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It's so quiet at the Malfoys' house at night-time. No rumbling traffic. No terrible guitar-playing from James and his friends. No Mum arguing with Dad in the kitchen, or hooting with laughter over a bottle of wine with Uncle Ron. Just peace, and the most comfortable bed I've ever known.

Scorpius is snoring in that whistly way he has, and I'm just dropping off myself, when I realise I need to piss. We were messing about with Scorp's potions kit most of the evening, trying to brew some Elixir of Euphoria, with our usual lack of success, and I think I drank too much pumpkin juice while we were doing it. I sigh and shake myself out of the beginnings of a very promising dream about being stuck in a lift with the Norwegian Quidditch Team. Maybe if I hurry, I can get back to them and their endless, muscled legs.

The landing is dark, but I find my way easily by following the long triangle of light emerging from the open bathroom door. Someone must have forgotten to cast Nox. I'm already untying my pyjama bottoms, about to step into the brightness and head straight for the loo, when I see him: Mr Malfoy.

He's standing at the sink, hands raised to his face, peering into the mirror with a serious expression. My feet stop stock still even as my mind is fumbling to catch up. He's wearing a loose pair of trousers, clinging low on his hips. Bare feet. No shirt. And in his left hand he holds an old-fashioned straight razor which he skims across the clean, sharp lines of his jaw.

His face has a curious, intent quality. He draws the razor over his skin, once, twice, three times, manoeuvring the blade with perfect, smooth strokes as his other hand holds the flesh taut.

It feels... so strange to see him like this. I've only really met him a couple of times before this weekend, when he was waving Scorpius off at King's Cross, and he's always been dressed smartly – severely, even. He seems like someone who keeps himself aloof, never letting his guard down, but this... this feels like such a private moment. I can see the black shape of that tattoo on his arm, the one some people had in the war, Dad said. And the way his hands move in the golden light, and the blade glinting, curved and cruel. The penetrating look in his eyes as he regards his reflection, his head so still, and something so assured about him.

I guess I move, or make some sound, because he whips his head around to face where I stand awkwardly on one leg, just outside the door.

“Albus? Are you all right?”

I nod, my face getting hot. I feel like I've been... spying on him. “I was just― I didn't mean to –”

“Is Scorpius OK?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just― I needed the bathroom. Sorry. I'll go downstairs.”

“No. No need.” He folds the razor in one swift motion, sheathing the blade and laying it down next to the sink, then walks past me and gestured towards the now empty room. “Go ahead. I can finish in a minute.”

He waits for me to go in, then closes the door. I just stand there, staring at the door like an idiot. I still need to piss. But, Merlin, what just happened?

I turn abruptly to the toilet and fumble at my pyjamas, but when I try to aim, I realise there's a problem. Shit. I'm more than half hard, and it just isn't happening. Mr Malfoy – is he waiting outside for me to finish? I stand there for a minute, not knowing what the hell to do. Luckily, the stress of the situation means it soon goes down a bit, and I manage to complete a rather badly-aimed piss. I clean things up in a hurry and wash my hands, but my eyes keep getting caught by the razor where it lies by the basin. The thing looks lethal.

Mr Malfoy is a little way down the landing, leafing through a book from the shelf that stands by one of the spare bedrooms. He looks quite comfortable standing there half-naked, reading by the light of his wand, and why shouldn't he? It's his house, after all. It's me who's feeling weird about it, about seeing his body covered in the same pale skin as Scorp's, which burns in about a minute and a half in the summertime. About seeing his arms and shoulders, the smooth swell of his muscles. Or seeing his stomach, which is nearly hairless, and flat. Not like Dad's, who has a soft little pudge that sits over the top of his trousers now, or Uncle Ron's, whose belly wobbles when he walks around in his shorts, until Mum yells at them both to put a bloody shirt on.

They're the same age, though, aren't they? Bloody hell. Mr Malfoy is the same age as my Dad. But his body looks lean, and strong, and his movements have a sort of weird grace to them, a confidence that makes a tingle of heat rumble along my spine. I bet Mr Malfoy doesn't sit around eating takeaway curry out of the box and shouting at Quidditch on the TV.

He shuts the book with a satisfying little snap and smiles at me. I realise I've been standing there, just looking. And my prick is definitely interested. In Mr Malfoy. In Scorpius' Dad. He stands side on to me, slipping the book back onto the shelf, and the light from his wand catches on his small nipples and throws the lines of his shoulder blades, of his back, into intriguing shadows. I follow them down to the base of his spine, to where the curve of his arse is just covered by his trousers. Then he turns, and oh shit, I've been caught staring again, and god, does he know, because these pyjamas are not hiding anything, and I totally need to get back to bed before –

“Everything all right?” Mr Malfoy raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, fine,” I nod. Why am I even still standing here?

“I'll finish my shave, then.”

I nod again. I must look like some sort of fool, frozen there with my head bobbing up and down.

“Good night, Albus.”

“Good night, Mr Malfoy.” My voice squeaks at the end. Shit. At least my feet are moving now. I slip back into Scorp's room and promptly walk smack into the foot of his bed in the darkness.

“Fuck!” I double over, clutching at the bloom of pain in my toes.

“Wha– Who's that?”


“Al? Wha's up?

“Nothing.” I don't really feel I can say, I just got a hard-on for your Dad. “Go back to sleep, OK?”


I stumble over to my bed and flop into its downy embrace. Scorp resumes snoring quietly again, almost immediately, but I am wide awake, the beat of my heart knocking loudly in my ears.

I can imagine the scene that will be playing out next door all too vividly in my mind: Mr Malfoy unsheathing the razor and holding it to his face again. His eyes looking appraisingly at his own reflection, concentrating on his task and probably having forgotten all about me. The line of his jaw as he turns his face this way and that, and the way he manipulates the blade with such sureness, scraping it across his stubble to reveal the unbelievably smooth, naked skin underneath.

I turn over with a groan. My cock is throbbingly hard and the Norwegian Quidditch team has nothing to do with it. Why is my life so fucking difficult? As if being bent as a three-Knut piece isn't enough to deal with. At least I'm an old hand at dealing with my immediate problem. I roll onto my front and slide my erection against the soft silkiness of the sheets. Merlin, they make whatever we have on our beds at home feel like sandpaper. They're so fine, and just slightly cool. I gather a handful of the material and wrap it around my cock, letting myself thrust into it as I hold it loosely in my fist.

Uhhhh. That's insanely good. I have to sink my teeth into my lip to keep quiet, before I cast a quick Muffling Charm, just in case. I often have trouble keeping quiet, to be honest... it's like once I get started, I can't keep it inside. Sometimes I make myself blush with the noises that I make, especially when I'm thinking about what I'd like someone to do to me. But this... this feels like another level of hot. The fabric clings to me, yielding and caressing as I manoeuvre it over all the sensitive spots of my cock. Like the softest skin. Like smooth, pale, skin that has been freshly-shaved.

Hell. I buck eagerly against the loose channel I've made for myself to fuck into, wanting to slow down and make it last longer, but I'm no better at delaying than I am at keeping quiet; I'm barrelling towards orgasm with each drive of my hips. I make a strangled sound as I move, unable to control the force of the hot thrills rippling up from my thighs. My orgasm bursts out of me in fierce spurts of pleasure and I lie breathless and sticky between the cool sheets.



In the morning, I can't look him in the eye. He's there in the dining room, immaculately dressed again, in a crisp white shirt with about hundred little silver buttons. I half-wonder if I dreamed it, that pale skin and the small pink nipples and all the rest of it. Scorp chatters away, and appears not to notice anything out of the ordinary, thank Merlin, while I stutter and blush my way through the kind of breakfast that I imagine a king would eat. There are actually different courses to it, with fresh pastries to finish, and clean cutlery and new plates each time. How these two keep so slim I'll never know – Scorp all angles and pointy elbows, and Mr Malfoy with his sleek lines and prominent cheekbones.

My stomach feels slightly uncomfortable when I leave the table, Mr Malfoy instructing me and Scorpius to have a good time. We go back up to Scorp's room and he puts the latest Dragonriders album on. I lie on the bed and look at all his stuff: the shelves of books, the piles of magazines and all of his gadgets – the Omnioculars, the photography equipment, and what looks like a perfect miniature Quidditch game, complete with players all wheeling around the tiny pitch. He even has his own Floo, the lucky bastard.

“Your room is really cool,” I say.

“Thanks.” He finds the song he wants and flings himself down on the bed next to mine. “I liked my old one better, but this one is OK, too.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“About three years. Before that, there was a time we moved around for a while. And before that we lived with my mother, you know.”

He picks up the Quidditch set from the shelf and starts fiddling with it.

