errorYou must be logged in to review this story.
À L’Œuvre
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Albus Severus/Scorpius
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,670
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Albus Severus/Scorpius
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,670
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Gatherings
ۍ
Albus sat quietly by his father’s side and watched as people milled about the place. It wasn’t the largest of gatherings, after all Albus’ father wasn’t the most social of people anymore, but nevertheless he was well loved… and he had married a Weasley, which more or less accounted for half of the people attending.
Watching with sharp eyes, he looked up from where he sat, noting the look on Ginny Weasley’s face as she gazed adoringly at her husband. The way she stood simpering made Albus’ stomach turn. She hung on her husband’s every word, looking at him as if he’d hung the moon, but then again, Albus readily admitted, most people looked at Harry Potter that way.
When she turned to him, he smiled magnanimously, ready to play the part of the obedient son. Ginny Weasley loved him, if only, Albus thought disparagingly, because he looked just like his father. Even in his mind he couldn’t bear to grant her the name ‘Potter,’ not when his father had married so far beneath him.
It wasn’t that Albus had anything against the Weasleys; he just had trouble conceiving as to why his father, who could have had anyone he wanted, would have chosen her, when she was so incredibly average. Average in appearance, average in intelligence, even her magic was nothing more than average. If she had been ugly, stupid and a squib, he might’ve believed his father had married her out of pity, but as it was, this farce was disgusting, especially as Albus knew the truth. Still, he continued to play the game his father had set in motion, if only because Albus knew it was possibly the only thing keeping his father sane.
But because of the woman his father had married, because of the fact that she had for intents and purposes contributed to their current existence, there were some days that Albus would look at his sister, and pray to any of the Gods that would listen, that she’d grow to be a true Potter, and not a Ginny. Her coloration did not bode well for her, in Albus’ opinion, but her features were more like the delicate hue of his own. Only time would tell. He still loved her though, for if nothing else she was a crafty little thing, mischievous and wild. If anything Albus would say that she had a bit of both his and James’ personalities mixed in there, and as she grew older Albus found her far more easy to relate to than James had ever been, and quite possibly ever would be.
Albus nodded easily, in all the appropriate places, as he only half-listened to the woman who had birthed him. If anything, Parseltongue had taught him how to read the language of others based purely on tone. Anytime Ginny began on such a spiel as she was now he would effortlessly tune out all but the barest essentials he needed to act in a way mildly indicative of attention.
If he could help it, he very rarely spoke. He found that when people didn’t expect him to answer, they would more often than not answer for him, precisely as she was doing in this very instance.
“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Al?” There was a moment’s pause before she simply continued, “What am I saying? Of course you are! Here, let me take your cup, I’ll bring you another one; just don’t let your sister know, ok? Wouldn’t want to have her think I’m spoiling you…” And there was the childish laugh that grated against his nerves and made the hairs of his nape stand on end. Wordlessly, he let go as she pried his cup from his hand, and sauntered off through the crowd. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, blocking out the sight, and instead leaned his head against his father’s knee.
A warm, reassuring hand came to rest upon his hair, “Alright, Al?” His father’s voice rumbled. He loved when his father called him Al. He hated it when she did, in that insipid voice that she had. When his father spoke, he commanded attention, completely and utterly, and Albus was more than happy to give it to him.
“Of course, Father,” Albus murmured contentedly as that hand carded gently through his always tousled hair.
Albus could hear the smile in his father’s voice as he replied, “Good. Wouldn’t want you to be bored.” His father paused before enquiring, “Are you sure you don’t want to go play with the others?”
Albus turned his head slightly to look up at his father solemnly, “Can’t I stay here with you?”
Harry ruffled his son’s hair, before grinning. “So long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
And just like that they both relaxed into comfortable silence.
Albus allowed himself a small smile as his father continued to run his fingers lightly through his hair. While he usually found most tactile contact distasteful, he always enjoyed the physical affection his father showed him, perhaps because he knew just how much being allowed such contact meant to his father.
Ever since he was young, Albus had avoided touch as much as was possible. For him, allowing someone within his personal space signified several things. Trust being the foremost, and being the Slytherin at heart that he was, Albus found himself hard-pressed to trust few beyond himself. His father was quite likely the ultimate exception to that rule. Albus trusted his father implicitly. If ever he were hurt or upset the one he would call for was his father. And for as long as he’d been able to pronounce the word, he had called his father thus, whereas, James had always seemed to prefer to call their father, ‘Dad.’
On several occasions his father had tried to encourage him to do the same, but each and every time Albus had steadfastly refused. It wasn’t until much later, only recently in fact, that his father had thought to ask why Albus wouldn’t call him ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’ or something to that effect.
The explanation had come easily enough.
