Title: A Helping Hand, or A Hogwarts Bathroom Ballad

Author: AristideCauquemaire

Pairing: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter

Rating: M for grown-up language and sexual situations and themes.

Warnings: slash, slightly non-consensual situations (as seen below...), original characters

/

Thanks to BKStories, DemonDragon8331 and my Weird Guest for reviews! (Weird Guest: I also hope I made the coming chapters as interesting as the previous ones... at least I tried =.= (Seriously, I struggle with that. The hind parts of my fics are always such a pain...) Also: You *forgot* the Weird part? :D)

So! Everyone on board as we watch Scorpius nose-dive spectacularly? Strap yourselves in, we're going down.

~Chapter 13~

~11 days left

Tuesday was quickly becoming Scorpius' least favourite day of the week. Dealing with Amanda in Herbology while watching and occasionally listening to Rose Weasley on the next table at seven thirty in the cold, dark winter morning was a bad way to start the day. Both Runes and History only made him aggressive. The following hour of DADA then gave this aggression an outlet that resulted in him sending Tyler Peverell to the hospital wing in exchange for a two foot essay on duelling decorum, specifically on asking one's duelling partner if he's ready before sending major scale hexes his way.

Study group after that just seemed like the insult that was added to the injury.

And study group was just the prelude to another session of Quidditch training.

"Lord Malfoy, we'd all appreciate it if you could un-bunch your panties," Mariella Lawless grumbled at him when he snapped back at Briony Parkinson after she had snapped at him that his explanations of bloody third year Potions material were too cryptic for her to follow.

He was just getting up and ready to all-out yell at Lawless when Albus got up next to him, clapped an iron hand on his shoulder and said, "You know what, Malfoy and I are going to leave you all to it now. Sorry for that, Lawless. We've got Quidditch stuff to do."

Scorpius looked at that hand on his shoulder and then up at his friend's face, utterly confused.

"We've got at least half an hour, though," Brice interjected with a glance at his wristwatch, also perplexed. "Did Lloyd say anything about starting earlier last time?"

"No, it's not general practice. Just beater stuff. Malfoy and I decided to throw in some extra time."

That seemed to mollify Brice. Beater performance had been so bad lately, every second of additional training made sense to him.

"What, you're just going to walk out?" Mariella was personally offended.

"Uhm." Albus pretended to ponder for a moment, packing up his stuff. "Yes."

She stared at him, open-mouthed and speechless. Those were the things only Albus Severus Potter could get away with.

"What about my homework?" Briony whined. Her hand had slid onto Scorpius' thigh under the table. Scorpius chose that very second to jump up and gather up his own parchments and books.

"You'll be fine, I'm sure," Albus said. "If you keep having problems with that particular bit, I can send my sister to help you out, though."

Briony narrowed her eyes. "Your sister's in second year," she pointed out.

"Exactly." Albus beamed. "See you guys later," he said to everyone, and murmured a "Come on" to Scorpius.

He didn't have any other choice than to run after him – which reminded him of last Saturday, which darkened his mood even more. Only when they were safely in the dungeon corridors he asked sharply, "What was that all about?"

"You were about to rip her head off, man," Al said with a sort of quiet reproach, not even specifying whether he meant Briony or Mariella.

"So what?" he mumbled, suddenly almost sheepish about being so angry all day.

It was not like he didn't have ample reason.

Albus just clicked his tongue and said nothing more.

Wordlessly, they fetched their brooms and gear from the dorm and made their way down to the pitch. Hufflepuff players were coming their way, having just finished their own training and looking way too cheerful for it.

Scorpius shoulder-tackled the locker room door open, then stomped the residual snow off his boots with quite a bit more energy than needed. He thumped his sports bag down on the bench and ripped the zip open, tempted to upend it and see all the contents tumble out onto the floor.

"Scorp."

He clenched his jaw and unpacked the bag the conventional way, just forcefully.

"Scorp." He could almost hear the frown.

"What." The word seemed to whet itself on his teeth.

Silence. Scorpius kept unpacking. The jockstrap – washed, after getting that stain on it last time... Scorpius felt the back of his neck prickle and heat up – was all the way at the bottom.

"That bad?" Albus asked.

In his mind, Scorpius whirled around to him, the offensive white piece of clothing still in hand. In his mind, he yelled "Bad? Bad, you say?" at him, and then said, "Let me tell you about my day."

His morning had started around 4 a.m., when he had entered R.E.M. sleep and his brain started to sprout pictures and scenes and feelings again.