“Have you heard from your Mum lately?”

“Not much. She said she might come and visit when we're back at Hogwarts. She doesn't want to have anything to do with the Malfoys any more. I guess she kind of includes me in that, too.” He runs a hand through his hair and then tilts his chin up.

“That stinks.”

“Yep. But my Dad's pretty cool. We get along OK. It was mostly him who spent time with me when I was a little kid, anyway... Mother was always busy.”

“Why did she and your Dad split up?”

Scorpius laughs. “You must know the answer to that.”

I shake my head.

“You don't know?” He laughs again. “My Dad likes blokes.”

I feel the blush rising up from my throat. Hell, I wish I could grow out of this stupid habit.

Scorpius points his wand at the game and frowns as his Seeker misses a dive for the Snitch. “Yep, seems like all of my favourite people are faggots.”

My face is burning. “I– You—”

Scorpius laughs again. “Oh for god's sake, Al, you're such a dork. I know you're into boys. And I don't give a shit.”

My brain feels like it's been scrambled.

“You can get it on with one of Grandma's peacocks for all I care.”

“Er, thanks, but no.” I peek at Scorpius. He's still playing with his game, trying to get his Beaters to behave. “So... how did you know?”

“Hmm, let's think. The way you haven't had a girlfriend since we were twelve. Or maybe the way you're the only one who can still concentrate in class when Professor Aurelia bends over to look at your work.”

“What? Why would that—”

“You can totally see down her robes.”

“You can?”

Scorpius nods. “I don't know how anyone with a pulse could not notice. And yet you can hardly sit still when Eriksen is Seeker for Norway.”

“He's a really great player!”

“He is. But I don't have to put a cushion over my lap when I watch him fly.”

I duck my head. God, if Scorp knows, does everyone know?

“So, now this is out in the open... is there someone you like at the moment?” Scorpius has a wicked twinkle in his eye. Why are the Malfoys all so bloody sure of themselves all the time?

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I reckon it'll be the perfect opportunity to tease the living shit out of you, of course.” He grins and grabs a Probity Probe from the shelf and waves it at me. “Come on, tell me the truth, Al.”

I squirm away from the silvery device. “Does that thing actually work?”

Scorpius shrugs. “Dunno. Come on, Al, tell me. Do you fancy anyone in our year?”

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“I bet you do. I bet you fancy Heinrich wotsisname, that Ravenclaw guy. Come on, I've told you about me and Serena Goldstaff. It'll be funny, Al, don't be boring.”

“I don't fancy anyone.”

The bloody thing starts vibrating in Scorpius' hand. “Hey! It's working! You do fancy someone! Is it Patrick? What about Conrad Mitchell?”

The Probe lies quiet in his hand again despite him waving it madly at me. I glare at it, hardly daring to breathe in case it goes off again.

“Leave it, Scorp. It's not funny.”

He frowns, but puts the Probe back on the shelf. “OK, but you have to talk to someone about this stuff. You always try to be so secretive. Hey, I know, you should talk to my Dad!” His grin is infectious, but I'm not finding it amusing at all. “He can give you man-to-man advice on how to pull and stuff. He could even tell you about how to― ugh, no, actually, that's disgusting.”

“Shut up. I don't need to talk to your Dad. I know plenty of gay people, if I want to talk to anyone.” Too late, I remember the Probe lying on the shelf, but it remains silent.

“You do? Who?”

“Never you mind. Just shut up about it, OK? And don't tell people at school.”

“Course I won't. You think I'm an idiot.”

“And don't tell your Dad!”

“I won't. But, honestly, there are worse people you could talk to. My Dad is actually all right.” He peers at me from under his fringe. “You're not really pissed off, are you?”


The Probity Probe buzzes loudly and even I have to laugh at Scorp's face then.

“Let's stop talking about it,” I say. “You were going to show me your new broom? The Aurora?”

“Oh, it's so slick, Al. You have to see it. Let's go.”



I know, of course, what is going on. I'm not an imbecile, despite what my son might tell you in one of his less charming moments. And I know perfectly well that young men are still attracted to me. When I'm at the club I frequent, I often see them looking... and quite frequently, I let them do more than just look. However I hadn't quite caught up to the fact that Scorpius' friends were now old enough to look at me in that way. Old enough to make it an intriguing experience for me when they do.

Albus Potter. My, my, what a delectable little specimen he is. The same intense eyes, the same wayward, jetty-black hair as his father, although the son seems to at least possess a comb and the knowledge of how to use it. But the rest... quite, quite different.

Albus' face has a delicacy, a charm all of its own. Not like his father's, all jutting chin and glowering brows. Albus lets his hair fall across his face and then peeps out at life from under it. His cheeks seem to be stained pink about fifty percent of the time, and his eyes are far, far too expressive for someone who appears to have such a thin skin.

I think having Scorpius (infernal brat that he can be at times) as a friend may actually be good for Albus. Scorpius never takes the world seriously, nor feels daunted by it. Albus watches his ridiculous, cocksure antics, his mouth quirking into amused shapes. I had wondered a while back if Albus perhaps had a little crush on my son, but it doesn't seem to be the case. Instead, it appears that I am the one he moons after. And I won't deny it's a pleasant experience to have him stumbling around, apparently unable to string a sentence together or to do anything much other than open his pretty eyes wide in my direction and send me involuntary looks of entreaty.

The way he looks at me. How different to his blasted father's surly stares and contemptuous glances. Even now if our paths cross, Potter is liable to let a tinge of distaste leak into our apparently civil exchanges. Albus respects me, you can see that. He has an appreciation for our family's position, for the fine things we surround ourselves with and our natural good breeding.

Yes, of course the boy respects me, as anyone with sense would. But, more than that, he desires me. And I confess I find his pure, fierce longing – the longing of a seventeen-year-old boy who is on the verge of becoming a man – rather an intoxicating thing.

I probably ought to lock the bathroom door, tonight. All right: I know I should. But I have never been fond of doing what I should. And how could I bear to let Albus tiptoe along the corridor in his wonderfully old-fashioned pyjamas and find the way barred? I leave the door open a crack, run a basin of fresh water, and smooth the fragrant oil over my face. And wait.

It doesn't take long. I'm just preparing to strop the blade on the leather, always a satisfying task, with the pleasing rhythm of the to and fro, when I hear Scorpius' door creak open and hesitant footsteps approach.

It's difficult to resist smirking outright at myself in the mirror, but I arrange my face into something casual and examine the blade for nicks. There are none, of course: I take too much care of my equipment for it to suffer damage, but I enjoy the ritual of checking.

I love to shave by hand. Magic is a wonder for so many things, but the art of shaving is a rather special exception. I do it particularly well, of course. I learned at my father's knee, all agog at his skill and daring, my heart in my mouth at the courage it seemed to me to take, moving the wicked razor swiftly, almost contemptuously, across his skin. He towered above me in those days and I had to stand very still or be banished from the room.

I began with Scorpius, when he was about five or six, letting him watch at my elbow, but he would get bored, often as not, and run off, restless for a new diversion. He uses magic to shave – the lazy option – and claims my way is outmoded, the foolish boy.

Anyway, there's something rather charming about Albus peeping at me from the doorway. I don't let on that I've seen him lurking there, but after a minute or two, he clears his throat nervously, and I turn, one eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“Good evening, Albus.”

“Hi. Er, good evening, Mr Malfoy.”

He has nice manners, I'll give the Potters that.

“Did you need to use the bathroom?” I tactfully suggest, as a reason for him being there at all.

“Er, no. I just... I got up to get a drink. And then I saw the light, and I wondered if you were, I mean...”

I remain silent, letting him trap himself in his own web.

He falls silent, then: “Do you always shave like that?” He looks from the blade, to my face, and back again.

I nod.

“I've never seen anyone do it before – without magic, I mean,” he says. He's so serious and pink-cheeked, and wearing those delightful pyjamas again.

“Do you want to watch?”

His face lifts in surprise towards me, reminding me of a child being offered a treat, but his mouth is full, sensuous. Made for kissing. For bruising.

“Can I?” His voice is deeper than his father's, but also softer.

“Certainly.” I gesture to the low bench beside the bath. “Sit down.”

I begin again, smoothing more oil onto my cheeks. “This is to soften the skin.” I look at my face with satisfaction. One of the best things about being a Malfoy is the way we all age so bloody well. “Now to strop the blade.” I pull the leather taut and move the razor in long, sweeping strokes across the length of it. “It aligns the edge – gets rid of any tiny dents from when I last shaved. The blade needs to be as straight and sharp as I can get it.”

“Aren't you afraid you'll cut yourself?”

Those big eyes peeking from under the hair. It's a wonder he can see anything at all.

