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part i scene i: albus/scorpius [private rp]
AlScor Epic Log of RP D00M

Part I, Scene I: I Confess to Dream
As Albus Potter awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself— well, perhaps not transformed in bed, exactly. Not transformed at all, in truth, but rather warm and sticky and more than slightly pink in the cheeks. And maybe groaning. Quite possibly groaning, though, by a blessed act of God, none of the other fifth-year Hufflepuff boys were around to hear it, having left already for the spring holiday. Albus, who, in his sudden awakening, had sat bolt upright, let himself sink back into the safety of his sullied bedding, whacking the back of his head into his pillows about as hard as any young boy could whack something into down and fluff. This dream, from which he had awakened with such tremendous unease, was the eighth in a line of similar ones, awful little— not nightmares, but unpleasant... no, not entirely unpleasant in the moment, but unpleasant afterwards, yes— dreams that had been haunting his normally sound sleep for over a week.

It was the eighth in a line of very clear and monumentally disturbing dreams that had been for eight days casting shadows under his almost unnaturally green eyes, had been robbing him of a normally hearty appetite, and, worst of all, without question, causing him to lie to Scorpius about why he was never down for breakfast or dinner or why he was just too tired to study or have a race around the pitch. "Bloody—" the boy began, pulling a pillow over his face and blindly groping for the hazelwood wand resting on his bedside table. "Scourgify." Shivering a bit at the rather prickly sensation that accompanied a cleaning charm cast on skin, Albus heaved a sigh and, only because his stomach threatened to eat him from the inside out, crawled out of bed and into a dressing gown and slippers— yellow, of course, to match his striped pyjamas. He had left a few mince pies —out of season, of course, but delicious nonetheless— wrapped on his favourite chair in the common room and was in every mind to retrieve them and return immediately to bed.

There was no-one around, he reasoned as he groggily made his way through the barrel-top door to his dormitory and into the round little corridor to the common room, most of Hufflepuff having left for the holiday for which he had remained at school for extra studying. No-one, then, would have the chance to see him disheveled and fumbling. (Not that he would mind, normally, but recent nighttime events had rather thrown him off.) That in mind, it was with a near swear and a sudden widening of eyes that Al regarded Scorpius, his best mate and the very object of his dreams, sitting right there in the Hufflepuff common room."S-score," he breathed, blinking once, twice, thrice. "I— are you— time for Potions study already then, is it?"

It was with a cool, wry look that Scorpius regarded his best mate in turn, from where he sat on one of the Hufflepuff's large armchairs which, he noticed a little begrudgingly, was a lot more comfortable than those of Slytherin's. “It’s nearly noon, did you know that?” he replied in a casual, almost lofty tone, obviously teasing.

His friend’s slight unease did not go unnoticed by the Malfoy, of course, but he had enough tact to not question it. At least for now.

"Noon?" Poorly feigning nonchalance, Al glanced at one of the common room's charmed windows —the windows charmed, of course, for the burrow-like Hufflepuff house— as if to confirm this little piece of news by the height and direction of the sun. "I hadn't— no, I've just gotten up." As if that hadn't been made obvious by a brunette head of bedheaded curls, flattened here and stuck up there with his tossing and turning about. Al realized, with a touch of shame, that their meeting had been scheduled for quarter past eleven, and, blushing just enough to mask the light dust of freckles across his nose and cheeks —and other places hidden by pyjamas— he shot an apologetic smile in Scorpius' direction. "I'm sorry, mate," he sighed, carefully taking a seat in a squishy armchair and drawing his knees up towards his chest. "I've just— not been sleeping well. You know. O.W.L nerves, probably."

A lie. He was fairly sure that he would be securing high marks in Charms, Care, Transfiguration, Herbology, and even Defense and Muggle Studies, and with the help that Scorpius had been providing, he would be able to squeak by in the rest. "You— you could have gotten me up." Another lie. Had Scorpius seen him like— well, like that, Albus probably would have died of shame.

“And risk getting my bits hexed off?” Scorpius threw back, a brow quirked in bemusement. He shook his head faintly and chuckled lowly in his throat before rearranging his position on the arm chair, sitting so that he laid down with his head on an armrest and his long legs dangling down the other side. Fingers laced over his abdomen, where his sleeping shirt had just barely begun to rise.

“It’s fine,” he said, eyeing the ceiling absently. “You could’ve used the rest.” It wasn’t past Scorpius to notice that his best mate hadn’t been sleeping well, after all. It worried him more than he would have liked, because worrying always felt like such a useless feeling. All it did was make you feel horrible and helpless.

Al flushed perhaps a bit more than was necessary. "I wouldn't have—" he began, but cleared his throat, which was tightening a way that was bound to make his voice break, and returned Scorpius' chuckle with a forced giggle of his own. Scorpius' bits were currently the very last thing Albus wanted to discuss, especially when—when his shirt was... just a little bit— "Oh. Merlin's—" Wait. Had he said that aloud? The color suddenly draining from his face and highlighting his freckles, Al laughed anxiously and stumbled a bit over his own feet as he crossed the room for his books. "Well!" he blurted, gathering texts from a table across the common room, "Since I've already wasted our time in sleeping, we ought to get down to it, hadn't we?" Crossing back to Scorpius, Al set down, along with a number of quills and loose rolls of parchment, his copies of Intermediate Magical Draughts and Potions and, much to the re-reddening of his cheeks, Divining Dreams: The Young Wizard's Guide to Unlocking the Mysteries of the Subconscious. With any amount of luck, Score would be keen on beginning the afternoon with the former.

Scorpius had followed his friend’s movements with a curious, some might say even suspicious eye. Al had been acting strangely the past few days. At first the Slytherin contemplated sickness, which wasn’t too far of a stretch, considering the extremity of the other’s flushed cheeks (but then again, that could have just been the Weasley in him). It seemed to be a lot more than that, though, and Scorpius couldn’t help but get the feeling his friend was hiding something from him, and something big.

