The thing about agreeing to do something terrifying two weeks in advance is that you have a whole fortnight to imagine every possible way it could go wrong.
By the Saturday morning of Geoff Creevey's Broomboarding for Beginners Club, Albus had mentally catalogued every scenario in which he could humiliate himself in front of Scorpius. And there were many, including seventeen ways Geoff could show off and make Albus look worse by comparison, eight different ways the weather could turn against them, and one particularly vivid scenario involving all of the above plus somehow losing his trousers in front of the entire school.
"You're catastrophizing again," Tim said, watching Albus push his eggs into increasingly elaborate fortification patterns. "I can literally see you plotting escape routes. You've turned your breakfast into a tactical map."
"I'm not plotting escape routes."
He was absolutely plotting escape routes.
The mushrooms clearly marked the optimal path to the Quidditch Pitch, while the toast soldiers formed defensive positions. "I'm just... considering my options."
"Right." Tim took a deliberate bite of his breakfast—a horrifying combination of pancakes, bacon, and eggs all drowning in maple syrup that made his surrounding classmates wince. Then he added, around a mouthful of pancakes: "And I suppose that sausage represents Scorpius?"
Albus quickly rearranged his plate.
"Your options," Tim said, gesturing with his syrup-drenched fork, causing nearby students to duck flying droplets of maple syrup, "are: go to the workshop and maybe impress Scorpius, or bail and definitely disappoint him."
"I hate when you're logical," Albus muttered. "It's very un-American of you."
Tim grinned. "Would it help if I said it louder and added 'bro' at the end?"
Before Albus could properly express his true feelings about Tim's particular brand of helpful sarcasm, Geoff's voice rang out across the Great Hall: "Alright, broomboarding beginners! Meet by the lake in fifteen minutes!"
Scorpius, already changed into what appeared to be proper Muggle skatewear—long-sleeved thermal shirt under a hooded jumper, cargo trousers, and (of course) elbow and knee pads all somehow color-coordinated in Ravenclaw blue—caught Albus's eye and waved enthusiastically, almost dropping his helmet.
Tim waved. "Well that's just adorable."
"When did he get those?" Albus muttered through his smile.
The lake, as it turned out, was already crowded with students. Professor Creevey stood off to one side, looking simultaneously proud and worried as Geoff addressed the group. Weak October sunlight filtered through clouds that threatened rain—because of course they did, Albus thought bitterly. Just one more thing to go wrong.
"Right then!" Geoff called, his prefect badge glinting in the weak autumn light. "Everyone got their boards?"
Geoff held up his own board—allegedly the original one—which now sported various protective runes along its edges. "Remember, no going higher than regulation height for beginners, and all safety charms must be double-checked by either myself or—"
"Or me," Professor Creevey cut in, his expression making it clear that this addition to the workshop was non-negotiable.
"Or my dad," Geoff amended smoothly. "Now, partner up with someone of similar experience level—"
Albus's heart did a complicated little dance as Scorpius immediately moved closer to him.
"—and we'll start with basic hovering. Just like learning to ride a regular broom, except with better style."
"This is going to be brilliant," Scorpius whispered, and Albus tried very hard not to notice how their shoulders were touching.
It was not, in fact, brilliant.
Regular brooms, Albus quickly discovered, at least had the proper decency to provide something to grip—a proper handle, for Merlin's sake. These bloody broomboards just hovered there like judgmental floating planks, daring you to step on them without immediately face-planting into the grass of the training pitch.
"Right then, it's all about finding your center," Geoff explained, his trainers crunching on the frost-covered grass as he moved behind Albus. Without warning, he pressed two warm fingers against Albus's jumper-covered stomach, making him startle like a spooked Kneazle. "Right here—that's your core. Everything moves"—his breath ghosted across the nape of Albus's neck, smelling faintly of peppermint—"from there."
Someone—probably a Hufflepuff—blurted out, "I need help with my centre," as Geoff strode over to Scorpius, his pale hair catching the late afternoon sunlight in the perfect way that it always did. Geoff's sure hands settled onto Scorpius's narrow shoulders, gently nudging them into position. "Like this, yeah? Feel how that shifts your balance?"
Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor and absolutely zero regard for fairness, Scorpius—lanky, perpetually clumsy Scorpius—got it on his second try. He wavered like a first-year's Levitation Charm but managed to hover steadily about six inches off the ground.
"Brilliantly done, Scorp! Natural talent!" Geoff whooped, giving Scorpius's shoulders an enthusiastic squeeze that made him flush pink to the tips of his ears. "Must be all that Seeker blood in your family, eh?" Then he turned to Albus: "Now you try—remember what I showed you about your center?"
Albus shot a withering look at his own board, which had thus far demonstrated all the stability of a drunk hippogriff during a hurricane. He was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent not thinking about Geoff's hands on his stomach. Or Scorpius's shoulders. Or anything involving hands at all, thank you very much. He had enough problems trying not to make a complete prat of himself in front of everyone without his traitorous brain adding to the mess.
"Here," Scorpius said, holding out his hand. "I'll help you balance."
And that... that was definitely not helping Albus's balance at all.
"I've got it," he said quickly, even though he definitely didn't have it. He stepped onto the board and immediately discovered several new laws of physics, none of which were working in his favor. Time seemed to slow as he felt himself pitching backward. He had just enough time to think 'not again' before something caught him—or rather, someone.
"Careful there," Scorpius said, his arms around Albus's waist. "You're supposed to fall forward if you're going to fall. Better control that way."
Albus made a sound that might have been agreement, or might have been his soul leaving his body.
"Here," Scorpius continued, apparently oblivious to Albus's internal crisis. "Let me show you—"
"Actually," Albus managed, extracting himself from Scorpius's grip with what he hoped was at least a shred of dignity, "I think I need to... adjust my... safety charms."
