Title: First Love
Author: writcraft
Characters/Pairings: Scorpius Malfoy/Harry Potter (unrequited), Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Rape fantasy
Other Warnings: Masturbation, Angst, implied past scarification, implied past D/s
Word Count: ~3,400
Summary/Description: Nobody ever forgets their first love.
Author's Notes: Thank you so much to the Mods for letting me shift my posting date, and to the Bank Holiday weekend for giving me writing time :D - Thanks to A for the quick beta read.



Father hates Harry Potter.

He makes a point of telling me, whenever he can. Today he mentions it over breakfast, his aggravation piqued by another article in the Prophet. When he places the paper down, Harry’s face stays upturned on the table between us.

He’s so handsome, it makes my heart ache. He waves and smiles, and I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from waving back.

I suck the jam from my fingers and resist the urge to pull the paper closer to take in every line of Harry’s face. His hair is grey around the edges and small crinkles appear at the corners of his mouth when he smiles. Laughter lines. His face is filled with them, and they’re the best thing ever.

“I assume you intend to spend time with Albus this weekend?”

“Probably.” I shrug, and father glares when I look up to meet his eyes. He hates the fact I’m friendly with Al because it forces him to spend time with Harry.

Sometimes, father’s lips curl when he spits out Harry’s name and he looks more like grandfather than ever. I wonder what happened all those years ago that makes father so angry whenever he hears Harry’s name or sees his picture in the press.

Sometimes I wonder if he gets angry with Harry because he can read my mind.

* * *

Harry’s hands are perfect.

His fingers flex around the Snitch and he snatches it from the clouds with a delighted holler. His thumb has calluses from flying and gardening. His index finger has a deep scar along the length of it and his left palm has a long line running from the base of his little finger to top of his wrist. His fingers are long and perfectly shaped, and they make me think all sorts of things that send a rush of heat to my cheeks. His hands are rough to the touch and his grip is always firm and sure.

Harry’s broom skims past me and he turns, holding the Snitch aloft.

“Catch it if you can.” He laughs, and releases the Snitch again. It flutters next to him still, its small wings brushing his cheek and he smiles. Even the Snitch likes being close to Harry and it dances in the air next to him, before zooming off into the clouds. I pull my broom up and chase after it. I can sense Harry close by and the thrill is exhilarating.

My heart fills with excitement and pounds harder in my chest. I’m so high my breath catches in my throat. I grip on tightly to my broom and imagine what would happen if I let myself fall. Perhaps Harry would catch me. I reckon he would.

Harry dives down to the ground and I don’t know if he’ll ever stop. I dash after him and shout his name, my words pulled from my mouth and disappearing on a gust of wind.

These days are my favourite kind, when the sun shines brightly and the sound of Harry’s laughter fills the air. He always takes time to fly with me and Al, even though he’s a top dog at the Ministry with a hundred and one things to do. I like to think that maybe he likes these days best of all, too. He always looks free and content, letting the sun heat his lightly tanned skin and flying with careless abandon as if he’s back at Hogwarts and Gryffindor are playing for the House Cup.

I touch down smoothly and watch Harry in the sky. He twists and turns and then he’s next to me, stepping off his broom and onto the grass. The Snitch moves to us and I reach onto my tip-toes, catching it quickly and letting its delicate wings flutter in my hand.

“Well done.” Harry grins, and ruffles my hair.

I want to hug him so tightly and never let go. It takes all of my effort to stand still and smile up at him. When he smiles back at me, the fond, open affection in his gaze makes me want to cry.

* * *

“Will you stay for dinner?” Harry nudges me and points to pot of stew which smells absolutely delicious. “It’s not quite Malfoy haute cuisine, but it’s pretty tasty.”

“I’d like to stay. Thanks, Harry.” We dispensed with Mr Potter when I left Hogwarts, because Harry thought it made him sound old.

“No problem. I trust your dad’s still working the house-elves hard?”

“Of course.” I smile, Harry smiles and the air hums with good humour. Being around Harry is the easiest thing in the world. Al always seems to laugh when his dad’s in the room and even James is less of a prat than usual. Lily adores her father and hangs on his every word.

You’d expect Harry to be a bit of a prick with all of the adulation, but it’s as if he doesn’t even notice. He just does what he thinks is best for his children and their friends, and makes the whole home feel warm and cosy.

I sit next to Harry at dinner and his leg brushes against mine under the small table. The heat from his touch makes me shift uncomfortably, and Harry leans closer still.

“Al’s birthday’s coming up. We’ll have to put our heads together to come up with a surprise.”

“Absolutely.” I nod, and suppress as shiver of delight as Harry’s breath tickles my ear.

I like being in on Harry’s secrets.

One day, I plan to let him in on mine.

* * *

“You’re late.” When I get back, father’s had too much wine and I can tell by his tone that he’s cross with me for spending too long with the Potters.

“We went flying.”

“I can see that.” Dad looks at my Quidditch boots and snorts. “I expect Potter was showing off as usual.”

“He’s pretty good.” I shrug and let it slide before I say too much and give myself away.

