FIC: Stutter [R]
Author: secretsalex
Title: Stutter
Pairing(s): Albus/Scorpius, background H/G and D/A-and a tiny hint of unrequited H/D.
Rating: R
Warnings: None, really, except that the boys are sixteen.
Word Count:2500
Summary: Draco discovers his son’s unlikely relationship with Albus Severus Potter.
Prompt: honey sweet and acid free [submitted by silentdictator]
Notes: Many thanks to my trusty beta, LS. silentdictator your prompt left me a lot of room to play around. I hope this suits you. For what it’s worth, I had a lovely time writing it.
There is something wrong with the Malfoys.
Something intangible, something essential.
Draco knows it, has known it since Scorpius, has suspected it since his own youth. It’s not something visible-by all appearances, the Malfoys are flawless. Generations of blond, tall, cold witches and wizards, their faces carved with a cruel, perfect sort of symmetry, the kind of brutal lines better suited to a statue than a living being. It’s what keeps them from being fully attractive, Draco suspects-that hint of alienation, of inhumanity. Like a beautiful, priceless urn, meant to be kept empty, admired, but never used.
The flaw isn’t often noticeable in other ways, either. No Malfoy lacks intelligence; all share a keen, calculating, insidious wit that has long served to fill the Malfoy coffers. No Malfoy lacks in magical prowess-their lines have never thrown a Squib, unlike many other pure-blood families, who’ve swept such painful secrets under the rug.
And yet, despite every advantage, despite beauty and money and ability, every Malfoy lives in want of something.
For Lucius, it was compassion. Had he a drop of it, he might have left the Dark Lord in time, might have been able to salvage the family’s reputation, might have been able to avoid Azkaban, might have been anything-Minister of Magic would not have been out of his reach.
For Draco, he knows, it is courage. He imagines every day how his life might be different if he’d had it. How he would have been the boy who saved Dumbledore, instead of the boy who couldn’t quite murder him. How he would have been the boy who came to the light by defying his father, instead of the boy who took the Mark to earn his sire’s pride. How he would be a man who lives his own life, instead of a man who lives the lie scripted for him.
For Scorpius, it is control.
@@@@@@@@@@@@
Scorpius is four when Draco admits something is wrong with his son. Until then, it had been easy to brush it off. All children trip over their words when they learn to speak. It’s baby talk. He’ll grow out of it.
But when Blaise and Pansy visit from the Continent and their own son, a year younger than Scorpius, waves at Draco and says in a clear voice, “Hello, Mr. Malfoy. I’m Malachai Zabini,” Draco is forced to face facts.
He refuses to flush when Pansy kneels in front of Scorpius and asks him his name.
“Uh-uh-uh-uh-I’m Scor-or-orpius M-M-Malfoy. H-h-h-h.” There is a pause, and Scorpius swallows, his chubby face grave as he tries again. “H-h-h-h.”
Draco doesn’t flinch when the wineglasses on the sideboard burst with soft pops.
“H-h-hello, Mrs. Zabini.”
@@@@@@@@@@@
The owl from Headmistress McGonagall is unsurprising. Draco can hear her trilling voice in his head as he scans the parchment, his eyes falling on the pertinent sentences and punctuating each with her particular emphasis. Scorpius possesses a magical ability far beyond those of his classmates. Scorpius displays an organic magic that, if harnessed, could change the wizarding world. Scorpius lacks control of his power. Scorpius’ speech impediment continues to hinder, if not entirely retard, his spellwork. At sixteen, Scorpius still displays a propensity for accidental magic that has become a severe problem that is compounded by his social backwardness.
He pours another drink as he stares at the parchment, torn between pride and sorrow. His son, his beautiful, powerful son-his son who cannot introduce himself without stammering, who cannot cast a simple Alohamora without several tries to get the word out, who can set a room ablaze in a fit of anger without even opening his mouth or realising he’s doing it.
Another Malfoy-another wizard doomed to almost be something great, to almost change the world, to almost be happy.
