicably curious about her.
"Yeah," he said, propping his mirror up against his dad's copy of Magical Drugs. "Yeah, alright. I'll give it a go."
He had never meant to try grandmortium.
Al had heard countless stories from his aunt Luna about the patients who came into St. Mungo's for detox, about the blue, lifeless look they all seemed to have after months of continued use. There were articles in the Prophet at least once a week—editorials written by his mum's friends at the paper—spouting off about how the growing prevalence of grandmortium addiction amongst young people was a response to "the disintegrating family values within our post-war society."
The articles would invariably get passed off amongst Al's friends at the Slytherin table; they'd get flashed around by the Prefects at school whenever the younger students asked questions about mort. His dad usually tossed the paper in the rubbish bin after reading the editorial section, which would result in an annoyed spiel about how illegal drugs, and one's choice to do them, were the responsibility of the potential user, not the government.
"It's hand-holding," his dad had said distastefully. "People need to learn to take care of themselves and mind their own business. If kids your age want to do drugs then sending Hit Wizards after them won't solve anything."
Al and James had both agreed, but his mum had been more concerned. "Not all seventeen-year-olds are mature enough to make these decisions on their own," she'd claimed, eyeing both her sons across the dinner table in turn. "Not everyone grew up fending for themselves like you did, Harry."
His father had shrugged, his green eyes cool and thoughtful. "Maybe, but this whole grandmortium thing . . . it's not a social problem. It just looks bad because people expected everything to just fix itself after the war."
Conversations went on like that nearly everywhere Al went during his fifth year. By the time he entered his sixth it felt commonplace to have an opinion on the subject, even if he was secretly very interested in what mort would be like to experience. It wasn't as if he went looking for mort, it just slowly began to creep into his life.
Albus' identity as one of the Potter children had always felt shaky to him. Being younger than James meant that he was constantly trying to outpace someone who had an entire year on him, someone he simultaneously adored and envied. James had an easy happiness that Al craved, and when he couldn't outshine his brother in Quidditch he pushed further, searching for a streak of individualism in books and logic. During his childhood, sharing the spotlight with his older brother had been the most difficult thing he had ever encountered, and when Al went to Hogwarts his parents took it upon themselves to foster his individual interests, hinting that he may get to pick out an extra book and that there was a surprise in store for him at the end of his shopping trip.
When Al was only eleven years old his dad bought him Eliza, his very first pet. They were in Diagon Alley doing his school shopping—just the two of them, James thought he was perfectly old enough to go by himself—and his dad steered him into Magical Menagerie without his asking.
"Do I get a pet?" he'd asked, green eyes the size of galleons.
His father had shrugged, a smile twisting the corners of his lips. "If you'd like, but just one."
Al had immediately understood why his father had added the stipulation. He loved animals, and the floor-to-ceiling displays of pets of every shape, size, and color made it immensely difficult for the eleven-year-old to decide.
Turning away from the toads, ravens, and salamanders, Albus migrated to the back of the store where the atmosphere was calmer. He peered into vivariums containing rats, lizards, and spiders, but he was instantly and irrevocably drawn to the snakes. Al had never encountered a tamed snake before—he'd just seen them slithering into the shrubs whenever they took their dog out, or sometimes Al would catch his father whispering with the regular garden snakes—but he knew he wanted one when he caught the sound of their faint hissing.
Of course. How else had he known that the adder in their garden went by the name Specks, or that it didn't get along with the grass snake that lived in the brook nearby? He looked closer at the enclosures and read the tags for the various "exotic" species that the shop offered. Many of them had bright, unusual colors or magical abilities, but Al was drawn to the more demure, brownish ball python that he would later go on to name Eliza.
Hello there, Al hissed, glancing around to make sure that no one had heard him in the bustling shop. It seemed that he was safe with all the noise and activity.
The snake blinked at him, inclining her head slightly in his direction. Hello, wisssard, it said, coiling a little more tightly.
Would you like to be my pet? He asked, his green eyes trained on the posture of the animal. Excitement bubbled up in his chest like one of the fizzy candies that his uncle George made. I'd give you a good home with plenty of room and food and water and I'd take you out all the time, well, if you want to be taken out, and you could meet my family—my dad talks to snakes too, I promise—and you wouldn't have to stay in a small box with all these other animals making noise all the time.
Al took a breath, hoping that the snake (he wondered if it was a boy or a girl) would accept his offer. He'd hate to take it home with him if it didn't want to go. He could always just get an owl, Al supposed, but they were so ordinary. A snake was special.
The animal inched a little bit closer to the glass of the vivarium. That sssoundsss . . . appealing.
A strong tingling sensation started in his chest and radiated outward, warming him like the beams of an arching sun. Let me go make sure it's okay, I think it will be but I just want to ask. I'll be right back.
He found his father studying the spiders he'd disregarded earlier, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Dad," Al started, already out of breath. "I found a pet. It's a snake."
If his father had been surprised he didn't show it. "Which one?" he asked, following Albus to the far right corner of the store.