“No.” I give him a quick little smile.

His eyes move back and forth, following the motion of my hand. “Why do you bother? I mean, when you could just use your wand.”

“It's better like this.” I make one last pass and turn of steel against the leather, then examine my face in the mirror. “You know how your skin feels after you've used your wand to get rid of stubble in the morning?”

He nods.

“It's unimaginably smoother than that.” I give him a minute to let the thought sink in of what that would feel like. “Once you've had a proper shave, you never want to go back.”

He strokes the scruff on his own chin. “I bet.”

I begin to shave my left cheek, close to my ear, pulling the skin almost painfully taut before letting the razor skate along it. Merlin, it's exquisitely sharp. I narrow my eyes, reminding myself to concentrate.

“And, it teaches focus. You have to slow down. To notice what you're doing. To never make a mistake.” I speak in short bursts, shaving in neat, firm strokes in between speaking.

“The danger of it... appeals to me, I suppose. If I were to slip... “ I don't need to finish that sentence.

Albus stares and stares. He sits there, such a good boy, still and quiet, not wanting to disturb me. I can feel his eyes running over me, watching the blade kissing my skin. I keep my hands steady as a rock.

“And, I have to admit, putting razor-sharp steel next to your throat every morning certainly reminds you that you're alive.” I pause to allow myself a short laugh, even though I'm not joking.

“You do this every morning, as well?” he asks softly.

I shrug. “Sometimes. But I prefer it in the evening. It's more... intimate.” I meet my own eyes in the mirror. My irises are silver in the muted light, my pupils dark and wide. I wonder at the curls of pleasure that are building at the base of my spine.

“Do you mind me being here?” He's taken that indecently full lower lip in between his teeth.

“Not at all.”

“Because I can totally go, if you'd--”

“Stay.” I finish the patch of skin to the left of my mouth, then turn to him. “I want you to stay.”

He lets out a breath, and then is silent again. Who knew that the shuffling, stuttering boy could maintain such a still presence in the room?

“It's relaxing, having you watch,” I say.

“I'm trying not to put you off.” He squirms around on the bench for a moment. “I keep thinking if I make a sudden move, you might―”

I laugh, and he joins me. It's a beautiful sound, shy and sweet.

“It's all right.” I say. “You won't put me off. In fact, why don't you help?”

I swear I didn't even know that I was going to say it before I heard the words come out of my mouth.

“Me?” His eyebrows have shot up, now completely hidden under his hair.

“Why not? Unless, of course, you'd rather not...”

Draco. What the fuck are you playing at?

“What should I do?” His eyes are as big as a house-elf's.

“Come here.”

He's no coward, I'll give him that. He's on his feet and standing by the basin before I have time even to tell myself how idiotic this is.

“Hold the razor.”

Sweet Merlin, this is Harry Potter's son.

“Don't look so terrified. We'll do it together.”

The Head Auror's son.

“You see that patch of stubble there? Just along my jaw?”

Scorpius' best friend.

“We're going to just skim the razor along it from top to bottom.”

He's seventeen.

“OK, hold it loosely. Don't press down.”

His hands are hot under mine, as I guide him. His fingers feel thick and strong, with intriguing callouses along the palm. They're shaking a little.

“Just... let it glide.”

And so, perhaps, are mine.

“Yes. Now, the patch here, next to my ear.”

He smells so very good, standing close to me like this, our legs almost brushing as we face one another. His face is open and tender like a boy's, but he smells like a man. Like a man who's been working outdoors, and sweating, getting hot and sticky, and is ready for a shower. Like a man whose cock has been filling out slowly, getting swollen and hard, whose balls are aching. Like a man who needs to grind up against another man's arse, rough and dirty. Like a man who needs to be held down and fucked, slow and sweet and sure, until he's begging to come. That's what Harry Potter's son smells like, Merlin help me.

“Yes. Now underneath.” I tip my head back, exposing my throat. I know how it looks when I do that. I've watched, in the mirror.

His breath is uneven now, washing across my skin in hot humid bursts.

The house is so quiet. I speak just above a whisper. “You're good at this. You have the right touch for it. I hardly have to help you at all.”

This feels odd, to trust a Potter like this. Odd, yet particularly thrilling.

I let my head fall right back, tilt my throat towards him, and a small noise escapes from his mouth, something that sounds like pain.

“Just let it glide. It's so sharp, it virtually moves itself.” I'm still in control, moving our hands in between the words, but, Merlin, if he wanted to, he could just let the steel bite into my skin. I wouldn't even feel it at first, till the blood began to spurt... I could die here, right now, in this warm, dimly lit room, bleeding out onto the floor, with the son of my enemy standing over me and laughing.

But instead, my pulse beats on, on, and on; our hands move in synchrony, our fingers laced together, a Potter and a Malfoy working intently at our shared task. It looks as though I will survive to see another day after all. It's good, because I have not yet finished taking advantage of everything that life has to offer me. I plan to drink deep at the well of pleasure for many a year yet.

“Mmm. The Adam's apple is always tricky. I'll take it from here.” I finish in a few deft strokes and lay down the razor, my newly-exposed skin shivering all over with sensation. I quickly splash my face clean with fresh water, wincing a little at the sudden cold.

Albus is watching me as if frozen in place. His lips are parted and his eyes wander over my face. I always miss the touch of the razor when it is over; already I'm craving the kick I get from the riskiness of the whole endeavour. Something devilish is taking shape within me, rising to claim his enticing innocence and swallow it whole. I let it whisper to me persuasiveIy, then catch the boy's hand again and bring his fingers to my cheek.


His touch is tentative, uncertain. But his fingers are warm and firm as they stroke across my skin, making every nerve ending croon with joy.

“Wow.” His voice is hoarse and wondering.

I want to laugh, but I don't want to break the moment.

“Fuck, that's so smooth.” He flinches. “Ah, sorry, Mr Malfoy – I didn't mean to swear.”

I really can't avoid a smile this time. “That's all right. You don't have to watch what you say, when it's just the two of us like this.”

He nods, a bit stunned. I pull his fingers along the line of my jaw, then across to my mouth. I let his thumb stroke gently against my bottom lip and watch his eyes turn dark and unfocused.

I don't know quite what has got into me. This boy, this boy of Potter's, apparently makes me want to throw away all common sense. I speak low and clear, close to his ear.

“Tomorrow night, if you come again...”

The air in the room feels thick, hanging heavy with promise. I can smell him again. I can smell his need.

“I can show you some more.” I pause to look at his face. To check that we both know what it is that I am really offering.

“There are... lots of other things I can teach you. I can show you everything you want to know.”

Another small moan emerges from his throat. “Oh, god. Oh. Yes. I'd like that.”

“Would you? Are you sure? It's... risky, of course. Perhaps you prefer to play it safe.”

“I'm not scared.” His voice cracks a little bit at the end. Merlin, he's far too young. What am I even thinking of? My brows knot together, but he carries on, his voice sounding firmer.

“I want to. I'll be here, OK?” He sounds like he's convincing himself. “I'll definitely be here.”

He turns to go, but I stop him, my hand on his arm, where the hard swell of muscle reminds me that he is not just a boy any more.


His eyes are so very green.

“You don't have to come. If you're not sure about it. It's not a problem.”

I can see his Adam's apple working in his throat.

“But if you do come... well, I'll assume that you're ready to learn. Don't come, unless that's what you want.”

His eyes close for a moment, and he presses his lips together. Then those eyes are meeting mine from under dark lashes. “You said the danger makes you feel as though you're alive.”

I tilt my head, waiting to hear the rest.

“I want to feel alive, too. Good night, Mr Malfoy. I hope you sleep well.”

A throb of desire runs through me, shocking and profound. I swear, he hasn't the faintest idea how perfect, how utterly delicious he is.

All I can think, all that is singing in my veins, is that I must and shall have him.

And at the same time, I'm wondering if this is just another way of holding the blade to my throat.



The next day passes in some kind of haze. Mr Malfoy isn't there at breakfast, and I'm so relieved. There's honestly no way I could keep up any sort of pretence in front of Scorpius. As it is, he keeps asking me what's up, am I feeling sick, and a dozen other questions which I have no idea how to answer.

I'm fine. I just have the horn for your Dad. I think I'm meeting him tonight, when you're asleep. I think he's going to—

What? I think he's going to... come on, Albus, you can at least think it, even if you can't say it. I think he's going to... fuck me? Is that really what's happening, here?

Merlin, surely there's no way... I mean, this is Scorpius' Dad we're talking about. It would be like my Dad banging... I don't know, Iris from my class, or something. There's just no way it would happen. I must be dreaming up the whole thing. Like Dad says, I get really carried away with my imagination sometimes.

