Sometimes he wondered if the Hat had known; seen into him and seen this thing, realized that it was coming, inevitable as the tide, and placed him in the only house that could possibly be safe with that kind of desire in his future. It wasn't that Slytherin House was any more strange or perverted than other Houses. It was only that they were more likely to accept strange desires as facts and carry on with life than the others, he guessed. After all, strange desires made for excellent blackmail opportunities, and a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff would never consider that possibility.
His dad had said the Hat allowed for choice. In his case, it hadn't really offered, and James hadn't spoken to him for weeks afterwards. Months, in fact, and he'd found himself wandering the castle, spending more and more time in The Room.
They called it that, mostly. The Room, like it was that or tomb, the body of Draco Malfoy lying there in near-perfect preservation. It should have been creepy, but there was something about it that prickled in his chest, hot and curious, making him want nothing more than to be the one who kissed him awake. He'd even tried, more than once, though it had never worked.
Albus Severus Potter was fourteen the year he decided that fucking him awake might be a viable course of action. Of course, there were spells on The Room, spells on The Bed with its carved mahogany roses and diamond thorns. Kissing seemed to be all right; getting naked was something else altogether.
Still, he was going to risk it. He'd brewed the traditional potion that went with spells like that, had done his research, and he wanted, really truly wanted to do nothing more than lube up Malfoy's ass and fuck him, nightly, without end.
He knew it was wrong, of course. More than wrong, and Scorpius cast him looks that seemed to imply he knew more than Albus was entirely comfortable with him knowing. He hadn't tried to stop him, though. Not once, even though he knew that Albus Severus spent more evenings tucked away watching his older brother than anyone would likely consider healthy. He didn't know what he'd say if he found out he was doing things that were much more than watching. He didn't think it would work the first go 'round, either, and that... wasn't entirely disappointing. If anything, it made his heart beat faster, made him want to do it even more, and that should be wrong. Simply and plainly wrong, in ways that likely weren't to be considered, either, so he didn't. Just brewed, because he was ridiculously good at it, and had decided to try it even if it wasn't going to work.
He'd even added a few flourishes to the potion, because he was sure the original hadn't been merely simple Wiggenweld. There would have to be something, some little tick, and okay. He wasn't a potions genius, but the bed had to be a hint, surely. Roses. There had been two kinds in the potions stores, and he'd decided to go for the darker of them. Baccara, it had said, and that made a sick sort of sense. Dark roses for dark magic. Or maybe it wasn't, but all the same.
Potions were based on thoughts and whims and concepts and they left taints and side effects that one needed to take into account in the brewing. They had smelled enticing when he'd cut them, bruised them, and he'd added them. If it didn't work, then it didn't matter, not in the long run.
But trying was something, wasn't it?
He'd have thought there would be wards around the bed, but if there were, they were poor ones. Albus stepped up, and put one knee on the bed, and then another, working his way to the center and the living-dead body in it. He liked the concept of the living-dead body best even as he unstopped the potion to taste a little, kiss it onto Draco's lips.
They were cold against his; soft, but cold, and he knew he was only imagining the way they warmed against his own. It was his own mouth giving that false impression of warmth, but he was hard as a rock all the same. For a second, the idea of what his father might say crossed his mind, and he shoved it away in a compartment at the back of his head, determined not to think of it again. Instead, he shifted Malfoy, turned him onto his front to make things easier.
He reached down, stroked himself -- not because he needed any help but because it felt good and he needed to slick himself up. There were spells of course, but magic could contaminate and play with other magic in strange ways. Better to use the stuff he'd brewed, because it was funnily slick, too. Not lube-slick, but good enough, and he truly suspected that the sleeper on the bed wouldn't rouse himself all the same. He'd not protest, one way or the other.
Never mind how odd it was that he'd decided to try the Wiggenweld; that he'd dreamed about it, had strange ideas about it. It was all because he spent too much time in The Room, too much time thinking about him.
Too much time contemplating it all.