It might, Draco thinks, be easier to be complete failures.
@@@@@@@@@@@
Draco leaves Scorpius sitting in the waiting room, little feet dangling beneath his robe and above the floor. A bosomy nurse is bustling around him, offering him sugar quills and a toy dragon with the name of the Healer’s practice stamped across the wings.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Malfoy,” Healer Ashburn says, gesturing toward the vacant chair in front of his desk.
Draco sits, alert to the slightest sound emanating from the waiting room.
“Scorpius is a lovely child-smart and handsome and with a magical ability the likes of which I’ve never encountered.”
Draco nods. He’s heard all this before. It’s the standard list given before delivering the blow.
The Healer steeples his fingers and looks down at them for a moment. “Curing his stutter is proving difficult,” he finally offers. “He has not responded to many of the usual solutions.”
Draco’s jaw twitches and his fingers itch at the pocket of his robes where the pack of Galoises rest hidden. “I’m aware of that.”
“I’m of the mind that this stutter is a physical reaction to the magical power-almost as if his magical signature is so strong that it overloads other thought processes at times, particularly when Scorpius is nervous. And, unfortunately, Scorpius’ social anxiety causes this to occur often.” Ashburn sighs. “My best advice to you and your wife is to keep Scorpius in weekly therapy sessions with Healer Enochs. She’s the best in the field, as you know.”
“So he sees a Mind Healer and that’s it?” Draco’s laugh is bitter. “Meanwhile, he’s eight and still can’t say his name and his magic continues to shatter the crystal whenever he gets upset?”
Ashburn’s smile is pitying, and Draco hates him all the more for it. “It’s the best we can do, Mr. Malfoy.”
@@@@@@@@@@@
“F-f-f-f-” Scorpius stops, shakes his head, stammers some more. “F-father, th-th-th-th-” He stops again, and the boy beside him steps forward.
“I’m Albus Severus Potter, sir. Nice to meet you.”
Draco reaches out to take the hand that’s being offered to him, staring at his gangly teenaged guest who looks so much like his famous father. “Welcome to the manor, Albus. Please make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks, Mr. Malfoy.” Albus’ voice is light, easy, as if he doesn’t know what it means for him to be in Malfoy Manor, the weight of his family’s shared history with Scorpius’. He just flashes a juvenile grin and begins gazing around the parlour. “This place is bloody fantastic,” he says, poking Scorpius in the ribs. “The ceilings are so high you could ride your broom in here!”
Scorpius’ lips curl into a small smile, and he shakes his head. “Uh-uh,” he murmurs.
“So you gonna show me your room? And then maybe food? ” Albus grins at Scorpius, and Draco imagines Albus running amongst his siblings and the herd of Weasley children with the same easy manner. So different from Scorpius. So different.
Scorpius nods, offering his father a half-hearted wave and turning to lead Albus up the staircase. As they go, Draco listens while Albus peppers Scorpius with questions. He notices as he listens that Albus frames most of them to be answered simply, with a yes or no. He wonders if the boy has learned to do that purposely, to spare Scorpius the indignity of his broken speech.
@@@@@@@@@@@@
Draco knows he shouldn’t look in Scorpius’ room, look through his things. He doesn’t even know what he expects to find, what he wants to find. Sticky copies of Playwizard? Greasy little bags of Muggle herbs that he remembers smoking during his own days at Hogwarts? A hidden bottle of Ogden’s? Dark artefacts filched from the library?
But he knows that he doesn’t know his son-not really. He loves Scorpius, and he spends time with him, but he doesn’t know him. How can he, when Scorpius chooses so often to be silent? And that, Draco tells himself, is why he enters his son’s room and rummages through his drawers while Scorpius and his mother visit the Greengrass estate one day the week before Christmas. He wants to know his son.
The drawers of his bureau are surprisingly dull. Socks, pants, pyjamas, a few wrinkled Muggle-style t-shirts printed with phrases like “I’m a Slytherin-Want to Pet My Snake?” that Scorpius has never worn at the Manor.
