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Dirty Blue

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The seventh incident of a severe reaction to the illegal potion Lactarius Indigo led to another admission to St Mungo's in the early hours of Saturday morning. Tom Madley, proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron, had found the boy unconscious in the toilets of his establishment as he was locking up for the evening.

"Thought maybe it'd been too much Firewhisky, but the lad's fingernails were blue as a peacock feather! Knew somethin' was up and brought 'em straight to St Mungo's," Tom told reporters. "That stuff's nothing but rubbish – someone's goin’ to end up dead as a door nail before long."

Head Auror Harry Potter commented during the early morning press conference: "We're taking this new illegal potion very seriously. One overdosing teenager is one too many, and now we've had seven. The next one could be your son or daughter. We urge anyone who knows anything about the potion sold under the names Lactarius Indigo, Dirty Blue, or Bluesex to come forward. The people who are making and selling this filth on our streets need to know that we will not tolerate it."

Draco folded the Prophet in half and rolled it in his clenched fist like a parchment wand. The rough edges dug into his fingers as he squeezed tighter. He tossed a few Knuts on the table to cover his drink and swept out of the dark tavern.

He passed the door of a disreputable nightclub, one of many that now lined the narrow streets between Diagon and Knockturn. The pulsing music rattled the steamed glass windows. Thank Merlin, Scorpius had moved to France to live with Astoria after he had finished school. At least he was not among the masses that pumped themselves full of alcohol and street potions to grind away the night against the nearest body. The British post-war generation's trend to Muggle-like substance abuse had not yet trickled to the Continent.

Disgusting habit. Past midnight it seemed the streets teamed with rabble who would crawl through piss-stained alleys just to chase a droplet that rolled away. As far as Draco was concerned, they deserved to have their Galleons lifted by enterprising potions makers.

A gaggle of youths burst out of a tavern two doors down and pushed past Draco, brushing his robes and paying him no mind. They smelled of sweat and tobacco and lust. It burned his nostrils. One of them tossed a phial against an alley wall. The sound of shattering glass and laughter was cut off as a boy pressed a young witch against the building and pulled her in for a snog.

Draco sneered at the display until his eyes fell to the shards of glass and the distinct golden cork that rolled a half-metre before coming to a stop at his boot.

His gut twisted; he'd seen enough. He turned towards his flat but a pained whimper caught his ear. He almost didn't stop. The sound could be anything, and around Knockturn, whimpers and moans in dark alleys were common enough. Still, his eyes flickered over the shadows.

A dark lump stirred in the doorway of an antique shop - another drunk sleeping it off before making his way home.

Despite himself, Draco stepped closer.

The man was curled up with his knees to his chest, his head hooded and turned to the corner. His breathing was ragged and Draco's heart unclenched. He was alive, at least. He stepped back, steeled himself to walk away, but couldn't. He knelt and tugged off the stranger's leather glove.

Blue as a peacock feather.

Draco cursed under his breath, mind racing through his options. Getting the bloody hell out of there was first on the list and his brain latched onto it.

The man – boy, Draco realised – trembled. With a groan, he squeezed his knees tighter and the hood shifted.

Draco cursed the worn cobblestone beneath his feet, the entire urine-reeking alley. He cursed ever having left his house that evening, golden corks and stupid children. Most of all, Draco cursed Harry Potter for having a son who had landed himself unconscious at Draco's feet, halfway to a lethal overdose.

He took a moment to debate how many years he'd spend in Azkaban if Albus Potter's body – bright blue nails and all – were found there in the morning. Harry Potter would not rest until the supplier of the potion that killed his son was found.

There was nothing for it. He pulled out his wand, grabbed the young Potter's wrist and, with a quick glance about to see they hadn't been observed, he Apparated. The hot, stale air of his living room choked him after the chill of the alley. He wrestled Albus out of his cloak and deposited the unconscious body onto the couch. He prayed the boy wouldn't start vomiting.

He was grateful he kept a well-stocked potions cabinet at his flat. If he'd had to head to the lab, Albus would surely be dead by the time he returned. A Potter spawn dead on Draco's couch was even worse than a Potter spawn dead on a street corner. He selected the phial from the rows of unmarked bottles – silver liquid, black stopper – and quickly decided that it might just save his arse. Temporarily, at least. His fingers shook as he wrapped them around the smooth glass.

The boy hadn't moved a hair. His skin was waxy, lifeless. Draco lifted him by the scruff of his neck and tilted his chin up. He was still breathing. When the phial touched his lips, he was conscious enough to drink, though he coughed and sputtered as the potion hit his throat. Draco checked his watch – three minutes ought to do it. With a flick of his wand, the countdown shimmered in the air above them.

He laid Albus down again and stood waiting, his arms crossed and his hands tucked in to calm their trembling.

Two minutes.

Albus's laboured breathing slowed to an even, natural rhythm. It was working.

Sixty seconds

The boy's body began to fidget, muscles spasming as the potions in his system collided. It was a good sign, Draco reminded himself, even though the awkward flail of Albus's limbs reminded him of a man held under the Cruciatus curse.

Thirty seconds

One of Albus's legs kicked out against the back of the couch, sending the rest of his body in the opposite direction. Draco dropped to his knees and caught Albus's shoulders a second before he tumbled off the couch and cracked his head on the coffee table. His heart pounding in his throat, he rolled the boy back onto the couch.

Draco clutched Albus's thin shirt, his knuckles straining under the pressure. His future, his very existence hinged on the next moment. He tried to loosen his grip – he couldn't leave bruises on top of everything else – but found he couldn't let go. Beneath the shirt, the boy was thin – young, Scorpius's age – with his father's hair and jaw, but his nose was dusted with freckles. As the seconds ticked on, the grey waxy look warmed to faintly rosy cheeks and pale skin.

Large eyes blinked up at Draco, bloodshot and red-rimmed with pupils blown wide, almost hiding the green entirely. Albus startled, pushing off the couch. Draco held him down with the steady grip of his shoulders; the boy panicked and struggled against the restraint.

"Potter. Don't panic." Draco took a deep breath and waited until the boy stilled, then he stepped back, hands in the air. "You are a bit disoriented. Give yourself a minute to get your bearings. You nearly died."

Albus rushed to sit up only to clutch his head in his hands. "Ugh, fuck."

