Title: A Helping Hand, or A Hogwarts Bathroom Ballad
Author: AristideCauquemaire
Pairing: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter (kind of...)
Rating: M for grown-up language and sexual situations and themes.
Warnings: slash, slightly non-consensual situations (later on), original characters (recycled because I like them.)
/
Whoo, you're still here! Or here again! Whoo!
Thanks to Bridget Narcissa Malfoy for favving and following this story! (Isn't this a bit early...? Not that I'm complaining, mind you :D) And thanks to Guest for the review! I hope you'll keep liking it, it gets a bit... dubious and loopy from here ^^;
Also, thanks to frankthetiger for favving Stars! (After all this time...!)
Okay! The story continues, the plot thickens, the sympathetic cringing commences. Enjoy :)
~Chapter 2~
Silence.
A long, long silence.
Scorpius opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened it again, and closed it again.
Shut the fuck up! came to mind so loudly that he was sure everyone must have heard.
His knees were suddenly back where they were supposed to be, but the butterbeer had apparently made them squishy so he didn't even dare to take a step toward the chair that was now positively enticing, beckoning like a siren.
And then, the hilarity set in, and the chortled, then coughed, then chuckled, cleared his throat, and finally laughed out loud going, "Whu- hu- hua- t?" Seeing Mr Weasley's and Mrs Granger's enraged faces only made it worse.
"You're not being serious right now, are you? Is this... " He looked around theatrically. "Am I on candid camera?"
"Scorpius," his father merely said, and instantly, the merriness drained away.
Scorpius cleared his throat once more and mumbled, "Sorry," managing to sound sheepish. Turning to Rose's parents again, he said, "Honestly, though, you cannot be serious. I mean we're... we're not even dating or anything, and you're implying that I'd, eh, that- that we'd... get together before February 18th, and I mean..."
He trailed off. Judging by the looks everyone was giving him, saying something like 'Thanks for the vote of confidence and all, but y'all are seriously overestimating my seducing abilities, not to mention my sexual prowess, not to mention- don't you think that at least one of us would be able to operate a goddamn condom?!' would have been a bad call, even though it was right on the tip of his tongue. So he bit the aforementioned tongue tip and said nothing.
"Now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag," his father ended the silence with another long-suffering sigh, "I believe we can finally pick up the conversation where we left off when my son joined us. What exactly is it, Mrs Granger, that you were proposing?"
Mrs Granger straightened in her chair and turned her head to the master of the house, the Mild Smile™ back in place. "First of all, just to be clear, Mr Malfoy: Am I correct in assuming that every party involved would very much prefer to avoid the fate prophesied by the oracle?"
His dad steepled his fingers before him on the desk, glanced at Scorpius and then at his wife before looking at Mrs Granger again. "You are correct, Mrs Granger, though not, I assure you, for the same reasons."
"But of course not." Mrs Granger's smile went almost aggressively friendly. She reached down and picked up a handbag that had been standing by her side, hidden from Scorpius' sight behind her own legs and the chair's. "Thankfully, differing reasons are irrelevant to the proposal, Mr Malfoy, given that we're all in agreement regarding the desired outcome," she said as she flipped open the petite bag – expensive and magically embiggened, Scorpius noted, when her arm vanished into it almost to the elbow – and fished out a manila folder which she then placed on the desk and slid over to her opposite.
"The measures that should be taken are rather straightforward, foolproof, and have no side effects."
"Measures?" Scorpius asked, but no one took notice except for Mr Weasley who shot him another arctic look.
His parents both leaned over to study whatever was in the folder. He could see his mother's eyebrows going up a bit.
"All we would require is a signature to legally verify your approval of us taking these measures," Mrs Granger explained with a casual air.
"Measures?" Scorpius asked again, even exaggerating the quizzical cadence, yet again no one gave a response.
"Why exactly would you be the enforcing agent?" his dad inquired, eyes still on the paper in front of him, eyebrows raised and drawn together like he always did when reading something he didn't quite understand or agree with.
"Practicality," Mrs Granger replied easily. "My husband knows the spells. They were part of the Auror training."
"Spells?" Scorpius was pleading now.
His father nodded slowly, more at the paper than at Mrs Granger. "And why exactly is the second spell necessary?"
"Because we are thorough," Mrs Granger answered, glancing, for the first time in a while, at Scorpius. Just for a short moment, though, and her expression was unreadable. A politicians' talent.
"We do not simply want to shift the burden upon some other poor girl, which is, seeing the nature of the prophecy, likely to happen. I believe that this coincides with your desires for your family, does it not?"
"Father!" Scorpius called out, and the abruptness and volume of the shout actually made everyone look at him, including his father.
"What's going on?" he asked, voice somewhat squeakier than he wished, taking advantage of the attention. "What are you talking about?"
He knew they were talking about him, but somewhere between them informing him of the fact that some kooky soothsayer was of the professional opinion that he would get Rose Weasley pregnant and right now, they had lost him. Quite literally. It was as if, in their heads, he had left the room, amplifying the surprise of him suddenly speaking up.
"What measures? What spells? What is going on?"
"Scorpius, darling-" his mother began, but he cut her off.
"Now that I know it, how about I just promise you that I won't- sleep with Rose?" he offered, feeling mighty stupid about the fact that the word 'sleep' made him go red in the face. "Or that, maybe-" He licked his lips, darting a look to Mr Weasley and hoping that he wouldn't jump out of his chair and hit him with a clothesline, then inhaled deeply as if he were about to jump into cold, deep water that had crocodiles at the bottom. "Maybe if you just let Rose go on the pill? And then there's condoms-" Mordred, it sounded wrong to talk like this in front of a bunch of parents. He cringed.