Scorpius absolutely hated secrets.

“Something else is on your mind,” he stated quite bluntly. He slid a leg off the armrest, poking the other boy with his toe. “Spill.”

"I—" Just as much as Scorpius hated secrets, Albus hated lying. He had never before been apt to lie even to those to whom he wasn't close, and having to continue lying to the friend he cared about most was, as Scorpius had initially predicted, threatening to make him ill. "You know. Just a bit under the weather is all. And always knackered these past few days—probably from Quidditch in the rain and sleet; I've probably just fallen down with something. Do you reckon I ought to go to the Infirmary for a bit of Pepper-Up Potion?" Scorpius, Al thought with a brief smile, could probably brew a Pepper-Up Potion, but the boy could tell, going only by the intent look on his friend's face, that Scorpius could also probably see right through him.

Al recoiled some when Scorpius prodded at him, and for a moment considered his friend examining him for the signs of his phony illness, feeling him all over for fever, stroking his throat for any instance of— "Oh." Much to his horror and reddening from his ears down to his collar, Al, having considered that, felt a newly familiar tightening low in his belly and, as discreetly as he could, pulled his dressing gown about himself. "What's wrong with me?" he groaned, apparently fretting his imaginary illness but in reality fretting the dreams that his friend had begun invading.

Suspicion quickly melted into pure concern, and soon Scorpius was sliding off the chair altogether, coming to where the other boy stood to peer down at his face. He lifted a hand, gently pressing the back of it against the brunette’s forehead, checking for fever obviously, completely unaware of the inner turmoil he was likely sending the other boy through.

“Your skin is burning up,” he murmured in a quiet tone, because as close as they were, as alone as they were, there wasn’t any real need to speak up.

For a moment, Al let relief wash over him, as it appeared that he had somehow fooled Scorpius Malfoy. The moment, however, was short-lived, and when Scorpius started towards him, it was all that Al could do not to blatantly back away from him and his outstretched hand. When said hand met his forehead, cool and oddly comforting against his burning face, Albus nearly groaned aloud, his knees going suddenly weak as he lowered himself into the chair behind him. "I told you," he offered quietly, averting his eyes from Scorpius'. "I've a fever from practice in the weather." And oddly, the more he said it, the more he himself believed it, and the more flushed he became. "Score? What do you think we should do?"

“It’s just a fever,” the blonde said a moment later, with such a certainty in his voice that there hardly seemed any room for argument. He withdrew his hand, letting it rest against his hip as he stared down at the Hufflepuff. He had a pinched expression on his face, as if he were glaring at Albus, but those closest to him knew that this was simply his look when he was concentrating hard.

A part of him was apt to believe in the sickness, but another part, the more Slytherin part, felt that it was simply too.. easy. Too convenient.

”Will you be able to continue today? Perhaps you should just go back to bed.”

"Yes, it's—" Just a fever. Just a fever. No. Not a fever at all. Albus lowered his eyes, unable to look up at Scorpius under the weight of his evolving lie and horrified with himself to realise, once his friend withdrew his hand, that he actually missed the feeling. "Maybe you're right; I should just— yeah, maybe sleep is all it takes." All it would take to set Scorpius on his way, in any case; he would likely lead him to bed, see to it that he made it safely under the covers, and depart to study alone. And Al, too, would be alone, with the whole day open to consider why it was he was suddenly feeling so oddly about his friend. His friend who happened to be a bloke. Yes: bed was a perfect idea. "I—I'll be better after some rest, I'm sure," he added, slowly regaining his feet and looking towards the dormitory-bound tunnel to his right, making certain that his dressing gown was properly closed. "I'm sorry for this, Score."

The blonde’s smile was wry as he replied, hair moving over his eyes with just a simple shake of the head. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he said, the words spoken without a trace of disdain in them at all. It was what he told Albus often, whenever the other was being particularly difficult, but not once did he ever truly mean it—in fact, it’s almost always spoken with a fond tone, in not lightly teasing.

“C’mon then,” he said, and reached out to slip an arm around the shorter boy’s shoulders, already beginning to lead them both into the dorms.

And who said that Slytherins were all about themselves and their devilish pursuits? Albus smiled, looking particularly sheepish at Scorpius' kind manner of teasing, and thanked his stars that Scorpius was different from his housemates. A bit more patient. A bit more understanding. A bit more— Al's eyes widened when Scorpius slipped an arm about him, and the feverish Hufflepuff might have sworn that he immediately broke into a sweat at the contact. Swallowing, with some resistance, the yelp that had threatened to escape his suddenly very dry lips, Al let himself be led through the tunnel and into his empty dormitory, going perhaps a bit too quickly for someone so utterly stricken with fever as he was. Slipping from Score's arms at the side of his bed, Albus flopped down on the edge and wriggled his feet out of his slippers. "Thanks, mate," he whispered, even with nobody around to overhear, looking up at Scorpius and expecting that to be that.

It wasn’t, of course, because the fates just weren’t like that. Scorpius had nodded, and instead of turning on his heel and leaving, he spun around and plopped himself down on a nearby bed, the mattress squeaking lightly in protest. He laced his fingers behind his head, one of his long legs hanging off the edge as he let out a yawn.

He wasn’t too particularly keen on studying all by himself.