There were fewer redheads in them now, he had noticed upon waking. He had also noticed that his blanket was forming a tent around his middle.

And the first thing he had done was to turn his head and look over at the bed next to his. It had occurred to him to get up, walk over, shake Al awake by the shoulder.

Lie down beside him.

He knew, Albus would have been confused and irritated with being woken at such an ungodly hour – but he would have nodded and scooted over to make room for him without a second thought. As if that were bloody obvious.

Finally, the logical, rational part of his brain had got itself into gear and the anger at taken over.

Firstly, he registered that he was right back where he had started. The uncontrolled lust was back, with a vengeance. That was bad enough with eleven bloody days (and nights) to go.

Secondly, his first idea upon waking with a boner had been to bloody go to his friend and ask him for a helping hand.

A whisper of fear had mixed in with the anger. What if that wouldn't go away in eleven days? What if it was permanent? What would he do then? His heart had wandered upwards and lodged itself firmly in his throat, still beating there instead of in his chest occasionally, fourteen hours later.

It was insane. This curse had warped his... his everything.

And thirdly, Albus supposed reaction. Saintly in his understanding, as if the whole thing, including the part where he just jerked him off, were self-evident. As if it was no biggie.

Albus, unfazed, equanimous. And then... unchanged. Like nothing was different.

Almost out of spite (but mainly out of desperation), he had got up – at 4 a.m. - and taken an ice cold shower until his fingertips and toes had turned blue. Still shivering, he had got back into bed, only to lie awake for two and a half hours, silently seething, angry at Albus and the world and himself. (Also, shivering. Cold showers at Hogwarts were a mere degree away from becoming a blizzard.) Eventually, his alarm had started ringing and the day had not got any better from there.

But instead of saying any of that, he held up the garment in his fist like an angler might hold up his proud catch and, glowering, said, "Gonna go put this on now." Diaper-slash-chastity belt. It's either this, or you just doing your duty, as a friend.

Somehow, he preferred the former.

He tried to make his way over to the bathroom. Albus' left hand shot out and pushed against his chest, barring his way.

"Scorp," he said mildly, as if he wasn't just using force to obstruct him. "Talk to me."

He felt the urgent need to hit him. He couldn't really explain it. Or rather, the explanation was so very stupid that it didn't qualify as such. You think you somehow have to do – that – because you're my friend and that it's just normal and I can't fucking take it, but also mixed with a big dash of I have no other choice, do I?

Then again, if he did hit him, Albus would probably just accept that, too, and that would just make him hit him again.

"Scorpius," he hissed at him, pushing him back onto his heels with his hand. "Just say a damn word." Ask me for help, you stubborn, prideful git.

The four-o'clock-anger flared back up, fresh and unfiltered like it had been in the morning. "I don't want your bloody help," he almost hissed back, "and your goddamn pity, I want-" And then his thoughts broke off because not even they knew how to finish that sentence.

Their eyes met.

Scorpius could almost see him reading his mind like an open book.

Albus merely sighed at what he read.

Scorpius balled his fist by his side.

Al's hand, still pressed against his chest, curled up and bunched up the front of his robe until he had a hold on him. Once he did, he pulled, hard.

Caught off guard and off balance, Scorpius stumbled forward with a surprised yell and found himself first dragged, then shoved toward the bathroom by the robe and the shoulders respectively. He protested, to very little avail.

"You stubborn git," Albus said as he stepped through the door after him, shutting it behind himself. "In," he said, jerking his head toward the stalls.

He glowered and didn't move. The words 'I don't want it. I mean, I want it, and only because I need it, but I also don't want it like that' sat there in his mouth, but wouldn't come out because his brain froze up trying to define 'that' and its counterpart, and because it was straight-up nonsense.

Albus raised an eyebrow at the display of defiance. "Try to put on your stupid jockstrap and sit on a broom for two hours when you already have a semi."

He held his gaze for another second before shame won over. Ah, yes. That.

When he turned around and got into the stall, feeling somewhat like a beast being sent to its cage, he tried to imagine that Albus was smirking with self-satisfaction, but that would have required some sort of- of that something that wasn't there. That something whose absence infuriated him so much all of a sudden.

As he pulled open his belt and undid the button of his trousers, Albus locked the door from the inside. "We're going to get here half an hour earlier next Friday as well," he informed him matter-of-factly. "And on Saturday before the game."

"That's-" not necessary. Also, stop talking like that. This isn't... business.

