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June 12, 8:56pm: Malfoy Manor.
Scorpius has not returned from his mission with the Aurors. They were scheduled to be back by 5pm, but Scorpius is late as always. Draco supposes one cannot plan when a perilous mission should end, but he wishes somehow Scorpius had a sixth sense about these things.
Astoria is slumped beside her husband in the bed, her bald head resting against his shoulder. Draco is shaking as he strokes her blue-pale skin, trembling when he traces the swell of her lips. She is still so beautiful, even in death.
10:52pm.
Scorpius blinks. That is the only reaction Draco can see, and it is so quick that Draco almost misses it. Draco wonders if Scorpius has ever cared for anybody but himself; then he wonders where Scorpius learned to be selfish and fears he has let the both of them down.
Telling Scorpius that Astoria has just died is the hardest thing Draco has ever had to say, the words hollow as they slide into the air between them. Scorpius' lack of any emotional reaction is almost harder to bear.
11:25.
The coroner arrives, asks Draco as politely as possible why he didn't Firecall. Draco attempts a cold smile, but inside he is wishing daggers would pierce the bastard's unfeeling heart for thinking Draco murdered his wife. It is all-too clear Astoria was not murdered, that she had suffered long enough and that if anyone was at fault it was a force beyond Draco's wealth and influence. Even the Malfoy name cannot sway death.
Draco sits in the chair by the fire as he tells the coroner about Astoria's illness. He speaks quietly, watching Scorpius from across the room, trying to keep his wife's secrets just the way she liked them—private. But the coroner is not interested in Astoria's struggles and bravery in the face of certain death; he asks things like was she taking any potions from a qualified Healer? and why didn't you owl when her condition worsened?
Draco supposes these questions are necessary, but he has never been one to offer honesty or courtesy to strangers. These men would sooner eat him alive than provide a private service.
Sighing, Draco reaches for his wine. Scorpius is there before his fingers touch the bottle.
"Thank you," he says and finds his voice hoarse and dry. He hopes the wine will ease the pain. It is white, thankfully, as Scorpius must know he does not want to dwell on the color of blood, red like her lips.
"Of course," Scorpius says, ever the polite assistant, Daddy's Little Boy, teacher's pet.
Draco suppresses a smile against the rim of his goblet, thinking of Scorpius when he was younger, just a small boy who dreamed of becoming his father. How quickly those images were shattered and dissolved, how quickly things changed and boys grew up to be men, how quickly Scorpius turned his sights on the Auror Department, moving out, growing up.
He could not remember the last time he sat down and held a conversation of any importance with his son. Perhaps the last time had been when Scorpius joined the Auror Internship in his seventh year at Hogwarts. Studying under the great Harry Potter, Scorpius had seemingly forgotten his father and all the sacrifices he had made over the years. When they spoke that evening, Draco had said very little, curtly snapping at his son's every happy exhale.
When Scorpius turned to leave the room, Draco forgot himself and gripped his son's wrist. Their eyes met, silver on blue, but Draco could not bring himself to apologize.
"Please, father," Scorpius says when the moment has gone on far too long and Draco's fingers feel more like talons than anything else, clutching his prey to protect it from escape. "You are embarrassing me."
June 16, 10:01am, Wulfric Brian Memorial Cemetery.
The crowd is large and daunting, filled with shadowed faces in black veils and old men in dress robes. Draco does not wish to say anything in front of them, to make a speech, a spectacle. If it were up to Draco, he would be home with Scorpius, tending to the Manor and Astoria's assets. It seems silly to dwell on fond memories and happy times that Draco and Scorpius can never revisit. She is gone; it would be so much easier just to forget and move on somehow, if moving on were possible.
And yet, Draco stands when he is called. There is no speech trembling in his hand, just a warm cup of tea, which Scorpius graciously takes from him before he makes his way to the pulpit in front of the looming gathering.
It is a stormy June morning when Draco tells his colleagues, friends, and strangers how Astoria had always loved the rain. It is overcast and sullen when he breaks down into dry sobs and Scorpius has to help him to a private tent to grieve in peace.