After a very long moment of staring expectantly up at Scorpius, willing away from his eyes the "Please go away" look that he feared was beginning to creep up into them, Al slipped under his covers and carefully arranged himself there, hoping that doing so would leave Scorpius to draw the curtains and get on his way. When he failed to do so and instead made himself comfortable on the adjacent bed, Albus felt certain that he was going to be ill. "You're, ah— going to stay? Score," Al practically whimpered. "I wouldn't want you coming down ill, too." He tried yawning. He tried rubbing his eyes and curling up into different sleep positions. He tried evening out his breath. But Scorpius remained, leaving a very pink Albus to follow the line of his leg up the side of the bed at to its... well, end. The situation was bad in too many ways.

“I don’t get sick,” replied the Malfoy in that haughty, confident tone that came all too naturally to him. He turned his head, peering over at his bed mate from over his bent arm. He gave the other a funny look. “You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

Fearing that he had been caught looking, Albus immediately turned his head and buried his face in his pillows. "I can't relax," he mumbled, secretly relishing in the coolness that the dungeon had lent his pillows. " 'S too hot." In all truth, it was quite pleasantly cool, the fire at one end of the room having been neglected without four boys there to tend it and the stone of the dungeon, no matter how friendly a dungeon it was, still keeping the warmth of the early spring out.

“So take off your shirt,” Scorpius offered with far too much ease. He shrugged, somewhat indifferent to it altogether. All the other Houses were spoiled—the dungeons weren’t ideal in any kind of weather. It was always either too cold or too hot, and that toughened him up a bit, he liked to think.

Scorpius' tone of voice betrayed him, revealing to a extraordinarily flushed Albus the truth that he had been fearing for some time: Scorpius didn't believe him. He was too nonchalant, too easy, his relaxation a far cry from the clear worry and concern he had shown back in the common room. Al, for his part, couldn't bring himself to respond, aside from rolling onto his back to study the starry canopy overhead and fiddle with the buttons of his pyjama shirt— a shirt that, mind you, he was not prepared to remove, as doing so would involve slipping out of his dressing gown and would render him half-naked a mere meter and a half from the boy who, in his dreams, at least, would happily finish the job.

A moment’s silence that lasted into two, then three, then Scorpius let out a sigh, rolling on to his side so he could face the other. He stared at Albus’ profile, brows knit together with a frown. He knew Al was lying to him, but more importantly he knew Al knew he knew he was lying to him, yet still the Hufflepuff had yet to confess.

It troubled him greatly—Al would always tell him anything.

"Score?" In the total silence of the dormitory, Albus was certain that he, and Scorpius next to him, could hear the pounding of his heart against his ribs. He was hot. He needed something to drink. He desperately wished to be back home in Devon, where his only trouble was occasional light-hearted torment from James and Lily's roomful of chattering friends. "Do you—" Scorpius knew. Al, even with his eyes fixed on the tiny stars that flitted about overhead, could tell that he was under watch, that Scorpius was waiting for him to say something. And, knowing Scorpius, Al understood that the Slytherin would persist until he had done just that. "Have you ever had... you know...dreams?"

Scorpius stared at the other, brows drawing even further together at the other’s boys vague words. “..Everyone does,” he murmured quietly, and sat up so he could observe the other better. “Have you been having bad ones..?”

"I—" Again, Albus swallowed hard. He knew plenty on the importance and significance of dreams. He knew that dreams could be prophetic, could reveal personal secrets of which even the dreamer himself might be unaware. He knew, from his father's stories, that dreams could be dangerous, could be truthful. "Not—" But in his case, his dreams were exactly as they seemed on the surface. Yet, even if he could see them clearly, could effortlessly discern their rather obvious meaning, Albus could find no possible way to admit to his best mate that each of the past eight nights had been accompanied by dreams prominently featuring him. "Not regular dreams," he stammered. "Dreams."

Scorpius wasn’t quite sure he was following. Albus looked both ready to jump out of his bed and run away, and hurl at any minute. “Nightmares, you mean?” he prompted, sitting a little more on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he peered at the brunette. “Is that why you’ve been so unable to sleep properly?”

"Dreams," Al repeated pathetically, stressing the word in a vain attempt to reveal it as something more than it was. "Awful dreams. V-vulgar dreams—" And they were vulgar. What sort of a mind did a fellow need to have in order to dream up the sorts of things that he, the sick-headed Al Potter, was seeing at night? "—so that in the morning, it's— but they're not bad then; only in the morning, when— Scorpius," Al whimpered, still staring straight up towards his canopy with eyes that threatened to spill over at any minute under the strain of his confession, "I've been dreaming of— of blokes."

A blonde brow arched at that tiny statement, spoken so quietly and so brokenly, it was as if Al thought he was confessing something as terrible as.. eating a baby. Or something.

Scorpius just stared.

“…And?”

"...And?" For the first time in quite a while, Albus turned his head against his pillows to face Scorpius, who was staring at him as if nothing at all was the matter. "And? Scorpius," he breathed, actually sitting up in bed and letting his sheets fall into his lap, "Scorpius, that— it— they make me a—a bloody—" Ponce. Shirtlifter. Faerie. Pillow-Biter. Fag. Homo. Albus, of course, had heard the words before, from James, from disgruntled Quidditch rivals looking to distract Hufflepuff's pint-sized Keeper from the hoops, from boys who didn't know better or who went about looking to be cruel. But never, not until the very moment that he had thought them all over, looking across to Scorpius, had Al truly considered the weight of them, and from his suddenly colorless cheeks and abrupt loss for words, they had finally hit home.

Scorpius idly scratched at his cheek, suddenly looking bored. “So? You’re still Al, aren’t you?” he responded, in a dull, heavy tone as if this conversation had already been had before. “So you fancy blokes, big deal. McNormac fancies girls, and he’s more of a ponce than you’ll ever be,” he grunted faintly, making a face at the mention of his fellow Slytherin.

Suddenly his gaze hardened, gray eyes turning cold and icy. “No one’s been calling you any names, have they?” he asked then, his tone just as steely.

