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). Also, seriously, language and sexual situations and themes. Don't say I didn't warn you.

/

Hello again! It's your daily infusion of Schadenfreude, nice to have you back :)

Thanks to Guest, again, for the review! Patience on the Albus part. He'll come in (and you have no idea how f*cking accurate and literal that is, omg lmao) soon! Also: Tut, hush. Don't tell the others, but you're my favourite 'weird guest reviewer'. Don't ever change ^.^ (unless you want to.)

~Chapter 4~

~39 days left~

Two days later he was back at Hogwarts and just walking into greenhouse number 5 on somewhat shaky legs. There were several reasons for this shakiness, reason number one being the snow and icy patches on the frosty ground that were giving everyone a hard time. The winter had been unusually rough, full of icicles that tried to fall down and kill you by impalement, and snow that piled up and then turned hard as rock. The terrain had them all walking like penguins (if they were well coordinated) or newborn giraffes on roller skates (if they were not). Only a day after the holidays were over and Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing was already well filled with the proud owners of broken coccyges, sprained ankles and badly bruised elbows.

Reason number two was the fact that he hadn't recuperated from a shower incident half an hour ago. During his morning shower he had realized that there was a mighty big loophole in Mr Weasley's Comatose Cock Curse (that's what he'd dubbed it, appreciating the amusing and accurate if aggressively arrhythmic alliteration). He wasn't sure whether it was meant to be there for some reason – because it seemed very counter-intuitive and -productive – or if Mr Weasley was just a shite spellcaster whose training in libido-and-sexuality-related hexes was years and years ago.

In any case, he had felt like a normal teenager there for a minute as the jet of water hit him in all the right places and elicited all the right sensations. With them came all the right thoughts and imaginations – quite quickly, because, really, they never really left these days – and suddenly, in his head, there was someone there with him, touching like he had never been touched before except by himself, pressing warmly and wetly against him-

He then looked down on himself and almost cried out in shock when realized that he had a boner. And not just a semi. An honest to goodness erection.

Next, he had actually cried out in shock because there actually WAS someone there with him, just not the person he wanted to be there with him. Anthony Prince and Robert Shrewsbury had walked into the room right that moment, stopping dead in their tracks as they saw him, uh, standing there.

The unpleasantness of being found (supposedly) wanking in a public bathroom in plain sight was instantly trumped by the unpleasantness of the feeling his own hand elicited when he clamped it over his privates to shield them from their view. Said feeling was somewhat reminiscent of an Indian burn, while simultaneously having his jewels dunked into a bucket of very, very cold water. It had made him go limp in what was probably world record time, and his testicles may have curled upwards into his groin a little. If not for the audience, he would have whimpered.

The incident begged massive questions, aside from a whingey Why me?! Why was it possible for outside forces to stimulate him just like always? Was it really a spellcasting error, or had the spellmaker simply assumed that every kind of sexual intercourse would require the man to touch himself at some point – a touch that would wilt him pretty much instantly and was guaranteed to suck all the joy out of the moment?

More importantly – would that mean that, theoretically, if someone else... say, Rose Weasley... were to touch him...?

Which inevitably lead to reason for wobbliness #3: Rose Weasley, who was waiting at the planting station they shared, rubbing her glove-clad fingers vigorously against the cold while talking to Amanda Goldstein.

Scorpius drew in a deep breath and wobbled toward her, figuring that he couldn't possibly put this off any longer anyway. Professor Longbottom was already around and would start the lesson any minute now and they were still table partners.

When he was within earshot, he cleared his throat and said, "Hey."

Rose turned around, smiled slightly and replied, "Hey." And turned back to Amanda to resume the conversation.

Uhm.

Okay.

That was both worse than and not as bad as he had feared, actually.

Not as bad because he markedly did not feel the overwhelming need to flee the scene. There was no force field or tornado-like wind around her that repulsed him. After his father's magnet-analogy he had feared that he would either be physically driven out of her range by the invisible power of her... well, her magically reinforced Scorpius-Malfoy-repellant vagina... (better not think about that one for too long... ) or that he would feel the urge to run away, like a bug being hit with insect spray, or any person with a normal sense of smell getting a whiff of Axe deodorant.