It is just past ten o'clock when Draco holds his son a little too tight and Scorpius fingers his father's hair just a little too delicately.
11:56pm, Malfoy Manor.
Draco is still awake when Scorpius pads downstairs in Astoria's silk robes. For a moment, Draco forgets that Astoria has died, thinks she will be cross with her son for borrowing her intimates. When Draco remembers, he has to swallow the unforgiving lump that hollows out his throat and makes it impossible to speak.
"I do not think she would mind my borrowing this, do you?" Scorpius asks, offering a kind smile and a goblet of white wine, both of which Draco quietly accepts. "I have always loved the fabric. It is from the Pacific Islands, I believe. I remember grandmother saying it brought out mother's eyes, all the delicate blues and creams, the calla lilies and vines."
Scorpius' fingers trail over the hem like oil over water, slithering fluidly. Draco watches, but some part of him aches to turn away. Scorpius should not look so fetching in that robe, so demure and fragile, as if he might break if handled roughly. Scorpius is a man now, quite old enough to know better; Draco does not want to be tempted, fearing he is already so very weak.
"Take that off this instant." Draco does not sound like himself. He sounds like an old man, void of his sanity. He loathes this part of himself, the part that requires release and doesn't care from whom or how he steals it. The beast inside him gnashes at his ribcage, claws at his heart. Draco remembers the endless parade of one-night stands and affairs in lieu of Astoria's illnesses and feels sickened by himself.
Scorpius does not seem to notice or pretends he has not heard his father's croaked warning. He twirls slowly in the dressing gown, watching himself in the distorted, dusty reflection on the tall clock beside the fireplace.
"I think mother would be pleased it is still getting use, after all these years."
Draco has forgotten the last time Astoria wore something like that. In the latter years, as the disease overwhelmed her immune and nervous systems, she had complained of the cold temperatures in the Manor that had always previously pleased her in the summers. Her hands were always cold when Draco touched them, her skin always moist with sweat. Astoria always wore wool and cotton and hugged the blankets up over her chin. Draco could not even recall the shape of her body in such a slithering, slender bit of fabric, but when Scorpius glides past him, Draco can smell Astoria in the waft of perfume from the fine ripple of cloth that brushes his fingertips.
Scorpius pours him a second glass of wine, which helps Draco forget, then a third to numb the ache and a fourth to ease his mind. When Draco falls asleep in his chair by the fireplace, Scorpius wraps a blanket around his shoulders and kisses his forehead.
Perhaps it is a delusion when Draco tips his face, seeking his son's warm, tangible mouth. The taste of Scorpius is a dream, sweltering and sweetened from mulled grapes and liquor.
June 17, 10:12am.
Waking up is difficult, staying asleep impossible. Draco prolongs the inevitable rousing as he drifts in between dreams. When Scorpius wakes him, it is only out of politeness.
"Breakfast has been waiting nearly an hour, father," Scorpius coaxes, brushing the stray hairs from his father's face.
Draco stirs finally when Scorpius climbs into his lap and nuzzles his face. Scorpius' hands are clutching handfuls of his hair, his son's mouth agape at his jaw.
"Shall I serve you here, father?" Scorpius asks it like he does not think there is anything wrong with the intimacy they share.
Draco remembers another time, when Scorpius was sixteen and had suffered his first binge of too much Firewhiskey and Butterbeer shots at the Malfoy Christmas Ball. Scorpius stumbled into his father in the middle of the hallway, pressed their bodies together, and sought Draco's mouth with the urgency of a lover who needed immediate release. Too stunned and intoxicated to push Scorpius away, Draco had instead claimed his son's lips as he had first done with Astoria so many years ago.
Pressing Scorpius' body against the wall, Draco had felt the long, firm planes of his son's Seeker's build and truly appreciated every blind, numb second of such searing, uninhibited pleasure. Scorpius had come quickly, in an exhale of four-letter curses that made Draco flush with excitement.
