Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling.
Flicker
Harry tries not to stare. He really, really does. But there are some things that he just can't help. He knows it's wrong, knows that, despite all the good things he's done in his life, he'll probably be sent straight to Hell. But there's just something about the boy…something that gets under his skin and crawls around until it's his name and his hair and that stupid, all-knowing, much too familiar smirk. All of it pounding away in his mind like a constant, unrelenting rhythm. His name, over and over.
He wants to say he's gotten used to the idea of his son being so close to Scorpius Malfoy. It's been years, and really he shouldn't be surprised when the boy comes around during the holidays, but he catches himself sometimes, just in quiet little moments. His eyes linger a bit too long, his smile is just a touch too twisted, his words just off the mark.
He knows, consciously, what it is that makes him feel so irresistibly pulled toward the boy. It's uncanny, really, the resemblance between Scorpius and his father, and, well, it's been a long time since Harry realised what his obsession with Draco meant all those years ago. But that's a road he's not so sure he wants to start down again.
He tells himself, firmly, that this is not an appropriate train of thought for a grown man with a family. He loves his wife and his children. He has a child older than Scorpius. Albus would never forgive him if he found out. Scorpius is not his father; it wouldn't bring back any old feelings. It wouldn't right past wrongs. It wouldn't make any of that longing go away. He tells himself all this, but more and more, he finds himself not believing it.
Scorpius isn't really a child anymore, after all. He's seventeen, fully legal. There wouldn't be anything technically wrong with it if he acted on this burning, gnawing hunger that he feels. But no…his moral compass is much too steady for that. He's too good of a person. Despite the terrible thoughts, he could never actually do something like that. That's what he thinks, at least, until Scorpius shows up at the house during the summer before his seventh year.
He stumbles out of the fireplace late one August afternoon, the sleeves of his crisp white button-up rolled to his elbows, his hair shaggy and blonder than it had been the last time Harry had seen him, streaked with sun. His forearms are tanned and his face happy and open, Harry notes. So much different than his father. If only…
"Hello, Mr Potter," Scorpius says energetically as he brushes a bit of soot from his collar. "Al and I were just going to play a bit of Quidditch. D'you think you could show me the Wronski Feint once more? Dad refuses because he knows it means we'll beat Slytherin to the Cup."
The boy is all smiles and laughter and light, living his life to the fullest, and Harry falters for a minute. He blinks, his tongue suddenly feeling much too heavy for his mouth. He wants to say yes, wants to throw his broom over his shoulder and shout for his son to come out back, wants to be a nice, normal father. But he can't. The thought of watching Scorpius on a broom makes the muscles in his arms clench, causes his palms to clam up. He's got the perfect body for a Seeker, all long, lean lines and lithe movements. Harry, in spite of himself, wonders what else that body would be good for.
He swallows thickly. "Yeah, Scorpius," he says, his voice coming out a bit choked. "Why don't you go find Al? I think he's upstairs."
"Excellent," Scorpius says, his eyes sparkling. As he moves to pass Harry, though, he brushes against him, just once, his hand knocking lightly against the place where Harry's shirt has ridden up next to his trousers. He pauses, looking up at Harry innocently. "You alright, Mr Potter?" he asks.
Harry stares at him, his jaw clenched tightly, his heart racing. His fingers itch to reach out, to grab the boy by his collar and shove him against the wall, to do dirty, filthy things. He wants to find out how that body feels under his hands, wants to know how it would taste to wipe that smirk away. Harry's eyes flick over the high, aristocratic cheekbones, the long, pointed chin, the shining silver eyes. All his features, so familiar. And when Scorpius does things like this, on the rare occasions that he acts like his father, Harry wants him even more. He can hardly help himself, can barely resist. It's in moments like these that Harry can't quite understand how the boy was sorted into Gryffindor, how he could possibly be anything but a carbon copy of Draco.
Harry licks his lips subconsciously, and his hand twitches as he takes a half-step toward Scorpius. The boy's blameless little grin widens into a knowing sort of sneer. He cocks an eyebrow at Harry, holding his ground, tantalisingly close but just barely out of reach.
"I would make you scream, Potter," Scorpius says in his father's drawl, his voice bone-chillingly cold. "That's what this is, isn't it? You want my father, but not like he is now. You want him young and fit and ready."
He's close now, much too close, and Harry tries desperately to hold himself still. He will not allow himself to make a move. He won't start down this road. No. It's too wrong. There's too much history, too much that could be destroyed. Scorpius brushes his lips against the shell of Harry's ear, his teeth scraping against the skin just once, and he's gone. Harry's fists ball up of their own accord as he watches Scorpius saunter away toward the stairs.
The boy pauses on the landing, looking over his shoulder, his expression still taunting. "I'll see you on the pitch," he says in a friendly tone, but Harry can't help noticing the flicker of dark mischievousness in his eye.