Chapter 21: Decisions Often Take A While To Make

Al had very dexterous hands.

Such details of another person I was not used to noticing. It wasn't a particularly useful piece of information, so I just tended not to. And yet I'd been staring at Al's hands for ten minutes at least, simply watching the way he tilted and wriggled the stick of charcoal between his fingers as he sketched on the parchment. I didn't even see the image he was drawing; it was a blossoming Octopedal Tress, I knew, but my gaze didn't shift towards it for a moment to draw from Al and his fingers.

The sun was just setting behind me through the wide square window in Al's room. The warm glow of mid-spring illuminated the pale walls in an orange cast, turning the myriad of potted plants, the bookshelf with its excessively botanical related content and the odd discarded shoe and jumper into a fiery pallor. I loved Al's room. It was just so him, from the untidy but not quite messiness to quietness that was paradoxically loud for the colour and clutter of oddities to the very smell. And I loved Tuesday evenings even more because it was just the two of us. Thursday mornings were far too brief for my taste.

Rhali had wanted to come today. Well, Rhali wanted to come every Tuesday, but today more than most days she'd been adamant, so much so that Ozzy had to very deliberately tell her in slow tones that no, she was not coming, and that she should leave Al and I in peace. She'd grumbled something beneath her breathe about "finally having a Tuesday afternoon relatively free" but had eventually allowed herself to be swayed, with 'allowed' being the operative word.

I was thankful to Ozzy; bless him, he was perhaps the best support I could ask for in ensuring that Al and I got some quality time together. Although, in saying that, I should probably be grateful to Rhali, too. She was missing her best friend, and handling it less adeptly than Ozzy was though I knew the Gryffindor boy felt Al's absence keenly too. On Wednesday evenings Rhali, and usually Ozzy alongside her, had taken to Flooing over, but it didn't seem to be enough. She would have likely pushed for accompanying me every Tuesday, actually, except that she had extension Arithmancy on in the afternoon – something that I had been unaware was even a class until Rhali informed me of its existence. She was apparently the only member and had received special consideration by the mutual forces of Headmaster Tyril and our Arithmancy professor, Lyngo. I recall that in the past that would have vexed me to no end; why would Rhali get the opportunity to engage in extra study sessions, to push herself above and beyond with the support of a professor?

A lot had changed in the past two months, and more than simply my out-of-school visits to Godric's Hollow. Ozzy said I'd mellowed. I didn't know what he meant by that and didn't truly care enough to ask, but Rhali had informed me anyway that what Ozzy meant was that I'd 'finally removed the stick from up my arse'. So eloquent of her, as usual.

I wasn't sure how much I agreed with her. I knew I'd changed, if not exactly how or how much. I felt different, to be sure, but it was more than that. More because I realised after a period of blissful obliviousness that was ended by a rather abrupt and embarrassingly obvious realisation, that what I considered important had shifted.

Study was important. My future career was important. Maintaining a respectful and ideal persona at school was important as it provided a role model for my juniors.

But more important than that was Al. Al, and my friends. It was such an obvious conclusion, the only conclusion, that I was a little stunned that I hadn't realised it before.

I had friends, yes. Phillippe and Drisella, Tatsuya and Hamish. Friends from older years, to be fair, and friends who I had known for almost my entire life. But those friends were different to Al, to Rhali and Ozzy. I cared for them dearly, but there would always be that slight distance between us, the deliberate spacing to remove any overt feelings of intimacy. I never had much of a chance – and never felt inclined to give myself one – of feel anything more for them.

But what happened with Al had been a splash of water in my face. Not even what I'd shared with Winona could compare – they were practically on different spectrums entirely. Yes, study was important and I endeavoured to ensure that all of my work was completed in an exemplary and timely manner. Yes, my future was important too, and I still spent many hours pondering over exactly where I was headed. Pondering and worrying. And yes, striving to present a model and respectable image was just as important for my own personal growth as it was for my underclassmen.

But none of that was quite as important as spending time with Al. I would never make the mistake to think that it was anything other again.

Not even Potions. Not even my father's company.

So I found myself, as I had often over the past few weeks – or months, really – simply watching Al. He lay upon the crinkled quilt, legs stretched along the length of his bed with eyes narrowed as he worked on the sketch. From memory, I might add, and such a talent was quite admirable in itself. And doing for me, because I had recently discovered that when compared to Al's skills with sketching, I was appalling. In the past I would have maintained my attempts to hash out an inaccurate sketch myself, but now? Well, I didn't need to know how to draw myself, and Al would certainly offer me a far better annotated depiction than I could create myself. And besides, I had more important things to do. Like watch Al.

"You know," Al spoke up, breaking me from my reverie. His voice was low and distant in the way of distractedness. "You've been staring at me for five minutes straight, now."

"Actually, it's more like ten," I corrected. I didn't feel the least bit embarrassed that I'd been caught out. I'd been spotted in my 'bird watching state' as Al called it so often that it was almost expected that he noticed nowadays.

Al glanced up from his sketch. "Don't you have an essay to write?"

I shrugged. "Not any that are due with any particular urgency."

"So you've finished the Transfiguration one due tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"And the Alchemy report for Friday?"