Al pointed to Eliza (he had already decided that she was a girl and that Eliza would be her name) and began talking excitedly. "I asked her if she wanted to be my pet and she thought about it for a minute but after I told her how great it would be she hissed and said yes and answered me like this and I understood what she was saying," he finished, hardly realizing that he'd switched from English to Parseltongue.
At that moment an interesting look had crossed his father's face, a look that, at barely eleven, he didn't fully understand. At seventeen it still puzzled him—did his father feel disappointed in him, or fear, or was he perhaps disappointed in himself? He would have said there was a wistful air to it, but Al denied it to himself. His dad was an auror, a survivalist, a war hero—and for the majority of his young life he'd been telling himself that those things meant something. As Harry Potter's seventeen-year-old son he had a role to fill, whether he wanted to own up to it or not, and Al felt like speaking to snakes and snorting grandmortium fell within that identity.
At eleven it had seemed like the hardest thing in the world to start school following his older brother, but at seventeen it seemed nearly impossible to even exist as Harry Potter's son. This is who I am, he told himself, watching Eliza's huddled coils while pure, black crystals formed on the top of the brew, the cauldron hidden in the storage cabinet off his closet. The potion quieted, its surface hardening as the process came to a finish. The crystals glinted like the new scales emerging beneath Eliza's skin, fresh and deceptively beautiful.
The lurching pressure of the Hogwarts Express grounded Albus to his seat, forehead leaning against the cool glass as the London cityscape flashed by.
Across from him Scorpius was stretched out with his arm around Lily, his blond hair neatly parted, icy next to his pale features. His cousin Rose sat next to him while Lily's pet occupied a seat of his own.
Al made eye contact with Faust—he'd be damned if he lost a staring contest with a cat—and nearly missed the topic his cousin had decided to bring up.
" . . . decided they're drug-testing the Quidditch players from now on."
"What?" Albus said, looking up from the Siamese.
Rose tucked her curling auburn hair behind the shell of her ear in impatience. "Honestly Al, have you taken any bludgers to the head recently? Kidding," she amended, spotting his scowl. "I was just saying that they've started testing all the league players for mort now, among other things."
"Oh. Tough luck for James," he chuckled, thinking of his older brother who played chaser for the Falcons.
"Please," Lily sniffed, beckoning Faust to join her side of the compartment. "He's far too vain to use drugs, or do anything fun anymore. He's more concerned with throwing Quaffles and building muscle mass than going to parties, or even holiday."
"He just doesn't want to end up like mum," Al observed. While their mother had celebrated a very successful career in professional sports, it had been short-lived, lasting a total of three years before she signed on at the Prophet. James's interests with the Falcons were much more ambitious.
"I suppose," his sister amended, scratching her cat along the base of his tail. "But I don't see why—"
Just then Nolan Quent slid open the door of their compartment. A Gryffindor seventh year, Al and Scorpius knew him from class, while Lily was friendly with his younger sister, Archer. Rose, who was in Ravenclaw, wasn't as friendly with Quent as the boys but she knew him from their shared duties as Prefects.
"Hullo," he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. The Slytherin boys both greeted their classmate, assuring him that they'd had a good holiday.
"And you?" Scorpius asked.
"Alright. Spent a bit of time traveling in Spain, but mostly I was in the country. Got in a lot of flying, actually. Did you have much chance to practice over the summer?"
Nolan played keeper for Gryffindor and was a fair rival to Scorpius, who played the same position for the Slytherin team.
"I put a lot of hours in, but not as much as Al," the blond said, resting his head on Lily's shoulder.
"I spent a lot of time helping James train over the holiday," Albus explained, memories surfacing of long hours on his broom, lunging for high-speed Quaffle throws in the field behind their house until it got too dark to see. But Al was a seeker, not a keeper, and he regretted not getting the chance to scrimmage with his dad more often when he had the chance.
"I'm looking forward to seeing the results," Nolan replied. It seemed that all the talk about Quidditch and holidays had been secondary, Al observed, because it looked like he had finally gotten to the real reason for chatting them up.
In seeking Al the Gryffindor had made a wise choice; sources for mort could sometimes be unreliable, and it was much safer to deal with someone within the school than to have it sent by other means. The girls may have been on friendly terms with Nolan in classes or the common room, but Quent's connection to Al and Scorpius extended beyond Charms lessons and House points. The students who used mort at Hogwarts didn't amount to many, and the fact that the three seventh year boys had experimented with the drug shifted their relationship from school chums to knowing accomplices.
Nolan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing down the corridor of students visiting their rediscovered friends. When he returned his focus to Al it was clear that Quent had one last order of business.
"One last thing, Al. I was wondering if you had any crystal," he finished, pointedly ignoring both Rose and Lily.
"Yeah, but it'll cost you," Albus warned.
"How much?"
"Two galleons an ounce."
As soon as he caught sight of Nolan's skeptical expression he fished in the pocket of his jacket for one of the foil-wrapped packets he'd stored there.