As if Mr Malfoy would have ever have looked at me, anyway. He's so bloody fit, and I bet... I bet he's been with loads of guys. I bet he goes to clubs, and he can just pick anyone he wants, and I bet he brings them back here and spends the whole night just fucking them, and fucking them, and—

“Merlin's tits, Al, what is wrong with you today?” Scorpius is standing, hands on hips. I guess my mind wandered again, a little bit.

“S– Sorry. You were saying?”

“I just want to know if you've finished pretending to eat, or if you're going to push that brioche around your plate for another half an hour.”

I finish the sweet roll in two mouthfuls and swallow determinedly, forcing it down my throat. “I'm done. Just let me drink this, and I'm ready.”

“Do you want to go shopping, today? I've still got a ton of birthday money from my grandmother to spend.”

“Yeah, great. I need new quills.”

“OK. I'll leave a note for Dad, just in case, but he's out on business. He probably won't be back till really late, anyway. I think he likes to mix business with pleasure a lot of the time, know what I mean?”

The juice goes down the wrong bloody way and I'm spluttering and choking, trying to get some air. Scorpius thumps me on the back, walloping the space between my shoulder blades with enthusiasm.

“Whoa, Al! Don't die on me – the Prophet would have a field day. Chosen One's Son Killed by Malfoy Heir...

“Stop! Scorp, stop, I'm OK!” I brush juice from my front, frowning at the stain on my shirt. Merlin, I'm an idiot. How could I have possibly thought Mr Malfoy would be interested in me?

“Come on, then. If we hurry, we can get to Diagon before the crowds hit. I've got my eye on a new pair of dragonhide boots.”

Thankfully, my complete inability to concentrate is a lot less obvious when we're out in the bustle of Diagon Alley. There's plenty to catch the attention, and, as Scorp is a bit of a magpie anyway, he soon forgets to tease me, instead darting from shop to shop, shedding Galleons as he goes. I spend a while choosing from among the quills on offer, and then let my mind drift as I am borne along by Scorpius and the throng of shoppers.

We stop for lunch, and I realise that I'm hungry after my absent-minded breakfast. A hot pie from Montague's, the pastry crisp and golden and the contents bubbling with a mouth-watering aroma, quells the rumblings of my stomach, and I close my eyes, sated and drowsy for a minute.

A pointy boot prods my shin. “Stop falling asleep.”

“I'm not. I'm just... ”

I'm remembering. Remembering how he looked, stripped to the waist, his body so hard and virile. How his hand felt, on mine, guiding it over his skin.

Oh, god. I wish... I wish it was tonight already. No, fuck – I wish I'd never come to stay with Scorp. Most of all, I wish I could find some way to be alone, somewhere I can rip my jeans open and relieve some of this thrumming tension. I'd need to wank twice just to take the edge off it. The first one, fast and brutal, like I might die if I don't come now, now. The second, achingly slow, giving myself time to remember it all, every word he said.

But if you do come...

Oh, god. What did I say to him? How will I ever have the nerve to go and meet him, thinking... hoping...

...if you do come... well.

His eyes were dark and knowing. It seemed as if he could see inside me, exposing all my hidden thoughts and longings. I always try to be good, to be a good student, a good friend, a good son, yet inside me there is something that wants to be... so bad, and Mr Malfoy can see it, and he doesn't hate me for it... he wants it, too.

I'll assume that you're ready.

Desire twists in my gut like a knife, and I whimper, then another jab in the shins pulls me back to the busy, noisy café.

“Hey. I'll show you something that'll wake you up.” Scorpius is pulling me to my feet, and stalking off in the direction of Gringotts.

I blink at the tall marble columns. “Run out of money, at last?” I ask.

“No, we're not going to the bank.” Scorpius rolls his eyes.

“Where, then?”

He darts his head from side to side, then ducks into the narrow entrance to Knockturn Alley.

“Scorpius! Are you kidding?”

“I just want to get some Nightshade. It'll only take a minute.” He's walking swiftly, taking us deeper into the winding alleyway.

“Shit!” I pull him to a halt. There's a really bad smell here, coming from a crooked little shop with some kind of shrunken heads swinging on hooks outside. “This place is for freaks. Why don't we go to Slug and Jiggers?”

“Because, dickbrain, they don't sell Nightshade. But it's really useful in loads of potions. Look, are you scared?”

A tiny, wizened witch, carrying what looks like a basket of live eels, is staring at us. Her jowls swing horribly to and fro as she hobbles past.


“Because if you're scared, I can go on my own.”

“I'm not scared! But, my Dad, he could get into a lot of trouble, if I get caught hanging around—”

Three things happen at once: a gloved hand falls heavily onto my shoulder, another grips Scorp's, and I jump about a foot in the air. Also... somebody shrieks. It may or may not be me. It's dark in the alley, and I'm a little tense about the whole thing.

“Your father is not the only one who could get into trouble if you choose to visit places like this, Albus.”

“Dad! What are you doing here?” Scorpius looks furious, his grey eyes flashing, twisting his shoulder away from Mr Malfoy's grip. The hand moves from my shoulder as Scorp's Dad turns to glare at him, and I feel I can just about breathe again.

“I shall ask you the exact same question, Scorpius. What do you think you are doing here?”

“Shopping.” Scorpius pouts his lower lip.

“Is that so? I think you must have taken a wrong turning. Because all the shops you could possibly need are out there, in Diagon Alley.”

Scorpius tilts his chin up. Watching him and his Dad squaring up to one another would be funny if it wasn't so serious; their scowling faces are so similar. But Mr Malfoy looks pretty fucking scary, to be honest. His jaw is set and there is none of the spark of amusement in his eyes that I saw – that I thought I saw – dancing there last night.

“It's up to me where I go shopping.”

“I think you'll find that it is up to me, unless you want your allowance to be severed with immediate effect.”

“You treat me like I'm five years old!”

“I treat you like my son, whom I love, and who is in danger of becoming a reckless, spoiled brat if I don't remind him occasionally of what he has to lose.”

“Aw, for Merlin's sake, Dad.” Scorpius hisses. “I know what you got up to when you were seventeen, and it wasn't shopping for a few potions ingredients, either.”

“That is quite enough. I'll speak to you when I return home.”

“Yeah, and when will that be? When you've finished touting your arse around your club—”

“Scorpius.” His voice is like a knife, a cold blade running along your skin to make you shiver, ready to cut you to ribbons if you make one false move.

Scorpius lowers his eyes. It's clear he knows he's gone too far. “Sorry.”

Mr Malfoy puts his hand on Scorp's shoulder, again, and squeezes gently. “This way.” He steers us back to the more familiar cobblestones of Diagon Alley.

“Now, can I trust you to complete your errands without further stunts of that kind?”

Scorpius nods, his lip still petulant, but the fight gone out of him.

His Dad wraps an arm around him and just for a moment, his lips brush Scorp's forehead. “We'll talk later. Perhaps tomorrow. I do have some business to take care of this evening.”

Am I imagining it, or do his eyes flicker over to mine, just for a second?

“Enjoy the rest of your shopping.” He removes some dust from his robes with a flick of his wand. They're obviously tailored to fit him perfectly, the fabric clinging tight to his waist and flaring at the hips.

His eyes meet mine and I realise he's caught me staring, yet again. “Albus.”

I swallow.

His brows draw together, then his face softens as he sees my stricken expression. “Don't let my son lead you astray.”

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

He smiles, and strides up the steps of Gringotts, his robes swirling around him as he goes. It can only be in my warped imagination, because he can't possibly have said it out loud, but the words That's my job seem to hang in the air.


It's late, so late, but I'm not sleepy at all. It took so long for Scorp to fall asleep. He kept yattering on about his new boots, and Serena, who he's totally soft on, and then how his Dad was all right really, and I mustn't think badly of him because he was a bit strict and boring sometimes.

“He got mixed up in a load of bad stuff during the War, you know? My Grandfather was really... well, you probably know what he was. Anyway, my Dad just wants things to be different for me. Don't forget what I said, about talking to him, if you want someone to ask about boys and all that. He's OK underneath, I swear.”

For a while, I wasn't even sure if Mr Malfoy – I can't bring myself to think of him even secretly as Draco, not when I think of how he was today, all forbidding and buttoned up in his robes – was coming home. He certainly hadn't returned for dinner, nor when Scorp and I were playing Wizopoly afterwards. Nor when Scorp sneaked us a beer each from the cupboard that his Dad thinks he doesn't know the wards for. And then another.

I don't usually drink, except for maybe a glass of fizzy wine at Christmas – I'm not going to tell Scorpius this, but I don't actually like the taste. But this evening I was more than happy to take the edges off everything and let myself slip into a pleasant blur.