Al was so stunned at Scorpius' unflinching acceptance that he forgot to so much as blink at the word "ponce." Rather, he drew his dressing gown tighter about him, worrying the cuffs between his fingers while staring down the friend who sat across from him. "Scorpius?" Would it be completely wrong to just forget about the rest? The whole little bit about Scorpius— well, to be very blunt, screwing him silly each night for more than a week? "How can—" Scorpius, Albus feared, even at his most patient and understanding, would react poorly to the likes of that, thus ruining their friendship, naturally. All the same... what if Score found out later? Would it be better to tell him straight away, or—? "I—" With his heart, he could swear, beating in his stomach, Al, sighing, flipped back onto the covers, turning his back to Scorpius and letting his head his the pillows with an unsatisfying thump.

Scorpius glared at his friend’s back, finding the Hufflepuff’s lack of response not only rude, but somewhat insulting. He pretty much just proclaimed he thought highly of Albus, and Scorpius Malfoy does not hand out his compliments freely.

He got up and strode over to the other’s bed, poking him roughly on the back of his shoulder with a finger. “The ruddy hell is going on, Potter?” Potter—Scorpius only ever used his surname when he was really irritated.

Al jumped, of course, with the creak of floorboards and a sudden poke to his shoulderblade, but the sensation of touch, at least this time, went unaccompanied by any whimper or groan fueled by dream situations. Unlike Scorpius' well-intentioned hand on his forehead, this wasn't at all kind; actually, it had... hurt a bit. Pain, mused Albus, turning his head further into the pillows, was something he expected from Quidditch or from practice hexes gone wrong or from James, but from Scorpius, it was an entirely foreign thing. (At least, from real-life Scorpius, it was a very foreign thing.) "I can't—" But the dull throb in his shoulder was nothing to the sudden tightening of his chest at Score's use of his surname. 'Potter' was only okay, for Al, anyway, if it was 'Potter Minor' or 'Potter the Younger' or some variation that would distinguish him from his father or from James. Just 'Potter,' especially from Score, was different entirely, and Al was suddenly very grateful that his face was rather obscured by downy pillows. "You," he mumbled, "You wouldn't understand."

“Enlighten me then,” the blonde nearly growled. Scorpius Malfoy was not one to be valued for his patience, though he undoubtedly had a lot especially when it came to dealing with certain Hufflepuff boys with ridiculous wild hair.

"I can't," groaned Al, bringing his arms up on either side of his head to run his fingers through said ridiculous wild hair (made more ridiculous, in truth, by the tossing and turning in sleep). "Score, I can't." Al could hear Scorpius losing his temper and, for once, could find no way to pacify it. If he did, as Score had put it, enlighten him, he fully expected a whack to the end of his nose, and if he refused—well, depending on how irritated Scorpius was apt to get, more of the same. "I can't," he sniffled, "Score, I just— you won't want to hear it."

“Oh, I think I do,” the Slytherin returned, and this time he really did growl. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder then, tugging roughly to force him to look him in the eye. He pinned the smaller boy down, hands gripping shoulders firmly as he gave the brunette his iciest Malfoy glare ever.

“What are you keeping from me?”

"Score!" Al resisted, first out on instinct, but only long enough to pass an arm over his face and knock the mistiness from his wide green eyes. Sure the he could just about feel Scorpius' eyes on him, Al turned his own away, unable to meet his friend's snarl and trademark glare. "Nothing. Nothing! Score, please—" he whimpered, growing suddenly aware of the shameful feeling low in his belly. "No." This was exactly as his last dream had begun: Score above him, alone in the Hufflepuff dormitories. Squeezing his eyes closed, Al thought of anything —Potions, exams, falling from brooms— to keep his mind off of Scorpius and his hands and eyes and weight on top of him, but even as he tried, Al knew it was no good. "Score—" he tried one more time. "Please—"

Scorpius’ grip on Al, if possible, only got tighter, his teeth practically grinding together in his growing frustration. He hated secrets, but he loathed them coming from Al, who was supposed to be his best mate.

“Don’t make me ask you again,” he murmured in a low, dangerous tone. He might not be able to hit his friend, but he could certainly do worse damage than something physical.

It was only when Scorpius began to dig his fingers into Al's shoulders that the wide-eyed Hufflepuff began to panic. As he himself began to quake, he could hear his wand, which had always been extraordinarily sensitive to him, quivering menacingly atop his bedside table. "Please get off—" It was like being seven again, and, having just been shoved down a flight of stairs, accidentally hanging a much bigger eight-year-old James by one foot from the hall ceiling; Al, when threatened, or in pain, or afraid, reacted unpredictably, and as much as he wanted Scorpius to ease up, he suddenly grew acutely frightened of unintentionally— well, making him.

"Score, please!" His ears were absolutely ringing, pounding with the woosh of blood and Scorpius' thinly veiled threat and the thrumming of his hazelwood wand to one side of his head. And when the ringing hit a fever pitch, when Al felt himself sinking further and further into his mattress, he finally snapped; closing his eyes with enough force to set fireworks against the backs of his eyelids and letting out a yelp, Al forced his head up as far as he could and, closing the gap between Scorpius and himself, placed a lopsided kiss on the side of his mouth.

To say that Scorpius was taken aback by the rather.. interesting turn of events would have been the biggest understatement of the year. What had once been anger and concern quickly melted into pure and utter shock as he stared down at Albus, his best mate… who had just kissed him.

Or something like it.

And then, just like that, it clicked and suddenly it was all starting to make sense. Now that Scorpius realized it, he couldn’t help but think himself completely blind for having taken this long to figure it out.

The grip he had on Albus slackened, but he’d yet to pull away.

“…you call that a kiss, Potter?”