“Not as good as he thinks he is.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“I don’t care about him one way or another.” Father’s cheeks colour with light pink spots and his lips press tightly together. “He’s just not half as wonderful as everybody seems to think.”

Father told me once about Sectumsempra and showed me the scars on his torso. The mottled skin was rough to the touch and his story fascinated me.

The idea of Harry being dark interests me more than it should, and father’s stories have never made me dislike Harry. I look for that darkness sometimes when I’m around him, and devour pictures of Harry in battle when his chin is rough with stubble and his lips press together with grim determination.

I find myself hardening at the thought of Harry making rough demands, barking orders and casting spells with an easy flick of his wand. I know from the things Al tells me that Harry knows more Dark magic than people might think.

“He has to know, for his job,” Al said once, his face solemn. “But sometimes he still has bad dreams about the war. Does your dad ever talk about it?”

I didn’t tell Al that my father never talks about the war. He doesn’t have to. I hear him pacing the corridors at night after a particularly bad nightmare and there are still parts of the Manor he won’t go near. I never ask why, but I think I can guess.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Fine.” Father nods, not looking up from his book.

I trudge upstairs with a sigh, unable to help comparing the warm glow of Harry’s house with the cool civility in the Manor. I take out my books from Hogwarts and practice a couple of Dark spells. I know father wouldn’t approve, but I like the way it feels when the magic flares from the tip of my wand. I enjoy the rush of power it sends through my veins and I watch my spells curl and wind through the air. Finally, I let my wand drop and put the books away, my heartbeat strong and quick.

I strip off and put out the candles with a quick flick of my hand, waiting until I hear my father come to bed. He pauses outside my room, and says my name quietly. I expect he feels badly about being cross earlier, but I don’t want to see him – not at the moment. Instead, I hold my breath until the floorboards creak again and I hear his bedroom door click shut.

I run my fingers down my stomach and think about what might happen if Harry caught me practicing Dark magic. I picture him in his Auror robes, just like in the photo from the Prophet and I feel a delicious rush of heat when he tells me I’m in trouble.

I grip my cock in my hand and spread my legs, placing my feet on the bed and I close my eyes until all I can see is Harry. We’re in the Ministry and he tells me to bend over his desk, kicking my legs roughly apart.

“You know what happens to boys who play around with Dark magic, don’t you Scorpius?”

Oh, I know what happens alright and the thought sends another rush of pleasure through my body. I squeeze the base of my cock and steady my breathing. I want this to last.

He murmurs a litany of filth in my ear and it’s all dirty boy and spread your legs wider. I comply, pressing my feet down onto the sheets and curling my toes with pleasure. I rub my thumb over the head of my cock which is already leaking at the tip. My skin tingles with anticipation and I imagine Harry smacking his hand hard on my backside. Sometimes I have him punish me with his belt, or with something more than a couple of light smacks. Tonight I can’t wait to feel him inside me, my skin still carrying the scent of grass and broom polish – of Harry.

I Accio a lube which smells faintly of oranges and it combines with the scent of Harry on my skin; a delicious assault on my senses. I like the orange lube the best, because it reminds me of sitting in Harry’s living room and eating fruit, our fingers damp from the juice and the zest.

“Press your backside up in the air for me. Nice and high.” Harry spanks me again and his voice is gruff with desire. “You know what happens to naughty boys.”

“Yes.” The word falls from my lips with a hiss. I want Harry with every bone in my body but in my fantasies I fight him. I jerk away and plead with him, and it’s always no and stop. The Harry of my fantasies never listens and I don’t know why I always make him such a callous bastard. All I know is the idea of Auror Potter punishing me against my will makes me harder than anything else ever could.

The calluses on Harry’s thumb and the rough, raised skin from the scar on his palm move over my skin. I pull my hand from my cock and reach for the slim toy I keep in one of my drawers. I get it nice and slick and then press it against my hole, dropping my hand back to my cock.

I don’t push my toy inside just yet. I stroke myself slowly and close my eyes until I’m back in the room with Harry. I rub the toy along my crease and imagine Harry’s fingers teasing over me while I shiver beneath him and beg him to stop. He doesn’t give me much time to relax because it’s all about his pleasure and never about mine. My Harry likes it rough and in my fantasies he loses all control when he has me bound and naked in his rooms.

I stroke my cock faster and Harry unbuckles his belt. He’s always hung in my mind, like one of those porn stars in Muggle magazines. His prick is long and thick and it curves at the end. He spits on his hand and slides it over his cock. He doesn’t give a fuck that this is my first time. He just presses his cock against my hole which twitches and quivers beneath him as he spreads me wide open.

With one hard thrust, Harry buries himself inside me. I force my toy into myself in time with Harry’s movements and pump it, in and out. I angle it in just the right way to make my thighs clench and my face flush with heat. I stroke my cock faster and Harry tells me I’m a slut, but because I’m his slut it only makes it better.

I push the toy deeper insider myself and the motion of my hands leave me squirming in place until I come with a shout, Harry’s name lingering on my lips.

When I open my eyes, Harry disappears. All that’s left is my room filled with ragged breathing and my own hand, covered in warm, sticky seed.