Draco huffed. "As I said, you will need a moment. If I can trust you not to stand, I'll fetch you a glass of water. It will help."

Albus squinted up at him and tilted his head to the side. The intense, suspicious look bore more than a passing resemblance to the one his father had given Draco nearly every day at Hogwarts. Draco's skin tingled from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck as long forgotten memories rushed back to him.

"You're Scorpius Malfoy's dad, right?" he asked and at Draco's nod, he added, "Scorpius was such a total wanker."

Draco spoke through clenched teeth. "Yes, well. I'll get you that water and maybe we can discuss my son another time.”

He took his time in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water and staring at it while his mind swam with potion reaction results, recovery times, and the current Wizengamot rulings on potions related offences.

By the time he returned, Albus had the empty phial in hand and was sniffing it. His fingernails were a robin's egg blue. Draco placed the water on the coffee table within Albus's reach. "It was a standard potion stabiliser. You were overdosing. I found you huddled in a doorway in Knockturn Alley with one foot in the grave."

Albus looked up at him and blinked to gain focus, then squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck." He tried to stand and stumbled until he was on the couch again. "Fuck."

Draco rolled his eyes and silently congratulated Potter Sr. on this charming addition to the gene pool. "You are in no condition to Apparate, Floo or be seen in public at the moment." He could just imagine the boy passing out cold on his parents' front stoop then telling them exactly from whose flat he had so ill-advisedly Apparated. Merlin. "You may spend the night in my guest room."

Albus scowled but reached for the water and drank.

In the silence that followed, Draco's frustration abated. He had expected an outburst at the suggestion that Albus stay the night. There was hope for the boy yet.

Albus stared at the empty glass in amazement. "Wow. That … yeah, helped."

"Water flushes your system. It helps the stabiliser bring whatever dubious potions you took into controllable levels for your body to process naturally."

"Right." Albus lifted the phial and watched the few drops of potion swirl about as he twirled it. He sniffed it again and whispered, "Lavender. Interesting."

Draco's eyebrow's shot up at the observation but before he could comment, Albus was speaking again.

"I feel pretty fantastic." He stood and swayed. "Considering."

Draco sighed. "That's because you are high as a Snitch. I can bring you more water and a headache potion – which you will surely be needing soon. I'll show you to the guest room."

Draco offered an arm and for a second thought Albus would refuse, but he nodded and let Draco lead him through the flat. Every few steps the boy leaned heavily on his arm, pressing their shoulders tight together. He was only slightly shorter than Draco, but lanky, all gangly limbs and large hands. Eighteen, his brain provided – maybe nineteen depending on his birthday. He had his father's quirky good looks, as well as his money and a name that surely left every wizard he met in awe. The child was a fool to throw it away for a bottle of temporary euphoria.

The hypocrisy of that thought tasted bitter on Draco's tongue. Still, it lingered.

He saw himself, hunched over a half dozen cauldrons, shoulders aching and back stiff while he produced batch after batch of dusk-coloured slime for his buyers, the trials for a dozen new, legitimate potions lying ignored in the corner.

The last thing he needed was a Potter spawn to make him feel guilty about what had become a very lucrative business.

He propped Albus against the wall and leaned across him to open the guest room door. The candles throughout the room lit as the door swung open. Draco sighed. He'd had higher aspirations for his guest room this evening, specifically entertaining the dark-suited gentlemen who frequented Mario's, but Harry Potter's declaration to clean up the filth from Knockturn had put him off his game. And now he was nursing a wayward teenager.

Draco entered the room, his back against the open door, and motioned Albus in. "There are extra blankets in the closet if you need them, and a bathroom through there." Draco pointed to the closed door on the other side of the room then looked back to Albus, whose eyes were on Draco, half lidded and dazed. "I suggest you don't attempt to shower until you've slept this off."

Albus slid into the doorway and stood before Draco. Draco swallowed back the impulse to close the distance and whisper a proposition. But the boy wasn't in his right mind and Draco couldn't let himself. No matter how tempting this little Potter was. Then Albus leaned in and his warm breath tickled Draco's neck. With a twist of panic in his gut, Draco shivered and took a step back, but his heel hit the door behind him. Albus gripped his hips with sweaty hands, and Draco saw the evening spiral out of control, helpless to stop it.

"What did you do to me?" Albus breathed into his ear.

Draco shifted to the side and turned his head away, but Albus tightened his hold.

"You drugged me."

Draco's head snapped back to Albus. The boy couldn't be serious. Albus swayed, his hold on Draco's waist the only thing keeping him standing. Any second now the boy was going to pass out. Draco just needed to keep things from getting worse for the next few minutes. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly. "It was a stabiliser. I explained that to you, Potter. Now, I suggest you sleep it off – your body still has plenty of Lactarius Indigo in it. I assume you are well aware of its effects."

"No. That shit doesn't work. Not on me."

"I assure you it does." Wasn't their current predicament proof enough?

"Not on me!" Al repeated. "I took a double fucking dose tonight and I still couldn't –" Albus choked on the rest of the sentence and his head fell to Draco's shoulder.

There was too much information to process at once. For one, a double dose of Dirty Blue was suicide. Draco attempted to calculate the probability of survival, but Albus's leg slipped between his and – Merlin – this was not happening.

"It seems to be working for you perfectly fine." Draco cleared his throat again and clenched his jaw, stretching his neck as Albus nuzzled his shoulder. His body screamed to pull the boy closer, but his head kept him petrified.

Albus kissed his neck, sucking and biting while his hips thrust against Draco's thigh. "No. I don't feel anything on Bluesex. I had Eva bloody Zabini on her knees ready to suck my cock tonight, you know that?" Al laughed against Draco's neck, hot and desperate. "And nothing. But this... "

The sharp jab of Albus's erection rocking against Draco's thigh left no doubt what Albus was feeling at the moment. Draco froze, fists squeezed so that his nails jabbed into his palm. His mind raced for a way out of this. Tossing the boy aside, stoned and desperate, could lead to a dozen scenarios, each worse than the previous. Then there was the simple fact that the boy was just to his liking: dark and broody, and a force of nature in the bedroom - which he easily imagined was the case with Albus given the ferocity with which he was attacking Draco's neck.