However, when we were getting ready for bed, and I heard Mr Malfoy talking to the house-elves in the hall below, and then taking the stairs with quick, light footsteps, I found I was suddenly quite sober again, every nerve in my body alert.

Scorp's finally whistling and huffing in his sleep, now, on the other side of the room, sprawled out across the covers, one arm flung wide and flopping off the edge of the bed. I hold my breath, trying to hear beyond Scorp's noises. Yes. There it is. Running water, and the gentle clink and clatter of someone moving things around in the bathroom.

Not someone. Mr Malfoy.

I swing my feet off the bed and sit up, my heart skittering like a snare drum.

Oh, my god. My legs actually wobble as I stand up slowly. It feels like the bathroom is a mile away and I have to walk there through a lake of treacle. I'm never going to make it. Then somehow I'm outside the door and it's standing ajar and Mr Malfoy is at the mirror, wearing only a towel pulled tight around his hips. Oh, holy shit. He's fresh from the shower, his hair wet and slicked back, and the room is hot and humid with curls of steam licking around the both of us. He looks like some kind of Greek statue, like everything anyone could possibly dream of, and he's putting down the razor and turning to me, his face solemn and unreadable.

I step inside, my feet feeling like they belong to someone else.

The light is low and intimate. Mr Malfoy doesn't speak, but points his wand at the sink in a circular motion. He's cleaning out the hairs that are clinging to the basin.


“You've finished already,” I say flatly. Why did Scorp have to take so fucking long to fall asleep?

He lays down his wand and just stands there, his skin almost gleaming in the soft light. I can see the freshly-shaved perfection of it. But I came too late.

“I'm sorry.” My hand sketches a frustrated shape. “I wanted to come, but Scorp was awake, and— “

He snatches my hand from the air, and touches it to my own lips, shushing me.

“I was late, too.” A drop of water runs from his hair, down his throat and across his collarbone. “I would have come sooner, but I couldn't get away.”

My heart feels like it's trying to make a break for it through my ribs.

He moves my hand as if he owns it. He brings it to his own face, to the startlingly smooth skin there. To let me feel what lay underneath, hidden until he revealed it through his skill with the blade.

The room smells of lotus flowers. We had to grow them in Herbology last term, and they always made me feel almost overwhelmed by their rich scent. I'm dizzy with it, with the heat and the steam and the way his eyes pin me to the spot.

Unguarded by raitala

“I thought I'd be able to... watch.” I sound like a child, whining. “To help you again.”

“Not tonight. Tonight is for something else.”

Oh, god. I'm hard, and aching, and I have absolutely, absolutely no idea what I am doing here, standing here with this man who is― fuck, he's such a man. He's old enough to be my father, is what he is. I'm not so much out of my depth as drowning, falling under the water with my mouth wide open and welcoming it as it pours in.

The razor is in his hand again, and he's – what did he call it? – stropping the blade, the snick, snick sound soft and hypnotic as he draws it across the leather.

I don't know what to do, so I stand there with my hands hanging awkwardly, wishing there were pockets in my pyjamas. I'm wondering why he's sharpening it when he's already shaved, but then he's opening the bottle of shaving oil and smoothing a little into his palms, and stepping towards me, and suddenly I find that I know why after all.

His hands cup my cheeks and move across the sharp stubble he finds there, mapping the contours of my face. The fragrant oil is silky to the touch. His fingers are thick and strong, catching on my beard, tickling and teasing it as he coats every inch with the oil. I watch his face and then it's all too much and I just shut my eyes.

He works across my jaw and throat, his hands sure and possessive, then they fall away and there's a quick slam. My eyes spring open to see him pointing his wand at the door, which locks with a decisive click.

“What? I don't—” I say, suddenly panicked.

He swaps wand for razor and turns it over in his hands. “You don't what?”

“I– I– don't know.”

“You don't know if you're ready? Because I told you, didn't I, Albus? I told you not to come, unless you were ready.”

He unfolds the razor again and holds it loosely, just showing me what's there, the power that he wields. His voice is calm and quiet, but there's an edge to it. “Come.”

He holds his arms slightly apart. A challenge? Or an invitation. The lines of that creepy old tattoo stand out dark against his skin, looking malevolent and... somehow compelling. I feel... god, I don't know. Part of me knows that this is fucking stupid. That I should tell him I'm leaving. To let me out. But something inside me is fizzing like its going to explode, and I don't ever want it to stop.

I step into his space. I can feel the heat from his skin. I can see the fine lines around his eyes, and each hair of his pale lashes.

“Shirt off.” His voice is brusque, but there's a muscle jumping in his right cheek.

My hands move to the buttons of my pyjamas. I always thought the first time this happened, that someone would be undoing them for me, perhaps kissing me in between each one, and smiling at me as they slipped the shirt off.

He stares, haughty, expectant. My fingers stumble over the buttons and he just stands there, waiting. I slide the shirt off my shoulders, bracing myself against the waves of shyness.

He takes it all in, looking without shame or haste, lingering on my nipples, on the hair trailing down from my stomach.

He takes my chin between his fingers and tilts my head slightly. He's looking at me like I'm a... a piece of furniture he might want to buy.

I've never been more turned on.

His eyes are glinting, cool grey, like the blade. They skate over me, over my body, thrilling and dangerous, but they don't hurt me. I tell myself I'm in safe hands. Or is this how it feels, just before the razor slips and sinks into your throat, severing your arteries as sweetly as if it were sliding through butter?

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice low and reverent. I hear myself make a little 'oh' of surprise, and then the razor is on me and I daren't make any sound at all.

It's like a dream... or perhaps it is a dream. The light is flickering as his hands move all over my face, followed always by the cold caress of the steel, so sharp I can barely feel it. Sometimes it moves with breath-stealing swiftness, and at others so unbearably slowly that I feel he must be tackling the hairs one by one. His fingers are so capable. They turn me this way and that, and I find myself going to a strange place inside me where I am floating, liquid, pliant in his hands.

His body is so close to mine, the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, tensing and flexing as he moves. His face looks sharp and hungry with his hair all combed back like that. I could just reach out and touch his skin, run my fingers along the curve of his biceps. I'd like to lick a path along it, to tongue the hollows of his throat and nuzzle the jut of his collarbone with my lips. But I just wait, as he methodically strips my face bare, his fingers running across the skin that no-one has ever touched before.

I'm starting to tremble. I don't know if I can keep still much longer. I don't trust my voice; instead I try to tell him with my eyes, but his, when they meet mine, are aloof and unmoved. He pauses for a moment, and runs the pad of his thumb gently across my lips, parting them, watching my face intently.

“Nearly done, Albus.” He pulls the skin there tight and with a few strokes, removes the stubble from above my lip. It's so quiet, but for the scritch, scratch of the blade, and the sound of my blood beating in my ears.

“I've been wanting to do this.”

His voice is intimate, confiding. I can't quite believe he's giving me his attention like this. Why would he even – ?

“I was stuck in the most tedious meeting imaginable, and all I could think of was getting home, showering, and then... you.”

I swallow. I can't help it. The razor is moving over my neck – I have to keep still. He tips my head back, arching my throat towards him. I've never felt so vulnerable.

“I was sitting there with Lord Barraclough, and the head of St Mungo's, and a dozen other boring bastards, and I was smiling, and nodding, and all the time, do you know, Albus, my cock was getting hard under the table, because I was thinking about this.

A moan spills from my lips even as the razor skims my Adam's apple. I can't help it. I can't keep still, I can't.

“Yes, I was thinking how I'd have you, like this, and how you'd be, mmm, so good and quiet, and how you'd let me do it.”

It's too much. I can't – He's not even looking properly at what he's doing. He's watching my face.

“How you'd let me do anything. Because you would, wouldn't you, Albus?”

My legs are shaking. The razor is sliding over my throat, a hair's breadth from my jugular. Oh, god. I'm so hard. I'm so fucking hard, and I can't keep still –

“You'd let me do anything, anything... at... all.”

The razor drops onto the sink with a clatter, and his hands are moving over my face, his thumbs seeking out resistance, his face stern as he strokes every inch. When he is satisfied, he releases me and I feel slack with relief. He brushes the hair from my face and tucks it behind my ears, and a smile spreads slowly across his face like a cat's.

Then the sleek, well-fed look melts away, and I stand frozen, like prey gazing into a cat's eyes just before the pounce.

When he kisses me, his skin is impossibly smooth, slightly damp, and scented with lotus flowers. There's an unwavering hunger to his actions which leaves me breathless and utterly unable to resist. I let him do as he wishes, crushing his mouth against mine, swiping his tongue greedily between my lips, then kneading my arse, using it to pull our bodies nearer. The mirror over the sink shows me feverish glimpses of what we look like together, and I groan against his mouth, feeling the hot slide of a hard cock against mine for the very first time. Even through my clothes, it's such agonising bliss that for a moment I think I might lose it here and now.

