A/N: I'm feeling like a bit of a broken record here, but I feel I must apologise once more for the wordiness of the first bit of this chapter. Verbose, yes, but I feel like it was necessary. maybe?
And also, a WARNING to anyone who feels a bit uncomfortable with mature descriptions. This chapter contains the first of numerous depictions of sexual situations. If you don't like it... erm, maybe this fic might not be for you?

Chapter 7: I Really Shouldn't

~Scorpius~

It was a strange feeling, to be content and satisfied with life even when your dreams and understanding of what should be are crashing down around you. Strange, but possible nonetheless.

Though I had long since resigned myself to my future, following in my fathers footsteps into the Department of Magical Cooperation and eventually filling his seat as CEO of LeFay Connected, it had always seemed a distant future, something far on the horizon. I maintained my love of academia, my studiousness, and revelled in every glimmer of knowledge I could acquire. Simply enough, I loved knowing. Everything. If I could, I would spend the rest of my life learning, seeking, unearthing the unknown. It was part of the appeal of Potioneering; the chance to experiment, to mix materials and ingredients in a hitherto untried combination and create something new, different, interesting, was captivating. And somehow, in my younger years, I'd assumed that I would be able to pursue my passion for knowledge seeking, for experimenting, while somehow simultaneously investing myself wholly into my father's business.

I'm older now. I know that such a juggling act is impossible, would lead to incomplete investment in my career. So I quashed such desires.

It had taken a while, but I'd gradually come to accept my role. And though I loved Potioneering – often loved it more than I realised, I think – I wouldn't shunt my future role in the business and political world, the role I'm supposed to fill, to the side for my own selfish desires. Desires that, I will never admit, I still cannot fully shake.

LeFay Connected was a young business. My father had built her from the ground, from flimsy foundations, in the early days after the war. He had barely taken a step into the ministry at the time, was at the bottom rungs of the Department of Magical Cooperation. It didn't stop him; he used what tenuous connections remained to him, bargained and coerced upstanding individuals of high-status families, and embroiled them in a fast handhold of mutual understanding and like-minded goals.

It had been hard at first, my father had said though not in so many words. Draco Malfoy was an outcast of society for his unwilling role in the war. And yet despite the stain upon his character, somehow he pulled through and established what was today one of the leading firms in magical financial support and funding Britain had ever seen. His steady rise in the Department of Magical Cooperation grew further with the corresponding growth of his business; LeFay Connected stepped into the international world and acted as the funder for British Ministry of Magic. And they ruled in terms of international negotiations, leaving corresponding countries in their monetarily-sound dust.

It is only recently – not quite five years ago – that my father has gained a seat upon the Board of International Magical Cohesion. Honestly, if I really considered it, I was surprised it has taken that long. He'd been a big name in the Wizarding world, if only fairly exclusively 'Wizarding' for the irrelevance to Muggle society at large. I think it was probably because the Board had what was largely considered to be life-appointed seating, with directors passing on their seat to their successors only grudgingly or by unanimous consensus from the entire rest of the Board. I didn't know the specifics of why Father was appointed a seat, but I wouldn't have be surprised if it was afforded due to pressure from fellow Board members. Draco Malfoy needed a seat, needed financial status, his voice, because his voice was incredibly loud, forceful and proficient.

I'm quite certain he effectively runs the Board now.

I respected my father hugely for his achievements. It was awe-inspiring and a little intimidating how he managed to pull off one of the most dexterous political manoeuvres in British modern history. I respected him, and that respect in turn further quashed any slight rebellious inclination within me to pursue my hobby of potions. How could I possibly secrete myself into some experimental lab or apothecary, as far removed from the ministry as physically possible, when my father had worked so hard to reach where he was to this day?

He was still climbing, of course. I doubted Father would ever cease his attempts to haul himself ever higher, not until he was Minister, Head of Department, and Prime Judge of the Board all in one. I think he had it in his head that such a position was actually in his future.

The thing was, though, I wouldn't be surprised if he actually attained it. And I'd do what I could to help him on his way there.

So when I stepped into the Great Hall for lunch on Saturday, not quite two weeks from the end of term, and was nearly assaulted by my father's giant eagle owl, and I saw the silver and black seal, I bit back my sigh. Silver and green meant normal correspondence; silver and black meant it was something of business. A little more formal.

I folded myself onto the nearest bench at the Ravenclaw table, dodging with practiced efficiency the just-hard-enough-to-be-painful pecks of the eagle owl, and snatched the letter from its leg. It gave me a hard, black-eyed stare, a very pointed stare that I knew meant "he wants a reply, and you'd better give him one or I'll eat your nose", and I swear it nodded curtly in reply to my agreement before leaping into the air once more.

I cracked the seal on the thick parchment. No, it was vellum, because of course my father would use ridiculously expensive material to write a letter to his largely unconcerned son. I suppose if he was attempting to set the scene for any passing onlooker he was going about it the right way. If he was trying to prove something, it wasn't to me.

I already thought him something on par with a demigod.