"You'll understand when you see it," Al explained. "It's really pure, way better than the stuff they're slinging in Knockturn Alley."
"I'll take your word for it," the Gryffindor said, quickly depositing the parcel in his trouser pocket and handing over the gold.
Nolan soon departed, thanking Al and promising a scrimmage with Scorpius later during the term. Once the compartment door was closed Rose turned a sharp eye on her cousin.
"So that's what you've been getting up to this past year?" she asked, displaying an alarming resemblance to his aunt Hermione when she got going about house elves.
"It's not like it's some big secret," Lily said cheekily, looking from her brother to her boyfriend. "Everyone knows."
"Since when?" Scorpius asked, a frown animating his angular features.
"Well, there were plenty of rumors last term, the way you two carried on, but everyone started to assume after Ainslie's party," Lily explained.
"I didn't want to believe it," Rose said, looking past her cousin to the scenery rolling by. "Can you imagine if you got caught? It wouldn't be a small thing, Al. The Prophet wouldn't exactly be sensitive about it—it would be too big a story."
"I can practically see the headlines now," Lily deadpanned. "'War Hero's Son a Drug Addict by 17,' 'Grandmortium Reaches Potter Family: Dysfunction and Debauchery,' 'Son of Reclusive Head Auror Arrested for Grandmortium Distribution to Hogwarts Students.' I'm sure it would make a great work atmosphere for mum and dad."
"Stop being ridiculous," he chided.
"It's not ridiculous, Al, it's reality. If you're going to carry on doing as you please then you need to be a bit more careful," Rose warned.
"She's got a point," Scorpius admitted. "Especially with Eads. She'll be watching us after last year."
Instead of heeding the warnings of his friends and family, Al continued to gaze out the window in slight resentment. He wanted to check on his snakes, or excuse himself to the loo so he could go look for Ainslie. Anything other than listening to his cousin and his sister treat him like a child.
"We'll just have to cover our tracks better than we did before. No more brewing in the dormitory, and we'll need a stock of sobering potion," Al said, hoping that would satisfy everyone. Rose may have continued the grandmortium discussion but he wasn't paying attention, the dim outline of the Scottish highlands peaking over the shifting horizon.
For the first time in his school career, Al was at Hogwarts without James. His first week of classes flew by quickly despite the absurd amount of work his professors were assigning, and he found time during a free period on Friday to have a chat with Lily in the library.
They were at a small table between the sections on magical plants and creatures, Lily's two favorite subjects. Al turned the pages of his advanced potions textbook, taking a few notes with his familiar black quill while his sister copied a diagram of a magical Peruvian frog that he didn't know the name of.
"I wonder how James is doing with practices," Al said, not really understanding the sentence he'd read on brewing for medicine three times. "His first match is coming up in a few weeks. I bet he's going spare with nerves."
"Probably," Lily agreed, fingering the ends of her ponytail. "But I think he'll do well. Are you missing him? I miss him. The common room doesn't feel the same without James and Finlay making their usual racket."
"I bet," he chuckled, imagining what it must have been like to be in Gryffindor house with his brother. It was a topic that he had thought on countless times—how would things have gone if he'd been sorted into Gryffindor like his siblings, like his parents? Would he still be best mates with Scorpius?—but he tried not to dwell on it. Al had gone through a rough week already, and Professor Eads had already called him to her office to talk about his future. He hoped that his head of house hadn't written home about that particular meeting.
"Eads had a meeting with me earlier today," he said, doodling a snitch on the corner of his parchment. "Wanted to talk to me about my career plans. She seems to think that my goals are uninspiring."
"What rubbish," she scoffed. "Becoming a brewer is a very practical choice. She probably just expects you to be an auror like dad, especially with your marks in defense."
Professor Eads was head of Slytherin house and the resident defense against the dark arts teacher; Al had earned top marks in her class since his start at Hogwarts and his professor had been disappointed when he'd confessed his lack of long-term interest in the subject. Ever since his career meeting with Eads at the end of his fifth year she had watched him more closely, forming the opinion that he was making poor choices toward his future by merely wanting to become a brewer.
You could do so much more, she'd said, her sharp eyes taking in the slouched angle of his thin frame. Why settle for something forgettable when you have so much potential?
It was a line that had struck a lot of bitterness in him, and Al had resented her efforts to persuade him ever since. Everyone seemed to think that just because he was a Potter that he had more to offer than everyone else, that just because of his father's daring and his mother's talent that he would surely turn out the same. Well, Al had decided that they were wrong. Just because James was a Quidditch prodigy and Lily was hard-working and intuitive didn't mean that he had to amount to anything remarkable.
Couldn't he just mess around with potions for the rest of his life? What was wrong with just being a seeker for fun? Why was everyone he knew out to stop him from messing around with his brain by doing mort? Even Rose, his closest cousin, had said it, and she definitely had a knack for putting things in perspective that had reminded him of uncle Ron on more than one occasion. Al made a slash through the drawing on his paper, refocusing his attention on the instructions for a blood-replenishing solution.