Only when Scorpius dropped to his knees did Draco finally look at him and see what was happening. Scorpius had managed to bring Draco to full hardness and had been one breath away from sucking him off before Draco found the strength to walk away.
Now, five years later, finding the boy in his lap did nothing to quell the nausea he felt knowing how very close they had come to crossing that desperate, incestuous line. Scorpius' mouth sears a blistering trail from Draco's ear to the jut of his jaw.
"Stop it," Draco mouths, unable to say words he could never mean. He and Scorpius, they are the same, always have been, always needing the same release and connection.
"Yes, shall I stop, father?" Scorpius asks just as he nips a bruise to Draco's Adam's apple. "I have been a naughty boy, haven't I? You are going to punish me if I keep trying to seduce you, aren't you?"
Draco is breathless now and dizzy from the impending hangover. His head is spinning and he feels hot all over, like his body could catch fire from the heat of Scorpius' slim body writhing and crawling against his own. It has been years since Astoria could pleasure him in this way. He never blamed her until that night at the party, until now with Scorpius so smooth and virile and exquisitely alive, pulsing in his arms.
Astoria is gone. There is now no hope for a better release than through Scorpius.
"Shall you punish me, daddy?" Scorpius begs. "Punish me, Merlin knows I've been bad, so very bad…"
The only thing that halts Draco's progress is the ring of the bell at the fireplace and the sound of Lucius' voice waltzing through the hallways. Scorpius jumps off him like they are the edges of opposing magnets, pulsing wildly against the forces between them.
June 25, 8:01am, the Ministry of Magic
Draco has not spoken to Scorpius since the incident, and he has been avoiding his son so much that he does not recall when Scorpius left the Manor to go back to work.
Draco knows it is time to go back to his own Department, even though his partners and secretaries and even the Minister for Magic assures him that if he requires more time off, he will certainly be allowed a lenient grieving period.
But the last thing Draco wants is to grieve—the only thing left wanting is release, and he is not sure anyone or anything can provide that beyond his son, because no one else in the world can understand his pain but Scorpius.
9:52am.
Draco is introduced to his new assistant, Albus Potter. Draco thinks it is just his luck that the boy looks something like his father and something much better at the same time. Draco has never been interested in men in the way he has been interested in boys, and Albus looks, dare he dream, so young. Flesh pale and smooth, hair dark and wild, eyes bright and green. Draco's fantasy fling.
The worst part is knowing that with his position and wealth, boys like Potter are quite keen to sleep their way to the top. When Potter flirts with him, lifts his arms until the hem of his casual-dress t-shirt rides up to expose the flat of his stomach, Draco shoves the boy against the wall and crushes their mouths together.
12:12pm.
It does not take long, merely an hour or two of pleasantries before they are rutting like savages against the desk, wall, and finally to the floor, where Draco forces Potter on his knees. Draco does not want to look at the boy, does not want to see anything but his tight, pert, young arse poised and spread for him.
Draco tongues into the boy's hole, pleasuring Potter until the boy is muffling his screams into the bitten crook of his arm. When Draco drives into his body, it is only after careful tonguing and slick lubrication charms.
Albus lets Draco ride him for what seems like hours but could only be minutes. Albus says filthy things like, "Is this how you like me?" and "Tell me I'm your little whore" with breathless satisfaction. Draco would like to say he does not get off on Potter's small whimpers of pain and hoarse groans of pleasure, the little curses spilled from his chapped lips, but every sentiment is an admission of arousal. Draco loves it best when Albus blurts out the one word that sends him careening over the edge of his orgasm—Daddy.
12:32pm.
Albus Potter smoothes his robes down, a handsome red blush across the bridge of his freckled nose. He looks much smaller now, younger even than Draco would prefer, but it cannot possibly be the first time he has used his body to get what he wants, because when all is said and done they were both after the same thing.
"Was I all right?" Albus asks, green eyes shining as he fixes his square-rimmed glasses.