“I love you, Father,” Albus began, “but I also respect you, more than anyone else in the whole wide world.” His arms came out to demonstrate this fact. “I can’t call you anything less than you deserve...” Albus trailed off, hoping that his father understood what he was trying to say.
His father had given him an odd look though, a strange furrowing of his brow, a small gnawing of his lower lip, before asking, “Al, why don’t you call Ginny ‘Mother’?”
Albus’ expression shuttered for a moment, before he spoke slowly, calmly, “We rarely talk. I don’t usually need to call her anything.”
The odd look increased for a second, before smoothing out entirely. “I see,” his father said.
Silence filled his father’s study, until his father cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “I take it you’re looking forward to Hogwarts?”
“Oh, yes, Father. Very much so. I can’t wait to be able to do magic!”
If his father found his thirst for knowledge strange in one as young as he, he made no comment on the matter. If his father never again brought up Albus’ feelings toward Ginny Weasley, who had provided half of his biological information and nothing more, Albus paid it no heed.
There were times, however, that Albus wished his father hadn’t married Aunt Hermione instead, if he’d been that desperate to have children. At least that way they’d have had the added benefit of a significantly increased intelligence, not that anyone could call any of the Potter children stupid.
Albus also had to admit that when Aunt Hermione made the effort, she could be quite stunning. It mattered little to him that she was of Muggle birth, she’d proved her aptitude as a Witch a million times over, and she was one of the very few Albus had ever known with whom he could hold a proper conversation.
Not many people would peg Albus as a talker given his habitual bouts of silence, but given the right incentive, such as the fountain of knowledge that seemed to be stored within his Aunt’s brain, he could babble to his heart’s content, voicing all the thoughts and questions, all the enquiries he wished to make, all the theories he himself speculated upon.
He similarly got on splendidly with Rose, Aunt Hermione’s daughter. She had evidently inherited her mother’s wit, and had had plenty of opportunity to further develop her sharp mind. They had wonderful arguments, in both English and French. While Albus referred to Rose’s mother as ‘Aunt Hermione’ and her father as ‘Uncle Ron,’ he did so not because they were technically related by blood, but rather because it was the Weasley family who had more or less adopted his father as one of their own. Albus also thought this reflected a bit oddly on Ginny, given that his father should’ve been something more like a brother to her. It served no purpose to place any blame on his father, however. He already knew all about the reasons for which he had married her, and even though he could see that his father was partially responsible, it was far easier for Albus to forgive him, given the circumstances, than it was for him to extend such a courtesy to her.
Still, the fact that the Weasleys were family, meant that Albus, as well as his siblings, had grown up spending quite a bit of time with Uncle Bill and his wife, Tante Fleur, and as such had been forced to learn French.
For Albus, it had turned out to be quite a pleasure despite his initial reluctance, and he found himself taking to the language with ease, unlike James who, while not particularly bad at it, wasn’t overly fond of speaking the language.
Albus thought again that his aptitude in this might’ve been due to his Parseltongue abilities. He knew for one that the Latin incantations for spells were exceedingly easy to remember once he’d spoken them using serpentine phonetics. This made Albus question whether it had been the same for his father. He wondered at this even more so if only because his father didn’t seem to possess any sort of gift for languages other than English.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t something he’d ever had the chance to query his father about, unless he wanted to reveal that he himself could speak the language of snakes…
Sitting silently, Albus realized that maybe there was a way around this. It was something he’d always pondered about, and if he asked about such a thing, it would seem to imply a lack of capacity on his behalf.
In short, all he had to do was ask his father whether anyone could be taught Parseltongue. Even if it couldn’t be done, it would have innocently opened up the topic for discussion, and his father knew all too well Albus’ curiosity once whetted was hard to quench. And if it could be taught, then maybe he’d have a place to begin…
Excited by the prospects, Albus hung his head forward, blocking his expression from the view of those in the room. Hidden, he let the smirk that had been lurking just beneath the surface break free.
He couldn’t wait ‘til everyone left. He’d still probably have to wait until the morning, if not later the next day, given that at the tender age of 11, he’d likely be sent to bed before all their guests took their leave. It was certainly something to look forward to however.
Content that he’d finally figured out a way to get around revealing his well hidden talent, Albus let his mind wander over a variety of other issues he’d been considering lately.
It was with great disappointment that he realized that quite a few people would be staying over, for various durations, particularly the immediate family, which meant he wouldn’t be able to speak to his father privately for some time.
Irritated, but determined to not let it show outwardly, Albus breathed deeply, reminding himself that he had all the time in the world. There was time yet before he would be heading off for his first year at Hogwarts; plenty of time to interrogate his father on his knowledge of Albus’ favourite language.