The only people who seemed to accept his decisions were James, Scorpius, and Lily. For a fleeting moment Al had the urge to go back to the Slytherin dormitory and handle Rez, but he knew he didn't have enough time before his next lesson.
The pair of them sat in silence, the itching sound of Lily's quill a soothing backdrop. "I've got to head to Herbology," he eventually said, closing his potions book and throwing his bag over his shoulder. "Scor and I have practice tomorrow if you want to come."
"I'm supposed to go visit Hagrid, but I may stop by," his sister said, blowing on the drying ink of the complex diagram she'd finished during their time in the library.
He turned to leave, pushing his chair in and swiping his fringe out of his eyes, but his sister's voice drew his attention.
"Don't listen to Eads," she said. "Whatever it is that she told you is a load of bullocks. I'll see you tomorrow, alright? Tell Ainslie that I said hello."
Breathing out, Al relaxed his shoulders and adjusted the book in his hands. "Thanks, Lily."
Ainslie's long, dark brown hair reminded Al of a toppled ink well, of the kind of stain that seeped into your parchment and your fingers and never really disappeared. She was sitting on the floor with her ankles crossed to one side, the pleats of her school skirt starkly contrasting against her pale legs. He fished around in his trunk and pulled out one of the foil-wrapped packets that he'd assembled before coming to school, tearing at the corner and ripping it down the side.
The seventh-year Slytherin boys dormitory had yet to reach its usual state of disorganization—it was only the first week of term—but Al was sure that it would be achieved in short order if his absent-minded habits were any indication. Ainslie twirled a little glass pipe between her fingers while peering into Eliza's vivarium, her owlish brown eyes watching his beloved snakes.
Al dabbed at the corner of the packet with a silver knife, collecting a pea-sized glob of sticky, black crystals on the end. "You ready?" he asked, resealing the packet with his wand and stowing it in his trunk.
She smiled and he felt his stomach flutter while the back of his neck heated up. "Yeah, definitely."
"Brilliant," he said, taking a place on the edge of his bed, his green and silver sheets a twisted mess. "Come sit and we'll get started."
It was like he had dreamed one of his fantasies into existence: Ainslie Desmarais was in his bed and they were about to smoke mort together. He wasn't even sure how many times he had thought about her in his dorm bed, desire curling through his gut like fever-chills, his face pressed into the pillow while he gripped himself underneath the bed sheets, his mind filled with images of her sweeping dark hair.
He loaded the end of the pipe for her and lit it with his wand, watching Ainslie's full lips draw the black smoke into her lungs, his heart shuddering in his chest.
It was so typical, he thought, taking the pipe from her while she exhaled. So many kids from his generation had ended up in similar arrangements because of mort, but here he was—smart, funny, athletic, well-loved by his family—and so morally conflicted that he was willing to trade drugs for sex with the one girl he'd had eyes for since he'd noticed girls at all.
Everyone in the school had somehow discovered that Al was the go-to source for grandmotium, but it hadn't had the effect that he'd originally desired. He had hoped, or planned, for his reputation to help him impress Ainslie, for his connections to somehow surpass the immense shadow cast by James and his dad, but he couldn't help the hollow, stinging sensation that was rapidly enveloping him, pointedly different from the high associated with mort. Ainslie's chestnut-brown eyes were sleepy and dilated, and he didn't ease away from her when she began to inch closer, her small hand resting on his upper arm.
In the beginning using mort had been about pure curiosity but after he'd used it on and off for the majority of sixth year there wasn't much about grandmortium to be explored. When he had gone looking for the book in his father's study a part of him had been searching for his identity—as a Potter, as a teenager, as the black sheep in a golden family. While Ainslie slid her hand down his chest all of his insecurities seemed to form into a physical pull in his chest, almost like the weight of wet clothes. He had spent years searching for what it meant to be Albus Potter, and at seventeen he'd discovered it in gentle, numbing rush of mort. Despite Ainslie's attention, he wasn't enough, and only the fine black crystals could conceal it.
His vision seemed to flicker in an unusually jerky way, his stomach lurching. The mort was beginning to seep into him with every passing second, and while his nerves dulled and his mind swiftly cooled itself, he felt less and less excited for the sexual episode that was rapidly unfolding. She kissed him on the mouth and Al was dimly aware of Ainslie crawling into his lap and pressing her tongue against his, pulling away to tug his gray T-shirt over his head.
His movements felt raw and complicated, and when he was uncovered she took the initiative and pressed him down into the rumpled bedding, pulling at his belt buckle while straddling the visible erection beneath his jeans. In a moment of clarity his mind flashed to the descriptions James had offered him when he'd first shagged his former girlfriend Iris, also remembering the anecdotes his dad had shared about sneaking out of the Burrow with mum so they could have sex in the apple orchard during the summer after the war. At the time he'd been grateful for having more liberal parents who were honest about his questions, but as he tugged his fingers through Ainslie's hair the differences between his father's story and his own were undeniable.