"You will suffice," Draco responds, though his blood is still boiling and he does not feel anywhere near satisfied with his actions. The only small satisfaction will come the next morning, when he will confirm that Potter's arse is still swollen from the fuck.
1:22pm.
Draco decides to take Scorpius for lunch, to apologize or just talk for a while. Merlin knows they could both use a break from the office, even if it is only their first day back since Astoria's death. Draco remembers the first time he and Scorpius went into work together—they had lunch together every day for the first two months, before Scorpius really grew into himself and his confidence.
Draco remembers the small sushi bar near the Ministry. They had shared inari rolls and rice there once or twice; perhaps a bottle of warm plum sake would not be amiss, even in the middle of the day.
When Draco arrives to the Auror Office, the outer cubicles are deserted and at first Draco thinks he has missed Scorpius. But there is a light on in Potter's office, so Draco leans in and spies through the crack in the door. He is not sure why he is cautious in peering in, but he is glad of his silent actions when he spies Scorpius slumped lifelessly over Potter's desk, trousers tugged down to his thighs, arse cheeks pink, spread, and glistening with sweat or lubrication, Draco is not sure.
Without thinking, Draco casts a concealment charm and draws closer, eyes wide as he watches Scorpius spread himself with both hands so that Potter can draw close and press his face between his son's cheeks.
Scorpius arches and Draco is sure his son just came against Potter's unforgiving desk.
Potter wastes no time in dipping his head down, feathering tender kisses to Scorpius' thighs, down below to cover his balls, and then back up the cleft of his arse. Scorpius whimpers pathetically, still spreading his cheeks to give Harry access.
"Need you," Scorpius breathes. "Father, please, please, need you so bad…"
Potter and Draco both stiffen, but for different reasons. Draco is hard, while Potter seems momentarily disgusted, as if he wasn't expecting Scorpius to call him that. And then, before Draco can barge in and protest, Potter's hand slaps down on Scorpius' redden buttocks. The skin swells under the smack.
Again and again Potter slaps Scorpius until the boy is keening under him like a sick animal rutting in the gutters for release. Then Potter glides into Scorpius' swollen arse, slickened from spells and rimming, and Draco pulls away before he witnesses the rest.
When Draco finds himself in the nearest loo, he pulls at his prick so hard the inside of his thumb feels blistered afterwards.
6:31pm, Malfoy Manor.
Draco is not sure why they still eat like this, from one end of the table to the other, speaking in hushed whispers as if there are ghosts to hear their awful dinner conversation. But it is tradition, normalcy, routine, and Draco craves those things to tether his sanity.
Scorpius moves midway through his rum-buttered veal and cabbage to sit beside Draco.
"I heard they moved Albus Potter into your Department," Scorpius says.
Draco's fork is strikingly loud against the china. "Did Mr. Potter tell you so?"
Scorpius' knife settles down hard against his own plate. The silence drags on between them as if there is nothing more to be said on the subject. All Draco can think is how Potter got to Scorpius first, how Scorpius called for him, how the firm slap of Potter's palm connected with the taut flesh of his son's arse. He pictures fucking that swollen, pert little arse, stealing every last ounce of energy Scorpius had inside him. Their bodies would connect, electric and fiery in the calm house around them.
Neither of them speak again until Scorpius excuses himself from the table.
10:07pm.
Scorpius brings Draco a tall glass of whiskey. It is wholly inappropriate for a Monday evening drink—Scorpius knows better—but Draco accepts the glass anyway and downs a quarter of it in one swallow. The burn is somewhat cathartic as it dries his throat. It will be easier this way, not speaking about what happened earlier.
When Scorpius sits too close to him on the chaise lounge, Draco has no strength or willpower to stop him. Scorpius is wearing Astoria's gown again, its silk maddening as it sifts in his lap; when Scorpius crosses his legs, the opening in the front spills away, revealing the creamy skin of Scorpius' calves, knees, and thighs. Draco does not recall Astoria doing these things, pretending she is coy when in fact she is attempting seduction. Scorpius is playing the kinds of dangerous games Draco himself may have played once upon a time, when he had been young and foolish and craving the touch of a man.