"You had to have slipped me something. Something better." Albus grunted with each thrust of his hips. He smelled of pure teen lust: sex and hormones and a naïve enthusiasm that no one over the age of twenty could manage. His voice cracked. "You dirty bastard. What did you give me?"

"Potter, it’s the Lactarius Indigo." Draco's forced his mind on how he'd need to believe he didn't participate if he was questioned under Veritaserum. But his pulse was thundering in his ears, seduced by the sounds and smell and feel of the body clawing at him, pushing him closer to giving in. "Get a hold of yourself." His voice was rough, a hair's breadth from begging.

Albus rutted against him like an animal in heat, mindless instinct driving him to completion. "Haven't – God – so fucking good – feels amazing." Albus bit down, snapping his teeth closed on the shirt and tender skin beneath. He muttered into the wet cloth, "You feel bloody fucking amazing, you dirty old bastard."

One final thrust and the violent movements dissolved into a tremor. Albus seemed to shatter in Draco's arms, then collapsed entirely until Draco struggled under the dead weight. He counted to twenty, biting his lip until the pain distracted him from his own need to get off. His shirt was itchy, damp with his sweat and Albus's spit on his shoulder. The ache of his trapped cock nearly made his eyes water. As the aftershocks of Albus's orgasm subsided, he stiffly moved him onto the bed. Albus was out cold before Draco left the room.

He returned with a headache potion, a full glass of water and an unsatisfied throb in his balls that had replaced the urgency of his hard-on. He placed the phial and glass on the bedside table, and crouched beside Albus's sleeping body. Draco brushed back a hair that had fallen across the boy's face and then with a whisper of touch, he smoothed away the frown from his pale, unmarked forehead. The crinkle of stress at the edges of Albus's eyes, even present during sleep, softened. The boy's pulse was steady, no fever or convulsions. The worst had passed.

Draco's study was across the hall from the guest room, a small nursery he'd had repainted and furnished with a heavy desk, his favourite chair and several cabinets. He pulled out a notebook from his top drawer. The brown leather was soft, worn and familiar beneath his finger tips, the scent rich and comforting like the tang of a pomegranate as he held it to his nose. He flipped the pages, letting the miniscule scrawl that filled each crisp parchment soothe his nerves. He stopped several hundred pages in, on a page titled Lactarius Indigo.

He grabbed a quill, dipped it into ink and scribbled the date on the next blank line. Beneath that, he wrote:

Albus Potter (18, 19? wt: 11st? ht: 185cm?)
Overdose – survived. Given stabiliser 6.02 (3 oz) + water (8 oz)
Nail-bed discolouration as in lab testing.
Cause – potential double dose.
Frequency of use: unknown.
Alcohol intake: unknown.
Pulse rate: normal, approx 45 mins after stabiliser.

It hadn't started out this way. For years, he'd struggled to get a potions mastery, sweated, chopping and crushing and stirring under the thumbs of the greatest Potions Masters on the Continent. In the end, his hard-earned title proved useless the moment he returned to England. Every application for a new potion to be registered through the Ministry was refused. Not even an enhanced version of Wolfsbane could tempt them to skim his test results.

Fortunately, the black market potions trade was a thriving part of the wizarding economy. It wasn't the money, of course – Malfoys had plenty of gold – but the passion of creating a potion the world had never seen before. That was what drove Draco to fill each page of his notebook, day after day with his discoveries, his tests and tweaks and re-tests all documented with precision.

Draco turned back a few pages and studied the levels of dosages tested for Lactarius Indigo.

Nail discolouration:
150% dosage, average ht/wt male
130% dosage, average ht/wt female
• nail discoloration lasts up to 3 hrs.

Lactarius Indigo was an anomaly, an unexpected result of a pepper-up potion variant. He'd found the blue milk excreted from the rare lactarius fungi to increase blood flow and spike adrenaline. The result was a powerful nervous system stimulant. The test results showed increased alertness, feelings of well-being and euphoria not dissimilar to the do-no-wrong haze of Felix Felicis. But it wasn't long before an equally interesting side effect came to light.

You feel bloody fucking amazing, you dirty old bastard.

During various trials, he had discovered that sexual arousal while under the influence of Lactarius Indigo set off a chain reaction, including extreme sexual stimulation and intensity of orgasm. Draco placed the potion on the black market, expecting older wizards who had no interest in sharing their age-related sexual struggles with a healer would be tempted by the fountain of youth in a bottle and gold cork.

But Dirty Blue, as it was soon to be called, also muted inhibitions and gave a feeling of sexual competence that attracted the attention of young wizards and witches. They loved the high as much as the sexual freedom the potion seemed to imbue. Rumours about the potion's properties and general lack of side effects spread like wild fire through the Knockturn nightclub scene. These half-truths sent the sales of Draco's little pepper-up potion into orbit. It had been three months since the first batch hit the streets and Draco's vaults were filling at an obnoxious rate. The only hitch had been keeping the Aurors off his tail once the overdoses started filling the pages of the Prophet.

No. That shit doesn't work. Not on me.

Draco turned the page,

Immunity: unknown. Test results show no known impedances to extreme sexual reaction once arousal has take place. However, if no sexual stimulation is present, reactions are limited to euphoria and a sense of well-being.

I had Eva bloody Zabini on her knees ready to suck my cock tonight, you know that? And nothing. But this...

He put down his quill and stared at the page.


"Morning." Albus stumbled into the kitchen, shirt hanging open and hair an utter disaster. A charming pink blush rose on his cheeks as he pulled his shirt closed and slipped several buttons through their holes.

"Potter." Draco nodded and waved his hand towards the unoccupied chair across from him. "Do you prefer coffee or tea?"

"I'll just have juice." Albus kept his eyes on his empty glass. "I need to go."

Draco pushed a plate of pastries over and filled the glass with juice. "Eat. Your body is still recovering. Then we need to talk." Draco nudged the offered chair with his foot. It hit Albus's thigh and he flopped into it with a sigh.

"Right." He picked apart a croissant, squishing the torn off bits between his finger and thumb and rolling it before slipping them between his lips.

Draco held the morning paper, but watched the destruction of the pastry from the corner of his eye. The crinkle as he turned the pages was the only sound outside of Albus shifting about in his chair.