Scorpius,

I write to inform you of the final overview of the schedule for your Christmas break so that you may ensure you have sufficient time to manage your study timetable before returning home. Don't roll your eyes; you know that multiple revisions are necessary if you want to avoid another social disaster like two years ago.

I closed my eyes briefly. I didn't roll them of course; I have no doubt my father would somehow know if I did. I haven't actually experienced a proper 'holiday' since I was ten because they've always been largely cluttered with business meeting and balls, conferences and dos that my father for some reason felt was integral for me to attend.

Or… well, events that I had insisted upon attending in my younger years, only to find myself compelled to continue that attendance in successive years. The novelty wore off quickly although, looking back upon it, I supposed it probably had been beneficial, even if I hadn't needed to start quite so early. I'm certainly not ignorant when it came to societal etiquette in a formal setting, and that knowledge in itself afforded a certain level of satisfaction.

He was right, too, about revisions. My father had left me largely to my own devices when I was fifteen, allowing me some slight leeway in terms of deciding to what I attended. I'd botched it, about as spectacularly as I could. Because when my father "left me to it" what he really meant was "you give it a go trying to coordinate all of the meets and greets you're supposed to". I hadn't heard that part of the instructions. The bells of 'Freedom!' and 'Take It Easy' resounded a little too loudly.

To begin, the Gringely House has requested your prompt accompaniment to their party for Young Witches and Wizards of Britain. I am sure you have not forgotten; it will be held the evening of your return. And please, I am aware that Mildred doesn't hold your fancy, but at least attempt civility when she clings to you like a leech.

I smothered a snort, lifting my gaze skyward. My father was always proper… in public. His composure was one that was modelled from. I'd read about it in the papers: "be as calm and cool as Draco Malfoy"; it was a common analogy in the Wizarding world. No one knew that he was incredibly dry and at times sarcastically humorous when he wasn't living up to the expectations that accompanied his public façade. He didn't pander to me in his words, though; he saved that for the directors and ministers, the partners and subordinates. Even his in-laws, because one can never been too firmly seated on their 'good side'.

Shaking my head, I turned back to the letter.

I've reasoned with Beverly on your behalf however; your 'presence is requested at home' the following morning, if you understand. I thought it likely that you would care to escape from spending the entire night at the mercy of Britain's most predatory mother-daughter pair.

The 'request' is not entirely a farce, however. Lady Masseux requires your assistance again for the morning after. I understand she was rather taken with your oration last summer, though I haven't the faintest clue why she feels it necessary for you specifically to recite her poetry. I will send a copy in my next letter; please be so kind as to memorise within a comma before your performance. And do attempt to attend to her words throughout the day. I know she is want to drill her accompaniments on her drivel of conversation at the close of the night. I would not like to see my son at her mercy should she choose to rain down terror upon him for not fully attending her.

We are to spend Christmas Eve at the Yorkpins, and the morning of with the extended House of Quillese's. I am sure I don't need to remind you to avoid Harvey; I spoke to Peony and she still claims he's recovering from your last flooring performance. Did I ever tell you I was quite impressed? Leaving the poor fool a bumbling mess in such a way that even his father was unaware of your interaction was most satisfying to behold. I never much liked the man. You do me a service.

As for post Christmas, we are to make the usual rounds, but I have dwindled it to only a day at each estate. Remming, Hardwood, Esterman, then Koinoffer. We'll have to coordinate a visit to your grandparents as well, but only for Grandnana and Grandfather this year. Your mother's parents, I believe, wish to join us at the Quillese's – Merlin knows why – and as such the schedule is eased a little. If you wish to do so further, perhaps a letter to your Grandnana? A token pleasantry if your would, and hold off on the guilt-tripping. Do not think I'm unaware that you sweet-talked your way from the last visit through of her; I'm not as oblivious as you might think, Scorpius.

Aside from formal appearances, the only additional inclusion is the New Years Eve dinner with the Board. I have a meeting with the Board the following day – the last of the year – of which I have managed to include you. As my successor, it was not particularly difficult to prevail upon my colleagues the importance of your attendance.

At my father's words I almost snorted again. Prevailed upon them? More like demanded of them. He owned the Board in all but name.

I have the minutes of the previous three meetings on hand for you to study beforehand, as in particular the subject of the next International Communicative Address will undoubtedly arise once more and it would not do for you to be behind on the developments and plans for the presentation. Who knows, perhaps you could see something in the notes that I have overlooked? It is most likely that the following day will be monopolised by your aunt and cousins, though of course they have not confirmed with any certainty. I would overlook it and cast it from your schedule if your mother was not so adamant, but you know how she is with anything that involves your aunt.

I will expect your attendance at the Board dinner. Again, do not roll your eyes, child, I can feel you on the verge of doing so even as I write. I will be lenient; should you so desire to bring a guest – I have not heard of any current partners on your part, but then you never informed me of your exploits with Miss Winfrey until after its termination, so I wouldn't be surprised – but such leniency entails your cooperation on the night. I would rather you not run rings around Lord Hermenway again, if you please. I am the one who must deal with the aftermath.