It’s the bedside table, Draco discovers, where Scorpius keeps his prized possessions. Smart, Draco supposes, that Scorpius keeps what really matters nearest to him.
The package looks innocuous enough-a dragonhide journal bound loosely with a faded green ribbon.
Draco doesn’t hesitate to slip the tie and begin reading the two sets of alternating handwriting.
Scorpius-can you read this?
Yes-you did it, Al. Bloody brilliant!
It is rather, isn’t it? Where are you right now?
In bed, of course. Aren’t you?
Yeah-curtains drawn and Silencing charms up, in case you decide to talk dirty to me.
Always classy, Al.
Naturally. Now talk to me.
What do you want me to say?
How much you admire my cock?
Not as much as you admire it.
It’s a thing of beauty, Scorp.
Be that as it may.
Fine, then. You could tell me what you thought when I kissed you the first time.
I thought you were crazy. I didn’t know you were gay. I thought you hated me.
Why would you think that?
Slytherin. Griffyndor. Potter. Malfoy.
Who cares? You’re beautiful and smart and awesome.
I still think you’re crazy.
Tell me more.
All right. The first time you kissed me, I’d already imagined it a thousand times.
What?!
You didn’t know it, but I had what I suppose a girl would call a crush. We had so many classes together-Merlin knows why they put the Slytherins with the Gryffindors for every bloody thing when it would make so much more sense for us to be with Ravenclaw and you lot stuck with the Hufflepuffs. But we were always in classes together. And I watched you. You’re famous, you know-you look just like your famous father. Everyone says so. And you’ve always been so . . . alive. You walk into a room and you overpower it.
Scorpius Malfoy, I do believe you’re making me blush.
You never blush. You’re shameless. You just told me your cock was a thing of beauty.
Right you are. Go on, then.
So that day, when you walked into the bathroom behind me, I knew it was you. I just pretended not to notice. And I walked to the mirror, and I pretended to wash my hands, and I waited to see what you were doing. And you just walked up beside me, and you looked at me and you said my name. And when I turned to look at you, you looked so serious. You’re never serious, you know, and for a moment I thought you might deck me. Or hex me.
Hit you? You thought I would hit you?
Gryffindor, Slytherin, et cetera.
But I didn’t hit you.
No. You reached out and put your hand on my shoulder, and you said, “You know, you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
And you said nothing and I thought I might die on the spot.
What was I supposed to say, Albus? Open my mouth and stutter like a moron until you gave up and left?
Don’t say that. Anyway, you’re just lucky I’m brave and kissed you anyway.
Gryffindor.
Damn right.
Draco closes the journal, looking away. All he can see when he closes his eyes is his son, standing at a bathroom sink with a Potter standing behind him, and god, is it Albus or his father? Is it Scorpius or him?
@@@@@@@@@
It’s New Year’s Eve. Albus has been at the Manor three days, and Draco has yet to come to terms with his presence. He stomps up and down the great staircase with all the grace of a pregnant hippogriff, tugging Scorpius along with him and ignoring any protests. He shatters a beautiful Ming vase in the library after charming a paperweight into a would-be Quaffle-a sin for which he delivers a blithe but earnest apology, adding the he “hopes that vase wasn’t too fancy,” since he’s “sort of pants at Reparo.”
At meals, he pokes through caviar and veal and salmon mousse with disgusted looks and then grins in delight when the house elves bring him steak and kidney pies. He chatters with the elves as if they’re part of the family, and they’ve taken to calling him “Young Master Albus-Son of Harry Potter,” which sets Draco’s teeth on edge every time he hears it. And in between all of this, he tromps in and out of the Manor with Scorpius to stage elaborate snowball wars like first years and tracks slush all over the Aubusson without a second glance.
It is all so very charming that Draco is not the least surprised by the way Scorpius’ big grey eyes track Albus’ every move. And so when Draco finds himself in the hallway near Scorpius’ bedroom early New Year’s morning and hears the unmistakable sounds of sex behind the door, he is rooted to the spot.
