Albus was riding high after lunch with Scorpius. (Not a lunch date—just lunch. Though their hands did brush seven times, not that he was counting.) He practically floated through the rest of the day's classes. The afternoon had only gotten better when Professor Flitwick returned their Charms quizzes and Albus hadn't failed spectacularly. "Exceeds Expectations" might be stretching it, but "Acceptable" was acceptable enough.
Even Tim, lounging against the corridor wall after class with that insufferable knowing smirk, had noticed. "Fancy some company for your victory lap around the grounds?" he'd asked, looking far too pleased with himself, like he was personally responsible for the whole thing. (Which he absolutely wasn't. Probably. Maybe.)
But Albus needed some quality time with his thoughts, preferably without Tim's running commentary about his "absolutely pathetic mooning." He wanted to replay every moment of not-a-date lunch in his head: the way Scorpius's knee had knocked against his under the table, how he'd laughed so hard at Albus's impression of Professor Longbottom that pumpkin juice had nearly come out his nose.
So he'd headed to the lake alone, feeling lighter than air—and he didn't even need one of those bloody, ruddy broomboards to manage it. Take that, Creevey and your "proper center of gravity"!
It took Albus embarrassingly long to recognize the hunched figure by the lake as Geoffrey Creevey. He'd never seen Geoffrey looking anything less than perfectly postured before—the prat probably slept with a textbook strapped to his back to maintain that ramrod-straight spine. Even during that spectacular row with his father last term, photographed in loving detail by the Prophet, he'd maintained perfect deportment while telling Dennis Creevey exactly where he could stick his camera. (And no, Albus was absolutely not going to think about anything "sticking" or "erect" in relation to Creevey, thank you very much.) Yet there he sat, shoulders slumped into a dejected curve, methodically throwing stones into the lake's dark surface with all the enthusiasm of someone serving detention with Filch. In other words, decidedly un-Geoff-like.
Albus's first thought was to walk away. After all, a sulking Geoff was hardly his problem. But something about the scene felt wrong, like seeing a sad puppy or a first-year crying in a corner. Besides, he was in a grand mood after lunch with Scorpius (again, not a date, definitely not a date, even if their hands did brush seven times—not that he was counting).
"Starting a row with the Giant Squid?" Albus asked, approaching cautiously.
Geoff started, then quickly composed himself. "Oh. Potter. Hi."
No 'Albus.' No cheerful, sunshine-and-unicorns greeting. No thousand-watt smile. Definitely wrong.
"Did something happen with the broomboarding club?"
"What? Oh, no, that's fine." Geoff threw another rock, this one skipping three times before disappearing beneath the dark water. "Everything's fine."
"Right," Albus drawled, channeling his inner Scorpius. "Because you usually look like someone's just told you they're canceling Christmas and replacing it with a month-long History of Magic exam."
"It's sweet that you care."
The smile Geoff shot him wasn't exactly friendly, but it wasn't entirely adversarial either.
"I don't," Albus said automatically, then winced. "I mean... look, is this about James?"
Geoff's next rock didn't skip at all. It just plunked straight down, rather like Geoff's expression.
"Tim told you?"
"Tim doesn't tell me anything. He just makes cryptic comments and expects me to figure it out." Albus picked up a rock of his own. "But I'm not completely oblivious. Contrary to popular belief."
"Could've fooled me," Geoff muttered, then immediately looked apologetic. "Sorry. That was... sorry."
"It's fine." Albus threw his rock. It sank with a satisfying splash. "I just put two and two together after that last Quidditch match." At Geoff’s quizzical look, Albus clarified: “The Microphone Debacle?”
Geoff nodded. Then, after a beat, his eyes lit up with realization. "That was you?"
Albus had the decency to look sheepish. "Guilty."
"Confundus Charm layered a specialized Discomfit Jinx." Geoff looked Albus over with clear admiration. "Well done. Color me duly impressed." Then he returned to skipping stones across the lake.