After one final tormenting grind, he shoves me away and pushes my pyjama bottoms down, my cock springing free with humiliating enthusiasm. He lets the towel slip from his hips and I see simultaneously the stunning sight of his erection, and the reflection of it in the mirror, framed like the work of art that it is. He stands a moment, displaying himself to me, drinking in my reactions. I can only guess what my face looks like, but I can feel the saliva flooding my mouth. His cock is thick and deeply flushed, standing out in vivid contrast against his pale skin and the neat sprinkling of hair at his groin. I feel like I could come just from looking at him.

I make a choking noise in my throat and then his hands are on my shoulders, urging me down. I'm so clueless, I don't even realise what he wants until I'm down on one knee and he's stepping towards me, his heavy cock bobbing in my face. There's a drop of moisture swelling at his slit, and, as I watch, it spills over the edge and runs along the head. I lick my lips and he grips himself firmly with one hand and rubs the head of his cock over my lips. I open eagerly, wanting nothing more than to feel the smooth, swollen weight of it on my tongue, but he just keeps rubbing around the 'O' of my mouth, letting it drag across the fleshiness of my lips, staring down at me all the while.

His other hand cups my face and the sensation of his fingers against the tender smoothness there makes me want to moan. He drags his cock against my face, then, frictionless and perfect.

“Oh, Albus,” he says quietly. “What a lovely thing you are.” He pushes my hair off my face again, thrusting his prick softly across my cheek and smearing the pre-come over my skin, and then I do moan, long and desperate.

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs. “Just suck it for me. Just a little bit.”

I take him in with a ravenous desire, relishing the strange, bitter taste and the heat and the texture of it. I grip his thighs to steady myself, the lean strength of his muscles tensing against my palms. Sucking him down deep, I immediately gag, coughing violently. But when I meet his eyes anxiously, ready to apologise, he's smiling, his face almost kind.

“Easy. No need for that.” He threads one hand into my hair and slides his prick gently, slowly, in and out of my mouth, never going deep. “Oh, hell.” He looks down at me, expression quite unreadable, and then closes his eyes. “Oh, fuck.”

His balls are high and tight, covered in a pale fuzz, and, god, I want to stroke them, to squeeze them. I don't know if I'm allowed to touch him. I don't know anything. He thrusts with a slow, sensual rhythm, winding his fingers through my hair, the tension in his thighs building until his tendons are standing out like cords. I tilt my head back, beginning to lose myself in it, wanting to give him all that I can, when abruptly, his hand tightens in my hair and he pulls out suddenly.

“That's enough.”

Oh, god. Was I doing it wrong? I thought he was enjoying it.

He looks down at me, his pupils wide. “Touch yourself, now.”

I can feel my eyes widening. “I –”

He holds his cock in his fist, hand stretched around the girth of it. “Like this.”

I wrap my hand around my own length, shuddering from the almost painful arousal.

Mr Malfoy rubs his cock against my face again, letting it slide over my cheek, slippery with my own saliva. “Now wank yourself.”

My breath is coming fast and uneven. I hold myself awkwardly, not meeting his eye.

“Come come, Albus. You know how to wank, don't you?”

My cheeks are hot. I move my hand along my length, pulling the foreskin to skim over the head and back again.

Mr Malfoy stands over me with his legs apart. He rubs the head of his prick against my lips and I lap at it. I can't seem to stop making the most embarrassing sounds.

His voice sounds hoarse. “Am I right in thinking that you can come, and then get hard again without much trouble?”

I nod.

“Tell me.”


“Then come, now.”

I let my head drop. My balls are aching with need.

“Uh uh. Look at me.”

I can't.

“Look at me, Albus.” He lifts my chin and rubs his fat, beautiful cock across my mouth again. Oh, sweet Merlin.

“Look at me when you come.”

I shiver, clutch at my cock, fist myself in a frantic motion and I'm shooting long trails of come onto the floor, arching my back and crying out, while Mr Malfoy grips my chin between his fingers, his face alight with a triumphant smirk.



He has absolutely no idea how perfect he looks. Whimpering with need, his face smeared with my pre-come and his own spit, fucking his hand and writhing on the floor in the filthiest show I've seen for a long time. He's gloriously shy, too, which makes it all the better, of course.

His body is mouth-watering. Untouched, his skin fresh and flawless. No stupid scars for this Potter, thank goodness.

I pull him to his feet and press myself against his still-trembling body, to have my way with his mouth some more. It's every bit as lush as it looks. I can taste my own beer on him – I'll be speaking to Scorpius about that tomorrow, don't worry – but I can ignore that for now and lose myself in the joys of his full lips and eager tongue. So tempting, to come in his mouth, and watch his eyes widen prettily, but I've got something else in mind. That will have to wait for another occasion.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the two of us in the mirror. It's quite a diverting sight. He's flushed and dazed, his hair imitating his father's usual rumpled state. He looks at me like he's never seen anything so incredible. And I... I look like someone who likes to look after himself, which I do. I look like someone who knows what he wants, and is accustomed to getting it.

I run my hands down the long line of his waist and across the pair of delightful dimples that lie either side of his spine. Looking over his shoulder, I turn him slightly, to get a better view of our reflection. My hands look good, just resting there, then sliding down to cup his arse. Doesn't Quidditch do wonderful things for the posterior? I watch his eyes lose focus as my hands grip the tight muscles of his cheeks and squeeze.

He's almost too good to be true. I don't know what I did to deserve Potter's boy dropping into my lap like this, but I'm certainly going to take advantage of it. Of him.

“Follow me.” It's not a request. I grab my wand, release the door, then stride towards my bedroom, giving him the view of my own rather well-shaped arse strutting in front of him. I hear him padding along the corridor behind me like an overgrown puppy. Good job Scorpius sleeps like the dead.

Inside my sanctuary, the lamps are glowing softly in the corners of the room. I take deep breaths of the night air filtering in past the gauzy hangings at the window. My bed is immaculately made up, as usual, with acres of soft, creamy-white linen, and a mound of fat pillows. Merlin, I'm going to enjoy messing it up.

Albus stands awkwardly in the doorway, hovering as if unsure whether he's allowed in here with the grown-ups. I'm going to enjoy messing him up, too. I feel a sort of pang in my chest, as I look at him, his face especially soft and boyish since I shaved him. Perhaps – I could just let him go back to bed, now. He's had his fun, after all. Then my eye roams to his luscious prick, starting to fill again, hanging heavy amongst the dark hair. My cock twitches at the thought of all the things I'm going to do to him and I point, my face unsmiling.

“On the bed.”

I think it's best to remind us both who's in charge here. He doesn't seem to mind, walking as if in a dream, then crawling on all fours across the expanse of covers, his arse high and round.

I stand and drink it all in. A Potter in my bed. Dear me, who'd have thought it? He sits propped up on one arm, his eyes shyly seeking mine and then looking away, a divine mixture of self-consciousness and youthful grace. His hair is all over his face again, looking as though he's already been well-fucked. Well, I intend to make quite sure that he is.

I make a Summoning gesture in the direction of the cabinet, and a small jar flies into my hand. I unscrew the lid, watching his face.

“You've never done this before, have you?” I don't know how I'm so sure, but I'd stake my inheritance on it. I suppose it's the mixture of fear, and pure, burning hunger that's written across his face. I take a generous scoop of the mixture into my palm, the familiar scent of spices filling the air.

He shakes his head.

“Say it.”


I smile, showing my teeth. “Oh, you're going to like it.”

He nods, wide-eyed, and I smooth the lube across my cock, rubbing it carefully over every inch. The spice in the mixture leaves tingling trails and I shiver a little as I pass my fingers around the contours of the head.

“Actually, you're going to love it,” and I let my smile grow wider as I join him on the bed.

I bend to kiss him, noting with approval the way he opens his mouth for me so charmingly, and how his cock is standing proud at the ridiculous angle that only a seventeen-year-old boy can achieve.

He startles, though, as my fingers skate over his hole, slick with the lube, so I move to his prick instead. Oh, he likes that all right. This boy sighs like a furnace, curls his toes and bucks into my hand, and Merlin, delightful as this all is, there is a limit to how long a man can wait, and I have passed it.

I press him back on the bed and make another attempt on his arse. I'm not rough about it, but I do mean business. This time he moans and pushes towards my fingers. His entrance is very narrow, but the lube helps me to slide in and smear the spicy, slippery mixture inside. I know from experience that the lube feels quite special once it's in there, the warmth teasing over all of the nerve endings. His arse grips my finger and he makes all kinds of noises, needy and helpless, his hands clutching at the sheets.