His parents had been in love—or at least, to his seventeen-year-old mind, there wasn't any other explanation for why they waited for each other through a war when there must have been other opportunities—and he was most certainly not. Al had never really imagined what loosing his virginity would be like, but if he had, he doubted he would have planned on this.
Everything felt dull and sharp at the same time, and when Ainslie placed his hands on her breasts and eased him inside of her he tried to ground himself in the experience instead of getting lost in the mort or comparing it to one of the various fantasies he'd had about her. It became increasingly obvious that her tolerance was higher than his, that she had much more control than he did, but Al repeatedly reminded himself that he wanted this to happen.
When she bent down to press her mouth to his he got lost in her hair, reaching for her hand and squeezing it tight while the last of his innocence went up in a plume of pure, black smoke.
"What's wrong with you?" Scorpius asked, appraising his friend at the Slytherin table during breakfast the next morning. Both boys were dressed for the Quidditch practice that would soon follow. It would be their first practice that term, and Albus was so overwhelmed with the events of the previous week that he was fighting the desire to disappear into the floor, green seeker robes and all.
"I'm fine," he lied, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth while Scorpius frowned at him.
The ceiling of the Great Hall was a soft powder blue in the early morning and harsh on his sleepy eyes; Al blinked at his coffee a few times to clear his head. The day after doing mort was always a bit off, and last year he had gotten fairly good at dealing with the side effects, but apparently it was a finite ability because he definitely felt less than amazing.
"Have you got a mort-over?" Scorpius asked, cutting his pancakes into precise triangles.
"Probably," Al confessed, adding a few drops of Pepper Up Potion to his morning coffee from a glass vial that Scorpius had offered him. "I smoked some with Ainslis last night, and then we . . ."
"Shagged?" he supplied matter-of-factly.
He ducked his head, barely managing to swallow without choking. "Yes."
"Nice one," he said, grinning at his long-time friend. "Was that the first time you'd ever done anything with her?"
Al tried not to blush for fear of attracting the attention of eavesdroppers. "Yeah, but don't shout about it. I don't want the whole bloody school to know."
Sensing an opportunity for a joke, Scorpius smirked at him over his pumpkin juice. "You don't want them to know that you just now lost your virginity, or you don't want them to know that you lost it with Ainslie?"
"Stop it!" Al hissed, but it was evident that he was reprimanding him in a brotherly manner.
They stood and gathered their things before departing the Great Hall for the pitch, their path crossing few other students at such an early hour. It wasn't until they had reached the grounds that Scorpius brought up the subject again.
"I can't wait to tell Lily," he sniggered, smiling to himself while they tromped through the dewy grass.
The thought just occurring to him, Al's expression suddenly turned dark. "You better not be shagging my sister, Scor. She's only fifteen."
He wagged his pale eyebrows at him while Al felt his demeanor shift from disapproving to livid. "Scorpius—" he started.
"Calm down," he said, waving a pale hand in Al's direction. "Don't you at least know a joke when you're the but of one? We're not sleeping together. I'm far too afraid of your father and your brother and your army of Weasley cousins to risk it."
"Yeah? Well, you should also be afraid of me," Al said, playfully shoving against his friend with his shoulder. Scor shoved him back, and the two of them carried on like that all the way down to the pitch, talk of hangovers and virginity forgotten.
After showering off and changing into muggle-style weekend clothes, Al strolled over to Hagrid's, making good on his promise to his sister that he'd stop by and visit if he got the chance. After knocking rather forcefully and waiting four or five minutes without any answer, he resigned himself to the idea that Lily and Hagrid had gone to collect something from the Forest or look after one of the many semi-feral creatures the school cared for and were more than likely unavailable.
He got the idea to fetch Rez or Eliza and let them sunbathe for a little bit, but he always felt nervous bringing them outdoors while he was at Hogwarts. There were so many owls and other animals that made him reluctant to risk it; all of their pets at home had been trained to leave the snakes alone, with the occasional exception of Lily's cat, and it was a treat that his snakes always looked forward to.
Despite the unorthodox nature of keeping snakes as pets, Al considered them—next to Scorpius and his siblings—to be his oldest friends. Parsletongue gave him the luxury of actually talking with his animals, which allowed them to form a much stronger bond than he'd had with any other pet, especially concerning Eliza. She'd been with him since his first days at Hogwarts when he was still a scrawny first year, nervous hair ruffling included. He could tell that the snakes were curious about what had happened last night (Rez had asked him on a number of occasions why he didn't mate with other human girls like his previous owner had) but Al hadn't set aside time that morning to explain things to them before his Quidditch practice.