After a moment, Geoff let a pebble slip from his fingers and blurted: "He's not even that fit! Not really. Sort of. I mean..." He gestured vaguely. "You're cuter—"
Albus's brain stuttered to a halt. Someone—Geoffrey bloody Creevey of all people—thought him more attractive than James Sirius Potter, Hogwarts' golden boy? Then he remembered that odd compliment Geoff gave him earlier about his skin tone.
"—and you're gay. Or at least gay for Scorpius."
Wait, what? Albus froze at that. Someone—like Geoff!—thought Albus cuter than James Sirius Potter? Then he remembered the complement Geoff had given him on his skin once before.
“—and you’re gay. Or you’re just gay for Scorpius.”
“I’m not—” Albus started before remembering, yes he was. Both, in fact.
“I’m not—” Albus started before remembering, yes he was. Both, in fact.
“Either way, at least Scorpius likes you back.”
Albus's brain short-circuited at the words "Scorpius likes you back" echoing in his head like a stuck record, making everything else seem distant and fuzzy. Like a dense fog had rolled out from Geoff’s mouth, into Albus’s ears and settled on his brain. One big dense, sparkly, gay fog. He vaguely registered that Geoff was still going on about James, his voice cutting through the haze.
"—even asked him to Hogsmeade next weekend." Geoff's laugh was hollow. "He thought I was joking. Actually laughed and said 'good one, mate' before walking off with Alice Longbottom."
"Ah."
"Yeah."
They threw rocks in silence for a moment.
"If it helps," Albus offered.
Geoff cut him off. “It doesn’t.”
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it felt almost comfortable, like they'd reached some sort of understanding.
“I hear congratulations are in order? Tim's been practically bouncing off the walls all afternoon."
"What?”
“Apparently there was a lunch date?”
“It was just lunch—like we always have—not a lunch date. I'm going to kill him.”
"No you won't."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
Geoff laughed, sounding almost like his usual self. "Because you're not the wrong sort, Potter. Well, not for Scorpius, anyway. Nor he for you."
And that was Geoff Creevey all over, wasn't it? Even at his lowest point, he was still somehow making other people feel better. Albus remembered what his father told him about Colin Creevey being much the same way. Colin, the uncle Geoff never got to meet.
Albus felt like a right prat now. All those times he'd watched Geoff with suspicion, convinced he was trying to steal Scorpius away. All those moments he'd interpreted as Geoff "showing off" were just Geoff being... Geoff, a boy who fancied someone who didn't fancy him back. Albus knew that feeling intimately—it was exactly how he'd felt about Scorpius for so long. How many times had he missed what was right in front of him because he was too busy looking for plots that didn't exist?
"Neither are you," Albus said. "The wrong sort, I mean. James is just..."
"Dense?"
Albus reached out and rested his hand on Geoff’s shoulder. “The wrong sort.”
This time, when Geoff smiled at him, Albus found that he no longer hated that smile—or Creevey.
Though he still hated broomboarding.
But when Geoff asked, "Want to learn some advanced broomboarding tricks?" Albus answered with "Don't push it, Creevey."
But he didn't say no.
Epilogue.
Scorpius wasn't jealous. He was observant. There's a difference.
And what he was observing was Albus—his Albus, thanks muchly—spending an awful lot of time of late with Geoffrey Creevey. Laughing at his jokes. Asking for broomboarding tips. Albus had even defended Geoff when James made that crack about Geoff "trying too hard."
There had to be a reason. A plot. A scheme.
"Maybe," Tim suggested during breakfast, watching Scorpius watch Albus and Geoff swap various tips—Geoff on proper board maintenance; Albus on the finer points of cauldron de-rusting—"they're just friends now?"
"But why?" Scorpius demanded. "What's Geoff's angle? What's he planning?"
"Wait... what?"
"Oh yes, my American friend. Geoff Creevey is up to something," Scorpius declared, a maniacal glint in his eye. "And I'm going to find out what that is."
Tim's head hit the table with an audible thunk.
"Oh no," he groaned into the wood. "Not again."