The kiss, of course, was short-lived and misplaced, and as soon as Albus felt Score's fingers ease up around his shoulders, he abruptly pulled away, looking more than a bit pale. It hadn't been a real kiss, then. At least not the sort that was worth talking about. Of all the things that best mates didn't do, Albus reflected, staring up at a rather stunned Scorpius as he sunk back into his bed, kissing in bed must have been among the very worst of the taboos. Scorpius, Al reminded himself, was not the raging, nancying little pillow-biting ponce that he had just proved his own self to be, and going by the expression on his face, he had not, well, approved of Al's rather blunt manner of expressing his awful little secret. "I—" he stammered, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, "Score, I—I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have."

The blonde didn’t reply, simply straightening as he continued to look down at the other with a hard, thoughtful expression. While it was definitely one way to confess, it wasn’t much of a confession when one really took the time to think about it. Things needed to be clarified.

“…So those bad dreams of yours.”

"You." Al's voice, despite being the only sound for whatever a great distance, was quiet and small, the voice of a guilty child facing up to something unpleasant. With the one brief glance that he had risked towards Scorpius, Al had met only a stony stare and a friend who was slowly backing away from him —though this latter act might have been going a bit slow for Al's more practical side, as having Scorpius so very close to his lap was more than a bit uncomfortable.— He then made it a point to avert his eyes. "You, in all of them. I'm sorry."

Silence, initially, as Scorpius allowed himself a few moments to digest this. Almost subconsciously, he let his eyes roam over his best mate’s body, which he only just seemed to notice was actually laying down, all tousled and rumpled as if from a rough night’s sleep (or lack thereof) and… well.

His voice, thankfully, does not so much as breaks when he finally speaks again.

“What did we do?”

Blessedly for the sake of his fractured dignity, Albus had not actually seen Scorpius eyeing him up, having been staring intently at the intersection of two planks in the hardwood floor, but this really only meant that he couldn't explain the chill that crept up his spine. When Score pressed on with his inquiry, though, Albus, going immediately rigid and cold, turned his eyes up towards a very cool-looking Scorpius. "W—what?" What had they done? What hadn't they done, in eight nights' worth of dreams? "Score, I— no. That's not—no."

Dark blonde brows lowered as gray eyes narrowed in their survey. “…Was it bad?”

"Bad?" Al blinked. Of course it was bad. What was a fellow supposed to think when his best mate, each night without fail, absolutely ravaged him, leaving, come morning, a— well... perhaps it wasn't bad in the dream itself, but now, it was perhaps the worst thing ever to have happened to Al Potter. "I— you don't know what— dreams like this, I mean—" There were no nice words to even begin to describe them. "Score, I'm a— a ruddy— little pervert. I can't even believe— ruddy— bugger." A poor choice in words, in retrospect.

“You misunderstand,” replied the Slytherin coolly. A corner of his lips had quirked up, the beginnings of a very amused smirk.

“Was it not any good for you?” he continued to press, almost sadistically. “Did you not.. enjoy it?”

"I—I—" Albus merely stared, the corners of his eyes beginning to burn with suppressed tears of shame. How could Scorpius be so cruel? Al sniffled. He couldn't expect him, of course, to be able to understand the sick breed of dream or to be in any way flattered or excited, but neither had Al expected Scorpius to tease him, to laugh at his discomfort and his painful confession. "Enjoy it? Score—" he whimpered, trying to wriggle himself out from beneath his friend with as little contact as possible, "Score, I feel awful; how can I enjoy it if I feel this awful now?"

Something dark flickered in Scorpius’s otherwise steely gaze—disappointment? His voice was low, his words quiet, as if even he were too afraid to say them himself.

“You regret them, then..?”

"I regret having to lie all the time," Al blurted out, feeling Scorpius' mood change like one might have felt a change in the air. "And— and having to draw you into it, Score, but I can't help what I dream, and the— the things that happen during— in the dreams that I have." Pausing for a shuddery breath, Al pressed his hands over his eyes and groaned to himself. "And now I'm the worst sort of guilty, as I've got to tell myself that it wasn't— good at the time, when clearly—"

After a moment’s thought, in which Scorpius’ mood took a considerable change for the better, the blonde sat himself down on the edge of Albus’ bed, leaning back on flat palms so that his back stretched over Al’s legs beneath his covers.

“You’ve nothing to feel guilty about,” the Slytherin assured the other, glancing up at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the room. “I’m flattered.”

"What?" Al, who had been busy trying to regain his legs, stopped short, both from the addition of Scorpius' weight across them and from his rather unexpected statement. "I— Score, please don't," he breathed, sighing lightly and again turning his attention up towards his canopy. "You don't have to... you know. Pretend about it."

There came a derisive snort from where Scorpius was stretched out, his hands now laced over his abdomen like before.

“You know me better than anyone, Al,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t bother with something as useless as pretending.”

"Yeah," Al murmured, sighing into the pillow as he turned his head to idly stare out one of the dormitory's enchanted windows. "I s'ppose not." Yet, despite the relative calm, the ease with which Scorpius had accepted not only his best mate's poncyness and wildly off-base dreams, Al, his heart still rather thumping against his ribs, couldn't help but feel that something was still off. Because, really, he hadn't, despite all the faith he normally put in Scorpius, expected the high-bred Slytherin to take it all so well. Al, though, unlike his friend, was perfectly happy with a bit of quiet pretending, and not wishing to exacerbate the situation any further, merely stared at the enchanted glass in silence.

No one, not even Albus, could possibly figure out what was going through the Slytherin’s mind at that time. Scorpius himself could barely make out the thoughts that seemed to whiz by at 100 miles per hour, completely contrasting the calm, somewhat bored expression on his face.

Scorpius had always been a fairly mature teenager, and only really lost his temper or acted foolishly when it came to certain, personal things. One of them being the very boy whose legs he was currently laying across, and whose words of confession kept replaying in his mind, over and over again.