I snorted. "Honestly, Al, what do you take me for? I've not grown so lax as to leave my homework till the last minute." I paused, frowning. "You've finished yours, haven't you?"

Flashing me a half-smile before training his eyes speculatively back upon his sketch, Al nodded. "So little faith, Scor. I'm not that bad either. Although… it's probably a pretty shit report."

"It's alright. Quillion knows your circumstances."

"I know. Every professor's been pretty lenient with me."

"They've reason to."

Al was silent for a moment, and I knew that silence to be disagreement. Al blamed himself for his situation, for whatever irrational reason he'd come up with, and I knew he wasn't entirely convinced that he should get 'special consideration' for those circumstances.

I, on the other hand, firmly agreed with the unanimous verdict of the professors. Contrary to what Al claimed, he was not entirely recovered. Not even after nearly two months of rest and medication. He still got tired more easily than he realistically should, and that paleness that had clung to him since I'd found him that horrible day in the Hufflepuff dorm hadn't lifted. The faint tinge of purple to his lips and ghostly paleness made him look like he was on the verge of hypothermia even on the warmest of days. It wasn't as bad as it had been at first but it was still distinctly different to his pallor from before his illness.

Still, it wasn't good to remind Al of that. He didn't like feeling like he was sickly or 'fragile', as he put it. It had been weeks since we'd started going to Sahra's support group – of which I naturally still accompanied him to – and he was only just coming to accept that it might be beneficial and embracing it to the extent that he actually conversed with the rest of the kids in the room. I knew it was hard for him, that he hated thinking that he had a problem despite everyone in the world reassured him that there was nothing wrong with having a 'problem', but I believed it was doing him good. Doing both of us good. It was reassuring to hear the stories of others who'd been in similar, if not the same, circumstances. Comforting, even.

I watched as Al placed a few more dotted strokes to the sketch before holding it up. He tilted his head, frowning at the parchment critically, before he reached towards where I lounged in his desk chair and offered it to me.

I took it from him with a smile. "Thank you."

"That's okay. I know you suck at drawing."

"'Suck' is a rather strong word."

Al grinned back at me. "Strong but no less accurate."

I sighed. "True." I dropped my eyes to the parchment, to the perfect, anatomically correct blossoming Tress taking up nearly a foot of page. "Rhali will be jealous. I think she believes I'm coercing you into providing me with sketches."

Al chuckled, shaking his head. "Are you?"

"Of course I am. She doesn't have to know that, though."

Lounging back onto his bed, Al sighed, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "I should probably actually do her a sketch too. She's almost as bad as you are, and I do still owe her."

"You don't owe her," I enforced emphatically, raising my eyebrows pointedly at me when he turned towards me. "You know she was joking when she said that."

Al pursed his lips, frowning slightly. "I know it was a joke, but still, I appreciate that she looked after Caesar for me. I doubt many people would have even given him a second thought in the whole scheme of things."

"I highly doubt Caesar would have let himself be overlooked," I muttered, sparing a glance for said parrot huddled fluffed up and dozing on his pedestal in the corner of the room. He opened one eye to peer back at me with an accusing glare, as though sensing the weight of my gaze, before closing it again and burrowing further into his huddle. "Besides, if Rhali didn't then Ozzy or I would have. You don't have so little faith in us, do you?"

Smiling, still up at the ceiling, Al shook his head. "No, I believe you. Still, I'm thankful. Although, I suppose…" He trailed off and a sad, contemplative expression took the place of his smile.

"What?"

He glanced at me sideways, pursing his lips. A hand rose in the tell tale motion to card fingers through his hair. I doubt he even realised he was doing it. "Nothing in particular. Just that I suppose Neville would have spotted him when he came into the dorm. He'd have taken care of him."

"Professor Longbottom?" I frowned confused for a moment before understanding dawned. "Oh, you mean when –"

"Yeah."

I was silenced, my mind turning immediately to what I knew was Al's source of distress. We'd discussed it before, what had happened to his plants, but it was always in the presence of a professor, or his parents, or the support group. When it was just the two of us we steered clear from the topic. I'd come to realise that such avoidance strategies were used a lot by Al.

Suffice it to say that he'd had been devastated when Longbottom had told him, face tight with pain and regret, that he'd had to destroy all of the plants in the dorm. All of those that had been Al's in the greenhouse too, because apparently "it was unsure whether he'd perhaps spliced or hybridised them with something and it was better to be safe".

Heartbroken did not even begin to cover it. I remember it so clearly, nearly a week after Al had been emitted from hospital. The hype had died down surrounding the issue, and speculations from the media where drifting around in aimless circles of 'what happened to Harry Potter's son?' Thankfully, they appeared not to have found any further knowledge on the subject, though whether for lack of success entirely or because someone had paid every reporter and journalist in Britain to remain silent I wasn't sure. Surprisingly – to me, anyway – none of our fellow students had breathed a word of it either. That truly was astounding. After the way they'd reacted to the news that had contributed significantly to Al's impulsive actions, I'd have thought they would jump at the opportunity. Apparently not. Every one was as close-lipped as they'd been on the subject of Al, Rhali and Ozzy's using to the professors.

I had no idea why. I couldn't keep up, couldn't fathom the reason, and had long since resigned myself to being baffled by my fellow students at large.