It wasn't uncommon for him to talk to his snakes in search of advice, but as he'd gotten older Al had decided that most of his human problems weren't relatable to his beloved reptiles, and he had reframed from relying on them too much. James had also been a huge source of guidance for Al, but with his brother now training nearly day and night for the Falcons he felt silly at the idea of sending his brother a letter for advice on girls. As far as Al could remember, his brother had never had trouble getting girlfriends, making him feel a bit self-conscious at the thought of asking, even if it would help.
Al also felt at least a little shamed that he'd lost his virginity while taking mort, which made him hesitant to talk about it with anyone. He guessed it wasn't the most appropriate way to go about having sex for the first time and he definitely wasn't under the assumption that Ainslie wanted to be his girlfriend, but he couldn't help searching for a bit more clarification. Albus had always told himself that there was no point in asking Ainslie to go out with him, but it was largely due to his lack of confidence. The voice of Professor Eads rang out in his head—so much potential—and it stung much deeper than he wanted to admit. The cold, painful truth was that he felt inadequate simply as himself, and in Al's mind no one would willingly want him if they understood how he felt.
Making a spur of the moment decision, Al began to walk in the direction of the greenhouses, wondering if Neville—no, Professor Longbottom, he corrected himself—was up and working with any of the plants. Although he wasn't as good at Herbology as Lily, it had always been one of his favorite classes. The earthy smell of the greenhouses faintly reminded him of his father, who always seemed to smell like a combination of pine and maple, even if he hadn't been in the woods that day.
Al took comfort in the familiarity of Greenhouse Four, where he had helped Lily relocate a batch of cactus seedlings one weekend last term, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun filtering in through the glass panes. He was startled, however, when a patch of brown that he'd thought was a bundle of mallowsweet needles turned out to be Professor Longbotton's hair.
"Good to see you, Albus," he said cheerfully. "Were you just having a look around or did you need something?"
He shrugged and tickled the flutterby bush while Neville wiped some sweat from his brow. "I was just wondering if you could use any help. I went looking for Lily and Hagrid earlier but I couldn't find them."
"Hmm. They're probably in the forest, but if you'd like you can help me water the fanged geranium."
"Sure," Al said, taking the extra set of gardening gloves that Neville offered him and filling one of the tin water cans at the tap.
They worked in mostly comfortable silence while the sun made its slow migration across the sky. Helping out Hagrid or Neville on the weekends was a tradition that all three of the Potter children enjoyed. Scorpius had never understood why he was volunteering himself for "extra lessons", as his friend had put it, but Al saw it as a good way to spend time with family friends. It helped him when he was feeling especially homesick, or when he was stressed out over schoolwork or Quidditch.
Recently there had been talk from Lily that she might become a naturalist like their Aunt Luna, and Al felt confident in guessing that her interest stemmed from so much time spent in the forest with Hagrid or in the greenhouses with Professor Longbotton.
There were plenty of interesting plants to look after, and the afternoon passed quickly. Al might not have even thought to check his watch if his stomach hadn't begun to protest the late hour, and after rinsing the stubborn dirt from his hands at the utility sink he said his goodbyes to Neville with reluctance. The events from the previous evening weighed heavily on his mind, and being around all the brightly colored, intensely living plants was making him feel strange. He began to notice the unpleasant burning sensation from the night before in his hands and feet, and Al tried to take a deep, calming breath while Neville approached with a full bucket of puffapods.
He sat the bucket down and removed his gloved, rubbing at a bit of dirt that had found its way onto his cheek. "You doing alright?" he asked, kindly regarding Al with his familiar blue eyes. "Is something bothering you?"
The warmth and silence of the greenhouse enveloped him like a womb, and he was tempted to crawl into the bed of flowering dittany plants he'd tended in his second year, wishing he could heal himself.
"I don't think I can really talk about it," he said, schooling his features not to reflect the wash of conflicting emotions that tumbled around in his chest. After a few moments of deliberation, he said, "Can we talk as . . . friends, and not as a student and a teacher?"
"Of course," Neville answered without hesitation.
Al had to quell the surge of confessional statements that wanted to swim from his mouth, reminding himself that the conversation would be loads easier if he presented everything coherently.
He sighed and raked his hand through his shaggy black hair, a gesture he'd seen performed by his father in frustrating situations throughout his childhood. "I've been making a lot of really stupid choices," he said flatly.
The afternoon sun felt suddenly very hot on the back of his neck; Al shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
"I've been feeling really confused about what I want to do with myself, with my future, I guess, and I've felt this way for a while now. Professor Eads keeps pushing me to make some kind of move that I'm not comfortable with, and it just feels like everyone expects me to be a certain way because of mum and dad—and I really love them, but the only thing I can do is make ruddy potions, and no one wants that from Harry Potter's kid, you know?"
Al looked to Neville who nodded in solemn understanding, as if waiting for him to continue.
He sighed and pulled his lower lip between his teeth, biting down. "Everyone expects one of us to be like you lot and join the aurors or go into law enforcement like Aunt Hermione, but there's no way they'd ever take me. You know why? Because I have broken so many laws in the past year—I can't even name them all. I've been doing mort, okay? A lot of it. And I've been brewing it. And selling it to other kids here at school. I've been consciously making one of the most dangerous and illegal drugs we have and giving it to schoolchildren—not to mention showing up to class high or hung over, selling it to other kids right in front of my professors..."