“D-d-do it, Albus. Please. P-p-p-oh, oh-p-please.” His son’s broken voice floats through the heavy door, and Draco wills his feet to move but they don’t.
“Yes, baby, yes-you look so fucking hot, Scorpius, Christ, you’re so goddamn beautiful,” Albus says, babbling vulgarities in that utterly open, transparent voice of his.
Scorpius just groans, and Draco feels his eyes drift shut.
“Don’t move, baby-gonna fuck you now, gonna fuck you-oh, god, so good, baby, so beautiful.” Albus’ voice is like a storm, and Draco can imagine it breaking in waves over his son’s pale, proud back.
Scorpius’ sounds are muffled, and then even Draco can feel the surge of magic that seeps out from beneath the spell-sealed room.
“Oh, fuck, Scorp-your fucking magic, my god, oh my god, the way it feels when you do that, Scorp.” Albus’ voice is earnest and passionate and so honest that it breaks Draco’s heart a little.
“Oh, Christ, your magic is so fucking warm, baby, so fucking hot-you’re so beautiful, oh, god, fuck, fuck-“ And Albus continues, his voice a never-ending honey sweet litany of profane praise for Draco’s son, until finally whatever has happened behind the door is enough to silence even Albus Severus Potter, and all Draco hears for a moment is the sharp panting of two sixteen-year-old boys.
“Coming, I’m coming-oh, god, love you, love you so much, baby.”
A few moments later, Scorpius’ scratchy voice suddenly breaks the silence that has fallen. “I love you too, Albus.”
Draco blinks, forces himself to take a step toward his room, forces himself to walk away from the scene he’s just overheard, from the sentence his son has just spoken without so much as a quaver. And he curses himself as he steps into his bedroom, curses himself for the acid-sharp hope that rises in his chest, that maybe this time, this generation, this Malfoy, might escape the weight of his name.
Title: Stutter
Pairing(s): Albus/Scorpius, background H/G and D/A-and a tiny hint of unrequited H/D.
Rating: R
Warnings: None, really, except that the boys are sixteen.
Word Count:2500
Summary: Draco discovers his son’s unlikely relationship with Albus Severus Potter.
Prompt: honey sweet and acid free [submitted by silentdictator]
Notes: Many thanks to my trusty beta, LS. silentdictator your prompt left me a lot of room to play around. I hope this suits you. For what it’s worth, I had a lovely time writing it.
There is something wrong with the Malfoys.
Something intangible, something essential.
Draco knows it, has known it since Scorpius, has suspected it since his own youth. It’s not something visible-by all appearances, the Malfoys are flawless. Generations of blond, tall, cold witches and wizards, their faces carved with a cruel, perfect sort of symmetry, the kind of brutal lines better suited to a statue than a living being. It’s what keeps them from being fully attractive, Draco suspects-that hint of alienation, of inhumanity. Like a beautiful, priceless urn, meant to be kept empty, admired, but never used.
The flaw isn’t often noticeable in other ways, either. No Malfoy lacks intelligence; all share a keen, calculating, insidious wit that has long served to fill the Malfoy coffers. No Malfoy lacks in magical prowess-their lines have never thrown a Squib, unlike many other pure-blood families, who’ve swept such painful secrets under the rug.
And yet, despite every advantage, despite beauty and money and ability, every Malfoy lives in want of something.
For Lucius, it was compassion. Had he a drop of it, he might have left the Dark Lord in time, might have been able to salvage the family’s reputation, might have been able to avoid Azkaban, might have been anything-Minister of Magic would not have been out of his reach.
For Draco, he knows, it is courage. He imagines every day how his life might be different if he’d had it. How he would have been the boy who saved Dumbledore, instead of the boy who couldn’t quite murder him. How he would have been the boy who came to the light by defying his father, instead of the boy who took the Mark to earn his sire’s pride. How he would be a man who lives his own life, instead of a man who lives the lie scripted for him.