I'd accompanied Longbottom alongside Rhali and Ozzy when he'd come to inform Al of what happened to the plants. To anyone else it would have been a trivial, inconsequential matter; after all, they were just plants. I would have thought exactly the same not a year before. Now, though, I knew that such disregard wouldn't happen. Not with Al.

The moment Longbottom had said, "I'm so sorry Al. You know I couldn't keep them," I'd known he would crack. And he did. Not in front of Longbottom, nor in front of his parents who gazed upon him with expressions of sadness and sympathy. Yet ultimately they didn't understand, not even Longbottom really. I knew Al knew that too, for after staring at Longbottom blankly, paling even further than had become his norm until he looked more like an Inferi than a human teenager, he'd swallowed, pushed himself up from the table, and left the room without a word. I'd followed right on his heels and, when I'd found him fallen onto his knees just inside the door to his room, I'd discarded any possible feelings of awkwardness and immediately sunk down beside him. A hug didn't seem adequate, but I offered it anyway, and quietly held him as he dissolved into tears.

It was a memory I both hated and cherished. I hated it because of what it did to Al but then… it was selfishly comforting to know that he could cry to me when even his family, his godfather, he fled from.

Al got a certain cast to his expression whenever he thought of his destroyed plants. It was that look tightened his features as he readjusted his gaze back to the ceiling. It hurt to look at because I knew it meant that he was hurting. And in that instant, I knew I had to tell him. That though I shouldn't, though it might have been detrimental to him at large, I couldn't leave him so sinking into melancholy.

"You…" I cleared my throat, unsure of how to continue. "Your Harproot was the first one you grew, wasn't it?"

Al flickered his eyes towards me from their aimless staring, curiosity and questioning momentarily overriding the wistful sorrow. "The first? No, it wasn't the first one. I grew a couple before that."

"But they didn't last, did they? I mean, your Harproot, it was your oldest one." I paused, then, "Your favourite?"

Slowly, Al raised himself from reclining to sitting. His expression was a mixture of growing curiosity and wariness, as though he – very rightly – didn't know where I was headed with the conversation and feared the worst. "Yes…"

I swallowed down the urge to clear my throat once more. How did I start? I didn't even know how he would respond to my revelation. Would he even be happy for what I'd done? "I offered to take Caesar, you know. When Rhali went to get him, Ozzy and I came along. I doubt Grettle would have let her in at all if I hadn't been there. Rhali doesn't quite seem to grasp the concept of asking politely."

An exasperated grin tugged at my lips. Al didn't return it, still regarding me with faint wariness, and my smile quickly faded. "I asked her if she wanted me to take him, but she said he was les familiar with me so I'd likely have trouble with him."

"Yeah, he has his favourites," Al murmured. He looked baffled as to where I was going with the conversation. I couldn't blame him. Why was this so hard to say?

"Yes, that was what she said too. She actually looked grateful for a second though, so I figure my suggestion didn't go entirely unheeded. Perhaps she did worry that I would just try and take him, though, because she was pretty quick in gathering him up and leaving without another word."

I took a deep breath. Here goes, then. "So the thing is, we went pretty much as soon as we could because Dillon approached us and said no one else could get close enough to Caesar to feed him and retain their fingers. And when we were there we… the Harproot was still there." I peered at Al with my own rising guardedness. He was frozen like a deer caught in a petrifying spell, on knee risen and hugged closely to his chest. I was given the impression of a child clutching at a toy for comfort.

"It was my idea but I wouldn't have known how to do it without Ozzy there. Neither of us are quite up to your standard with plants, but I suppose he's picked up a thing or two over the years just being around you. We…" Here it was. Anger? Upset? Horror? I didn't know how he'd respond. Would he maybe even be happy, as I'd hoped he would be when I'd decided to do it? "We took a cutting of the Harproot. Just something small. I didn't… we thought that perhaps, in the future maybe, you might like to keep it. When you've recovered, perhaps."

I had no idea if it was a good idea. It probably wasn't. The support group said that the most effective way to avoid relapse, especially in early days, was to vanquish temptation as much as possible. I was certain that having the very plant Al had used and had contributed to what he – and now everyone else – called his 'illness' would be classified as a temptation. And yet at the same I knew how much the plant meant to him, even if I knew I would never feel such an attachment to a sprout myself. To Al, the Harproot was more than just a drug.

Al still hadn't moved. He simply stared at me, wide-eyed and unblinking, and for a long moment I wondered if perhaps he hadn't heard me. I knew he sometimes fell into an almost sleep-like state from the clinical exhaustion he was prey to, though I thought such incidents had just about been abolished in recent weeks.

Finally, however, he spoke. His voice was so faint, so choked, I could barely make it out. "You… you took a cutting of the Harproot?"

I dropped my eyes from his. Not because he was accusing, but because I simply couldn't tell. Each response I'd anticipated… I couldn't recognise any of them. This might have even been worse. "I… we did. I have it, at school. In my dormitory, if you can believe it." I shook my head ruefully. "Can you imagine me caring for a plant? Me?"

"You took a cutting?" Al repeated.

Something in his voice urged me to look up. His expression was still unreadable, but the glistening in his eyes, the wateriness that threatened to break and cascade down his cheeks, was very telling. I felt a flicker of panic and had to reassure myself that he wasn't actually crying yet, that he was very obviously making an active attempt to hold himself together.