One more swallow of the whiskey to numb Draco's thoughts. Astoria quietly disappears and in her place, Draco smells Scorpius—lithe lines drawing his body as he bends over the desk at the Ministry, Potter's hand spanking his arse, Scorpius' mouth parted in the most delicate of words: father. Like a litany, Draco watches Scorpius say it over and over again, desperation lilting every cracking syllable.
The tall glass of whiskey is forgotten, a long ago memory as Scorpius' fine hairs tickle Draco's cheek. Scorpius brushes his lips tenderly at the hard line of Draco's jaw, and Draco cannot help the moan he releases, born from years of repression and frustrated masturbations when Astoria was fast asleep beside him. Draco knows how good it feels, the reverberations against Scorpius' thin, wet lips. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in Scorpius' hair, massaging his scalp, offering the permission he cannot with words.
These moments could be so innocent, so fragilely familial, but Scorpius soils it by dragging his teeth along the thrush of Draco's Adam's apple. Scorpius' lips are soft and swollen against his skin, and Draco sinks into the cushions, spreads his legs as he allows Scorpius to nudge his head back. All the tender skin at his throat bared for his son, Draco's nostrils release the exhale, teeth clenched tight, fingernails sinking into the armrest like the claws of a beast. There is a part of this that is painful, the letting go of control, the fear, but Draco knows nothing that comes without pain is worthwhile. Lucius taught him that, and Abraxas taught Lucius, and so forth throughout the Malfoy line—every dutiful ancestor knew such pain was necessary.
Scorpius blisters the skin in the wake of his lips as they pass over every inch of Draco's chin, jaw, and throat; he even pauses to suckle at the dip of his father's collar bone, all the tender places Draco has forgotten.
Then Scorpius moves atop him, an animal released from its cage. Mouthing up Draco's chin, Scorpius has enough common sense to pause over his lips. Breathing hard, Scorpius tangles one hand firmly into his father's hair.
"I know how to give you what you want," Scorpius says.
Draco exhales, squeezes his eyes shut. The glass of whiskey is impossibly heavy in his grip, and yet he fears he could shatter it with just one squeeze. This, whatever it is between them, cannot be happening. Draco is terrified of the pleasure most of all, of truly feeling release again, like the first sloppy time in the Astronomy Tower at fifteen when he learned what it was to connect with a man, to be pleasured and to please.
"Please, father," Scorpius goes on, sliding up until he has straddled Draco, their thighs pressing together, the heat and scent of his son's body driving Draco wild. "You can take me however you like—on my hands and knees, face-up in your bed, thrown over a desk and spanked raw…" At Draco's grunt of satisfaction, Scorpius whines and rubs himself down wantonly. "I knew you were watching, father, I just knew it. I only let him fuck me because I couldn't have you—you wouldn't letme have you—but I don't care for him. He was just some man to fuck me in your place, to get off on the control as I got off on losing it."
"Scorpius, we can't—"
For the first time, Scorpius takes true initiative. When their lips touch, Draco is frantic to stop his son and goad him on. In an instant, Draco has Scorpius on his back on the chaise, their lips scant breaths apart, and Draco feels his hardness prodding his son in his thigh. It is wretched, for this to feel so marvelous and so disgusting all at once. Draco knows he is wrong when he draws his hand down Scorpius' body, knows it is the one taboo he has never allowed himself, but the release, the connection, it is all he can think of, all he desires.
Again, they kiss, and Draco knows it is cliché to think he could come from a kiss at his age but it is nearly the truth; he feels like a schoolboy, clumsily fumbling for the first time with another boy, mindful of the danger and embarrassed by the ecstasy. But Scorpius is not so troubled; he wraps a leg around his father's waist like he has known how to do that for ages, urging their bodies together with comfortably strained tenderness.