My heart beating, I cast a spell to clean away the evidence of my activities.

After staring at the ceiling for a long time, I close my eyes and Harry fills my dreams.

* * *

It’s long after midnight when I wake up to the sound of voices downstairs.

“It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Well, you’re here now.”

I rub my eyes which are heavy with sleep and wonder if I’m still dreaming. The voice is unmistakeably Harry’s, and I open my bedroom door to try to hear the murmur of conversation from downstairs.

“Scorpius came over today. We went flying.”

“He said as much. I wish you wouldn’t keep him out so late, Potter.”

I leave my room and move through the dark corridors, stopping outside the door to the living room. It’s just slightly ajar, and Harry sits on the armchair my father always uses to read. He looks worn and tired, and I wonder why he’s here of all places.

“He reminds me of you at that age.” Harry gives my father the strangest look, and I edge closer to hear them talk.

“Yes, well. He’s my son. I imagine we share some similarities.”

“Will you sit for a minute? I thought we could talk.”

“Do you expect me to believe that you’re really here to talk?”

“Don’t.” Harry’s voice is terse and full of emotion and it makes me wonder if Harry hates my father too. I can’t imagine Harry hating anybody without very good reason. “Just don’t.”

“Forgive me for making assumptions. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come here making demands.”

“That was a mistake.”

“And will this be a mistake too?”

“I’m starting to bloody well think so.” Harry sighs and watches father pace.

“Five years is a long time.”

“Too long,” Harry agrees.

“Why now?”

Harry moves to his feet and he’s standing too close to father. My hands are hot and clammy and a wave of nausea rises in the pit of my stomach. I want to tell Harry to move back, I want my father to push him away and kick him out of the house. I want Harry to myself, not here with father talking in clipped, cryptic sentences, bathed in the flickering light from the candles burning on father’s desk.

“Because I miss you. Because I thought it would stop, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to miss you every day for the rest of my life.”

Harry’s words hit me like a punch to the stomach, and leave me shaking.

“I can’t do this again.” Father’s voice dips to a whisper and he sounds young and broken, and not like father at all. His shoulders lose their tension and he moves closer to Harry, like the Snitch in the sky – drawn to him in the same way everything is drawn to Harry.

“We’re old enough to know better this time.”

“Are we?” Father laughs bitterly. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be more than two lost boys fumbling our way through something we barely understand.”

Harry’s voice is measured and calm and his hand circles father’s hip. “Perhaps. But if I’m going to be lost, I’d prefer to be lost with you than without you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Despite his words, father reaches for Harry and clutches onto his shirt, pulling him closer. “I hate you, Potter. Do you understand?”

“I’m starting to.” Harry gives my father the sort of look I always imagined Harry would give to me one day and he brushes his lips to my father’s ear, his voice dipping into a rough whisper. “You can tell me you hate me as much as you like. It’s always been you, Malfoy. Always.”

“I don’t want any of this.” I wonder if Harry will push father like he pushes me in my dreams. I wonder if he’ll ignore his pleas and take what he wants anyway – I wonder if Harry really is that kind of man.

But Harry doesn’t push. His hands drop to his sides and he stuffs them into his pockets. He looks messy and awkward, as if he doesn’t quite fit in the room filled with expensive furnishings and father’s cool air.

The tension in the room is overwhelming and as much as I want to look away, I can’t stop watching Harry. When Harry moves to his knees, I nearly stop breathing and I’m quite sure the hammering of my heart will give me away at any moment.

“Draco…”

“Get up, Potter.” Father responds tersely but I notice his hand drops into Harry’s hair, and he twines it between his fingers. “That’s not what I need from you. Not now. Not anymore.”

“But it’s what I want to give to you.”

Harry looks up at father and the look in his eyes makes my chest ache. My throat constricts and I want to cry and beg them not to do this.

“I know you do, and you can. Get up, Harry.” Father’s voice fills with emotion and I know with that one reply, it’s too late. My final hope shatters as Harry gets to his feet and father kisses him with rough, urgent need.

The Harry of my dreams is nowhere to be seen. He’s every bit as strong as I always imagined, but he does things very differently. He lets my father tug off his clothes and unbuckle his belt, and his pupils dilate with pleasure. He bares himself completely and when he’s stripped naked I notice his chest is marked with scars. My father focuses on one in particular, just over his heart and he kisses it almost tenderly.

“You kept it.”

“Of course.” Harry’s voice trembles and I can hear my father’s hand sliding over his cock. “Do you remember?”

“Nobody ever forgets their first love,” my father replies, and it breaks my heart.

Everything shatters as I watch their hands move over one another with the familiar intimacy of lovers coming home. Every touch and stroke is practiced and finessed, as if they know one another better than they have ever known anybody else. Their bodies meld together with ease and history falls away between them with whispered murmurs of there and now and please.

It’s always been you.

I close my eyes to block out the images, and lean back against the wall as I struggle to breathe.

Nobody ever forgets their first love

I make my way upstairs quietly and pray my father is wrong.

~Fin~