After a few minutes, Albus stood. "I should… yeah. Thanks. And everything." He scratched at the back of his neck in an awkward gesture the photo image of his father had done a thousand times over on the front page of the Prophet.

Draco felt his cheeks heat. "Sit." Draco folded the paper and focused on his guest. "We'll talk and then you may leave."

Albus hunched his shoulders and fell into the chair again, head in his hands.

"Potter," Draco began.

Albus's head shot up. "Al," he snapped. "God, you sound just like Malfoy – er, Scorpius – when you say 'Potter'. He was such a wanker."

Draco didn't remember Scorpius ever mentioning Albus Potter, let alone having any opinion of him. "All right. Al, then," Draco said. He rounded the table, then sat on the chair next to Al.

Their knees grazed, and Draco muttered a, "my apologies," when Al jumped away as if he'd been burnt. "I am not your father. I'm not going to lecture you."

Al squirmed in his seat. His slight blush had turned a blotchy red from jaw to hair line. "If this is about last night, I have no idea what happened."

"That much is obvious. The doses of Lactarius Indigo are calculated precisely to have the correct balance of effects and the least side-effects." The floor shook as Al's leg jumped in a jittery sort of dance. Draco tightened his fist to stop himself from grabbing the boy's knee and forcing him still. "If you attempt to alter that in any way – or worse, take a double dose – you are going to end up dead. Or at least admitted to St Mungo's and with your face splashed across the front page of the Prophet." Draco leaned closer to try to catch Al's eye to see if he was getting through.

Al shot up and walked to the other side of the room. "Fine. Brilliant. I almost killed myself last night. I get it. But I'm immune to Dirty Blue anyway! What you gave me last night… it was different."

"Al." Draco's mouth went dry. Al's nails were almost normal now, pink and white and gnawed to the quick. He struggled to find the words without exposing himself. "I gave you nothing last night except a stabiliser to stem the overdose." He stood and stepped closer to Al.

Al stilled like a rabbit at a twig snap. His eyes flickered to the door and back to Draco, then for barely an instant fell to Draco's lips before moving about the room again.

"What happened last night was the result of Dirty Blue in your system. A perfectly natural reaction under the circumstances."

Al turned his back to Draco. "That's impossible. It's you. You're drugging me. Wanting me to be your sex slave or something."

"You're insane." Draco stepped closer. "And you've got your head too far up your own arse to see the truth."

He spun back, his face pale in fury, or fear - Draco wasn't sure. "You drugged me last night and, God …" He shook his head like the realisation just hit him – "and this morning, too. What was I thinking taking that potion you left by the bed? It smelled like a standard pain potion with simple peppermint base. What the hell do you want with me?"

"The potion I left on your bedside table was a pain potion. An overdose, even a narrowly missed one, leaves a terrible headache. The peppermint was so you didn't vomit it back up because of the taste."

Al dug his fingers into his hair and pulled so that it all stood on end. His breath came quick and ragged. Draco's eyes flickered to Al's crotch and he was not surprised to see the bulge beneath the tight denims. Al crossed his hands in front of his zipper, a useless gesture if it was meant to hide anything. All it did was draw attention to his erection.

"I'd be flattered if this wasn't so ridiculous," Draco said.

"Fuck you. What do you know?"

"I know that for Lactarius Indigo to be more than a brilliant Cheering Charm, you need to first be aroused, and clearly the company you were keeping wasn't doing that for you. And instead of thinking about why you couldn't get it up for a random blowjob from a girl, you tried taking a second dose."

Al shook his head. "That's not –" Those too familiar green eyes shone bright with panic and guilt.

"Is it the publicity you are afraid of? What your parents might say? Are you looking to take your secret to an early grave?"

Draco's heart pounded. He waited for Al to reply, moving forward until he could smell the hint of day old cologne off Al's body.

Al stepped backwards but he'd cornered himself, a wall on one side, the large fern Draco's mother had insisted he purchase on the other. Al raised his chin. "I'm not gay, if that's what you think." His voice was bitter and stinging – thick with denial. It made Draco's heart clench, remembering his own years of denial at Hogwarts, the unwanted feelings he'd refused to name until years after his marriage.

"I think you'd be better off with a cock up your arse and a smile on your face than six feet under." Draco was impossibly close now, breathing the same air as the boy. He didn't know why he was pushing so hard. No eighteen-year-old should go through life thinking it was wrong to want cock; that much Draco had figured out, eventually. He whispered, "Have you ever kissed a man?"

Al was hot, the heat radiating off him and pulling Draco in. Something about this being Albus Potter's first, seducing the truth from his unwilling reserve pushed all the right buttons. Pity Al didn't wear glasses – that would just be icing on the cake. Draco knew he had him the instant Al's eyes fell shut. The submissive gesture sent a flare of heat to Draco's groin.

The kiss was simple, firm and undeniably masculine as their morning stubble scratched in the brief contact. Draco tangled his fingers into the mess of black and was transported back twenty-five years to long forgotten fantasies that had never seen the light of day – the Chosen One with his wild hair and wicked temper, falling silent and still beneath Draco's kiss. He moaned into Al's lips, surprising himself. He pulled back and naked eyes stared at him. Their centres were green – like the needles of a new pine branch, but the rims were flecked with shades of brown and bronze. They would be impossible to appreciate through thick lenses. Their gaze burned through him, as though tearing apart his impenetrable occlusion shields and leaving him naked and open for all to see.

Al bowed his head, breaking the eye contact and staring at the carpet. His ears were red tipped. Draco wanted to lick them. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. This is who you are."

A soft sound, a mix of a groan and a whimper, slipped past Al's lips. "I don't want it to be who I am."

Draco shook his head. "You can't drug yourself straight."

"My dad, James… it's just. They aren't like that. All my cousins. They would never understand."

"Does it matter?" Draco shrugged. "Whether they do or don't understand doesn't change the fact." He nudged Al's chin up and watched his nostrils flare as he breathed in Draco's cologne.

Draco tugged him forward a fraction and those gorgeous eyes fell shut. He kissed Al again, his lips slightly parted so he could taste the sharp mint of the toothpaste Al must have borrowed from the guest bathroom. He flicked his tongue against Al's bottom lip and Al flicked back. They played for a while with the tips of their tongues barely grazing each other in a flirty, erotic dance that made Draco's toes curl. He hadn't been kissed with such innocence since fifth year. It made the back of his neck prickle with need.