No yet. He hadn't snapped yet.

I nodded slowly. "I did. I just… wanted you to have something of it. And maybe," I gave another rueful smile that held little mirth. "Maybe I wanted something too. After all, I'd never have met you if not for the Harproot, in a roundabout sort of way."

Al nodded slowly in return. He bit his lip and I could see his hands trembling but… not yet. He still hadn't snapped.

"I know that I probably won't be able to give it to you. At least not for a while. That might be a little counter-productive, if you understand what I mean. But even if I don't, maybe just knowing that it exists…?"

Al didn't move, not even when I'd finally managed to stem the flow of my awkward words. I wasn't usually one to feel self-conscious about others opinion of me, nor to get unnerved by perceived judgement. I'd always been strong in my beliefs of how I saw myself, unwavering and resolute.

That had changed with Al. I very much desired his good opinion. So much that it was almost on par with that same desire I had to receive my father's approval, though this in an entirely different way. So when Al stared at me, eyes still wide and swimming and expression still unreadable, I felt an unprecedented upwelling of nervousness flood through me.

"I… I apologise. Truly, I'm sorry if my actions upset you." I pressed my lips together for a moment. "It's only that I knew Longbottom would likely have to destroy the plant, and I know how much it meant to you –"

My words were cut off. Forcibly. In a motion so fast I didn't even see him move, Al launched himself from the bed and flung himself on top of me. I barely had the chance to gasp as my breath was forced from my lungs before he'd wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to my own.

It was almost a violent attack in those first seconds. There was no finesse, only desperation and feeling, so much feeling that Al conveyed with his clutching hold around me, through the pressure of his lips against my own. And yet rapidly, like slipping into a familiar dance, that awkwardness faded. Unexpected as it was, I felt my body respond almost before my mind. My arms slipped around his waist, holding him against me as he unconsciously adjusted himself on my lap, and tilted my head to deepen our kiss. And that violence, the blast of passion, sizzled into something more… sedate. Sedate and yet no less intense.

It took another moment of locked lips, of sucking and nipping, of sinking readjustments until we almost melded together for me to fully register what was happening. Gratitude. I'd worried that Al would be angry, that he would feel betrayed that I hadn't told him of what I'd done before now.

He wasn't. Anger couldn't be further from reality. It only served to show me that, regardless of how well I liked to think I knew Al, there was so much more that I didn't know.

The heavy weight of him upon me was intoxicating. It wasn't as though we'd undergone any particular lacking of intimacy – I didn't think Al or I would ever be able to do that – but this felt different. There was the lust, the almost visible desire and heated of passion, there was the gentleness and tenderness that had grown only in the past month or two, but underneath that there was something else.

Something more.

Al was cradling my head in his hands as he explored my mouth with his tongue, licking at my lips and pulling away only for a moment before diving back in again to impress a kiss once more. I was bound in his firm hold, and couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't. My senses were a riot of heightened attentiveness, flooded with the smell, the taste, and the feel of Al as I leant into each kiss, sliding my own tongue through his lips, sucking on his lower lip. All the while, as he held me firmly in place, I found my own caging arms drawing him closer, closer, in a squeezing hold of never let go.

When we finally broke apart, it was to gasps and breathless panting. Al slowly opened his eyes, meeting my own from barely a hands breadth away. There was a deep intensity to the passionate darkness of his gaze that seemed to spear straight through me.

"Scor."

His voice was barely a whisper, almost a croak, as though it were a strain to speak. I leant in to brush my lips across his once more in a feather-light touch. He sighed warmly against me and I drew in his breath like a drowning man tasting life-giving air. I closed my eyes and simply felt him; the gentleness of his hands cupping my head, the hard press of his legs pressed along my thighs from where he'd somehow managed to straddle me, the soft shifting as he took each breath and Merlin did I love to hear the sound of him breathing. Did that make me strange? Would anyone else understand that? Would they even -?

"I love you."

My eyes snapped open but for a moment I couldn't see. Those three simple words echoed in my ears and consumed everything. Nothing was as important to me in that moment as hearing those words.

Slowly, blinking, I drew my gaze up to meet Al's once more. They were still sparkling, still lust-blown, but there was a softness to them that mirrored the small smile touching his lips.

"What?"

"I love you," he repeated, and somehow it resounded even more warmly in my ears this time. "I should have told you so ages ago. I should have told you the second you said the same to me. Before that, even. I don't know why I didn't. I'm a bit of an idiot like that, I guess."

No. You're not. I wanted to say the words, wanted to correct him, but I couldn't quite force them out. My mind was locked, fixated upon that simple confession as something within me unfurled and blossomed.

I love you.

I didn't realise how much I'd wanted to hear Al say it until that moment. How much I'd been ignoring the nervousness at not hearing my own words reciprocated when I'd first offered them. It seemed almost foolish now, to feel worried at such a lack of verbalisation. Everything in Al in that moment, from his gaze to the hold of his hands to the sincerity of his expression, spoke to me. He loved me.

There was nothing else that I could possibly do in that moment except for drown in his lips once more. And drown I did. Gladly.

Al seemed just as ready to do so as I.