And if there was one thing that a snake understood best, it was when to strike.
ۍ
To Be Continued…
Gatherings
ۍ
Albus sat quietly by his father’s side and watched as people milled about the place. It wasn’t the largest of gatherings, after all Albus’ father wasn’t the most social of people anymore, but nevertheless he was well loved… and he had married a Weasley, which more or less accounted for half of the people attending.
Watching with sharp eyes, he looked up from where he sat, noting the look on Ginny Weasley’s face as she gazed adoringly at her husband. The way she stood simpering made Albus’ stomach turn. She hung on her husband’s every word, looking at him as if he’d hung the moon, but then again, Albus readily admitted, most people looked at Harry Potter that way.
When she turned to him, he smiled magnanimously, ready to play the part of the obedient son. Ginny Weasley loved him, if only, Albus thought disparagingly, because he looked just like his father. Even in his mind he couldn’t bear to grant her the name ‘Potter,’ not when his father had married so far beneath him.
It wasn’t that Albus had anything against the Weasleys; he just had trouble conceiving as to why his father, who could have had anyone he wanted, would have chosen her, when she was so incredibly average. Average in appearance, average in intelligence, even her magic was nothing more than average. If she had been ugly, stupid and a squib, he might’ve believed his father had married her out of pity, but as it was, this farce was disgusting, especially as Albus knew the truth. Still, he continued to play the game his father had set in motion, if only because Albus knew it was possibly the only thing keeping his father sane.
But because of the woman his father had married, because of the fact that she had for intents and purposes contributed to their current existence, there were some days that Albus would look at his sister, and pray to any of the Gods that would listen, that she’d grow to be a true Potter, and not a Ginny. Her coloration did not bode well for her, in Albus’ opinion, but her features were more like the delicate hue of his own. Only time would tell. He still loved her though, for if nothing else she was a crafty little thing, mischievous and wild. If anything Albus would say that she had a bit of both his and James’ personalities mixed in there, and as she grew older Albus found her far more easy to relate to than James had ever been, and quite possibly ever would be.
Albus nodded easily, in all the appropriate places, as he only half-listened to the woman who had birthed him. If anything, Parseltongue had taught him how to read the language of others based purely on tone. Anytime Ginny began on such a spiel as she was now he would effortlessly tune out all but the barest essentials he needed to act in a way mildly indicative of attention.
If he could help it, he very rarely spoke. He found that when people didn’t expect him to answer, they would more often than not answer for him, precisely as she was doing in this very instance.
“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Al?” There was a moment’s pause before she simply continued, “What am I saying? Of course you are! Here, let me take your cup, I’ll bring you another one; just don’t let your sister know, ok? Wouldn’t want to have her think I’m spoiling you…” And there was the childish laugh that grated against his nerves and made the hairs of his nape stand on end. Wordlessly, he let go as she pried his cup from his hand, and sauntered off through the crowd. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, blocking out the sight, and instead leaned his head against his father’s knee.
A warm, reassuring hand came to rest upon his hair, “Alright, Al?” His father’s voice rumbled. He loved when his father called him Al. He hated it when she did, in that insipid voice that she had. When his father spoke, he commanded attention, completely and utterly, and Albus was more than happy to give it to him.
“Of course, Father,” Albus murmured contentedly as that hand carded gently through his always tousled hair.
Albus could hear the smile in his father’s voice as he replied, “Good. Wouldn’t want you to be bored.” His father paused before enquiring, “Are you sure you don’t want to go play with the others?”
Albus turned his head slightly to look up at his father solemnly, “Can’t I stay here with you?”
Harry ruffled his son’s hair, before grinning. “So long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
And just like that they both relaxed into comfortable silence.
Albus allowed himself a small smile as his father continued to run his fingers lightly through his hair. While he usually found most tactile contact distasteful, he always enjoyed the physical affection his father showed him, perhaps because he knew just how much being allowed such contact meant to his father.
Ever since he was young, Albus had avoided touch as much as was possible. For him, allowing someone within his personal space signified several things. Trust being the foremost, and being the Slytherin at heart that he was, Albus found himself hard-pressed to trust few beyond himself. His father was quite likely the ultimate exception to that rule. Albus trusted his father implicitly. If ever he were hurt or upset the one he would call for was his father. And for as long as he’d been able to pronounce the word, he had called his father thus, whereas, James had always seemed to prefer to call their father, ‘Dad.’
On several occasions his father had tried to encourage him to do the same, but each and every time Albus had steadfastly refused. It wasn’t until much later, only recently in fact, that his father had thought to ask why Albus wouldn’t call him ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’ or something to that effect.
The explanation had come easily enough.