Also, he had feared that she would be cold toward him, which was not the case.

Well. Not really. Not as far as he could tell, at least. Had that been a genuine smile? She didn't seem particularly stand-offish or frosty.

No. Much worse than straight-up cold, she seemed luke-warm.

Scorpius didn't know how to handle that.

Professor Longbottom entered the greenhouse at that moment and the lesson began. Scorpius only listened with half an ear because the opposite side of his brain was occupied with thoughts relating to Rose and her behaviour and her every movement and boners and showers with boners and Rose and-

"Malfoy!"

"Wh-What?" He blinked. Since when had he been standing here, in front of the planting table, with Rose Weasley on the other side? And since when had that puffapod sapling been in his hand? He almost dropped it because it squirmed.

"Could you focus?" Rose had a bowl of greyroot ash in one hand and a garden trowel in the other, clearly waiting for him to do something.

"Sorry!" he almost yelled and hurried to put the puffapod into the hole. "Sorry," he repeated, mumbling, as he scooped some earth around the plant's base and gently pushed it down. "It's been a crazy few days." And the award for Understatement of the Year goes to...

Rose tsked and rolled her eyes, then sprinkled some ash over the planted sapling and proceeded to almost drown the poor thing with water. "You know, you're not the only one," she said as she dug another sapling-sized hole.

"Oh, I- I know, I know," Scorpius said hastily. "I didn't mean-"

She sighed. Loudly and annoyed enough to actually make him fall silent. And he could have sworn that Amanda Goldstein and Michael Bowen who were working together on the next table fell silent as well, just through the power of that annoyed sigh.

"Look, Malfoy," Rose said evenly. It had never bothered him that she called him by his family name when others were in earshot before, but now it did. "Let's get through this lesson, and after that, we talk a bit and clear this up. Okay?"

He nodded and said, "Uh. Okay", knowing full well that he really didn't have much of a choice.

His knees were weak and his thoughts raced the entire class, but thankfully there wasn't much walking or talking involved in their work, so it didn't particularly stand out.

By the end of the one hundred and twenty minutes of shovelling dirt and pruning greenery while listening to Professor Longbottom's lecture about care and usage of the plants they were tending, he had a grand soliloquy laid out and ready. He had re-worked his mother's encouraging words about standing a test and building a future together, introducing them with heartfelt apologies for something he hadn't yet done – and, as it looked, would never do... unless she wanted him to... – and the emotional unfairness of it, concluding the whole thing with an upbeat message about faithfulness and the veracity of his feelings. Somewhere in there, there even was a quip about parents and the sex talk. It was a speech worthy of a John Hughes movie. It deserved a soundtrack.

Said speech deflated quicker than his morning shower erection when Rose's first words to him as she led him between the greenhouses after class were, "Can you switch tables with Michael starting next week?"

He blinked and asked, "What?"

This was not at all how he had imagined things to go.

"I think it's really weird, being, like, close now." She shrugged, a movement that was almost imperceptible underneath at least five layers of clothing.

He blinked again, trying to make sense of what was happening. "Rose, what...?" A thought came to him. "Is this because of... You know. The spell. Your parents put... the spell..." On your... your... He couldn't even think it. Are you having repellent feelings about me?

She didn't even pick up on his awkwardness. Instead, she cocked an eyebrow and said simply, "No, it's not. It's just that I don't want you to be, like, close to me any more."

He stared at her. Something inside of his chest died a small and quiet yet painful death.

She sighed regretfully as if she had just realized that her last sentence sounded really sort of cruel. "It's not... Look, that came out wrong. It's not a physical thing or anything. I just don't want to give you, like, the wrong impression. Especially because it seems that you had the wrong impression from the start, and I'm really sorry, but I always thought of you as a friend." She paused. "Or, you know, like, a fellow student. Occasional study partner. An acquaintance. That's it."