It was a natural progression. Such an admission, a realisation of mutual feelings, could not be reconciled without becoming as closely bound as two individuals possibly could. I'd always considered 'making love' to be something of a euphemism for 'sex'; they were essentially the same thing, only that the former was romanticised by the poets of the world.

I was wrong. Not to say that our intimacy had not been genuine or laced with feeling before, but this time, when we fell into one another on Al's bed, there was something more to the moment. More, and deeper, and vaster. It wasn't rushed, because time didn't matter an ounce. There was no frantic shedding of clothing, no haphazard pressing of bodies to gain the satisfaction of physical contact, no careless pursuit of personal gratification.

This was different.

I cradled him as he wrapped himself around me. I caressed his bared skin that triggered a ripple of goose bumps across every limb in synchrony to his fingers combing through my hair. And when I finally, slowly, parted him beneath me, settling myself between his legs, it was in the unconscious, distracted motions of one completely focused upon the beauty that lay before me, the feel of Al's lips on my own as I couldn't bear to draw them away. It was only at his mumbled urging that I even developed the presence of mind to push into him.

That was different too. Familiar, the same heat, the same tightness, the same overwhelming feeling of pleasure, yet different. My gasp of pleasure was met by Al's echoing gasp as he arched beneath me, wrapping his arms in a latching hold around my shoulders even as his legs crossed over my back in a similar lock. It was an awkward position perhaps, but I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Rolling my hips into him, I set up a slow, undulating pace. It took barely moment for the both of us to be left trembling beneath the sheer pleasure of sensations. Al rocked his hips back against me, each movement sending volts of heat to my mind and shooting sparks across my eyes. Slow became fast, careful and steady morphing into urgent and fierce. I drove into him with panting thrusts, the blurring image of his flushing face and parted lips doing something to me that I had absolutely no control over.

It was enrapturing.

It was passionately intense.

I couldn't have lasted long if I'd tried. If I'd wanted to. Which I didn't really. I was living in the moment, in the sheer joy, and when I reached a climax and lost myself to blinding pleasure and a gasping cry, it could have been seconds or hours of consummation and I wouldn't have cared. All that concerned me was the feel of Al beneath me, of the gasping of his breaths and the sudden tightness around my flagging arousal as he quivered and came but moments after me.

Perfection didn't begin to cover it.

I fell on top of Al limply, with only the presence of mind to prop myself on my elbows to avoid crushing him beneath me. Our breaths panted in synchrony, the sweat-dampened skin of our chests touching briefly with each inhalation. I didn't want to move, didn't think I could, not even to draw myself from him, but Al didn't seem to mind. His legs settled across my back loosely, his arms still locked around my neck and fingers stroking at the soft tufts of hair at my nape. My forehead dropping to his shoulder, I found I couldn't speak – for perhaps one of the first times in my life I was left completely speechless. But that hardly seemed to matter because Al…

"I love you, Scor."

I would never grow tired of hearing those words.

I stayed at Al's house that night. It probably wasn't the best idea, not when I had class early the next morning, but for the first time in my life – well, not the first time, but I hardly considered myself sane in the days following Al's near death experience – I was fully prepared to skip a day. Anything to remain wrapped around Al in his bed that was really too small for the both of us. Not that either of us really cared.

I thought I'd awoken first and so attempted to remain immobile to avoid waking Al at my side. The arm crushed beneath him had gone numb, and likely his own beneath me had too, but I didn't really care about that either. What was a little bit of nerve damage to the sheer satisfaction of holding the boy I loved as he slept?

Or didn't sleep. I must have made some movement, tensed perhaps, for not a minute after I awoke Al opened his eyes. They were almost completely free of the bleariness that usually shrouded them so I suspected he'd been awake for a while.

"Hey," he murmured, offering me a small smile.

"Good morning." I fidgeted slightly, my resolution to remain frozen broken almost as soon as it was made. "You're awake before me."

"I know. What are the odds?"

"About a million to one."

"Try a billion. I doubt it will ever happen again."

We smiled at one another, as much for the supposed exaggeration as because it was, likely, quite true. It was barely past five in the morning, I gauged from the thin, dull sliver of light that peeked through the curtains, and Al had always been a long sleeper. Not so much deep but extensive, and even more so after his illness had set its teeth into him.

I wondered what had awoken him, but as though reading my mind Al answered before I could ask. "It was nice, getting the chance to see you sleep for once."

I shifted my head slightly on the pillow, raising an eyebrow. "You like watching me sleep?"

Al grinned. "I could watch you sleep forever. You look like a beautiful little baby, all dopey and snoring." He patted my cheek fondly, as though I truly were an infant. It didn't bother me as much as it perhaps should have.

"I don't snore," I contradicted. "I know that for a fact."

"Oh, for a fact, do you?"

"Most definitely. I'm a light sleeper. I'd surely wake myself up if I did."

Al gave a soft laugh and shook his head. Our conversation effectively ceased after that and, like a wriggling puppy, Al snuggled further into our embrace and immediately feel into a sleepy doze. I was perfectly happy to simply hold him, numb arm and all.

We did eventually surface, however, when a knock on the door caused us both to jolt into sitting. Blessedly no one entered the room, but Ginny's muffled voice seeped through the wood nonetheless. "Al, you should probably get up. Scorpius, I thought you might appreciate the wake up call; I'm sure you don't want to be late for school."