He stretched Draco's legs, spread them wide, and pulled up his hips. Later, he'd clean him and reposition him on the bed so no one could tell. Surely they weren't watching; they never watched, never knew when he'd been brewing. They wouldn't know this, either, and he slid his fingers close, traced potion-slick touch over the soft, hidden hole there, and his breath hitched. Too exciting, too much, it made him afraid that he'd come. Spill his seed all over the bed instead of inside Malfoy, and damn it. Damn it, he didn't want to waste this opportunity.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself while he wrapped fingers tight around his cock, intent on at least replacing his fingers with himself. If he came as soon as he was in, well, nobody would know, and it would be practice for later. Practice for Scorpius, if maybe he'd let him, and he clenched his eyes shut, tried chanting potions ingredients to himself to hold it back.
He faltered on his first thrust in, almost skipping over ingredients altogether, but there was something lastingly unsavory about boomslang skin when a person had actually handled it. It kept him from spilling just inside Draco, while he started to push forward, seating himself in cool skin.
God.
It was everything he'd thought it would be. It was so much like his fantasies, and he shook all over, stroking his hands up Malfoy's back, thumbs tracing his spine. "It's me," he murmured, continuing to touch him, to caress him. "It's me. Albus Severus. And I want to wake you, Draco Malfoy."
Maybe not this time. Maybe not even next time, but he thought he could feel Draco's body warming up beneath his own, and he groaned, pulled back and thrust again, sharp, hard. "Oh. Yes!"
Warm and so beautiful, skin like a fine statue beneath his hands, if a statue could yield. It excited him, more than he'd planned for it to, and he realized he could thrust as hard, as fast as he wanted with no protests. No sounds, nothing, and he moaned, pushing deep, riding him hard, and oh god. Oh god, it felt like he was warming up, clutching hard around him, enough so that Albus Severus leaned forward, palm slamming hard between Draco's shoulder blades to support himself.
When Draco Malfoy came alive beneath him, apple chunk coughed out onto the pillow, Albus Severus was almost bowled over and out of him.
"Whu. Wh-wh... what. What. No!" Yelped, loudly, and it scared the living shit out of him. "What's.. help!"
He startled, stopped, hips stuttering a little, itchy back and forth thrusts while he tried to move away and focus. "You're, you're awake!"
"I don't.. there was... I thought. An apple. I...." And he was turning, looking at him, and oh. That. That fury, that was incredibly hot. "Potter, you sick fuck!"
"I was waking you up!" And oh god, he was awake now, he was twisting and looking back at him and all he could do was just thrust. It gained him a yelp, and Malfoy twisted, shuddered underneath him, tightened.
Oh. Potions lists weren't going to be enough to keep him from exploding.
He just needed to come already, needed to orgasm, needed to fill Draco Malfoy's ass, and oh, Scorpius was going to kill him slowly. Going to skin him alive, tear out his entrails and feed them to him, and fuck. Fuck, fuck, because Draco yelled, hoarse, loud, and he seemed to be coming, and oh. He wasn't going to be able to hold on any more. His fingers flexed, clutched tightly at Draco, and he came, thrusting hard, and then stuttering off slowly, frantic and wanting more than just that one moment.
"I... Where is Severus?" He sounded strange and confused and maybe sad. That wasn't what Albus Severus had wanted.
It wasn't what he'd imagined. What he'd dreamed about.
And the words tripped to his lips too fast, because, "Severus Snape is dead."
Just like that, it went even more wrong -- sharp loss of color, glaze of tears, and shit. Shit, fuck, damn. "I. Potter, you sick, lying fuck. Get your dick out of my arse. Where is he!?"
He shifted back, pulled out and almost fell off the bed, nicking his leg in the process. "I, he's dead. I'm sorry, but he put you asleep and left you and I only just found out how to wake you up..." How the hell he'd managed it, how it had worked when no one else's potion had, well, that was a creepy sort of answer that he didn't exactly want in all honesty.
"No." No, and he was moving, looking older than he had when he was asleep, pinched, in pain. "No, Potter, you prat. You're lying!"
"I'm not. I'm not. I'm Harry Potter's son; I'm in Slytherin house. We don't lie about what happened to Headmaster Snape." He reached out to try to soothe that pinched expression, and that was when the door opened.
"Albus Severus, I...."
Oh.
Fuck.
Scorpius looked at him, looked at his older brother, looked back at him.
"I woke him up," he offered, a little frantic even to his own ears. Weak, even, and he wasn't surprised when Scorpius's wand came up, sharp as the diamond thorns on his brother's bed.
"Stupefy!"