"B... B-but-" he spluttered. Acquaintance. If words, turned to thoughts, had a taste, this one would taste like licking an ashtray. "But we- On Hallowe'en, we danced-" And then we talked for hours and hours and we spent so much time together and I taught you how to brew a damn near perfect Chelidonium Meniscula when I should have been studying for the Runes test and I got you boots with Antonia Guarda's autograph on it for your birthday, goddamn it-

"Gosh, I danced with so many guys last year," she said airily. With a contemplative look toward the sky she continued, in a dreamy voice, "And with a few girls, too. I still think I may have snogged Marcy afterwards, but she was also drunk and no one saw us, so yeah, we'll never know for certain. Don't you dare tell anyone that, by the way." She pointed a threatening, mitten-covered index finger at his face, then sighed again and quipped, "You know, I really can't hold my liquor, and someone spiked the butterbeer."

Bam, bam. So much for that peck on the cheek. Also, Rose Weasley had snogged Marcy Mills-Foster. Sweet Merlin, that was cruelty wrapped in a thin coating of chocolate. Scorpius was shocked into a petrified silence.

"The prophecy really surprised me because I never really thought of you that way, Scorpius," she went on matter-of-factly. "I suppose that you probably did think of me that way, but I don't want to encourage it, for obvious reasons. We're not, like, a Capulet and a Montague, you know? I wouldn't want you to read things into my actions and have your fantasy run away with it. So I'd like you to switch tables with Michael or someone else, to make things easier for you."

Don't say it, don't say it.

"We can totally still be friends."

… ugh.

"Like, I still consider you a friend. You're such a likeable person, Scorpius."

You can totally stop talking now.

"My parents told me so much about your father lately, I have to say I'm glad you're really not like him at all."

At that, Scorpius frowned and glowered at her but Rose was busy waving at Amanda and Suzanne who were waiting for her to catch up near the greenhouse entrance so she didn't see his look.
"Anyway, I hope we can both, like, overcome this and just be fine. You know? Hey, I gotta go or I'll be late for Divination. See you."

And then she was off, running as fast as a penguin could, catching up with her two friends and vanishing around the corner without a look back.

Scorpius stood there, feeling the cold seep through the soles of his boots, seep all the way up to his chest and make a permanent home there, and tried to grasp what had just happened.

No wonder Mr Weasley had almost lynched him. If Rose had told her dad exactly what she had told him right now – using words like "acquaintance", no less – then he probably imagined that he would only get her pregnant through coercion, possibly rape. That actually justified the growling and glowering.

And no wonder Mrs Granger had talked down to him like she had. She had seen him, the Malfoy kid, son of Draco Malfoy whom she despised intensely if politely, harbouring a crush for her daughter, so convinced that the feeling was mutual that he had proposed condoms and pills because he'd been so sure that something would happen between him and Rose... She must have thought him some kind of deluded idiot.

He stood there between the greenhouses until it felt like he was freezing to the spot. Only when Professor Longbottom emerged and saw him standing there did he trudge up to the castle, ending up late for Runes and earning himself a detention.

He didn't much care.

/

~Still 39 days left~

Idiot. His every thought revolved around that concept throughout the day, albeit cloaked in new vocabulary like twat, dweeb, moron and fool to keep it fresh. Even though he was bodily present, he missed the entirety of History class to his contemplations regarding Rose Weasley and the fool that was him.

Chewing on the tip of his quill, he asked himself over and over how he could have been so blind – and also, ironically, how he could have been the opposite of blind, how he could have been so delusional, seeing things that hadn't been there.

Rose had spent so much time with him, out of her own free will, although, admittedly, she had never gone out of her way to be in his company... – anyway, didn't that necessarily mean that she liked him more than as an "acquaintance"? He had never seen her be like that with other people or behave like she had toward him toward others except for her fellow Gryffindor pals, so didn't that absolutely imply that she considered him a friend? Or had he just missed the part where she touched other people's – everyone's – shoulders and clapped them on their backs and hugged them randomly and casually, as if out of habit? Did she have several people whom she cavalierly told stuff about her life? About being the eldest daughter of a power mum (who endlessly berated her for electing Divination in fifth year), about having Harry Potter as a godfather, about her future plans, about her phobia of mashed potatoes, about dying her hair black just to freak out her dad, about having an oddly knobby middle toe, about getting her freaking menses in the middle of a Quidditch game...