"Thank you, Mrs Potter," I called softly. I could feel a flush heating my cheeks; evidently Al's family knew I'd stayed the night, and likely knew exactly what we'd been up to as well, but that knowledge didn't ease my discomfort at all. If anything it actually made it worse.

"You're very welcome. And it's Ginny, dear," Ginny replied, before the soft shuffle of her footsteps announced her departure down the hallway.

When I turned back to Al, he was smirking, scratching idly at his sleep-mussed hair. "Oh, don't look so embarrassed, you prude."

"I would hardly call myself a prude." I sighed. "Can you honestly tell me that had my mother found us in a similar position at my own house that you wouldn't be similarly embarrassed?"

Al's smile faded into an expression of thoughtfulness, then into growing horror. "Fair point."

"Exactly."

We clambered from bed, dressing hastily, myself casting a quick Freshening Charm on my robes and vanquishing them of wrinkles. Al threw on a pair of jeans and jumper himself before we headed downstairs.

Ginny had baked up a delicious breakfast of poached eggs and beans on toast that we both fell upon in an instant. After I'd thanked her of course, for one can never forget the simple courtesies. Ginny beamed at me as though I'd just given her the most profuse compliment in existence. She even flushed slightly before setting herself down beside us to tuck in herself.

About halfway through the meal I became aware of the glances Al and his mother were sharing. They really weren't all that subtle, much and all as Ginny's brief, flickering glances towards me may have suggested otherwise. She didn't speak, but I got the impression words were itching to spill from her tongue.

Al eventually relieved her of her discomfort. "It's alright, Mum. I don't mind."

"Are you sure?" Ginny frowned at her son. "We can probably wait until –"

"I don't mind if Scor sees. He already knows I take it and everything." Al scooped up another spoonful of beans and shrugged. When he glanced towards me, however, there was a questioning note to his gaze, a faint worry.

Oh. Yes, I'd almost forgotten. Al was supposed to take his potion first thing in the morning. I'd heard all about the infamous potion; Al had been hesitant to share exactly what it was and what it did with me at first, but after a time the truth had spilled out. It sounded… truly, it sounded appalling. I hated the thought of him having to go through that every day. More than that, the realisation of just how deeply and pervasively Al struggled with his stress, with anxiety, had been a bit of a wake up call. Since then – although, truth be told, I'd already started a bit before that – I'd read just about every book I could get my hands on that even mentioned anxiety disorders. It was one of the most fascinating, confusing and confronting things I'd ever committed myself to studying.

At the proffered yet unspoken question, I gave Al a small smile. No, he didn't have to wait. If anything, I wanted to be there for him. Anything to offer some support because I –

Wow. There was honestly nothing I wanted more than to be there for him. Absolutely nothing. Of course I already knew that but… well, it had never hit me so starkly as it did in that moment.

At Al's murmur of agreement, Ginny rose to her feet and made her way into the kitchen to clatter through a cabinet. She returned a moment later with an hourglass-shaped vial of rich grass-coloured liquid and a glass of water, which she combined into a pale, diluted green. She handed it to Al and settled herself beside him once more.

Al paused in the act of raising the glass to his lips. He frowned at the potion, but when he spoke it was to me. "Sorry about this. I'm usually completely out of it for about half an hour. You can go if you'd like."

Like hell I would. I shrugged with false nonchalance. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll be late for school."

"I don't mind."

Al flashed me a disbelieving glance. "Bullshit."

"Albus," Ginny muttered in reprimand, though she looked more on the verge of smiling than scolding.

Al dropped his attention back to the potion once more. "Sorry, Mum," he apologised, though there was not a hint of remorse in his words. A moment later and he downed the drink in one go.

I couldn't help but smirk at the expression of disgust that pasted a grimace upon his face. "Tasteful?"

"Disgusting," Al replied with an exaggerated shiver. He immediately ate another spoonful of beans in an obvious attempt to wash away the lingering taste.

It didn't take long to kick in. I supposed it was a good thing that Al had eaten most of his breakfast before taking the potion. He didn't even get in another mouthful before he seemed to sag. Leaning forwards slightly in his seat, he dropped his forehead into one hand, eyes glazing and trailing downwards to stare at the table. He didn't seem to notice when Ginny eased the plate out from before him. It was like he was dead to the world.

I hated it. It was one of the most horrible things I'd ever seen, with the only except being when he'd appeared dead before me. My Al was gone completely from his expression, his face wiped utterly blank. Dazed didn't begin to cover it, and when I reached forwards to wrap my fingers around his free hand he barely responded at all save to slightly tilt his head towards me. Blank. Expressionless.

I didn't know if I felt better or worse for having seen it. For having known exactly what happened when he took his potion.

Ginny bustled around the kitchen to the side of the dining table, muttering to herself between stilted questions thrown towards me. She was attempting to be comforting, to distract me I realised, though she needn't have bothered. Her questions were very obviously superficial and only half-attending, and I personally didn't feel much inclination to reply to her. I was fully focused upon the vacant face of my boyfriend as he worked through whatever perceived terrors his mind presented to him with detached proficiency.