For Scorpius, it is control.
@@@@@@@@@@@@
Scorpius is four when Draco admits something is wrong with his son. Until then, it had been easy to brush it off. All children trip over their words when they learn to speak. It’s baby talk. He’ll grow out of it.
But when Blaise and Pansy visit from the Continent and their own son, a year younger than Scorpius, waves at Draco and says in a clear voice, “Hello, Mr. Malfoy. I’m Malachai Zabini,” Draco is forced to face facts.
He refuses to flush when Pansy kneels in front of Scorpius and asks him his name.
“Uh-uh-uh-uh-I’m Scor-or-orpius M-M-Malfoy. H-h-h-h.” There is a pause, and Scorpius swallows, his chubby face grave as he tries again. “H-h-h-h.”
Draco doesn’t flinch when the wineglasses on the sideboard burst with soft pops.
“H-h-hello, Mrs. Zabini.”
@@@@@@@@@@@
The owl from Headmistress McGonagall is unsurprising. Draco can hear her trilling voice in his head as he scans the parchment, his eyes falling on the pertinent sentences and punctuating each with her particular emphasis. Scorpius possesses a magical ability far beyond those of his classmates. Scorpius displays an organic magic that, if harnessed, could change the wizarding world. Scorpius lacks control of his power. Scorpius’ speech impediment continues to hinder, if not entirely retard, his spellwork. At sixteen, Scorpius still displays a propensity for accidental magic that has become a severe problem that is compounded by his social backwardness.
He pours another drink as he stares at the parchment, torn between pride and sorrow. His son, his beautiful, powerful son-his son who cannot introduce himself without stammering, who cannot cast a simple Alohamora without several tries to get the word out, who can set a room ablaze in a fit of anger without even opening his mouth or realising he’s doing it.
Another Malfoy-another wizard doomed to almost be something great, to almost change the world, to almost be happy.
It might, Draco thinks, be easier to be complete failures.
@@@@@@@@@@@
Draco leaves Scorpius sitting in the waiting room, little feet dangling beneath his robe and above the floor. A bosomy nurse is bustling around him, offering him sugar quills and a toy dragon with the name of the Healer’s practice stamped across the wings.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Malfoy,” Healer Ashburn says, gesturing toward the vacant chair in front of his desk.
Draco sits, alert to the slightest sound emanating from the waiting room.
“Scorpius is a lovely child-smart and handsome and with a magical ability the likes of which I’ve never encountered.”
Draco nods. He’s heard all this before. It’s the standard list given before delivering the blow.
The Healer steeples his fingers and looks down at them for a moment. “Curing his stutter is proving difficult,” he finally offers. “He has not responded to many of the usual solutions.”
Draco’s jaw twitches and his fingers itch at the pocket of his robes where the pack of Galoises rest hidden. “I’m aware of that.”
“I’m of the mind that this stutter is a physical reaction to the magical power-almost as if his magical signature is so strong that it overloads other thought processes at times, particularly when Scorpius is nervous. And, unfortunately, Scorpius’ social anxiety causes this to occur often.” Ashburn sighs. “My best advice to you and your wife is to keep Scorpius in weekly therapy sessions with Healer Enochs. She’s the best in the field, as you know.”
“So he sees a Mind Healer and that’s it?” Draco’s laugh is bitter. “Meanwhile, he’s eight and still can’t say his name and his magic continues to shatter the crystal whenever he gets upset?”
Ashburn’s smile is pitying, and Draco hates him all the more for it. “It’s the best we can do, Mr. Malfoy.”
@@@@@@@@@@@
“F-f-f-f-” Scorpius stops, shakes his head, stammers some more. “F-father, th-th-th-th-” He stops again, and the boy beside him steps forward.
“I’m Albus Severus Potter, sir. Nice to meet you.”