"Wow." Al gasped for breath. His face glowed, rosy and fresh.

"Self-realisation can come with a few pleasant discoveries." Draco's words came out softer than he'd intended - a shared joke, rather than a boast. Before he could stop himself, "Let me show you how good it can be," tumbled out.

Draco twisted a finger into the belt loops at Al's hips. Al stumbled forward until he was flush with Draco, pressed together chest to groin. Al sucked in a sharp breath as Draco slipped a thigh between his legs and brushed against his balls.

"Have you ever been this turned on?" Draco shifted his weight just so and felt the hard line of Al's cock against his hip. "Ever felt this good?"

"No," Al breathed. "God, never. But–" he raised those shy eyes to Draco again. "You– I mean, you? It's just... you're married."

Draco smirked. "I was married long enough to know it wasn't what I wanted." He let his voice drop to barely a whisper as though revealing a trusted secret. "The first time I was with a man, I knew. The second those strong, calloused fingers wrapped around my cock… I knew."

Al looked up at him, dazed. "Show me." His words hung in the air, an awkward mixture of courage and lust and a wreck of nerves. It set a slow fire burning at the base of Draco's spine.

"What do you want, Al?" Draco captured Al's lips again, digging his fingers into a bony hip. The boy was so thin. Tight, lithe muscles and gangly arms wrapped around Draco. Al opened to him and the kiss grew wet and messy and frantic. Their bodies ground against each other at a dizzying pace. Al keened and Draco was sure they weren't far from a repeat of the previous night.

Draco pushed him back and Al whimpered into the last peck of lips.

"I've grown past the fascination of coming in my own pants."

"Oh." Al looked at him, clearly unsure if that was a dismissal or an offer for more.

The previous night, Al had been high on an illegal potion and hardly a consenting adult. Draco had no qualms about taking Al at the moment. He nipped a path up Al's jaw, and dragged a tender earlobe between his teeth. "Do you want to know the feel of a man's hand on your cock? The stretch of his lips as you slide into his mouth? That bliss when he hits your sweet spot with every thrust?"

"I-" Al began then stopped. He stepped away and ran a hand over his face as though trying to quell the need enough to be coherent. "I want you to fuck me." He stared at him, full of bravado and ghostly pale, as though he couldn't believe his own words.

The jagged leaves of the fern trembled as though feeling tension in the kitchen. "Jumping in with both feet and blind-folded. Eh, Potter?"

"Gryffindor." Al smiled, broad and sincere, the first real smile Draco had seen, and it was completely irresistible.

"All right."

Draco grabbed his hand and led him back to the guest room. The sun shone bright through the window. He never used this room during the day. He barely recognised it. The rich mauve of the coverlet appeared a silver grey. He raised his wand to pull the blinds and light a few candles. But then Al stood in a beam of sunlight that broke across the room. The boy was a myriad of emotion spilling out through those eyes, proclaiming to all the world that he was horny and desperate and curious and scared as hell.

The prickle of need twisting up Draco's spine flared in a sharp burst of heat. He didn't want a single one of Al's expressions lost to the shadows of candle light. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, popping the buttons while Al watched. He pulled at his shirt tails, slid it over his shoulders and Al did nothing. "Strip," he said to Al and turned. "I'll be back in a tick."

The bath off the guest room was well stocked. He opened the small potions cabinet and ran his hand across each of the bottles, counting that none were missing or opened. They were untouched. He debated a moment whether to take one himself – perhaps a stamina enhancer just for kicks – but the boy was still jittery beneath his bravado and could still back out. He needed to be in full control.

Draco opened a few drawers and placed items on the counter as he came across them – two phials of oil, a healing balm and a butt plug. After one last look around, he scooped them up and carried them back to the room.

Al stood beside the bed, stripped to his cotton y-fronts, gnawing at his thumbnail. His chest was thin, ribs appearing for moments with each inhale.

"Very nice." He grinned his approval, letting his gaze drop to the tented pants. "But you won't be needing those."

Walking past Al, he placed the items on the bedside table. When he moved to stand behind Al, he felt him go tense and leaned down to kiss his freckled shoulder. "You still want this? There are plenty of other things –"

"No." Al cut him off and rushed to add, "I want this," as though Draco might be the one to change his mind.

Draco picked up the plug and reached around to hold it in front of Al's face. It was sleek and black, the size of a pinkie finger at the moment. A small nub at the handle rounded outwards so that it would nudge the perineum when Al squirmed.

"I thought you were going to fuck me?" Al's voice cracked over the word fuck, which was surprising considering how often he'd practiced the word in the last twelve hours.

"I will. But first, I'm going to put this inside of you." Draco whispered into Al's ear and felt the resulting shiver. "This clever little plug starts nice and small for your tight virgin arse, but it will slowly expand inside of you, stretching you until you are ready for me." Draco pulled the toy back and poured oil into the hole in the tip of the plug. "As your muscles relax, it releases lube and enlarges. If I leave it in long enough, it could grow to the size of a fist." In theory, anyway. Draco could never imagine being patient enough to leave it that long. Still, Al's breath hitched.

Al turned to watch, and Draco urged him back around with a nudge at his shoulder. When he was finished preparing the toy, Draco stood behind Al again. Heat radiated off the boy in waves. Draco kissed the nape of his neck and he startled, like a timid rabbit again. It had been years since Draco had taken a virgin to bed, and never one so young. The power of it seeped into his skin. His balls tightened, knowing he would be the one to change the jittery gasps into lusty moans worthy of a whore.

He knelt behind Al and pulled down his pants. "Bend over."

Al hesitated, and for a moment Draco thought resistance to authority might run in the family. But Al kicked his pants off, turned so he faced the bed and bent over.

Draco squeezed his own cock through his trousers and stifled a moan. That shaggy black hair, those stiff shoulders… it was just too perfect seeing the boy submissively posed above his bed, pale arse in the air. His cock ached to ram in there, clutch that hair and ride him, chanting, Like that, Potter?

Al's breath gave a nervous hitch and Draco snapped out of his fantasy.

"Spread for me." He knew he was pushing it. Al's curiosity and lust could only win out against his pride and nerves for so long. If Draco pushed too far, the moment would be lost. Draco was just about to give up when Al's arms reached back and he spread his cheeks wide. The gorgeous, twitching tight ring begged to be licked. But Draco had other plans. He pressed the slicked plug against the furrowed muscle and circled the entrance.