"I know," his Professor said simply. The statement sounded like a foreign language to Al, who didn't believe a word of it.
"What? Know—how the hell do you know any of this?"
Neville looked at him with a soft, calm expression. "Your father. He told me to look out for you. Said that you were going through a hard time right now, but to let you figure it out for yourself. He explained that you'd been . . . experimenting with some of the more dangerous illicit wizarding substances."
Al sank down onto one of the nearby overturned buckets, his thin frame suddenly bursting with nervous, fearful energy. His panic must have shown, because Professor Longbottom pulled up a bucket for himself and held his hands up in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture.
"You're not in any kind of trouble, Al. Your dad only asked me to help out as a friend, not as your professor. Really. And he's not angry with you, just worried. A team of aurors isn't going to swoop down and carry you off to Azkaban—I promise."
He found it difficult to imagine his father being okay with his actions. It felt like there was a very real physical pain in his chest that shot up into his throat, thickening the words in his mouth like tar. Neville may have claimed that his father wasn't angry about his behavior but Al knew his dad, and he knew more surely than anything that he wouldn't be happy with what he had done.
Al had spent the majority of his life trying so desperately to be good enough for his father. It was why he pushed himself to be top of the class in defense, why he'd shown an interest in seeking when he was only seven or eight years old, why he cherished his ability as a Parslemouth. Anything that brought him closer to his dad was worth committing to, and as he got older Al learned to love all those things for their own merit, but he would be bold-faced lying if he told himself that his father's identity hadn't influenced his own. No one had ever forced him to play Quidditch or win dueling competitions, but the stubborn middle child in him wanted so badly to be noticed, to be more than good enough, to be better, that it was with a huge amount of anxiety that he acknowledged his mistakes.
"I've fucked up big time," he said quietly, elbows resting dejectedly on his knees. "I mean with this whole thing—and it's only the first week of term."
Professor Longbottom rested a hand on Albus's shoulder, gripping it tightly. "Al, it's going to be okay. I swear to you that your father isn't upset, I'm not upset, we just want to make sure you're alright. And I know what a great student you are, so don't let Eads get you riled up about the future. Your parents will be proud of you whether you become an auror or a brewer or something else entirely. You've got a good family. They just want you to be happy."
He'd said these things to himself hundreds of times, heard them from his parents, his siblings, but somehow hearing it from a third party that he knew and trusted made the statements and their implications feel real for the first time. Al rubbed at his eye with his sleeve, trying to breath in through his nose and out through his mouth like in Quidditch training, hoping that the familiar exercise would calm him down. Neville squeezed his arm again, smelling of earth and sweet mosses, his acceptance radiating through his touch.
"I'd better go," Albus said, standing before he changed his mind. "Thank you, professor. Really. I just . . . I have some things I need to do."
The air felt surprisingly less humid after he left the greenhouses, like he'd removed a layer of warm, moist clothing during his departure. It was a bright afternoon and the sky was clear enough for Al to see all the way to the pale, snow-capped peaks in the distance. It occurred to him that the mountains were so beautiful they made his heart sore. Like Eliza. Like Ainslie. Al retreated to the castle, feeling like he'd shed the skin of his youth in the process.
One of the first things Albus did when he returned to the castle was track down Nolan Quent and hand him a brown paper bundle that contained the last of his batch of mort. His classmate gawked at him once he guessed the contents of the package, and Al merely shrugged, muttering that he just wanted to get rid of the damn stuff.
"How much?" Nolan asked.
At this point Al could care less about whatever money he could potentially make off the transaction. "Whatever you've got in your bloody pockets, I don't care," he said.
Nolan gratefully accepted the terms and fished out a galleon and six sickles. "It's all I've got on me," Nolan apologized, weighing the generous cache of drugs in his hand.
"It's fine, but I won't have any more for the rest of the year. And don't give any of that rubbish to Lily," he warned.
Quent dashed back to Gryffindor tower to hide his newly acquired mort while Albus slouched down to the Great Hall for dinner. He was one of the first students to arrive, and probably the hungriest, he thought, taking note of his positively growling stomach.
The attitudes of the other students couldn't have been more different then his own. Most of his classmates looked well rested and cheerful, grateful for the first weekend of term without the usual crush of unfinished assignments.
Al saw the dark swoop of Ainslie's hair at the end of the Slytherin table and he did his best to casually ignore her, taking a seat a polite distance away, as if he was waiting for Scorpius. More than anything, he wanted to talk to James, but that desire was quickly squashed when he considered its impossibility. One thing that had bound him and his siblings together was their solidarity in the face of trouble. Very rarely would one of them go to their parents if it could somehow be managed otherwise, and it was immensely frustrating that he couldn't just pull his older brother into an abandoned classroom for a chat, or pass hastily scribbled notes together in the library.