I try a second finger and his sounds become more desperate. Waiting any longer starts to seem like Cruciatus. I capture his mouth again, dipping my tongue inside and swallowing his cry as I insinuate another finger inside him. Damn, he's very tight. Sometimes it's best just to carry on, I find – things can go easier when there's an actual cock involved. I suppose the filthy eroticism of the act is quite motivating.

I consider briefly that he'd probably rather be face-to-face for his first time. Ah, well, too bad. I think I've been more than considerate, and I far prefer it from behind. I manoeuvre him onto all fours, ignoring the way his flanks are trembling under my fingers, and line myself up.

The anticipation just before I press inside is always one of my favourite parts and I take a moment to savour it. His little pucker is so rosy and so closely furled. He rests on his elbows, his arse angled towards me, his face buried in one of my pillows, and I find I can't wait any more, but have to be inside him now. I urge forwards and meet total resistance, even the slither of the lube not assisting me against the tension in his body. I try an exploratory finger, but it's worse than before.

“Albus. Relax.” I find myself using the same voice I use with Scorpius when he's disobeyed me.

The reply is muffled in a pillow. “'M trying... “

“There's nothing to be afraid of.”

“I know.” He's tilting his arse towards me, his erection still strong, bobbing underneath him. “I want to... I really want to...” He makes a little choking sound.

What helped me, the first time? I hardly know, it was so long ago. I don't recall whoever it was caring very much about what I was feeling.

“You need to breathe. Push out at first.” I persist, first a finger, caressing the tender skin. Then again with the head of my cock, and this time I gain an inch or so before everything tightens up once more and he's gasping for air. I try to stay stockstill for a minute, hoping he'll be able to relax again. But after only a few moments, I'm finding myself quite overwhelmed by the prospect of Albus beneath me, so fresh and unspoiled.

The heartbreaking dip of his back. Those heavenly dimples, the rousing curve of his arse. His hair hanging down around his face, and the little noises, oh, the noises. It would be so easy to forget everything and just... take what I want. What I need. I'm so achingly hard, his rim just flexing around the head of my cock, and at this moment I'd happily give the Malfoy riches just to shove him down onto the mattress and pound him into oblivion.

But it seems I have some remnants of a conscience, after all. After what sounds like a smothered sob from the pillow, I pull that hard-earned inch out with a sigh and draw back from him.

“I'm sorry!” He's still hiding his face. “I didn't mean to—”

I stroke his back, the fragile jut of his shoulderblades. “Shhh.”

“I'll try harder. Just try it again. I can—”

“Albus.” I move to kiss the dimples, one, two. “It's quite all right. You're doing very well.”


“Shush. No more.” I stroke his sides, the narrow hips. His cock has deflated a little. I'm thinking, thinking hard. I could grease him up and fuck between his thighs. Along the line of that heavenly arse. I could turn him over and come on his face. I could...

He shivers at the feel of my fingers brushing over his nipples, and his arse pushes towards me again, the muscles flexing, his hole shining with grease.

I stifle the growl that wants to erupt from my chest, and suddenly I'm leaning forwards and swiping my tongue across his arse. His whole body stiffens. I grab his thighs and nuzzle his hole with my lips.


His body is tense, but his arse is soft and warm and tender. I lick my lips and then, very gently, tease the crinkled skin with the tip of my tongue. And a wild, strangled noise comes from that lush mouth that's buried deep in my pillow. I lick again. He tastes of cinnamon and nutmeg, the warm spices gently buzzing on my tongue, but also a rich, muskiness that has my mouth watering.

I'll be honest – I'm not much of a one for arse-licking. I've probably done it a handful of times, but that's all. I can't really see the point of sticking a tongue up there when I've got a perfectly good prick that will give us both an excellent time. But if doing this will let me give Albus a fucking he'll never forget as long as he lives – which is how I intend it to be – then, Merlin, I'm all for it.

I press closer, spreading his cheeks and licking with first the flat of my tongue and then the tip. Albus is squirming on the bed, his dark hair falling this way and that as his head tosses from side to side.

“Oh my god. What are you doing? That feels... ohhhhhh.”

I pause to answer him. “I'm getting you ready for me. For my cock.”

“Ohhh. Ohhhhh.” He feels so good, moving against my mouth in a hedonistic rhythm.

“I'm going to fuck you with my tongue, and then...”

“Oh, holy shit, ohhh, fuck!”

My tongue's deep inside. There's no resistance as I press in further, further, as far as I can go, then slip it out and lick around the rim.

“Then, I'm going to fuck you, Albus.” I whisper it into his twitching hole. “I'm going to show you how it's done. Just like I promised.” My tongue plunges in again, and he's whimpering and clawing at the pillow.

I can't help but notice his erection is rock solid once more, bobbing up towards his stomach. I prise his cheeks apart and give a long, loving lick, swirling over and over, glorying in the way he is falling to pieces so completely. If he does this for my tongue, what's he going to be like with a cock inside him? I feel a ridiculous excitement, far beyond my straining prick. My entire body feels as if it's fizzing with anticipation. 

I carry on until his thighs are juddering, then grab one of the pillows and position it under his hips, letting him slump gratefully forward. I can't resist one more kiss before I sit up again – the sounds he makes are beyond intoxicating.

“Oh, god.” His breath is coming hard and fast. “That was― I didn't know...” He turns his head to look at me, his face completely awestruck. I slather another layer of the spicy ointment over my erection. You can never have too much of this stuff.

And this time, I want to be sure.

When I rest my hand on the small of his back and press the fingers of my other hand inside him, he screws his eyes shut, but this time I can feel him drawing me in, then the muscles pushing me a little way out before they allow my fingers to slip in easily, up to the knuckle. He makes a sound like pain, but his face is blissful.

“Ohhh. Yes. That's so good, Albus.”

His pleased little smile nearly kills me. How can he be so unguarded? Doesn't he realise how vulnerable it leaves him?

I twist my fingers, just a fraction, which inspires another moan, full of the agony of wanting. Merlin. I'm going to go stark staring mad if I can't be inside him. I mean now, this minute.

I pull his hips up a little and shove another pillow underneath. His impudent cock is leaking pre-come onto my best bed linen. I part his cheeks, nudge at his entrance, and this time... oh, this time, Albus moves backwards, opening around me as I press inside, slowly, persistently. There's tightness, and heat, and then the most delicious yielding, and I slide all the way, the whole damn way into his body, with a sensation so achingly sweet that it almost hurts.

I let out a long hiss of pleasure. I feel like I've been waiting half my life for this. With a great force of will, I keep still, my cock deep inside him, surrounded by his glorious heat. My body's on fire, throbbing with the immense thrill of being the first, the only person to touch him this way.

His mouth's fallen open. He looks... he looks sort of stunned.



I can feel him clenching around me, his body protesting at the fullness. I stroke along the smooth skin of his hip. “Albus. You're doing so well.”

“Uhhhh.” He nods. “Uhhh, yes, good.”

The thought flashes into my head of what his father would say if he could see his precious son at this exact moment.

I bend over him, close to his ear. “I'm going to fuck you now.”

“Oh god.”

“This is what you've been wanting, isn't it? This is what you've been waiting for.”

“Ah, god. Please...”

“You're ready, so ready.” I tuck his hair behind his ear. His face is, I don't know. Euphoric. Tortured. A mixture. “You've been dreaming of someone like me. Someone who'll hold you down and give it to you hard.”

“Nnngh.” His fists are clenched around the pillow again. He's pressing back against me, his arse tensing and releasing, trying to control the depth of penetration, but I push him down.

“And you're going to remember this your whole life. The first time you got fucked.”

Shiiit.” It comes out as a whine.

“Tell me.”

Uhhh. I― what?”

“Tell me that you want it.”

“Oh, fuck, I want it.”

“You want it... so badly.”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I want it....” He takes a gasping breath. “I want― so bad. So– so bad. Please.”

“Oh, Albus. You're such a good boy.” I pull out, almost all the way out. He's clenching and shuddering again. “You deserve this. You deserve to get such a good fucking. Yes. And I'm going to give it to you.”

I gaze down at him, imprinting this memory in my brain forever, the way he looks with his pretty head on my pillow, the way his body feels under mine, young and burning with need, and then I'm sinking into him with an endless, smooth stroke. He dips his back and cries out, a call of surprise and longing, but I can't stop or slow down, not for him or for all the Potters in the whole damn world. I drive into him again and again, lingering on the outstroke, losing myself on the inward. It's hot and hard and deep and real and so good, so fucking good to just let myself take my pleasure in his body, to take what he offers so freely, and give him what he begs for so ardently.