He sat up then, turning on the bed so that he could watch the Hufflepuff quietly. “There’s a way we can stop those dreams, you know,” the Malfoy murmured offhandedly, shrugging a shoulder to his suggestion. “We kiss.” He shrugged again, as if this sort of proposal was as normal as asking someone if they fancied a bit of tea. “Nothing’s as good as a dream, right? So we kiss, it completely turns you off, and that’s that.”

At the first mention of a cure, Albus wriggled through the dressing gown and sheets that were, with of of his turning about, quickly becoming caught up around his legs, and turned hopeful green eyes up at Scorpius. "You can brew Dreamless Sleep?" he suggested, all at once impressed but completely unsurprised that Scorpius could handle such an advanced potion. But at Scorpius' intended solution, Al felt the odd sort of chill course through him again, and his eyes, if possible, widened even more. "We—Score, that's —" Absolutely ridiculous in a way that Scorpius, Al was sure, could not even begin to understand. For while Al certainly wanted to end the shame he felt every time he looked at his best mate or sat beside him in classes, the dreams in which Scorpius had been featuring were—well, not entirely unpleasant as long as his eyes were closed.

Scorpius' logic, then, or at least Al was very willing to bet, was rather significantly flawed; rather than put an end to the dreams, Al feared, kissing Scorpius could only give them more fuel. "I— Then again—" Then again, how often was it that Scorpius was drastically wrong about important things? Scorpius, Al reflected, knew things; perhaps his logic wasn't so bad. "Do you— is that really true?"

“Sure it is,” Scorpius replied in a tone more fitting for an adult. There was no doubting the prowess of Scorpius’ persuasive skills. Even his own father had said he’d one day make a powerful politician (though it was always quickly followed up by a sincere hope that Scorpius would never be one). “Reality is never as good as a dream, and the disappointment of realizing it will make you feel disdain and so you’ll never have to worry about it again.”

Where Scorpius' father was satisfactorily convinced of his son's powers of persuasion, there had been, unbeknownst to Albus, multiple conversations between his own parents as to whether their second son may have been a bit... impressionable. And from first year, when Al had written home to tell his parents how cozy Hufflepuff was and how he loved Charms and how there was a boy named Scorpius Malfoy who knew just about everything, even if he wasn't in Ravenclaw, Al had followed Scorpius like the faithful—well, Hufflepuff that he was. This situation, even with the tightness in his chest and the lightness in his head, was no different.

Scorpius certainly seemed to know what he was talking about, and his sheer confidence in what he was saying was enough to sway Albus, who, nodding, emerged a bit from beneath the black and yellow covers, fears of dream fuel more or less forgotten. "I s'ppose that's true," he offered cautiously, going rather pink at the very prospect, "But I don't want to disdain you, Score. That won't— I mean, you don't think, do you?"

“You won’t, because I won’t let you.” He said this all without even so much as an eyeblink, as if a person’s emotions could be so easily controlled by his fifteen year old hands.

He sat with his legs crossed now, facing Albus with only a few feet and ugly Hufflepuff coverlets separating them.

“It’s completely up to you, of course,” he tossed out, almost absentmindedly. “These are your dreams, and I’ve already told you I have no problems with them.”

"Oh." Perhaps it was really that easy. Al, finally sitting fully up in bed, idly ran a hand through his borderline unsightly mess of sticky-up and flattened curls and kicked his bedding off enough to free his feet and curl them beneath him. Glancing across at Scorpius, who seemed to have all the answers, Al searched his body language for any indication that he was just offering his solution to be nice, but he, in the end, found nothing but a clinical sort of sensibility to it all and, apprehensive, worried his lower lip. "If you—" he began, unable to decide whether it was better to meet his friend's eyes or keep his attention elsewhere, "If you think it's worth— well, trying, I— I s'ppose it's something."

Scorpius simply gave a nod to that, because he’d already stated his case, and there really wasn’t any need to go further.

“You’ll have to lead this, of course,” the blonde boy mentioned a few moments later. “Seeing as they’re your dreams, I won’t know what it is exactly that I’ll be reenacting. I’d choose one of the more recent ones, so that you’ll have something more vivid to compare to.”

Having finally settled on staring expectantly at Scorpius, Al flushed a brilliant shade of scarlet at his friend's mildly embarrassing but perfectly sensible instruction. "Oh, I—" he fumbled, "Yeah, of course, I just—" Sighing, a very rosy-faced Albus leaned up a bit to sit at Scorpius' level. This, as it happened, only wrecked his nerves even more, having to look Scorpius in the eye, so Al, for his part, closed his. It would be too much, he reasoned, to pull Scorpius down against the pillows, as they had been situated in his last dream, so Albus, eyes still closed, settled on something slightly less forward: he leaned in just a bit more and, though not without first bumping noses a bit, pressed his lips against Scorpius', this time actually meeting his target.

It was fortunate that Albus had closed his eyes, otherwise he might had seen the slight quirk at the corner of Scorpius’ lips and felt discouraged. Unlike the Hufflepuff, Scorpius kept his eyes open and keen, taking in everything from the way Albus’ cheeks darkened in color to the way the other boy’s brows crinkled in concentration.

Antisocial though the blonde may be at times, kissing was something he was no stranger to. A kiss with a bloke was just like a kiss with a girl, he decided—there were still lips, still all the right bits you need in a kiss, except that blokes smelled a lot more like soap than flowers, or maybe it was just Al himself.

It was Scorpius who deepened the kiss then, who forced it from being a simply press of the lips to a smooth, fluid parting and pursing that a real kiss should be like.