You'll be happy to hear that the final days of the holidays are yours to enjoy. And by enjoy, I'm sure you're likely to spend an inordinate amount of time with your graduated friends. If you would, please organise a time schedule and send it to me; make sure you include a brief stay at Drisella's – she sent me a missive not two days ago requesting leave from your schedule for as much – and a visit to Tatsuya's house. I would much appreciate the opportunity to revisit my conversation of his grandparent's financial contribution to LeFay with his father once more. Besides, I feel like the boy is a good influence on you; you could learn from him, if you actually listened to him rather than taking his words at face value. He's rather amusing to consider, actually. Just like his father in his societal dexterity. It's really quite wonderful to witness.

Send a reply with any questions you have as promptly as possible, though I can't see any cause for objection. And ensure you use the parchment I sent you in the fall and the green wax this time. A pointed stare can turn aside questioning gazes, but I'd rather not have Julius Kurk chirping questions at me over the shoddiness of the letters sent by my correspondents. I'm sure he feels I readily communicate with some back-alley dealer after your last letter. What did you do, smear it with gravy and dip it in pumpkin juice before sending it?

Regards,

Your father

I folded the vellum loosely into my robe pocket before rolling my eyes, because at least with the letter out of sight my father was potentially less likely to be aware of the fact I was doing so. I shook my head. Pumpkin juice? Really? It wasn't that bad. The fools of first year who had accidentally bumped it from my hands and then proceeded to dance upon it in distress at the "accident, it was an accident!" of running into me on my way to the owlery had admittedly been regrettable, but not bad enough for me to rewrite the letter. I'd charmed most of the stains from it anyway.

My father was such a drama queen, though the knowledge of such made me admire him no less. Even with the weariness and faint tinge of annoyance that rippled through me at the list of obligations I felt as much. I had hoped to have more than a day or two to myself, if not to study then perhaps to spend some time with Al, Rhali and Ozzy, but it was looking unlikely. I had commitments to uphold, and even seeing my old friends – and to-be future colleagues and correspondents – was a duty I must fulfil.

I didn't resent my father. At least, not really. We were close, though perhaps not as close as I was with my mother, and though he still jokingly calls me 'child' and would always see me as such, he was something of my friend. I felt like I had acquired at least some degree of the respect from him that he has from me. And for all that he pushed me into developing my public visage early, paved the way for my future career by familiarising my face with the media, I knew that he only had my best interests at heart. Before I became a teenager and actually started thinking for myself, I whole-heartedly longed to be a clone of my father. I just didn't know at such a young age that in becoming such I would lose any individuality myself.

It was a hard decision to make. Though, in reality, it was never really a decision. I might have been afforded the duty of publicly announcing my future intentions, but it was those around me, family and otherwise, who held my directional reins.

It had hit me a bit like a ton of bricks at the beginning of my seventh school year, I'd admit. And it was probably the words of my friend Phillippe that did it to me. It was barely a day before heading back to school when he'd dropped by the house.

Phillippe was indeed my friend, no doubt. He was similar to me in that he followed in his father's footsteps, yet different because his mother had been opposed to the decision. It was solely upon him which direction he could take, and even his father was a little surprised that he'd followed him into his business. Phillippe wasn't exactly someone who reeked of the hardness of a lawyer. He was soft faced and quietly spoken, pale and dark haired with that hint of baby-fluff still at his hairline that I was sure he'd have his entire life. But it was all deceptive; Phillippe was brutal when it came to getting his own way. The entire student body of Hogwarts was apparently made aware of that fact on the first day of his first year, when he'd been sorted into Slytherin as opposed to the Ravenclaw of his father.

It was explosive. And hence, he'd spent more time with the Ravenclaws than the Slytherins, becoming an honorary member of their house and only losing some of his hot air when he finally realised that, really, houses didn't mean all that much nowadays. He even spent the majority of his time in the Ravenclaw common room – an act that apparently would have floored the students of the school two decades ago but everyone barely batted an eyelid at.

As an opinionated person, Phillippe was always prepared to verbalise his thoughts. So when he walked in on me revising sixth year content for Potions the day before the end of the holidays he didn't hold his tongue. I was surprised he even saw what subject I was studying so swift was his verbal response.

"Scorpius, what are you doing?"

I'd finished my sentence before slowly raising my eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Why are you studying Potions?"

I'd frowned. Phillippe was an admirable enough student at school until he'd graduated the previous year. He wasn't one to shirk studying for leisure. "Well, Phillippe, unlike some people, I still attend school and I'm quite taken with the idea of achieving Outstandings in all my subjects."

A frown had creased Phillippe's brow and a faint flush his cheeks. Not in embarrassment; I didn't think Phillippe could actually get embarrassed. No, if anything it was in indignation at my admittedly sarcastic tone. "What I meant, Scorpius, was why are you still taking Potions classes? I had thought you would drop it for your final year."

I'd slowly lowered my quill, could feel my own frown settling. "And why would I do that?"