He's starting to come apart now, sounds and words bubbling from his mouth as his body reacts to the overload of stimulation. It's still not enough. I want to claim every inch of him, want to plunder his body and make him mine. I pull him up on his knees again, and then, when I move, pulling him back against me as I thrust forwards, it's oh, so much deeper, damn, yes...

I slow down, wanting to have my fill of him before this is over, my eyes riveted by the sight of my cock pushing into him, the stretch and drag of it. Albus is so pliant under me, his body arching into the fuck with his head thrown back, buffeted by the force of my movements. Sweet Merlin, who'd have thought that Potter's boy was just made for fucking? I don't know, he himself over to it, so completely. Gives himself over to me.

I reach around to squeeze his prick, the hot, sticky head of it fitting perfectly in my palm. “Albus.”

He moans, his mouth wet and open, his eyes closed tight.

“Albus, listen to me. You love this, don't you? You'd do anything for this. For my cock.”

His movements are becoming erratic, his breath rasping through his chest.
“Yes. Yessss.”

“Tell me what you'd do for it.” I slow my hand, relishing the sounds of frustration, the tension in his face.

“Ohhh. I-- Anything. I'd do anything.”

“Anything I want.”

“Yes. Anything. You can do anything to me. Oh, god, please.”

He begs so prettily. The time for waiting is past. I grip his hips imperiously and pull him onto me with a savage need. I want him to feel it to the tips of his hair, to feel it in his fingers and the soles of his feet, to feel the universe shrinking around us until there is nothing in this world but my cock, ploughing the arse of Albus Potter.

I fuck him as hard as I know how, with a tender brutality that almost frightens me, and god, does he love it. His cries are what tip me over the edge, that and the sublime clenching of his arse as he comes. My own orgasm is one blistering spurt after another, clutching him so tight that I know his skin will bear the prints of my fingers tomorrow. A snarl of possessive rage burns its way from my throat as I empty myself into him. Then I sit back on my haunches and gather him into my lap, his head falling back against my shoulder, to let him ride out the last twinges in my arms.

His head turns from side to side and it sounds like he's whimpering. I smooth a hand over his shoulder, soothing him. My whole body is swimming with warmth and bliss. He feels so bloody good here in my arms, with my come sliding out of his arse and cooling in my lap.

“Albus. Albus. You were so good.”

His chest is heaving with the aftermath of the exertion. “God, that was... God.”

“You liked it.”

“Oh, yes.”

“You loved it.”

He gives a little high-pitched laugh, his sweaty back rippling against my chest. “Oh, man. Yes.”

I let my hands brush across his thighs, the dark hair tickling my palms. He's not as skinny as some boys his age, and in a few minutes it might start to get uncomfortable with him perched in my lap, but for now it's perfect, an oddly cosy feeling. My lips brush his nape and I breathe in the smell of his hair. He smells of sweat and sunshine.

“Did you think, when you came to stay, that you'd end up doing this?”

He laughs again. “Fuck, no.” He drops his head, another blush stealing across his cheeks.

“And are you pleased?”

He nods.

“Tell me.”

Again the little laugh. “You always say that. Yes, I'm pleased. Really... god, really pleased.” He laughs some more, his body shaking, and my cock slips out of him.

“What's so amusing?” I find myself smiling into his neck, where he can't see me.

“Scorp.... He told me to talk to you about boys.”

“He did?”

He nods, trying to catch his breath. “Yup. Said I should get some advice off you. About technique and so on.”

“You were discussing me.”

“Not really. Just that one thing.”

I imagine the two of them talking late at night in Scorpius' room together. Whispering. Sharing secrets, like boys do. I'm not sure if I like it. I shift my legs, unbalancing him, and he slides off my lap.

“It's late.” My voice is cool.

He looks at me wonderingly.

“You should get to bed.” I stand up and start to hunt around for my night things.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He looks around for his pyjamas, then remembers they're in the bathroom. “Well, I'll go, then.”

I look at him over my shoulder, my eyebrows drawn together. “You will not discuss this with my son.”

“Of course not! I won't, I swear, I won't tell anyone.”

He's so childishly earnest, I half expect him to cross his heart and hope to die.

“Good night, then.” I pull on a pair of loose pants that will do to sleep in.

“OK.” He's staring at his feet, his fringe over his face again. “Well, see you, I guess, Mr Malfoy. I have to go home in the morning. My family are expecting me back.”

Mr Malfoy? What depravity is this? We've just been as intimate as two men can be; he has writhed and moaned and cursed in my arms, letting me take him completely apart before filling him up with my seed, and the hellion calls me Mr Malfoy? This boy's going to be the death of me, I swear.

I open my mouth to correct him, then realise that I would be idiotic to spoil any part of this. I walk towards him, take his chin between my finger and thumb and force his head up to look at me. His pupils are still wide and his eyes are like sea-green velvet. I tuck that errant fall of hair behind his ear.

“Albus.” I say, quietly. Even his name is perfect – the tongue coming forward to slyly touch the teeth, then the lips, pouting forward as if for a kiss, and finally the whisper of the ending, like a secret. “Oh, Albus.”

His gaze wanders from my eyes to my mouth, his face a mixture of hunger and hope that tugs at my belly. I don't know how he's even survived to be seventeen, with every emotion emblazoned over his face like this. I lean to meet his mouth, intending to give him a quick kiss farewell, but the heady way he opens for me... it's simply irresistible. I find myself cupping his face and matching him with equal appetite. The thought crosses my mind that I could tell him to stay... order him back to my bed. I have many more things that I would delight in teaching him. His innocent ardour is quite captivating.

But it is late, and there are grey shadows under his eyes, and my son will want his playmate when he rises bright and early in the morning. I pull away. There'll be no sleepy morning sex for Albus. I picture him tousled and half-awake, his prick stirring as I press up against him, my hands roaming covetously over his warm, biddable body. I swallow the long sigh that wants to escape from my chest.

“Good night, Albus.”

I send him off on unsteady feet, padding his way back to the guest bed in Scorpius' room, where he belongs.

My bed is a mess, just as I predicted. I toss the heap of sullied sheets and pillows into the corner and Summon fresh ones, which fall into place, pristine and irreproachable. It's as if he were never here.

I lie down, stretching the cares of the day out of my arms and legs, and looking out at the stars which prick their light through the fabric of the night sky.

The new bed linen is pleasantly cool, just as I like it, and my book is on the night table, and the decanter of water, and the notes for tomorrow's meeting. Everything is in place. Tomorrow... tomorrow, he will return to his own home. Wherever it is those Potters grub about. Scorpius and I will resume our normal lives, and so will he. This will be just another pleasant memory among so many.

I wonder if his father will see his smudged and bleary eyes and put it down to burning the midnight oil with Scorpius? Perhaps he will spy the bruises, the territorial marks I have left on his body, his lips. I smirk at the thought of Potter dismissing them as the result of... I don't know, boyish tussling, I suppose.

I turn on my side and let my eyes unfocus. Eyes of that particular green are a rare thing, certainly. And... the boy does appear to have got under my skin in a way that I would never have expected. But there are plenty of sweet-faced boys out there, even some with hair as black as night. There are scores of gorgeous young arses, and plenty of them are attached to men who would love me to take them home, and who don't need to creep out of my bed at 3 am.

Not unless I turf them out. Which admittedly, I usually do.

I close my eyes for a moment. It's always so quiet here at night. I rub my fingers along the smoothness of my cheek, finding a few hairs that I must have missed. I picture myself shaving tomorrow evening, quite alone, the house silent and still.

I'll do a better job without the distraction of him being there, no doubt.

With a sigh I roll onto my back. Perhaps I'll ask Scorpius if he wants to invite Albus to come and stay with us again, later in the summer. The boy can only be a good influence on Scorpius. He has such a respectful attitude, a desire to please the adults around him, instead of driving them half-insane with his impudent ways.

Nothing will happen again; I'll make sure of that. I can understand the boy having a crush on me, of course, but it would be terribly inappropriate to keep taking advantage of his affectionate nature like this.

No matter how he looks at me with those melting eyes.

No matter how much I want to take him to my bed and keep him there until he's begging for mercy. Or begging for more.

I suspect he could take anything I could give him, to be quite honest. And I can be quite... creative, when the opportunity arises.

I pass my hand over my eyes to clear my head. It would be madness. It would be... like turning around and flying back into Fiendfyre, daring its flames to lick around my ankles. Like shaving blindfolded. No, this was a one off, I'll make quite certain of it.

I'll speak to Scorpius in the morning.

I cast Nox and sink swiftly into sleep, where I dream of holding the razor to my throat and shuddering with pleasure, as the blade starts to bite.