"I could just use my fingers, of course." Draco kissed down the boy's spine. "This is much more fun."

Al groaned into the coverlet. His sweaty hands lost their grip on his arse cheeks and had to grab them again. Draco pushed in, watching the tight hole swallow every inch until the handle pressed against the furrowed ring and the nub grazed just the right spot behind Al's balls.

Al rose and wrinkled his nose, shifting about. "It feels weird."

"It'll feel that way for a moment." Draco turned him so they faced each other. "You did great." Draco kissed him until he felt Al relax beneath his hands. He stripped off his own shirt, then returned his hands to explore Al's chest. There were thin patches of wiry black hair on his pectoral muscles and a narrow path down the middle of his chest, growing steadily thicker past his navel. He twirled Al's nipples between his fingers and Al cried out and arched his back. "The more relaxed you are, the better it will feel."

Al closed his eyes for a moment, tensed and squirmed. He was clenching his arse around the slowly growing plug. It was instinctive; Draco had done it too, the first time he'd worn it. "That's … fuck." Al clenched again, thrusting his hips forward while his cock rocked against Draco's twill trousers. He was so hard, his angry red cock jutting out from a thatch of black. Draco's mouth watered.

He kissed down Al's chest, grazing a nipple with his teeth. He knelt and held Al's dick in front of his face, running a thumb over the glistening purple head.

Al trembled, his head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. Every touch seemed to send sparks through him. Brilliantly responsive. The boy was a wet dream come true, with all the sounds he was making. He couldn't seem to stop clenching his arse around that toy and thrusting forward.

Al squirmed, clutching Draco's hair. "Malfoy."

There was something in the way he said Malfoy that made Draco look up. "You can call me Draco if you like," he said and waited for the reaction.

Al's eyes flew open like he'd been somewhere else for a second. He looked away.


It dawned on Draco then that Al hadn’t just been unnecessarily formal. It hadn't been Mr Malfoy, after all. Al didn't meet Draco's eye, nor did he deny anything. Just for an instant, Draco considered stopping, taking some sort of moral high ground that would put an awkward end to the festivities. But it was easily pushed aside. Fantasies were just that, after all. Where a man gets his appetite had never mattered to Draco, certainly not for a one-off fuck with someone who was practically a stranger.

In the end, he chuckled. "You're welcome to call me Malfoy if that gets you off. Pity, I don't still have my school tie."

He slid his tongue along the slit of Al's cock before Al could reply. A whimper slipped from Al's lips, echoing wanton and dirty in the quiet sunlit room. Draco opened wide, ready for the next roll of Al's hips. The instant Draco's lips wrapped around his cock, Al's hands clutched Draco's hair. Three, four thrusts later and Al lost his rhythm and pulsed, crying out a litany of "Malfoy, oh fuck, Malfoy" with a strangled gasp.

Draco sucked and swallowed, watching Albus above him, eyes squeezed tight as he pumped the last of his orgasm into Draco's mouth. His chest was flushed pink, skin glistening. He seemed to collapse onto himself with the force of his orgasm, his shaggy hair completely hiding his face. The only thing that seemed to keep him upright was his hold on Draco.

Draco wanted him, every inch of him, wanted to own him, devour him. He stood and ploughed Albus's mouth with kisses. "Potter," Draco moaned and tangled his hands into that soft messy hair that had always looked so irresistible. "Potter."

Al shoved him away with surprising force. Draco's stomach plummeted as it had more than two decades before on the Hogwarts Express, his hand offered and refused.


"Don't." Potter's lips tightened, his face still tinged with the glow of his orgasm. "Don't do that. Don't call me Potter like that." Al's eyes flared with heat that had nothing to do with arousal. After a moment's reflection, he added, "Draco."

Standing there, his angry gaze scorching into Draco, Al looked more like his father than Draco had him seen yet. He didn't dare point out the irony, not even to himself.

With a lightening of his chest, Draco barked out a throaty laugh and gave a squeeze to Al's softening dick. "Your choice, Al." After a heart beat he added, "On your hands and knees."

Al startled just a moment then awkwardly crawled onto the bed.

The plug looked amazing, twitching with every movement Al made. Draco pressed his finger gently to the handle, adjusting the angle a fraction. Al cried out, scrambling for purchase on the bed and letting his head fall to the coverlet.


"Like that?"

"It's okay," Al said through a clenched jaw. His fists twisted into the pillow as Draco twirled the plug. It had to be the size of two thick fingers by now.

"I could leave it in a lot longer." He tugged a bit, not enough to get past the sphincter but enough to tease the muscle. Then he pushed it back in. He flicked it back and forth, aching with every squirm and clench of Al's pale arse. He couldn't take it anymore and ripped at his trouser buttons, urging them along with his pants.

Al buried his face in the mattress, his cheeks red, as much from rubbing against the sheets as from a blush. "Fuck me already." His voice cracked through the demand.

Draco took his time slicking his cock and kneeling behind Al. He placed a hand on the small of Al's back and slowly tugged the plug free. It was smaller that he'd expected; then again, he'd never used the toy on a virgin.

Al's hole glistened with lube, stretched and calling to him. He couldn't resist circling it with the tip of his finger, a slow, gentle tease. The wrinkled muscle quivered beneath his touch.

Al shuddered. "I'm ready, please." The words were strangled, like it tore at his throat to say them.

Without another word, Draco lined up. As he felt the delicious heat of the wet hole graze his cock, anticipation clawed at him, an aching bliss, impossible to maintain for long. His thumb traced slow circles at the base of Al's spine and he pushed forward, enough for just the tip to slip in.

"God." Al keened and sobbed into the pillow.

"Shh." Draco petted Al's back and sides and whispered, "It gets better."

He rocked back and forth listening to Al's whimpers and grunts for signs of real distress. When he felt the slap of Al's arse against him, he stilled and waited. The boy was tight. The effort of keeping still made his eyes sting.

Al sniffled and tried to calm himself but his breathing was ragged, broken with a soft whimper. This wasn't going to work, not like this, Draco realised. He moved his hands up to Al's chest and tugged him back. "Come here."