Phillippe didn't sit down upon the spare seat at my desk as he did for a long-winded conversation. No, he remained standing, an indicator that his opinionated tirade was merely a passing spiel on his way to eventual farewell and departure. He'd folded his arms across his chest instead. "It's fairly obvious, isn't it? Potions isn't going to help you in the future. Why would you jeopardise exceptional grades in your other subjects to invest in one so redundant."

I'd felt an upwelling of affront and protectiveness for my favourite subject, and couldn't hide my own indignation. "Redundant? Hardly. Every subject is useful, Phillippe."

"Perhaps in other industries, but for you? No." Phillippe shook his head firmly. "Trust me, I've only actually been working with my father for the last few weeks and I can already tell you the subjects that would be most beneficial to law. Charms. Arithmancy. Muggle Studies. Ancient Runes. History. Defence. Maybe Transfiguration, but unlikely. Everything else? Useless."

I'd deliberately taken up my quill, pointedly dipping it into my inkwell. "Be that as it may, I quite enjoy Potions. I find it soothing and therapeutic to read recipes, and I think that such a relaxant would be beneficial in the upcoming year."

Phillippe had given a humourless burst of laughter. "Trust me, you'll regret taking on the extra work. I know you've a taste for study, Scorpius, but N.E. are full on. And you're taking ten? Don't you think perhaps you've bitten off more than you can chew?"

I'd ignored my friend, turning back to my Potions notes and pretending to read through them. Not a word registered before my eyes.

Beside me, Phillippe had sighed. "Whatever. On your head be it. I'm off. I'll see you later. Catch you at Christmas or the New Year." His footsteps were nearly silent as they'd crossed the rug and he didn't close the door behind him as he'd departed.

I'd kept up Potions, despite what Phillippe had said. I'd kept it up, but with his words ringing through my mind I'd dropped the extra-curricular studies I'd undertaken with Yeong. He'd offered me the opportunity to accompany him in some of his brewing when I was in fifth year and – ignorant child that I'd been – I'd leapt at the chance to take on the extra workload. It had hurt horribly to fall back to only the compulsory coursework, but it was the only way I could even begin to satisfy my conscience while retaining my hobby.

All of my old friends were like that. All of them pompous in their worldliness in their own way, exalted with the experience they'd gained in the short time since they'd graduated. Oh, most of them – particularly Helen and Tatsuya – were very tongue in cheek as they professed their superiority to my simple-minded self, but that didn't stop them. My friends could be trying at times.

Or at least, my old friends could be trying. They always spoke of our future careers in the ministry, in our parent's businesses. They always emphasised placing career and boosting one's position over taking it easy and enjoying the little things. Even Helen, the quiet, friendly, soft-spoken girl, enforced the importance of diving straight into her mother's business, even if she had to start off as a receptionist rather than a solicitor.

I supposed that, given their drive, their family lives, the expectations they had set for themselves and that had at times been set upon them, I couldn't blame them. Still, I had to wonder.

Not that I ever had wondered before. But now… there were my other friends.

Al, Rhali and Ozzy were… entirely different. Entirely different, and absolutely fantastic because of it. They took the expectations, the sceptical glances and muttered suggestions, twisted them into a pretzel and threw them out the window. Because no one told them what they should be doing, not even – as their recreational drug habits suggested - when it concerned the bigger picture and natural precautions. It was like a breath of fresh air. No, it was like a breath of that Harproot that Al had introduced me to not so long ago. Refreshing, soothing, and remarkably leaving me with a clear head.

Rhali was not a typical witch. She was atrocious at Transfiguration, even worse at Charms, and I was fairly certain only passed at least half of her subjects because she flew so low under the radar that the teachers just expected she would have to be good enough. I personally didn't feel that the simple act of not blowing up the classroom really afforded such confidence in her abilities, but apparently the professors did. She even got fairly good marks. Well, not good, but not bad either. Average. Which was, she claimed, good enough for her. Rhali's personal mantra for school studies was 'a pass is a pass', and she stuck to her minimalistic approach like a Sticking Charm.

No, Rhali was not a 'magical' person, if such a label could be afforded to a witch. Her tastes ran more towards the logical and theoretical, but not in reference to the subjects offered at Hogwarts. Arithmetics. That was Rhali's focus. Apparently she took Muggle courses in her holiday period, and read mathematics books for fun. For fun. I couldn't comprehend that, but then I had never been a particularly numerical person. Rhali, though, when she spoke numbers it was like she became engrossed in another world. It was so strange, to watch her fall into animation and enthusiasm as she never exhibited otherwise. She actually had high marks in Arithmancy, some of the highest in our year; I'm sure she could have achieved higher if she actually put some active effort into it.

Ozzy was similarly not really a typical wizard. He was better than Rhali in classwork, yet seemed similarly uninvested. He was adept at magic, but it just didn't seem to interest him. Ozzy was an encyclopaedia for Muggle Studies – apparently his mother was something of a Muggle lover to the point where she sought their company exclusively - and had a competency in Astronomy that I'd only been able to manage through rigorous study. He was a fair hand at Transfiguration, too, but Al said that was mostly because he'd decided to push himself to be good at it.