He fled toward Professor Creevey, leaving Scorpius looking confused and slightly hurt.
"Doing alright there, Potter?" Professor Creevey asked, though his knowing look suggested he'd seen the whole thing.
"Brilliant," Albus muttered. "Just brilliant."
From behind him, he heard Geoff say, "Don't worry, Scorp, some people just take longer to figure it out. Here, let me show you this beginner's trick..."
Albus seriously reconsidered his earlier rejection of that trousers-losing scenario. At least that would have been a faster death than this slow torture.
The autumn sun had climbed to its peak, and the growling of his stomach reminded Albus that everyone else had scarpered off to the Great Hall for lunch. Yet here he was, skulking by the lake's edge, pathetically staring down at his hovering broomboard. He squinted at it accusingly, as if it might suddenly reveal its secrets. The board remained defiant in its silence. Bloody hell! How could something so flat be so complicated? He had managed to hover for nearly thirty seconds near the end of class—a personal best that went spectacularly pear-shaped when Tim's celebratory whoop had sent Albus crashing back to earth with all the grace of a stunned flobberworm.
"You forgot this," Scorpius said from behind, making Albus jump.
"Merlin's pants, we need to put a bell on you or something," Albus blurted, then felt his face flame because honestly, who even says things like that? Next he'd be suggesting they tie little ribbons in Scorpius's hair or something equally mortifying.
But Scorpius just let out that ridiculous snorting laugh of his, the one that made his nose scrunch up. He extended one pale hand, offering what looked like a perfectly pressed square of fabric. "Your handkerchief. Well, technically my handkerchief. Which you borrowed. But now I'm returning it. All cleaned up, see?"
"Oh." Albus accepted it, noting how the emerald embroidered 'M' gleamed as pristinely as if it had just been purchased from Twilfitt and Tattings. "Thanks. Sorry about the, er, blood earlier." He resisted the urge to stuff the handkerchief in his pocket.
"It's fine. I mean, not fine that you were bleeding, obviously. That was properly awful. Well, not awful-awful, but—" Scorpius stopped, taking a breath. "You left rather quickly. After the falling thing."
"Ah. Yeah. I was..." Albus's brain short-circuited as he scrambled for any excuse that wasn't having-an-existential-crisis-because-you-touched-me-and-I'm-having-feelings-and-you-might-be-having-those-same-feelings. He landed on, rather brilliantly he thought: "Testing gravity?"
"Testing gravity," Scorpius repeated slowly.
"Yup." Albus hopped up and down once. "It's still working."
"I can see that." Scorpius smiled, and Albus's stomach did that flippy thing again, like he'd missed a step on the moving staircase.
Albus looked up at the sky and gave a thumbs-up. "Very reliable, that gravity—top marks."
"You know, you didn't have to come today. To the workshop, I mean. Not that I'm not glad you did! But I know you hate broomboarding, and—"
"I don't hate it," Albus cut in, then caught himself under Scorpius's knowing look: "Okay, fine, I do hate it. But..." He glanced down at the handkerchief in his hands, thumb tracing the silvery thread of the embroidered 'M' like it might spell out the right words for him. "I don't hate it with you."
"Oh." Scorpius's voice was soft. "Really?"
"Yeah." Albus risked looking up. He found Scorpius's gaze fixed on him. "Even if I did spend most of it falling over."
"You fell with style though."
"That's what Professor Creevey said. Well, sort of. More like 'uniquely creative dismounts.'"
"He's right." Scorpius took a step closer, close enough that Albus could see the tiny freckle just below his left eye. Albus promptly forgot how breathing worked. "Besides, I got to catch you. That was... I mean, I didn't mind. The catching. If you wanted to fall again sometime."
They both froze. Then Scorpius's eyes widened. "I meant—"
"I know what you—"
"Not that I want you to fall—"
"No, of course not—"
"But if you did—"
"Which we all know I would—"
They stared at each other, the lake lapping quietly behind them, before dissolving into slightly hysterical laughter that echoed across the water.
"We're really rubbish at this, aren't we?" Scorpius asked, running a hand through his hair until it stuck up in pale tufts.
"Spectacularly rubbish," Albus agree. His heart was racing, likely because he wasn't entirely sure what 'this' was, but he desperately wanted to find out.
"Want to be rubbish at it together?"
Albus's heart definitely stopped for a moment—or maybe three. He forced his suddenly- too-dry mouth to form the question: "Together-together, or just at the same time in the same place?"
The blush that spread across Scorpius's cheeks and down his neck was better than any answer he could give. "Maybe... maybe we could start with lunch?" Scorpius suggested, fiddling with the sleeve of his robes. "Together-together. If you want. The house-elves mentioned something about treacle tart today, and I know that's your favourite, and—"
"Yeah," Albus interrupted, probably too quickly to maintain any semblance of dignity, but he found he didn't particularly care. "Yeah, I'd like that."
They set off toward the castle, shoulders occasionally brushing in a way that sent little sparks of electricity through Albus's jumper, down his trousers. The autumn breeze carried the distant sound of laughter from the Great Hall, and Albus suddenly realized he was still clutching both the handkerchief and his treacherous broomboard like they were lifelines.
"I should probably give this back," he said, holding out the handkerchief.
"Keep it," Scorpius said softly, his fingers brushing Albus's as he gently pushed the offering away. "You know, in case you need to test gravity again."
"Are you implying I'm going to fall again?"
"No, Potter, I'm outright saying it," Scorpius added with that ridiculous grin that made his whole face light up. "But I'm absolutely certain you'll do it with style. Always with style."
And if their hands happened to brush against each other as they walked up the stone steps—once, twice, three times—well, that was just gravity testing them back.