"Yes, it is." His left foot was touching Scorpius' right heel again. With every time they did this, the bathroom stalls seemed to be getting smaller.

Any type of response except a short "gah!" got stuck in his throat when he undid his fly zip. The movement had begun quick and casual. However, the slight vibration of the zipper's teeth when he pulled the tab down caused a feeling that was something like dunking ice cubes directly into his undies. And the ice cubes wriggled around there.

"You got it?" Al asked after a moment, deadpan, not making it any better at all, making Scorpius want to snap "Ask me if you can help me with anything and I'll smack you, I swear!" at him, but he couldn't verbalize.

He breathed out when it was done. The whole reason for this- measure- had vanished.

And still he peeled his trousers down a little because getting out of this stall without having... accomplished anything would mean turning around and also having to fight past Albus and he couldn't-

"Ready?"

Trick question.

He nodded once, tensed so he wouldn't flinch this time, closed his eyes.

Albus said, "Alright", and touched a hand to his hip and then slid it forward and down, causing Scorpius' convoluted thoughts and headaches to – not vanish, but retreat and fade a little. In turn, the present became prominent and defined, all sensations were clear and sharp as if etched with a scalpel. He could feel his own shallow breaths, the heat rising from his middle outward, sweat pricking out of his pores, especially under his arms and on his chest, the heat tingling under the skin of his neck and his cheeks, the smooth coolness of the tiles against his palms – and every little twitch and movement of Albus' fingers, amplified by a hundred.

The urge to thrust his hip into that movement was almost overwhelming. Madly, there was also the urge to open his mouth and comment. Tell him how good it felt. How much he liked it when he did that. How much he wanted him to do that again. He pressed his lips together to keep those words inside.

He peeked down through his eyelashes.

The sight locked his breath in his lungs for several long heartbeats. His stomach dropped an inch or two. Still, he couldn't look away.

"Alright?" Albus asked, merely slowing down, mercifully not stopping this time. Keeping his steady rhythm with his long, warm fingers gliding back and forth, back and forth, back and-

His voice came strangled when Scorpius replied, "Harder."

"Sco-"

"Harder, faster," he repeated, more certain, more urgent. "Please."

Albus exhaled audibly and obliged.

He shifted his body, moving a little closer. His left hip pressed up against the right part of Scorpius' backside, and when Scorpius adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his chest and side touched Scorpius' right flank.

In the end, they were almost leaning into the other, as if for support.

When it was done – Scorpius groaned through a clenched jaw, screwed his eyes shut and threw his head back – they stood like that for a long moment, close together with their respective body heat palpably trapped between them in that little contact area.

Eventually, Albus pulled his wand from his pocket and pointed at the wall tiles. Two incantations later, the droplets in evidence had vanished.

It would have been easier to just mop them up with toilet paper, but that would have necessitated turning and leaving the spot he was in. Breaking the contact.

Scorpius was thankful, for that long moment, that he didn't move away. His legs felt like jello. And he could feel Albus' chest rising and falling – quite rapidly at that – against his body and it was really rather nice. Reassuring.

Not another word was said until the official training began twenty minutes later.
During training, everything was shouted questions and answers, short and to the point, information being exchanged rapidly over roaring wind.

After the training, no one spoke, either. The day had been exhausting for everyone and Lloyd was a bloody slave driver.

Wednesday, the day after, started almost like the day before. Except that the silhouettes populating Scorpius' non-wet dreams were definitely less feminine than they used to be, and that Scorpius, upon waking into a half-dreamlike, drowsy state, curled up and sobbed himself back to sleep, not knowing why he felt so wretched.

In the bed next to his, Albus lay with his eyes open.

/

~7 days left

Sitting next to Albus in double Charms that Saturday morning was nerve-wracking.

Scorpius just couldn't get his head around how he managed to compartmentalize things so neatly. It was as if there were two Albuses – the toilet stall Albus, and the regular Albus. And the two didn't mix or overlap at all. What toilet stall Albus did or said did not influence how regular Albus treated him.

Toilet stall Albus had heard him actually moan yesterday. He hadn't been able to help it, and some of those stupid thoughts – about how he felt and how it felt – had spilled out right along in the slipstream of those moans.

Toilet stall Albus knew exactly how and where to touch him now. He was learning how to play him like an instrument. It frightened Scorpius and also made him weak in the knees.