Because that was Ozzy; he was all about autonomy, about his own opinion, and driven solely by his own degree of motivation. If not from his classwork, his apparently newfound dedication to cardio was example enough. He now spent nearly two hours jogging a day, sometimes more, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. I admired his commitment, even if it was a little unnecessary; what was he even doing it for? Health and fitness? An enjoyable pastime? Or was Al's joking suggestions about the Olympics actually valid?

I didn't know, but Ozzy's commitment was admirable in an entirely different way to that of my older friends. He didn't care about public face or what anyone else thought of him; he ran because he wanted to. And for whatever reason, it was leaving its mark on his body. Ozzy had gained muscle tone that he hadn't possessed before. Still thin, he appeared leaner than the bony thinness of Al or Rhali. He looked healthy in an entirely different way, and I could believe that he actually wanted to run. I admired him for that; I'm not unfit, playing quidditch as I did, but the sort of fitness Ozzy was developing was different entirely to my own.

And then there was Al.

Of all of my new friends, I probably felt closest to Al. No, not probably, for there was not really any question about it. I truly liked spending time with him; he was dryly funny and spoke more in sarcasm than in plain truths. He readily welcomed my company whenever I felt the urge to join him, whether it be in class or outside of it, and unlike Rhali – who still at times resolutely refused to speak to me in public – he answered me when I talked to him.

More than that, we actually held some of the same interests when it came to classwork, more than I shared with Ozzy and Rhali. Though, upon considering that, I suppose it was a little hard for me to share my passion for study with the pair of them when they actively avoided discussing as much. He was actually quite strong magically – "a gift bestowed by his generous parents" he always claimed sarcastically – even if his theoretical left a bit to be desired. He had a knack for just pushing his magic hard enough that it caved and produced the outcome he wanted. Sort of like a dog coached to heel. It was a little astounding to watch; I'd been quite shocked the first time I'd actually seen it myself. Who knew that, at the back of the classroom for the last six years, there'd been such a display of magical strength and I hadn't even noticed? If only he actually cared to practice a bit more than in his practical lessons, I'm sure he'd be far more adept.

But even more than that, Al was a genius in Herbology. I didn't know where he learned it – well, I did; having an Herbologist for a godfather is sort of a give away – but he seemed to simply know things. To understand them in a way to I like to think I understood Potions. I'd always found Herbology interesting, mostly because of its applicability to Potions, but Al's enthusiasm was definitely encouraging my favour of the subject.

More than that, as my interest grew in Herbology, I discovered something of an interest in Potions in Al too. Maybe it was just like me, that the relevance of Potions to Herbology sparked his interest, but for whatever reason he became someone that I could talk to about my hobby, about my discarded passion, and would reply with relative enthusiasm and educated replies. It was a bit of a relief, really. None of my friends in the past had shown an interest in Potions to the degree that I'd often surprisingly noted was my own. Surprisingly because I'd never had anyone to share it with.

Al always listened, though. Even when he was elbows deep in a pot of fertiliser, he would always listen to me if I wanted to talk about Potions. Or just to talk. I found that I always sought out the shorter boy with the weird braid and his noisy parrot. I found his company satisfying, that I increasingly sought it out, and had reached the point where just the sight of Hufflepuff Potter was enough to bring a smile to my face, a warmth to my chest. Just the simple act of seeing him, of knowing someone was there to talk to, eased some of the stress that had hounded me since Phillippe's words before term, that which had so quickly driven me to exhaustion when school began.

I hadn't realised how much I'd missed talking to people that were more than mere acquaintances until then.

Maybe I had been lonely, and that was why I was enjoying their company. Or maybe my friends were just so different to everything I'd been brought up with, everything that was expected of my future, of me, that it allowed me a momentary, rejuvenating breath before diving make into the coursing river of my life.

As I levered lunch onto my plate – it was actually fairly decent today; was that duck? – I glanced around the hall for any of the three of them. Tables weren't specifically set anymore, except for at feasts, but even so Al, Rhali and Ozzy never sat with each other at mealtimes. I didn't know why; perhaps they didn't like talking to anyone while eating? They certainly never conversed with anyone that sat around them unless expressly spoken to. I know because I've watched. I'd watched them enough to know that Ozzy always greeted potential conversers with a small smile that was friendly enough and somehow still managed to deter their attempts. That Al would purse his lips slightly, hold off until just before they repeated their question before answering shortly with a completely blank expression. And Rhali I knew it would take exactly three attempts at conversation before she either sighed, rolled her eyes and replied or simply stood up from the table and left.

People seemed less inclined to talk to Rhali for some unfathomable reason. A shame, really. Though she still intimidated me – a lot – she was actually quite good company.

Al wasn't at the Hufflepuff table, which was a bit unexpected. He quite often sat with a bowl of whatever chopped salad or vegetables were available for the day and more often than not would pull a Herbology book from his bag to read. Apparently, much to Rhali's exasperation, he'd been occasionally guilty of spending too long looking at "pictures of his scribbled plants" and been late to class. Not that I had noticed particularly, but I could believe that.