Draco spread his legs and sat back on his heels, urging Al back with him until Al was seated in his lap with Draco's cock buried deep within him.

Al wiped his face on the back of his arm and adjusted to the new position, clenching and unclenching. Draco's legs quivered under the strain of keeping still.


"Yeah." Al sniffled again and tried to clear the frog from his throat. "Yeah," he said again after a deep breath.

"Good." Draco wrapped his arms about Al's chest and held him in place, then rolled his hips.

Al groaned. "Much better."

Draco grinned and started sucking on Al's shoulder. A fat line of purple marked the pale skin. He stared at it, wondering if Al would heal it, or risk it being spotted, sport it like a trophy. The image of Al's father catching sight of it drew Draco to make another. As Draco rocked at a slow, lazy pace, he decorated Al's neck and shoulder with marks. It wasn't long before Al found the rhythm and was pushing back, fucking himself on Draco's cock, manoeuvring as much as he could in Draco's grip on his chest. Beneath Draco's hand, Al's chest expanded and deflated with each breath.

The gentle rocking was half excruciating, half bliss. It soon morphed into a frantic pace. They rode the edge in a broken rhythm of the sounds of smacking flesh, Al's lusty grunts and Draco's panting. He gripped Al's renewed erection and tugged it to full hardness. Al would come again; he'd make sure this fleeting moment would be etched into Potter's son's memory, that a flash of pleasure would spark in Al each time it came to mind.

He felt a hand close around his, urging him faster and harder around Al's cock. They pulled, rough and raw, with only sweat to ease the slide. Draco rocked his cock into the slippery hole, arching to achieve just the right angle.

Al cried out, "Fuck, Draco. God." And warm, slick come coated both their fingers. Draco grinned, chest warm with pride. His name sounded perfect ripped helplessly from those young lips. Draco's orgasm stole out of him with barely a warning, his balls stirring and a tingle at the base of his spine. A split second later, it was upon him. He rode it out, pressing himself up and Al down as his cock pulsed. He held Al tight, like he might never let go of the moment, like a thief clutching his most prised artefact.

"That's what it's like with men," murmured Draco against Al's neck. "Do you still want to nearly kill yourself trying to get hard for the likes of Eva Zabini?"

He crawled over to the bedside table and grabbed a box of tissues. Taking several, he offered the box to Al. Al curled up into the bed, dabbing at his wet crotch. Draco leaned over and kissed the marks on Al's shoulder.

Al smiled and turned his head to look. "Vampire."

Draco chuckled and climbed off the bed. "There's a healing potion on the side table. Drink it or you'll be sore tomorrow. I need to leave soon, but you are welcome to take a shower. I'll use my own." Draco stole one last look at the debauched sight of Al, lying naked on his wrinkled sheets, covered in come and sweat, then turned away.


Draco turned off the water and reached for a towel, freezing instantly as he realised Al stood not two feet from him. Draco grinned at the boy's impertinence and pulled the towel off the hook with a shake of his head. But Draco was no teenager. "I'm flattered, really, but I do have things to do today." He dried his face and chest, wrapped the towel around his waist then grabbed a second towel for his hair.

"Why did you bring me here instead of taking me to St Mungo's?"

Draco stopped. He lifted the towel from his head and looked at Al properly. He had fire in his eyes and Draco's worn brown notebook in his hand.

"Were you planning to blackmail me?" Al asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't even know you were gay. I took you in and saved your life. Nothing more."

"You picked me up and saved my life so my dad wouldn't hunt you down like a dog for selling the potion that killed his son." Al tossed the notebook on the floor; the smack of leather on marble echoed in the small room.

"Well, yes. That too, obviously." Heat prickled uncomfortably at the back of Draco's neck. He fought the urge to justify himself, to soothe Al's bruised ego and spin a tale that he knew Al would rather hear.

"And the rest?" Al was shaking, with blotchy red cheeks and hatred in his eyes.

"A pleasurable bonus." Draco grinned and knew it was cruel. His chest tightened and he wished the comment back as he saw Al's anger dissipate into mortification. "If I'd left you in denial, you'd be back at it tonight, wouldn't you? I did you a favour."

"And the Death Eater gets a piece of Harry Potter's son out of it."

Draco froze. It had been years since anyone had dared call him that to his face. The guilt twisting in Draco's belly, threatening to soften his voice and spill his apologies, turned sour. Al could think what he liked. He owed him nothing but thanks for a good fuck, and frankly, that was reciprocal. "I'm no saint, Potter. Your secret is safe with me. I assume mine" – he nodded to the notebook – "is safe with you."

When Al did not reply, Draco turned his back on him, dropped his towel and grabbed his bathrobe off the hook. "You know your way out." He waited for the door to click behind him before letting out a breath.

It wasn't until after the wards tingled Al's exit that Draco turned around to see the notebook was gone.


The pounding at the door resonated throughout the flat, urgent and demanding. The cup in Draco's hand slipped and, before he could stop it, shattered against the granite counter top, sending milky tea and shards of fine bone china everywhere.

It had been six months, he reminded himself and it was too late to panic. He had done his best.

It had taken two weeks to clear all evidence from his flat and his lab, and to inform all the suppliers that Dirty Blue was no longer available. Within a month, supplies dwindled, the streets were clean, and the Prophet had found a new demon to chase.

It had been a painless break. For the first few nights he had slept with his wand under his pillow and his wards reinforced enough to set the air around his door and windows humming. When no Aurors had burst into his flat after three months, Draco bought a new notebook and went on with his life and his potions. He was close, so close, to a skin-strengthening draught for those in careers with a high risk for burns. It seemed a pity to be caught now that his lab was filled with legitimate potions work.

Then again, the timing wasn't all that much of a shock. A week before, Albus Potter's picture had appeared on the front page of the Daily Prophet standing outside a well known gay bar in Muggle London, sharing a cigarette with a tall, fit man with curly brown hair and a tight arse.

There was no comment from Albus, though his father spoke on behalf of the family,

"My son's business is his own. He knows he has our love and support and there is no picture you can put on your front page that will change that."

Draco figured anyone surprised by that statement, did not know Harry Potter. He was as loyal as a Hufflepuff. Draco couldn't imagine his son's sexuality would be any obstacle. Draco's eyes had found that picture again and again in the last few days. Al had come out to his family, at least. His father's blatant lack of denial was as much an admission as Al holding a press conference on the topic.