Regular Albus apparently didn't think any less of him for that. In fact, he didn't seem to think about any of it at all. He didn't behave differently around him, and if he also had sweaty palms, he absolutely didn't let it show. He still looked him in the eye evenly, still talked about the same topics with the same voice and the same words and the same naturalness. It just irritated Scorpius because it didn't make any sense.

And just – he checked the clock on the wall – two hours from now, he had another meeting planned with toilet stall Albus. The soles of his feet began to itch at the thought.

The last meeting ever.

Friday next week, six days from now, at nine a.m., Rose would depart.

Saturday next week, seven days from now, Tactus Torporis was scheduled to finally wear off.

Between now and then, there would be no Quidditch practice or game, hence no reason for Al to- lend a hand.

Scorpius felt himself become jittery at the thought. Six whole days without assistance seemed like a long, long time now. Calm down, he told himself. You have gone twenty seven days without it before. You can do it.

But, another voice interjected somewhat wailingly, it was miserable. And it's going to be more miserable now because it has definitely gotten more intense. As if his mind was actively working against a spell that was made to inhibit sexual release, his dreams were absolutely crazy lately, extensive and vivid like never before and occurring with regularity, and his thoughts were definitely spinning around one thing only at every waking hour unless he met them with the kind of steely resolve that was exhausting and impossible to maintain. His whole body seemed to hum with horniness.

When his brain had kicked in again after his verbal meltdown yesterday, he also started doubting that it was normal for a simple hand job to blow his mind like it did. Sure, Scorpius had never before had anyone else touch him like that (he hadn't even properly kissed by anyone yet.) (That one time with Mariella on his thirteenth birthday party didn't really count.), and sure, Albus had plenty of experience in that regard by virtue of being a guy himself (and allegedly practising on himself at least four times a week for years and years), but still, it seemed disproportional.

Suddenly, Albus nudged him with an elbow. Scorpius winced and sat up. "Pardon?"

"Welcome back, Mr Malfoy," Professor Flitwick said dryly. "I'm guessing you'd like me to repeat the question?"

"Uhm, yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir," he admitted ruefully. A week from now, he would start to seriously make amends on all scholarly fronts, he decided as he stuttered his way through the answer.

He just hoped that, a week from now, sitting next to Albus wouldn't be weird any more. He feared that it would.

He feared that he would miss toilet stall Albus.

He feared that that the idea of lying next to him in his bed would stay in his head.

He sighed. Back to normal, he prayed silently. Like things were before the Christmas hols.

"Do you need help with that?" Al asked, startling him.

"Uhm, no," he said quickly. Only then he noticed that everyone else was busy scribbling.

Al looked at him sideways, patiently waiting.

"Well. Yes," he amended, withering a little under that gaze. "What was that last bit again?"

His friend sighed. "Those must be some killer daydreams," he mumbled. Before Scorpius could even react to that, Al was already explaining water-making spells and the problems with elementary charms to him in a low voice. He didn't lean over very far, and he also didn't lean away.

Scorpius caught himself wishing that he would. Either one.

/

After Charms was over, there was usually more than an hour's time for getting back to their rooms, dumping their book bags, making a trip to the kitchen for a pre-lunch snack because they would miss actual lunch, getting back to their rooms again, fetching their Quidditch things and making their way to the pitch, chatting and chilling all the while.

Today, though, Scorpius skipped forward to the last three items on the list and arrived at the pitch almost an hour early even for the warm-up for the game.

Half an hour early for his... appointment? engagement? … date?... with Albus.

With Albus #2, to be exact.

The other Albus had merely nodded and said, "'kay. Later," when he had split from the group, and then gone to the kitchen with Brice and Shrew.

Scorpius trudged down to the pitch, breathing a sigh of relief when the warmer air under the dome enveloped him, and sat down at the foot of the Slytherin stands which were still entirely empty and would continue to be empty until shortly after lunch.

To have something to do, he tended to his broom and his gloves, cleaning both with the tiny brushes from the cleaning set his parents had given him for Christmas five years ago. He had probably cared more for the set itself than actually using it for caring for his broom and gear. The jars of rich balms, lotions and greases were still more than half full, the brushes and other cleaning implements still looked as good as new.

Just as a certain calm had set in – the repetitive movements and the pungent smell of the leather balm helped him with that – a voice rang out from behind him.

"What are you doing here?"

He looked up, then turned around, swinging his legs over the beam to turn towards Rose Weasley.

/

/TBC (tomorrow)

Did you know? I really like cliffhangers. And readers. And reviews.