Ozzy wasn't at the Gryffindor table, either, which wasn't so unexpected. Ozzy tended to ghost into the Great Hall, eat, and leave with a similarly shadowy presence. A lot of the time I didn't even notice him arrive or leave. He was simply there. Not today, though.

Rhali, was, however, and she looked to have terrified a second year Ravenclaw that was sitting a few feet down the bench and nearly in the lap of his Slytherin friend. It could have been something she'd said, or maybe just the intensity with which she was stabbing her peas. I certainly wouldn't like to have been at the mercy of her fork. The performance would have disconcerted me to see in the past if I had taken the time to notice, but now, even with the residual intimidation that I doubted I'd ever fully shake, I found it a little funny.

I was on the verge of rising to my feet and approaching her, to at least reassure the Ravenclaw boy that she wasn't about to spring to her feet and commit homicide with the tableware, when an owl soared overhead and dropped to the table before me.

What is this? Lunch is the hour for mail today? Weekends were more lenient when it came to the post, but it was still a little odd to receive even one letter after breakfast. It gained more than a few glances and one half-amused half-sympathetic smile from Winona down the length of the table, all of which I pointedly ignored.

The beautiful barn owl, feathers immaculately groomed, peered up at me with intelligent black eyes as it shuffling slightly, edging towards me across the cluttered table. Holding out a hand, I flicked my fingers in indication of reception and the owl dutifully stuck its leg out and allowed me to remove the letter. The instant it was loose, the bird flapped its wings, shed a pillow's worth of down, and took off. I ignored it and turned to the letter.

It was from Helen. Of course it was from Helen. No one else would have such a resplendent delivery bird.

Dear Scorpius,

I hope I find you well and that your N.E. are not as of yet too trying. I recall my own final year with a cringe; I'm not as academically inclined as you, to be sure, but even so I doubt that it can be easy for you. I'll warrant you're looking forward to the end!

On that note, I come to the reason I'm writing you. I've recently had a visit from Phillippe; his training has taken him into finance at the moment, so he's been spending some time under my father to learn the basics of economic business. Anyway, he stopped by my office yesterday afternoon for a brief chat and you came up as a topic of conversation.

I only voice my worries because I care for you, Scorpius, but Phillippe has drawn my attention to a concerning fact. You seem to be undertaking all of the subjects you were enrolled in last year. Ten N.E. , Scorpius? That is an awful lot. An impossible amount, many would say

You do realise that many of the subjects you'll be taking won't hold any relevance to your future career? I don't mean to rain upon your love of studying; we all know how much you enjoy it. But you'll drown yourself, Scorpius.

Would you perhaps consider lightening your load? I understand that you still want to achieve as many N.E. as possible, but do you think it might be beneficial to drop one or two subjects? Perhaps Alchemy, or Herbology, or even Potions, though I know you love it so. It's only that those three are rather redundant when considering your future. You wouldn't want to jeopardise those that will be beneficial for your career, though in saying that perhaps it is a rather redundant consideration; it's common knowledge you'll have a position at your father's business, isn't it?

I'm sorry if I sound like I'm pressuring you. I don't meant to nag, but I'm only thinking of your welfare. If you have any worries, please talk to me. Or any of us; I may be nearing two years out of school, but I always found that talking to graduates was helpful to me. Or talk to Phillippe, or Hamish, seeing as they're both a little younger. Perhaps you just need some more opinions?

I'm sorry I have only been brief; the urge to profess my concerns simply had to be worded after I spoke to Phillippe. We worry about you, Scorpius.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Helen

I slowly lowered the letter, folding it with unnecessary precision. Helen's soft voice, her kindly words, rang through my mind with the hidden undertone of chiding suggestion. I found myself quite suddenly annoyed by my friend.

What right did she have to suggest as much? What right did she have to express her opinions and suggest that she knew what was better for me than I did myself? And what right did Phillippe have to talk about me behind my back like that?

I knew, in the logical part of my mind, that they were only thinking of me. That they only considered my own welfare and future prospects. They were my friends, and any suggestions would certainly be from a place of kindness, not tyranny or personal affront. Still, it vexed me that they would both of them suggest so similarly. And unless Phillippe had also been talking to Hamish, the consideration was largely pervasive through my friendship group. The letter my loud friend had sent the week before had been largely jovial, but even he had questioned my workload. What was infecting my friends?!

Abruptly, I stood from my seat. I felt a jittery annoyance rippling through my legs that forbade me from remaining still. The letter, piled atop of the wearying recitation of what was expected of me in the holidays from my fatehr, was just too much. Any good humour I'd felt that morning was rapidly shrunk into oblivion.

Stepping over the back of the bench, I strode down the length of the hall to loop around the end of my table, heading towards Slytherin's. It wasn't an action I'd usually take, but for some reason I felt the desire to talk to one of my friends, one of my other friends, those who didn't adamantly enforce the unshakeable need to bereft me of my Potions passion. Even if that person was Rhali, who was just as likely to stab me with her fork as to offer a listening ear.

She was still stabbing peas with unnerving precision when I stepped up to her side, the prongs of the fork packed more tightly than the beads of an abacus. She flickered me a glance as I stopped at her side and gave a particularly sharp jab at another pea. It missed, spinning off the table towards the second year Ravenclaw who flinched and cowered slightly.