Without waiting for his housemates to join him, Al began to tuck into a plate of pasta, barely tasting the food he'd been so impressed with earlier in the week. He finished his meal just as the majority of the school was appearing for dinner, ignoring Lily and Scorpius entering the Great Hall, hands clasped together. For more than the first time since they started going out Al wished that his sister and his best friend would notice a little more than just each other.
Feeling a mixture of annoyance and something both numb and painful, Albus wandered upstairs, away from his common room and Professor Eads' private quarters and his familiar dungeon territory. He waited for a group of excited Hufflepuff girls to move before ducking into the library, which was mercifully quiet. Al grabbed a book at random from one of the nearby shelves and searched out a deserted worktable.
He flipped open the book to somewhere in the middle and left the prop open in front of him, his posture hunched and serious. The events from last night played back in his head like a never-ending loop of events: smoking, kissing, undressing, finishing with the most disorienting sexual experience of his life.
Why did it have to happen like that? He thought, figuring that in such an incapacitated state he had been complete, unimpressive rubbish and that Ainslie would never want anything to do with him again, especially now that he'd given away the last of his drugs. It's not like she shagged me because she actually likes me, a bitter voice chimed. Al meditated on that thought and came up with all kinds of self-deprecating explanations for why Ainslie would never want to be with him and why he was such a fucking disappointment to his father and why he'd never amount to anything bloody useful—
"What are you doing?"
He looked up and met the questioning stare of his cousin, Rose. She had a massive Transfiguration text in her arms that he guessed was for a recent assignment their class had been given.
"Reading," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, that thing you do with books."
"You don't know how to read Runes," she said shrewdly, having caught him in a lie.
Al looked down. What luck; he'd picked a book written in a language he didn't even understand. Shrugging it off, he closed the useless volume and crossed his arms, frowning. "What do you want, Rosie?"
She slid the tome onto the table plopped into the seat across from him. "To see how you are. You look miserable. Not that your expression is any different than your normal sunny demeanor, but usually you don't exile yourself to the library during meals. Tell me what's wrong then. Go on."
For once, Al was grateful for his cousin's no-nonsense attitude toward things. It was why he had always gotten on with her so well when they were younger.
"I had sex with Ainslie last night and I think I made an idiot of myself, I'm positive that my dad knows I'm doing drugs, and I can't decide what to do with my future."
Rose sighed and pursed her lips together before speaking. "Have you talked to Ainslie? Or your father?"
"No," he said.
"Then you should go about taking care of that before you do anything else. I'm sure Ainslie will give you another chance, within reason. She's been mad about you for ages but too shy to do anything about it. Secondly, write an apology to your father straight away and tell him that you've given it up and that you were feeling very worried and confused when you decided that using addictive, illegal drugs was a good idea. Thirdly, you are going to become a potion-maker whether you like it or not because you're fantastic at it and it's what you've wanted to do since third year. Albus, if you'd stop trying to outdo James and your dad for five seconds then maybe this would all be clearer to you," she finished, opening her textbook and flicking through the pages.
"It sounds so easy when you put it like that but it's not that simple—"
"You need to stop caring about other people more than you care about yourself," Rose said, her eyes trained on the page. "For once in your life do what you actually want to do instead of talking yourself out of it."
He sat for a moment, the meaning of his cousin's words hanging in the air between them. It shamed him to admit it, but Rose was right. He'd fooled himself for the past year, thinking that by doing mort he was somehow making his own choices, becoming his own person, but his reasons for it were more reactionary than anything else. Selling and using drugs had been a way to distance himself from all the achievements and the immense goodness of his father. In doing something illegal he was achieving something of his own, but if Al had consciously decided to establish himself then he probably wouldn't have picked grandmortium, he wouldn't have lost his virginity the way he did, and he wouldn't feel guilty every time he showed up to a meeting with his head of House. Albus settled his churning stomach and made a decision.
He wasn't surprised when the knock sounded on the door to his dormitory. It was a Sunday, and most of his dorm-mates were either down in the common room or the library and Al was taking advantage of the alone time to handle Eliza.
"Come in," he said, not looking at the visitor in the doorway.
"Hi."
As he'd suspected, Ainslie was standing next to Scorpius's bed, her hair swept into a ponytail that trailed down her back. Eliza curled her way around Al's arm while he met her eyes, watching until she blinked and looked down, demure as a fawn. She bit her bottom lip and took a step towards him.
"Can I sit?" she asked. The freckles that decorated her cheekbones made her look younger and softer than he was used to seeing her. Al wondered if she usually covered them with makeup or if they had somehow escaped his notice.
"Yeah," he said, allowing his snake to weave a path over his shoulder and up the corner of his four-poster. "I'd like that."
Ainslie joined him on the rug while Eliza watched over them like some sort of guardian, faintly hissing her approval in Al's ear. He looked at her small, delicate hand and took it in his own, beginning the conversation between them.
-fin-