“I love you, Father,” Albus began, “but I also respect you, more than anyone else in the whole wide world.” His arms came out to demonstrate this fact. “I can’t call you anything less than you deserve...” Albus trailed off, hoping that his father understood what he was trying to say.
His father had given him an odd look though, a strange furrowing of his brow, a small gnawing of his lower lip, before asking, “Al, why don’t you call Ginny ‘Mother’?”
Albus’ expression shuttered for a moment, before he spoke slowly, calmly, “We rarely talk. I don’t usually need to call her anything.”
The odd look increased for a second, before smoothing out entirely. “I see,” his father said.
Silence filled his father’s study, until his father cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “I take it you’re looking forward to Hogwarts?”
“Oh, yes, Father. Very much so. I can’t wait to be able to do magic!”
If his father found his thirst for knowledge strange in one as young as he, he made no comment on the matter. If his father never again brought up Albus’ feelings toward Ginny Weasley, who had provided half of his biological information and nothing more, Albus paid it no heed.
There were times, however, that Albus wished his father hadn’t married Aunt Hermione instead, if he’d been that desperate to have children. At least that way they’d have had the added benefit of a significantly increased intelligence, not that anyone could call any of the Potter children stupid.
Albus also had to admit that when Aunt Hermione made the effort, she could be quite stunning. It mattered little to him that she was of Muggle birth, she’d proved her aptitude as a Witch a million times over, and she was one of the very few Albus had ever known with whom he could hold a proper conversation.
Not many people would peg Albus as a talker given his habitual bouts of silence, but given the right incentive, such as the fountain of knowledge that seemed to be stored within his Aunt’s brain, he could babble to his heart’s content, voicing all the thoughts and questions, all the enquiries he wished to make, all the theories he himself speculated upon.
He similarly got on splendidly with Rose, Aunt Hermione’s daughter. She had evidently inherited her mother’s wit, and had had plenty of opportunity to further develop her sharp mind. They had wonderful arguments, in both English and French. While Albus referred to Rose’s mother as ‘Aunt Hermione’ and her father as ‘Uncle Ron,’ he did so not because they were technically related by blood, but rather because it was the Weasley family who had more or less adopted his father as one of their own. Albus also thought this reflected a bit oddly on Ginny, given that his father should’ve been something more like a brother to her. It served no purpose to place any blame on his father, however. He already knew all about the reasons for which he had married her, and even though he could see that his father was partially responsible, it was far easier for Albus to forgive him, given the circumstances, than it was for him to extend such a courtesy to her.
Still, the fact that the Weasleys were family, meant that Albus, as well as his siblings, had grown up spending quite a bit of time with Uncle Bill and his wife, Tante Fleur, and as such had been forced to learn French.
For Albus, it had turned out to be quite a pleasure despite his initial reluctance, and he found himself taking to the language with ease, unlike James who, while not particularly bad at it, wasn’t overly fond of speaking the language.
Albus thought again that his aptitude in this might’ve been due to his Parseltongue abilities. He knew for one that the Latin incantations for spells were exceedingly easy to remember once he’d spoken them using serpentine phonetics. This made Albus question whether it had been the same for his father. He wondered at this even more so if only because his father didn’t seem to possess any sort of gift for languages other than English.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t something he’d ever had the chance to query his father about, unless he wanted to reveal that he himself could speak the language of snakes…
Sitting silently, Albus realized that maybe there was a way around this. It was something he’d always pondered about, and if he asked about such a thing, it would seem to imply a lack of capacity on his behalf.
In short, all he had to do was ask his father whether anyone could be taught Parseltongue. Even if it couldn’t be done, it would have innocently opened up the topic for discussion, and his father knew all too well Albus’ curiosity once whetted was hard to quench. And if it could be taught, then maybe he’d have a place to begin…
Excited by the prospects, Albus hung his head forward, blocking his expression from the view of those in the room. Hidden, he let the smirk that had been lurking just beneath the surface break free.
He couldn’t wait ‘til everyone left. He’d still probably have to wait until the morning, if not later the next day, given that at the tender age of 11, he’d likely be sent to bed before all their guests took their leave. It was certainly something to look forward to however.
Content that he’d finally figured out a way to get around revealing his well hidden talent, Albus let his mind wander over a variety of other issues he’d been considering lately.
It was with great disappointment that he realized that quite a few people would be staying over, for various durations, particularly the immediate family, which meant he wouldn’t be able to speak to his father privately for some time.
Irritated, but determined to not let it show outwardly, Albus breathed deeply, reminding himself that he had all the time in the world. There was time yet before he would be heading off for his first year at Hogwarts; plenty of time to interrogate his father on his knowledge of Albus’ favourite language.
And if there was one thing that a snake understood best, it was when to strike.
ۍ
To Be Continued…