Like clockwork, almost to the minute, Al resurfaced after half an hour. Blinking as though truly awakening from sleep, he slowly turned his head to glance around him. A small smile waveringly spread across his face when his eyes finally rested on me and his fingers finally gave mine a slight squeeze. "You're still here?"

"Of course," I replied. I didn't expect the slight choking of my throat, but Al didn't seem to notice it at all. Or perhaps he was just being kind in overlooking it.

Ginny retreated from the kitchen and stepped up beside him, placing a hand on Al's shoulder and dropping a kiss onto his crown. "He held your hand the entire time, you know."

Al glanced at our clasped hands and his expression softened. "Thanks," he murmured. I could only shrug in reply, holding his gaze in an attempt to convey everything I couldn't say.

Ginny glanced between the two of us for a moment, obviously hesitant to interrupt us. Finally, she spoke. "Scorpius, I'm sorry but you really must get back to school. Classes have already started."

I cast a glance over my shoulder at the old grandfather clock stationed at the end of the dining room. "So they have," I mused. I searched myself for a moment but… no. I didn't really care. What on earth had happened to me? "I probably should go." I glanced back towards Al. "What are you doing today?"

Before he could even reply, Ginny spoke up once more. "Oh, I meant to ask you actually, Al. Graham from Hilton Nursery fire-called this morning. He asked if you could drop by as soon as you got a chance."

Al glanced up towards his mother quizzically. "Me? Why?"

"Well, he said he would have asked for Neville if he hadn't been at school, but said you were just as good." She smiled with the pride of an obviously doting mother. "Apparently the Dew Bells have blossomed and he needs some help collecting the nectar for an order."

"The Dew Bells!" Al straightened, his fingers tightening unconsciously upon my own in his excitement. "Really? Oh, fantastic! Yeah, I'll head straight over today." He flashed a wide smile towards me, contrasting so completely with how he'd been not five minutes before that it was almost disconcerting. "Dew Bells only blossom if their time syncs up with the full moon. I've never seen them myself before." He shifted enthusiastically in his seat as though he was simply desperate to jump up and race to the nursery immediately.

I couldn't help but smile. It was such a beautiful thing to see, that he was so passionate about his plants. More beautiful after what I'd just witnessed. Even after all that had happened, after all that his dreams and the repercussions of them had caused, he still loved it so much. There was not the faintest tinge of shadow to that love.

I marvelled at such dedication. If it were me, if I'd been so embedded in potions and the world had been so disapproving of it… Really, in the absence of knowing exactly what had really happened, the Daily Prophet and the plethora of rag magazines had raised the story of Al's university plans more times than I could count, in both positive and – more often – negative lights. But since that first bout of horror and terror, Al didn't seem to take it to heart. Or, well, he still became uncomfortable, still expressed his mortification over their deductions, but it didn't change his mind in the slightest.

Yes, I truly admired that. If more people followed their dreams, disregarding the opinions and expectations of others, I thought the world would be a much better place.

It was like a light bulb moment. In the face of Al's enthusiasm, I couldn't think of anything but potions. Al and Potions, the two most important things to me in the world. Stupidly, perhaps, but even after making my mind up, that I would abandon what Rhali called my 'passion', I knew I loved it.

What had possessed me to abandon it so easily in the first place?

When I rose to my feet to make my way to the Floo, Al rose beside me. He was all smiles now, the effects of the potions rapidly falling away, and right in front of his mother wrapped his arms around me and planted a kiss directly onto my lips. I drew away with a smile that mirrored his own and he grinned wider.

"Love you."

"I love you, too."

It was that which gave me the final nudge, the final boost of confidence. Leaving Al in the dining room, I slung my school bag over my shoulder and headed into the living room and its fireplace. Throwing the Floo powder into the dying hearth, a burst of green flames sputtered into existence.

Miranda Weatherwell's Office, Hogwarts. That was the fireplace kept open for me.

As I stepped into the flames, I clearly pronounced my destination. "Draco Malfoy's Office, LeFay Connected, Westminster."

Godric's Hollow disappeared in a swirl of green.

No one entered my father's office. Not without express permission and an appointment booked weeks if not months in advance. Even as his son, I'd only been in there four times in my entire life. In hindsight, it was actually surprising that the Floo was even open. I was thankful for it nonetheless, however; I didn't much fancy hitting a solid, impassable wall and rebounding back into the Potter fireplace from whence I'd come.

Stepping out onto polished hardwood floors, I swept my gaze around the room. It was a large, open area, with floor to ceiling windows consuming one wall behind a desk nearly as expansive as the width of the room. Heavy shelving laden beneath books and files lined every inch of wall space save for the door to enter the room and another leading, if memory served me correctly, into the adjacent conference room. Only the most important of meetings were ever held there. Other than that, the only two noticeable items in the room where a pair of wide, thinly cushioned and deceptively comfortable-looking wooden chairs before the desk.

That, and the figure of Draco Malfoy seated behind that desk

My father was scanning a bleached-white parchment scroll held aloft in his hands, a slight frown on his face as his eyes darted across the page. He was clad in light, bottle-green robes of the most modern yet refined fashion, his receding hair perfectly combed, and was the picture of elegance even in stillness. That elegance I knew from both personal experience and word of mouth, was intimidating in itself. That was my father. And it was that very image that had cowed me yet driven me to my fullest potential my entire life.