Perhaps it was because of that, but whatever words I was going to say abruptly vanished from my mind to be replaced with only one phrase. "Do you know where Al is?"

Rhali actually turned towards me at my question, slowly raising her stuffed fork to her mouth and raking the peas into her mouth with a scrape of teeth on metal that snicked like fingernails down a blackboard. She raised an eyebrow towards me questioningly. I knew her well enough to interpret that expression by now.

"I just need to talk to him about something." Potions. Or Herbology. Or how it was my decision what subjects I took, what I did with my life, at least until I finished school. Al was always pretty supportive of that. "Have you seen him?"

Surprisingly, Rhali actually spoke in reply. Surprising not only to me, apparently, for several heads turned to incredulously to the girl with the dreadlocks. "I haven't seen him since breakfast, but I think he was hanging out with Ozzy."

"Oh." I released a heavy breath. That told me absolutely nothing. "Do you know where?"

Rhali's face turned from her usual almost-frown of 'talk to me and you die' to an almost-frown of consideration. No, not quite consideration. It was… almost knowing, but guarded. "I'm… not sure. Why?"

I shook my head, folding my lips. "I just needed to talk to him about something. Nothing important." I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. A weight settled in my chest however, slightly annoyed and, dare I think, a little desperate. The more I considered it, the more I just wanted to talk to Al. He was good with listening to me when I needed him to, selfish as that may seem. He was good at listening. "No problem, though. I'll just…"

Turning from Rhali, I made my way from the Great Hall with deliberately casual steps. The roiling of emotion, the annoyance over what my friends had said and the intertwined guilt and ardour that surrounded the continuation of my beloved subjects, intensified with their words, still rumbled through me. I could have talked to Ozzy, I suppose, if not to Al, though it wouldn't have been quite the same. Even Ozzy would have been better to talk to than Rhali, though, and other than those three there was no one else I wanted to speak with.

Stepping into the Entrance Hall, I paused. If Al and Ozzy were together, then it was likely that they were as such so they could talk, and when any of my friends talked it was never around anyone else. That left one of two locations, really, when considering that it was only Al and Ozzy, without Rhali: the very distant tree line of the Forbidden Forest that Ozzy had taken to running along, or the Niche.

Given that I was feeling almost pathetically desperate – and the tree line was ridiculously long to search for just too people when wading through even a thin blanket of winter snow – I turned towards the sixth floor instead.

Some of my tension eased as I walked, both from my father's words and those of Helen, from the memory of Phillippe and even the more distant ones of Hamish's words. I was almost mentally coaching myself into thrusting aside the disgruntled thoughts, totally caught up in my mind and barely paying attention to where my feet took me. So caught up in my mind that when I turned into the short passage towards the Niche, when I silently opened the door, and when I beheld what was before me, I didn't register exactly what it was that I saw.

Al and Ozzy were in the room, in their Niche, but they weren't talking. There was the sounds of their breaths, short and loud, but no words. They weren't smoking Harproot either, and didn't appear to have taken any drugs, but I couldn't be certain. I wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind to even consider it. My brain appeared to have shorted, and I froze as the scene before gradually sunk into my senses.

They were on the couch, as usual. Not side by side, though. Al was seated in Ozzy's lap, facing him, legs either side of Ozzy's thighs. They were pressed chest to chest, Ozzy's arms locked around Al's waist, one hand caught on his hip and the other his thigh and holding him tightly against him. Al's arms were similarly wrapped around Ozzy, around his neck and, bowing over him, drew them closer together. Their faces were close – too close – and then they were closer, and as I watched Al pressed a brief peck upon Ozzy's cheek.

Which would have been surprising enough. Except that they were both naked. Both pressed skin to skin, holding one another tightly as though to eradicate any distance between them. Skin faintly glistening with sweat, chests rising. And more, not just close. Ozzy was bucking, his hips rising and falling beneath Al as Al rolled his own, undulating in opposition, and more, not just close but joined –

I stumbled backwards from the room, barely keeping my feet. I couldn't stop close the door. I could barely look away from Al, from Ozzy, from their bodies pressed so closely together. All thought of Potions, of letters and distant friends, had disappeared from my mind, had left only an impossibly loud thumping in my ears, of my heartbeat throbbing behind my eyes. Yet even that noise, so loud, couldn't drown out the heavy pants, the soft smack of lips in kisses, which filtered from the room.

I ran. I didn't even think about it. I just turned and ran from the sight that filled my head.

I couldn't see where I was going, except to make sure I didn't run into walls. A fog clouded my mind and I nearly took a tumble down the stairs at the end of sixth floor. Catching myself just in time, somehow forcing my fleeing legs to step not stumble, I steadied myself and launched into the nearest door I came upon.

It was a classroom, that much I could make out. And it was dark. That was it. Every other feature was too complex to fit into the whirring of my mind. My skin felt flushed, too hot and too tight at once, and there was a strange, other tightness in my gut that tightened further with every thump of my heartbeat.

What? What?!