Draco reaches out to take the hand that’s being offered to him, staring at his gangly teenaged guest who looks so much like his famous father. “Welcome to the manor, Albus. Please make yourself comfortable.”
“Thanks, Mr. Malfoy.” Albus’ voice is light, easy, as if he doesn’t know what it means for him to be in Malfoy Manor, the weight of his family’s shared history with Scorpius’. He just flashes a juvenile grin and begins gazing around the parlour. “This place is bloody fantastic,” he says, poking Scorpius in the ribs. “The ceilings are so high you could ride your broom in here!”
Scorpius’ lips curl into a small smile, and he shakes his head. “Uh-uh,” he murmurs.
“So you gonna show me your room? And then maybe food? ” Albus grins at Scorpius, and Draco imagines Albus running amongst his siblings and the herd of Weasley children with the same easy manner. So different from Scorpius. So different.
Scorpius nods, offering his father a half-hearted wave and turning to lead Albus up the staircase. As they go, Draco listens while Albus peppers Scorpius with questions. He notices as he listens that Albus frames most of them to be answered simply, with a yes or no. He wonders if the boy has learned to do that purposely, to spare Scorpius the indignity of his broken speech.
@@@@@@@@@@@@
Draco knows he shouldn’t look in Scorpius’ room, look through his things. He doesn’t even know what he expects to find, what he wants to find. Sticky copies of Playwizard? Greasy little bags of Muggle herbs that he remembers smoking during his own days at Hogwarts? A hidden bottle of Ogden’s? Dark artefacts filched from the library?
But he knows that he doesn’t know his son-not really. He loves Scorpius, and he spends time with him, but he doesn’t know him. How can he, when Scorpius chooses so often to be silent? And that, Draco tells himself, is why he enters his son’s room and rummages through his drawers while Scorpius and his mother visit the Greengrass estate one day the week before Christmas. He wants to know his son.
The drawers of his bureau are surprisingly dull. Socks, pants, pyjamas, a few wrinkled Muggle-style t-shirts printed with phrases like “I’m a Slytherin-Want to Pet My Snake?” that Scorpius has never worn at the Manor.
It’s the bedside table, Draco discovers, where Scorpius keeps his prized possessions. Smart, Draco supposes, that Scorpius keeps what really matters nearest to him.
The package looks innocuous enough-a dragonhide journal bound loosely with a faded green ribbon.
Draco doesn’t hesitate to slip the tie and begin reading the two sets of alternating handwriting.
Scorpius-can you read this?
Yes-you did it, Al. Bloody brilliant!
It is rather, isn’t it? Where are you right now?
In bed, of course. Aren’t you?
Yeah-curtains drawn and Silencing charms up, in case you decide to talk dirty to me.
Always classy, Al.
Naturally. Now talk to me.
What do you want me to say?
How much you admire my cock?
Not as much as you admire it.
It’s a thing of beauty, Scorp.
Be that as it may.
Fine, then. You could tell me what you thought when I kissed you the first time.
I thought you were crazy. I didn’t know you were gay. I thought you hated me.
Why would you think that?
Slytherin. Griffyndor. Potter. Malfoy.
Who cares? You’re beautiful and smart and awesome.
I still think you’re crazy.
Tell me more.
All right. The first time you kissed me, I’d already imagined it a thousand times.
What?!
You didn’t know it, but I had what I suppose a girl would call a crush. We had so many classes together-Merlin knows why they put the Slytherins with the Gryffindors for every bloody thing when it would make so much more sense for us to be with Ravenclaw and you lot stuck with the Hufflepuffs. But we were always in classes together. And I watched you. You’re famous, you know-you look just like your famous father. Everyone says so. And you’ve always been so . . . alive. You walk into a room and you overpower it.
Scorpius Malfoy, I do believe you’re making me blush.
You never blush. You’re shameless. You just told me your cock was a thing of beauty.
Right you are. Go on, then.