I was not cowed now, however. I was resolute, determined. Decided.

My father turned his frown towards me at my entrance. His eyebrows rose in surprise that immediately crinkled into an even deeper frown than before. "Scorpius, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at school?" His frown lowered further. "Is something wrong?"

That voice was threatening as well as concerned, the very deliberate mix of worry and 'whatever it was, it had better not be your fault or you'll live to regret it'. I'd never quite seen the full extent of my father's wrath, but I could anticipate it to be fierce. The lingering threat of its arousal had left me a cautious and obedient child in my early years.

I threw that caution to the wind as I stepped flush up to the desk. Father's gaze flickered automatically – perhaps unintentionally – towards the seats behind me, but I didn't take one of them. I didn't intend to be here that long anyway. I was late for school, after all.

"Father, nothing is wrong. There is no catastrophe upon the horizon. At least not as I perceive it."

Father's frown didn't ease in the slightest. He settled back into his chair, regarding me ponderously. "Then what –?"

"I've made a decision, Father. A decision that I truly should have made many years ago." Here it was. I took a deep breath. "Father, I do not wish to become a part of your company. I have thought for many years that I did, but the truth is that I was merely seeking your approval in following in your footsteps. It is not my inclination, nor my desire, to truly become an employee of LeFay Connected. I truly do not believe that it would suit me in the slightest."

Father's eyes flashed darkly and I worried for a moment if I'd taken a step too far, that Father was about to explode. I ploughed onwards, however, struggling to complete my impromptu speech before the storm broke and lightning struck. "I am sorry. I'm sorry for what this may mean for you, for your company, for your plans for me. But I cannot work for LeFay." I paused, shaking my head in a self-deprecating way. "It does not sit with me. If I'm being honest, I do not even fully understand the purpose of the company at all. I cannot fathom your overall goal. No matter how many books I read and how many files I skim, it is… unintelligible. You always said I was smart, Father, so why does it not make sense to me?"

A second later I knew I'd pushed too far. The flash sparked in Father's eyes once more, a vein pulsing in his forehead and his jaw tightened. He took a deep breath to steady his very obviously rising anger. "It is quite simple, Scorpius. LeFay Connected is a network of high-class wizards who fund and support –"

"You can tell me as many times as you wish, Father, but I will not retain it. I have tried – truly – but I can't. Perhaps it is because I do not want to." I took a deep breath of my own. "I am sorry, Father. Truly sorry. I don't mean to burden you, or disappoint you, but I felt it best you know."

Father stared at me. And stared. And stared. His eyes narrowed, the vein in his forehead throbbing slightly, but he was otherwise still. When he finally spoke, it was only his lips that moved, and they just barely. "And in which direction, pray tell, do you intend to go if not into my company?"

I might have imagined the slight hiss to his words. It was definitely exaggerated in my mind, but even that knowledge didn't prevent my knees from becoming slightly weak. Shamefully, yes, but undeniably nonetheless.

"If truth be told, Father, I do not expressly know." At another throbbing of his vein, I hastened to continue. "Not exactly, at least. But I knew the field at least. Father, I wish to be a Potioneer. I do not know as of yet how I intend to pursue that career, nor the steps I've to take, but that is my intention." I bowed my head slightly, suddenly unable to meet Father's eyes. "Other than that, I have not yet made any decisions."

My words were met by silence. It buzzed almost painfully in my ears and I felt an odd sweep of warmth flush through me, followed immediately by a chill. I didn't know whether I should say something more, apologise again, or simply leave.

Father took the decision out of my hands when he spoke in a low voice. "Is this Albus Potter's influence?"

Abruptly, my mood shifted. I still couldn't look at Father, but for an entirely different reason this time. I didn't want him to see the rising fury in my eyes. "No, Father, this has nothing to do with Al… bus. He has been nothing but supportive of my future at LeFay."

More silence. It was eerie, uncomfortable. Strained and almost quivering. I heard the slight squeak of Father's seat as he shifted, but he didn't speak. Only silence ensued.

Finally, I couldn't wait any longer. We must have been held in a state of frozen tension for minutes now. I slowly raised my gaze to peer at Father, keeping my chin slightly bowed. Anger still remained, but it was steadily fading to hover with similar intensity to the remaining coil of nervousness settled in my gut.

Father was staring at his desk. He leant back in his chair, almost as though he was pulling away from me, with an elbow propped on one arm and a hand pressed over his lips. A frown still wrinkled his brow, and though it could have been wishful thinking on my part, it seemed more thoughtful than viciously disapproving and spitting fury.

As though sensing my gaze, he broke his silence. Though he didn't lift his gaze to look at me, it was clear not only from the absence of an other occupants of the room but from the slow, deliberate, measured tone of his voice that he spoke directly to me. I recognised that tone; it was one I'd never been able to forget, even though he hadn't used it since I was a child.

"Scorpius, take yourself to school. We will speak of this another time."

That was it. That and only that, short and final.

I didn't complain. I knew I probably should have attempted to say more, to apologise again perhaps, but I couldn't. And I hesitate to say that I fled, but as I strode through the crackling Floo back towards Hogwarts it felt very much like it.

A/N: Hi everyone! Hope you liked the chapter. If you did - or you have anything else to say - please leave a review. Thank you!