It took Albus all of six seconds to realise that, in a once-in-a-blue-moon sort of event, Scorpius had been wrong; a real kiss was just as nice as a dream kiss, but there was more to it, a small host of little things that just generally improved the whole kissing thing as a whole. Though Albus had always been a very vivid dreamer, he could not recall ever having smelled anything clean and cool in his dreams, nor had he felt little things like eyelashes, his or Scorpius', or heard his own shallow breathing in his ears. Dream kissing, really, was more about the idea of kissing, that it was nice and pleasant and such. Real kissing, Al decided, somewhere between having to support himself on arms that had been lamely beside him and tentatively parting his lips for Scorpius, was more about the action of kissing. And that was also pleasant and nice.

Though he’d always been more of a thinker, Scorpius had enough sense to know when it was time to turn the brain off, and time to let the baser emotions start to take control. Albus was nice, and soft, and comfortable, and that’s all he really needed to know, as far as he was concerned. He’d angled his head, turning it so that their lips fit even better, and when he felt those lips part in response to his, the only real reply he could give was a soft grunt, and rough swipe of his tongue on a bottom lip.

Albus, for his part, was happily lost to the world, situated in a very pleasant place somewhere halfway between his recent dreams and a real world of five senses and pillows and a rather talented Scorpius, and--- had that just been a tongue? Albus whimpered, letting his head tip back for the briefest of moments before Scorpius found his lips again, this time even better than before, barely allowing Al a moment to register the sudden gulp of air. Feeling himself tipping backwards again, though, his suddenly jelly-like arms not quite able to support him, the pink-cheeked Hufflepuff blindly groped about for his friend's shirtsleeve, tugging gently once he found it in an effort to coax Scorpius down with him.

It was that tiny whimper that did him in, and Scorpius decided right then and there that he would be hearing more of that sound, even if he had to play dirty to coax it out.

He felt the tug and couldn’t have agreed more with it, shifting so that now it was he who leaned over the other, his palms flat on the mattress on either side of his best mate. He leaned and leaned, till Albus was forced back against his pillows, and—yes, yes that was definitely his tongue this time, swiping along already-wet lips, seeking permission.

Albus made the descent from his knees to his back with barely any measure of grace, but before he could open either his eyes or his mouth to offer an apology, Scorpius had met him again, nudging Al's head back into the gaudiness of his pillows and earning for his efforts and persistence some small noise between a mewl and a groan. This little noise, it seemed, was a rather good thing, as Al again felt the press of Scorpius' tongue against his lips, prodding gently in a clear request to which a nearly breathless Al yielded. It was only when Scorpius' tongue met the tip of his own did Albus obviously shiver and gasp, his eyes flying open with the sudden awareness of--- just how much he was enjoying this.

The sound wasn’t quite the same as a whimper, but Scorpius decided any sound to leave Albus’ lips during kissing was definitely worth any kind of effort he made, and there would just have to be even more of it.

Apparently he could make his own noises too, as was made obvious by the low, muffled groan that slipped past his lips when he felt Albus’ part beneath his, their tongues finally meeting.

As if he could feel those eyes on him, however, his own flew open no more than a second later, and the two were suddenly frozen in a what had to be Scorpius’ most awkward position to date: their lips parted, their tongues touching, gray eyes meeting brilliant green as if searching for something, but all too afraid of what could be found.

For the first time in his life, Scorpius Malfoy held his breath.

Gasping in low, shuddery breaths, Albus stared, almost as if terrified, up at Scorpius, at his best mate who just so happened to be hovering inches above him, who just so happened to be making him quite light in the head and quite obviously pleased with the way things were going. He might have thanked him for the advice or pointed out the flaw in his logic or asked if Scorpius was enjoying their experimental snog as much as he was, but each time Al opened his mouth as if to speak, no coherent words came. Unsure of what he wanted to -or could- say, while under Scorpius' rapt attention, Albus, taking another shallow breath, leaned up to close the distance that had nearly separated them, shutting his eyes once more and parting his lips.

A surprised grunt was Scorpius’ initial reply to that, before it clicked in his mind what was happening (again), and then his lips were moving over Albus’ just as eagerly. This time he closed his eyes, let himself enjoy what was obviously enjoyable for the both of them. Somehow that just made it all better, because then all he could sense was those lips, and that hot breath that fanned against him, and the tongue, oh yes, that tongue.

Then he was pulling away, but not completely, sensing from the Hufflepuff’s shortness of breath that oxygen would have to come into play at some time. He let the other boy breathe as he busied himself with pressing his lips along his mate’s jaw, to a spot just beneath his ear, then down a column of neck.

Just as Albus was beginning to feel a bit more confident in the mechanics of snogging --mechanics, he couldn't help but notice, with which his real best mate was just as familiar and skilled and wonderful as his dream best mate-- Scorpius pulled back, leaving him to fall lightly against the pillows with a bit of a disappointed groan. When, however, the sudden and much-needed rush of oxygen registered alongside the eager kisses that Scorpius had begun to trail down his jaw and throat and neck, Al forgot to worry and merely turned his swimming head to allow Scorpius to go where he pleased. For his part, Albus couldn't quite help but arch up against his best mate, relishing in the contact wherever he found a body to press up against, running trembling hands through Scorpius' hair, down along the back of his neck, and to the collar of his sleep shirt, where he pulled almost without thinking.

Albus’ skin was as warm as it was pink wherever his lips touched and Scorpius found it incredibly distracting—but in the good way. He marveled at the way the other boy seemed to respond so easily to him and his whims. It was like they always were: Scorpius, dominant and demanding; Albus, delicate and yielding.

As if somehow triggered by the tug on his shirt, his teeth bared down on the skin at the crook of Albus’ neck, hard enough to sting but not enough to leave a lasting mark. Another groan left him, and then his hands were moving with a mind of their own, sneaking past the dress robe, under the hem of a ridiculous striped pyjama shirt. Albus, Scorpius realized, was warm everywhere.