What was that?!

Al and Ozzy. Al and Ozzy. When had that happened?!

I was not unfamiliar with the sexual experimentations that ran rampant through the school. We were at a boarding school, for god's sake, and the trips and privacy spells around the dorms don't take a genius to discern the meaning of, nor to accidently slip past. I'd walked in on several of those 'experiments' in my time before pausing, blinking nonchalantly and resolutely turning to leave once more.

So why did it bother me so much? It wasn't an unexpected pastime of seventeen year olds. It wasn't even that they were both boys; there was more than enough of that at the school. The notion seemed to have been embraced alongside Muggle culture, and the acceptance of it with it, and what little restrictions that were held on Muggle relations were all but absent in Wizarding society. We had bigger things to concern ourselves with than same-sex relationships. The war, even more than twenty years on, was still fresh enough in the minds of most people to urge them to shake free of prejudice.

No, it wasn't that I'd walked in on Al and Ozzy having… having sex. It wasn't that they were both boys, either. It was because it was Al and Ozzy. My two friends, going at it in the not-so-private Niche. In our Niche.

I closed my eyes and leant on the nearest desk, planting both palms flatly. I couldn't get the image, however briefly witnessed, from my mind. I couldn't shake the sounds, however faint, from my ears. The roll of hips, the clench of muscles in rippling thighs, in arms, across shoulders, always hidden by clothing yet for the first time revealed and startling to behold. Harsh pants, faint groans, the almost inaudible squeak of the couch. Fingers that grazed over skin –

I shook my head sharply. It didn't help. It didn't shake the image, I couldn't shake that image, of the both of them, together. Of those two, but mostly… mostly…

I couldn't rid my mind of the image of Al.

Long, slender limbs, skin smooth and taut, the colour of white-washed sepia and coated in a thin sheen of sweat to define the curve of muscles. The way his head tilted, neck curving as he leaned over Ozzy, hair fallen loose from its usual half up-do and cascading around his face. I'd never even thought about it before, never considered Al as being attractive, but in that moment… it could have been simply the passion of the scene, but then why him? The image of Ozzy barely even registered in my mind.

No, it wasn't Ozzy. It wasn't him that I saw in my mind.

The tension in my gut squeezed almost painfully and I registered what it was that I was feeling. Not tension, exactly, but a flood of heat, a painful flushing of sensitised skin that rushed towards my groin at every slight flicker of the image in my head.

Not Ozzy that I saw. I very, very much saw me and Al.

With a stifled groan, as much at how pathetic I was as at my arousal, I fumbled to palm at my hardness through my robes. The sensitive skin pulsed even through fabric and it took a physical effort not to moan even louder. Without thinking, without considering that I was literally on the verge of getting myself off in the middle of a deserted classroom to the mental image of my friend, I tore at my robes, at my trousers, and slipped my hand down my pants to clutch at myself. The breath that escaped my mouth was almost a whimper. Pathetic.

But I barely considered it. For the picture of Al in my mind, of what I'd just seen and the image my brain morphed it into, was too intoxicating to overlook. Not Ozzy beneath Al, but myself. Not Ozzy's hands wrapping around Al's waist, caressing his thigh and stroking the vertebrae of his spine, but mine. My cheeks that he kissed, and my lips that nuzzled at his jaw. Me that writhed beneath him, that withdrew into the couch only to thrust –

I groaned, my hand tightening around my shaft as another heady pulse rushed to my groin. I leant over the desk once more, my free hand propping me up and panting frantically. The image in my head, of the boy above me riding me in haphazard motions, of my hardness thrusting into him in short, sharp jerks… My hand worked in a mirror of the reel playing through my mind. Thrust and pull, thrust and pull. There was no finesse to my motions, no teasing of gentle strokes, no attempts to draw out my rising climax. Every squeeze of my hand, every jerk of my wrist, was a haphazard motion that nearly spilled me over the edge. The heat built intensely, the sensitivity of my skin almost painful, the hardness under my fingers solid and throbbing, and the Al in my head moaning and clutching my neck as –

I came in a mind-numbing rush, an explosion of pleasure that blinded my eyes piercing whiteness and drew a muffled cry from my lips. My legs nearly folded, turned to jelly, as my hand pulled and drew out the climax in rising and falling waves.

I slumped over the desk, panting heavily. Blinking returned my sight to me only slowly to reveal the darkness of the room once more, my audience of empty chairs and stoic desks. The sound of my gasps, eerily loud in the high-ceilinged room, was the only noise breaking the silence.

Slowly, uneasily, I withdrew my hand from my pants, cringing at the stickiness moistness that coated my fingers. Cringing even more when the reality of what I'd just done, of what I'd just envisaged, registered in my mind.

"Fuck!"

The word just sort of slipped out. I'm not one to curse. Ever. Not like Al did, or Rhali or Ozzy. But in that instant, it seemed entirely appropriate.

A/N: I really appreciate those who commented last chapter! Thanks ever so much; it feels fantastic to hear a word or two from you. Thanks, and if you happen to have a chance please leave me a review. It's greatly appreciated :D