The pounding at the door began again.

Draco Vanished the mess and stood at his door, taking a deep, calming breath. It would be either father or son, depending on how detailed Al's declaration had become. He kept his wand in hand and swung the door wide.

The boy looked older. Or maybe it was the clothes, a steel blue sweater and pressed trousers. Regardless, the grainy photo still on Draco's coffee table had not done him justice. It appeared honesty suited him. "Albus."

"Draco." Al nodded, his shoulders back and chin held high. "Can I come in?'

Draco looked behind Al to check that he was alone and waved him through. He held the door and remained behind, never turning his back on the boy. He knew more about Albus Potter now, everything that he could find out from Scorpius and family friends who might have known Al from Hogwarts. He knew that Al Potter was terrible at Quidditch, had duelled Gregory McLuhan at fifteen and landed them both in St Mungo's, and was clever enough to achieve the only O in potions during Scorpius's N.E.W.T.s year.

It was no surprise when Al pulled the worn notebook out of his bag.

When Al held it out to him and said, "I want in," that was unexpected.

Draco stepped forward; his eyes flickered to Al and back down to the notebook. In the past months, Draco had so often imagined this moment and all the different permutations it might take. None of them had Al reaching his arm out and offering it freely. Draco's fingers tingled at the feel of the soft leather beneath his fingers. He lifted it to his face and the smell tickled his nose, pomegranate and spice. His new notebook smelled only of ink, the glue of the binding and the bleach used on the sheets of parchment.

The notebook cracked softly as he opened it. He breath caught on the second page in, and shock battled with annoyance as he turned each subsequent page, flipping through them in a blur until he could barely make out the unfamiliar scribbles in blue ink that were squeezed between his own black markings on nearly ever page.

"I've been reading it." Al's voice wavered and he cleared his throat.

"I see that." At the back there were new pages, too. Pages filled with tiny blue scrawls, so like his own, but not. "You like potions," was all Draco could manage to say.

"Yes. I think I've memorised every page of that book," Al said, a nervous chuckle bubbling up over the words. Draco looked up as Al stepped closer, gnawing his lip. "I've even tried to reproduce a few of your experiments. To, um, some success."

The boy was still alive, so the results of the experimental potions brewing couldn't have been that bad. It begged the question of why he'd done it, though. His eyes fell first to Al's hands and found his fingernails pink, then Draco turned the pages until he found the torn off edges that were all that remained of his Lactarius Indigo research. He stared at Al in disbelief.

"I had to. I live with the Head Auror. If your book was found, we'd be in serious trouble."

"We would be?" Draco let the question hang in the air, but Al ignored it.

"I burnt them. And I know you've taken it all off the streets. So there's nothing left. We are on even ground now."

"We are?"

"Yes." Al's face had filled in, slightly rounder and with a healthy pink to his cheeks which was slowly deepening as the conversation continued. He wore a sly grin that oddly it suited him, just crooked enough to belie his nerves. "And I want this. What you do."

Draco shook his head, incredulous. "Your father is Head Auror and your aspirations are to go into the illegal potions trade."

"No. No." Al began to pace the kitchen, stopping as he reached the fern, slipping the leaves between his fingers before continuing, "I don't want to do it because it's illegal. I've read your work. This is ground breaking. You could change the potions industry entirely."

"I cannot. Even if I claim to find a cure for death itself, no one will ever even read a test result." Draco hated the bitterness in his voice. He had long resigned himself to his career but Al's words stirred something inside him, a pride and ambition, which he'd long forgotten.

"Hear me out. I was stuck in St Mungo's once having to re-grow a bone; it was very unpleasant. I know that there is a better way. A better potion than Skelo-gro, that was created fifty years ago. I've been working on it since I was fifteen. But no one ever bothers to improve anything because they are stuck in their ways. Your work could change that. Especially if it has my name beside yours."

Draco choked at the suggestion, the audacity of the boy, and tried to cover it with a cough. "I don't quite understand you. You were rather upset with me the last time you saw me, now you’re making grandiose plans to use me to change the world."

"I-" Al looked young again, floundering and embarrassed at his own naïveté. Memories of that morning flooded back to Draco – each delicious sound Al had made, the desperation in his voice when he'd said: Show me. "I was upset, obviously. I thought you'd planned it. All of it. But then I saw the other potions, the dozens and dozens of potions that should be available in every apothecary."

"Potter." Draco shook off the nostalgia and focused on the impossibility of what Al was suggesting. "I have contacts, Potions Masters on the Continent who you could study under. Come back to England when you are ready. You'll get a warmer reception than I did, I'm sure."

"No!" Al frowned. "I want this. With you."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps Ginny Weasley left a few too many romance novels about the house. An over-dramatised sense of romanticism was the only thing Draco could imagine would drive Al to push for this. It would be less than a month before Al realised that your first fuck, no matter how brilliant, didn't translate to building a life together. Especially not a relationship based on Al being attracted to Draco's son. Draco's career, no matter how disreputable, was all he had. He scribbled a name on a parchment. "Here. This is an excellent Master in France. He will teach you well." He looked straight at Al, willing him to understand. "His lab is not far from Scorpius's villa."

Al's nose crinkled like he'd smelled day-old flobberworm entrails. "I'm not interested in Scorpius, you idiot."

Draco raised his eyebrow, and left the 'don't lie to me' implied.

"Fine." Al tucked the scrap of parchment into his pocket. "You don't think I'm serious."

"Albus," Draco groaned; the boy was as stubborn as his father.

"No. It's fair."

When Draco opened his mouth again, Al waved off any further repetition of Draco's refusal.

"I know I'm coming to you out of the blue. You need time."

"Potter!" He carefully enunciated each word, hoping it would sink into that thick Gryffindor-idealist skull. "This will not work."

Al grinned, a cheeky little smile Draco had never seen before that made his eyes crinkle with mirth. He nodded to the notebook. "Look at my notes. You will understand that I'm brilliant. That my plan is brilliant."

Draco stood, slack jawed, and all he could say was, "There are times, Albus Potter, when you look nothing like your father."

"Thank you," Al whispered and brushed his lips against Draco's cheek. With a chuckle, Al pushed past him on the way to the door. "See you next week."