As in all things, Albus, in snogging, followed wherever Scorpius dared to lead. When he felt, then, the tug on his dressing gown, Al clumsily reached down to loosen the sash, allowing Scorpius to go where he wished. With his free hand, Albus, distracted first by the warm kisses up and down his neck, next by the cool hands that had slipped beneath his pyjama top, and, rather suddenly, by the prick of teeth that made him yelp, struggled to pull Scorpius' shirt up any further than the back of his neck and eventually abandoned it in favor of running his fingers through his friend's hair.

The shirt, Scorpius only realized absently, was apparently a hindrance for Albus from the way he kept tugging on it, and so, being the good friend that he was, Scorpius sat up and sought to relieve his best mate of this nuisance.

The sleep shirt fluttered to the ground somewhere, noiselessly, and the cool rush of air that met his newly exposed skin had him shivering—which oddly enough only served to further his excitement.

Absently, he realized they’d just stepped into new and uncharted territory. He should have been wary, or logical about it at least, but he was starting to find that one his brain had been turned off, it was really hard to turn it back on again.

He leaned back down to capture the Hufflepuff’s lips again, hands once again pushing at a pyjama top.

Al, though he initially whimpered his discontent when Scorpius again pulled away from him, drawing away not only his lips but his cool, wandering hands, breathed a rather happy sigh when he realized the gesture's purpose. He had seen Scorpius without a shirt before, of course, their being best mates and all, and having been swimming and such, but it had never been—well, in this sort of a context, and Al found himself, at least until Scorpius descending on him again, admiring the good that Quidditch had done for his best mate's physique.

Al, though, absorbed as he was in the feeling of Scorpius’ lips on his own, or of Scorpius’ tongue flicking against his, didn’t think to return the favor until one of Scorpius’ fingers caught the gap between shirt buttons and nearly yanked him forward. “W-wait—“ Blushing tremendously, Al reluctantly turned out of the kiss and lowered his hands, which had rather taken to running over Scorpius’ arms and shoulders, to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. He wasn’t, he thought idly as one button popped off in his haste, as impressive as he made Scorpius out to be, having himself been designed more a Seeker than the Keeper that he somehow was, but as he leaned up and caught Scorpius’ lips again, it didn’t seem to matter.

He had, for just a brief moment, worried that he’d crossed the line. When Albus had muttered that ‘wait’, Scorpius thought for sure he’d overdid it, and his best mate would never speak to him again.

But then button after button came undone, and the blonde could only sigh in relief before he was being kissed again. The awful black-and-yellow material was hastily pushed out of the way, hanging off the Hufflepuff’s shoulders as Scorpius returned those desperate kisses.

His hands explored and roamed over the newly exposed flesh before him, fingers light and nimble as they searched and exploited sensitive areas.

Had Albus been able to distance himself from his currently rather warm and sensitive body, and had he stepped back to watch himself and Scorpius undressing each other in his bed, the whole situation likely would have come to a screeching stop, for the sake of the Hufflepuff's bashfulness and supposed purity of mind. As it was, however, he could do little more than shiver as Scorpius's deft fingers trailed down his ribs, along his sides and back up again, or as he took a chance and ran his own tongue against Scorpius' own. His hands, meanwhile, though perhaps not as directioned as they might have been, mimicked the sort of movements that Al himself enjoyed, trailing over Scorpius's stomach or gently tickling up the backs of his arms.

It was becoming increasingly obvious to Scorpius that certain other parts of their, ah, anatomy required attention, but his hands shook every time they dared to go down far enough to skim the waistband of pyjama bottoms. His mind was swimming, and his senses were filled with the scent of soap and breakfast and Al, and Scorpius realized a little too fearfully that he was losing himself, and that was a bit too vulnerable of a position for him to be in. At least right then.

He jerked away then, pulling back with a gasp and shallow, panting breaths. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were red and swollen, just like Al’s, but his eyes were wide with the realization of something he didn’t dare think about just yet.

He was off his mate and on his feet in no less than three seconds, hastily taking up his shirt from the ground, his back towards the other as he slid it back over his head.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he mumbled over clumsy lips, slightly numb from the snogging. He was out and gone before Albus could even say good-bye.

Whenever Scorpius's hands slipped anywhere lower than his navel, Al could feel his stomach knot up pleasantly in the same sort of way that, in a dream, anyway, would mean good things ahead. He whimpered quietly, arching closer towards Scorpius, and when he felt his mate slip the tips of his fingers down along the top of his pyjama pants, downright moaned, only to yelp when the elastic snapped back against his stomach and a rush of cool air took Scorpius' place above him. Al let his head fall languidly back against the pillows as he caught his breath, gasping lightheaded and watching his canopy though what might have been a haze. It was only when he heard his friend's feet on the floor that Al sat himself up, his green eyes widening in protest and fear as Scorpius tore from the room.

"S--Score!" he whimpered, making an effort to slip out of bed only until he heard the rapid footfalls all the way down the corridor, signaling Scorpius' escape into the common room and out. For a long moment, Al sat numb, but it wasn't long before he realized, with an odd kind of ache, how cold his open shirt had left him, or that his collarbone still smarted a bit where Scorpius had nipped him, or that, despite that snog having been possibly the best moment of his life, he was still painfully unfulfilled below the belt. Flopping backwards into his pillows, Al bit his swollen lower lip and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids. "Bloody stupid Al Potter," he groaned to no-one in particular. Of course Scorpius had fled; Scorpius wasn't the bent one. Scorpius, who played brilliant Quidditch and led everything, Scorpius, who kissed girls. Scorpius, who had kissed many girls, even! Al threw his head backwards, clipping the headboard with a hiss and a groan. "Bloody stupid." Now what was he supposed to say to Score?