Draco does not waste time, because if he pauses, if he so much as thinks about what he is doing, he knows it will be impossible to continue and the part of him that rages like an animal swells in his throat, desperate for more. When Draco peels his son's clothes off, he does not think of how different it was when Scorpius was a child, how when Scorpius came in from the rain Astoria would strip him gently of his clothes as a boy and warm the bath for him, brush his wet hair and kiss his flushed cheek. Draco only thinks of the affair when Scorpius was a teenager, their panting mouths and trembling hands, so alike and so different, barred by age and discretion.
Scorpius offers his father free reign for every inch of skin exposed, and Draco rushes to throw the flimsy sheet of fabric aside. His fingers grip until his fist is jerking Scorpius roughly from base to head. It is not surprising, how hard Scorpius is already for him, how the head of his long, slender cock is already sopping with precome and swollen from the blood lust.
When Draco bends to take Scorpius into his mouth, he growls possessively. The whiskey is souring on the carpet by the time both of his hands are on his son's naked form, pressing, shoving, memorizing.
Scorpius again takes initiative, impatient as always, and twists out of his father's arms until he is draped over the arm of the chaise like a broken doll. Scorpius' blond hair hangs in sweat-damp waves over his pale forehead, and the boy's pale mouth is unusually red and swollen.
"Do it," Scorpius urges, the smallest sneer peeking at the corner of his perfect Malfoy mouth. "You know it is just what you want, what you need. Spank me."
Draco lands the first blow without thinking. At the hoarse cry that rips from Scorpius' throat, Draco cannot help but feel guilty—the familial part of him wants to console, but the beast hungers for more. The second slap is gentler, and this time the coo that spills from his son's lips is lethal. Draco knows it is his final undoing.
Draco summons a jar of jelly from his potions stash, dips one finger in and shoves it straight to the hilt in his son's body. Scorpius whines prettily and grips the armrest for support. While he is not suspecting it, Draco uses his free hand to slap his son's arse again. And again. And again. Wild in his passion, Draco does not hear Scorpius tell him to stop and go on in the same breath.
"That's enough!" Scorpius screams when the flesh begins to raise and Scorpius' balls are tight.
With a growl that is more feral that Draco has ever known himself to sound, he wraps his hand around his son's throat from behind and chokes hard enough to damage. It is one of the things Scorpius has never learned about his father—Draco has choked men twice Scorpius' size, has watched the lack of blood whiten their features and blue their lips.
"I will tell you when it is enough," Draco snarls. He is trembling, his entire body hot and ready. Clumsily, roughly, he slides another finger into Scorpius, who moans now for the pressure. "You get off on the rough treatment, don't you, boy?" Draco no longer recognizes the sound of his voice—it is a man's voice, not like his father's. "You think Potter could be rough with you? You think he is enough? Did you expect me to be gentle or tender? I am your father, and Merlin but I want to rip you apart this way."
The sounds Scorpius makes now are strained, so Draco releases his throat. Scorpius gasps and lays his head down on the armrest, body shuddering.
"Fuck me," Scorpius begs, grinding back against Draco's fingers, three now inside the boy, filling him. "Don't be gentle, don't kiss me—just take every part of me and tear it to shreds."
12:03am.
Scorpius screams out his orgasm, and Draco rides it out. The boy has come twice, but Draco's release is so fleeting, far off in the distance. He aches to be inside Scorpius forever, to die this way, to be complete and connected to his son in the most intimate, filthy way he can think of.
Draco's orgasm tears through him like a demon unleashed from the bowels of his soul.
When they are done, Draco pulls out and tries in vain to ignore the rush of guilt, the bleeding despair, which overwhelms his pulse; his heart beats to the tune of my Scorpius, my son, distant in his ears, echoing in the release between them.
Draco touches Scorpius' shoulder, then lets go of his fear and pulls his son close. They have not hugged like this in years. There is no reason to let some foolish pride come between them now, not after this. Draco hopes his son will forgive him.
A sob in the darkness alerts Draco to Scorpius' voice, cold against his chest.
"It's not enough—just want her back—why did she have to die—father, please…"
There is nothing left to say.