Were these things she would have told just anyone?

No. No, he decided. She had flirted with him and opened up to him.

"I am not just a measly acquaintance," he thought.

The heads of the entire DADA class – mercifully the last class of the day – turned to him. Albus next to him gave him a raised eyebrow that clearly stated, 'Yeah, you just said that out loud.'

He ducked his head and mouthed a Sorry at Professor Finnigan who promptly deducted two points from Slytherin and then three more when he couldn't tell him which year the kelpies had officially been declared dark creatures.

"I just mentioned it twenty seconds ago, Mr Malfoy. It would help you a lot to just listen, that's not too much to ask, even at this time of day," the professor complained and then proceeded to repeat the last part of his kelpie speech just for his benefit, but Scorpius had zoned out again already.

Even if one assumed the strongest possible tint of wishful thinking, the strongest possible bias, the crassest tendency toward reading meaning into actions that wasn't intended and finding hints and subtexts that weren't there, Scorpius refused to believe that Rose had been completely disinclined. No. She had certainly made all the right moves – especially since he wasn't prone to wishful thinking and any of the other crap. If anything, he missed signals. Like, all of the signals. Back in fifth year, Al had once mentioned to him that Helen Finch-Fletchley had flirted with him for the entirety of second and third year, to which he had been utterly and entirely oblivious at the time.

Anyhow, Albus... Scorpius glanced at his best friend as he sat next to him, scribbling away on his parchment, and saw with some worry that his notes were almost a cubit long. For a fleeting moment he toyed with the idea of following Finnegan's lesson, but dismissed it quickly because it was hopeless anyway, and because he was very distracted by the persistent and undeniable fact that this Albus Severus Potter had freaking advised him to get together with Rose.

Al presumably knew his cousin very well, and when he, Scorpius, had broken the good news that Rose had kissed him on the cheek and danced close enough for him to feel her breasts pressing up against his chest and smell her shampoo (he hadn't gone into that much detail because, gee, Al was still her cousin, but that was the gist of it), Al had told him to go slow – that counted as "advise to get together with her", did it not?

"Just take it slow, alright?" Albus had said, last year the day after Hallowe'en, he remembered it as if it had been yesterday. "She's still sort-of with Macmillan, so you should probably wait for that to pass..." That had been as clear a green light as he could ever hope to get from Rose Weasley's quasi-brother. As such, did it not also count as endorsement? And as an indirect hint at the fact that there was at least the potential possibility of reciprocation? And as a goddamn friend, wouldn't it have been his goddamn duty to inform him of the fact that Rose had zero interest and couldn't even bring herself to use the f-word in reference to him?

The moment Finnegan announced the end of class, he elbowed Al – none too gently – and said, "I need to speak with you. In private."

Al lifted first one, then both eyebrows. "Yeah, I suppose you do," he said as he stuffed his book into his bag without looking. "You've been acting really strange these last two days."

Well, yeah. He hadn't dared to meet his eye and generally avoided him because he had the suspicion that he had been briefed by the Weasleys... about his... genital situation.

Which, Scorpius supposed, he hadn't been, given that he was wondering what the hell was wrong with him.

Which, in turn, meant that he had pretty much acted like an ass.

Scorpius shook his head. Remorse would only cloud his judgement.

"Bathroom, now," he murmured and quickly led the way. So quickly, in fact, that he didn't even take the time to consider himself lucky to have a friend at whom he could, out of nowhere, grumpily grunt something like 'Bathroom, now!' without him taking it the wrong way, or questioning it, or ridiculing it, or even so much as raising a sceptical eyebrow or two.

Instead, Albus followed him wordlessly, albeit with a sigh.

/

/TBC (tomorrow)