"That's not how fate works, Scorpius," Mrs Granger said with a tone reserved for stubborn five-year-olds. Stubborn five-year-olds who had worn out her patience long ago and were soon in for a slap or two. Her fingers were positively digging into her husband's thigh now. "It takes a more than well-meant suggestions to change destiny."
"Which is why I suggest we haul out the big guns now," Mr Weasley said gruffly to no one in particular, then pointed at his father with a finger. "Hurry up and sign that piece of bumph, Malfoy. We've got places to be."
"I'm sure you do, Weasley," came the tart but deceivingly indulgent reply, and for a moment, Scorpius thought his father would rip the paper up and hand them back the pieces. He could even see the twitch in his hand that always came when he was about to kick someone out of his office.
But instead, he glanced at Astoria once more, a little longer this time, and she pressed her lips together and tilted her head ever so slightly. His shoulders sagged when he sighed, and within the second, a quill was in his hand and his signature was on the parchment with a flourish.
"Dad?" Scorpius spluttered. His father looked up and at him, an unrelenting line around his mouth.
"Sit down, Scorpius. This won't take long."
The way he said it was final. Scorpius found himself sitting before he could even consider contradicting. His still wobbly legs were all for it, too.
The last things he remembered was Mr Weasley pointing his wand at him saying quietly and grimly, "This is for defiling my daughter in the future", and him thinking 'That doesn't make any fucking sense' and, ludicrously, wanting to yell 'I want to see my Minority Report!', and then thinking that he never liked 'Minorty Report' even though he generally liked Steven Spielberg movies – with the possible exception of Indy 4 – and pre-lunacy Tom Cruise, and then a wave of numbness crept through his body, crashed over his head and he blacked out.
/
When he woke up again, he was in his bed. It was light outside, but the kind of light that said 'early afternoon'. He wondered why he had slept that long. He normally was an early riser.
He lifted his head to look at the clock. Quarter past three. He let his head sink.
Then he wiped his eyes and looked again, just to make sure. It still said quarter past three.
He sat up and checked his wristwatch. Quarter past three.
What the-?
Then he wondered why he was wearing clothes that were not pyjamas, and a wristwatch.
And then the recollections came flooding back in. The south wing study. Rose's parents. Measures. Weasley pointing his wand-
He jumped out of bed as if stung by a needle and started ripping his clothes off of himself. Whatever the 'big guns' had been that Weasley had said he would 'haul out', it had to do with his body – so much so that he had suddenly felt numb all over and blacked out for an hour and a half – and he felt the overwhelming need to see that everything was still in place and not covered in boils and sores, or that there hadn't been any weird and unattractive additions to his extremities.
Before long, he stood naked in front of the mirror, turning and twisting and checking everything twice, running his palms up and down his legs and torso and wriggling his toes.
"It's all there," he breathed to himself, combing his fingers through his hair once more to check for... horns or antennae, possibly.
It was, indeed, all there. He sighed in relief and looked himself in the eye. "What the hell have they done to me?" he asked his reflection. His reflection shrugged.
Pulling on his pants, he called for Milly. The house-elf appeared with a pop and bowed, unflustered by the display of nudity as always.
"Milly, do I look different to you than normal?" he asked, presenting himself to her and holding out his arms in a broad ta-dah gesture.
Milly eyed him uncertainly. "Y- Young Master Scorpius?" she squeaked, visibly torn between asking what he meant, admitting that she didn't know what he meant, and banging her forehead against the wall repeatedly as punishment for not being able to answer and failing him as a servant.
"Is there anything odd about my appearance?" Scorpius clarified. "Do you see anything on or around me that isn't normally there?"
"Milly isn't thinking so, Young Master Scorpius," she hesitantly replied.
"Do I look ugly?"
"M... Master-"
"I mean, do I have warts on my face?"
"No, Young Master Scorpius."
"Scales anywhere?"
"No, Young Master Scorpius."
"Rashes, gashes, growths, hair?"
"Pimples, Young Master Scorpius."
"Yeah, they're normal, I'm afraid." He sighed. "Thank you, Milly. You may leave."
She did and he moved to put the rest of his clothes back on.
When he pulled on his trousers and then zipped up, a weird tingling sensation went through his middle.
He paused mid-movement, then zipped back down.
Same sensation. A bit like having pins and needles in his... in his... yeah, there. That was unusual.
He peeled off the trousers to his thighs, then slid down his underpants and looked down on himself.
It all seemed fine, visually speaking. Normal. He contemplated calling Milly again and asking her once more, about this certain body part in particular, whether there was anything abnormal going on that she could see, but then decided against it, thinking that it might be a tad crass.
Casually, because it was a normal thing to do, he touched himself. He had done that approximately a million times in his life already, it was one of the most familiar actions in general.
Except that now it wasn't like that any more.
There was no feeling – no sensation whatsoever. It was numb. Like his face had been when they had removed his wisdom teeth.
It felt like he was touching a door handle or a cold sausage or something, something that wasn't part of his body, really. It just happened to be attached to him.
Suddenly there was a high, ullulating sound in the air, not unlike a car alarm. He realized that it was coming out of his own mouth.
His knees went wobbly for the second time today and he stumbled backward with his trousers and pants impeding his movements, plonking down onto his bed with his bare ass, his dead appendage still in his hand.
And then he just sat and wailed because between skin problems, lovesickness, examination stress and having to confess his infatuation to the parents of his love interest, losing feeling in his penis is not something a sixteen year old boy can simply take in stride.
/
/TBC (tomorrow)