So that day, when you walked into the bathroom behind me, I knew it was you. I just pretended not to notice. And I walked to the mirror, and I pretended to wash my hands, and I waited to see what you were doing. And you just walked up beside me, and you looked at me and you said my name. And when I turned to look at you, you looked so serious. You’re never serious, you know, and for a moment I thought you might deck me. Or hex me.
Hit you? You thought I would hit you?
Gryffindor, Slytherin, et cetera.
But I didn’t hit you.
No. You reached out and put your hand on my shoulder, and you said, “You know, you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
And you said nothing and I thought I might die on the spot.
What was I supposed to say, Albus? Open my mouth and stutter like a moron until you gave up and left?
Don’t say that. Anyway, you’re just lucky I’m brave and kissed you anyway.
Gryffindor.
Damn right.
Draco closes the journal, looking away. All he can see when he closes his eyes is his son, standing at a bathroom sink with a Potter standing behind him, and god, is it Albus or his father? Is it Scorpius or him?
@@@@@@@@@
It’s New Year’s Eve. Albus has been at the Manor three days, and Draco has yet to come to terms with his presence. He stomps up and down the great staircase with all the grace of a pregnant hippogriff, tugging Scorpius along with him and ignoring any protests. He shatters a beautiful Ming vase in the library after charming a paperweight into a would-be Quaffle-a sin for which he delivers a blithe but earnest apology, adding the he “hopes that vase wasn’t too fancy,” since he’s “sort of pants at Reparo.”
At meals, he pokes through caviar and veal and salmon mousse with disgusted looks and then grins in delight when the house elves bring him steak and kidney pies. He chatters with the elves as if they’re part of the family, and they’ve taken to calling him “Young Master Albus-Son of Harry Potter,” which sets Draco’s teeth on edge every time he hears it. And in between all of this, he tromps in and out of the Manor with Scorpius to stage elaborate snowball wars like first years and tracks slush all over the Aubusson without a second glance.
It is all so very charming that Draco is not the least surprised by the way Scorpius’ big grey eyes track Albus’ every move. And so when Draco finds himself in the hallway near Scorpius’ bedroom early New Year’s morning and hears the unmistakable sounds of sex behind the door, he is rooted to the spot.
“D-d-do it, Albus. Please. P-p-p-oh, oh-p-please.” His son’s broken voice floats through the heavy door, and Draco wills his feet to move but they don’t.
“Yes, baby, yes-you look so fucking hot, Scorpius, Christ, you’re so goddamn beautiful,” Albus says, babbling vulgarities in that utterly open, transparent voice of his.
Scorpius just groans, and Draco feels his eyes drift shut.
“Don’t move, baby-gonna fuck you now, gonna fuck you-oh, god, so good, baby, so beautiful.” Albus’ voice is like a storm, and Draco can imagine it breaking in waves over his son’s pale, proud back.
Scorpius’ sounds are muffled, and then even Draco can feel the surge of magic that seeps out from beneath the spell-sealed room.
“Oh, fuck, Scorp-your fucking magic, my god, oh my god, the way it feels when you do that, Scorp.” Albus’ voice is earnest and passionate and so honest that it breaks Draco’s heart a little.
“Oh, Christ, your magic is so fucking warm, baby, so fucking hot-you’re so beautiful, oh, god, fuck, fuck-“ And Albus continues, his voice a never-ending honey sweet litany of profane praise for Draco’s son, until finally whatever has happened behind the door is enough to silence even Albus Severus Potter, and all Draco hears for a moment is the sharp panting of two sixteen-year-old boys.
“Coming, I’m coming-oh, god, love you, love you so much, baby.”
A few moments later, Scorpius’ scratchy voice suddenly breaks the silence that has fallen. “I love you too, Albus.”
Draco blinks, forces himself to take a step toward his room, forces himself to walk away from the scene he’s just overheard, from the sentence his son has just spoken without so much as a quaver. And he curses himself as he steps into his bedroom, curses himself for the acid-sharp hope that rises in his chest, that maybe this time, this generation, this Malfoy, might escape the weight of his name.