Hugo/Scorpius
It was only with great effort that his fingers did not shake. He had no intention of needing a visit to the Hospital Wing himself for slicing one of them off. After all, he was only in this situation because his dear, wretched cousin had gotten himself admitted there.
Well, all right, that wasn’t quite fair, but Hugo wasn’t sure he wanted to be fair right now. It wasn’t Al’s fault that he’d been covered in his table neighbours’ exploded potion. It was, however Al’s fault that Hugo was being exposed to this particular form of mental torment.
Okay, so maybe it was technically also Hugo’s fault that he’d asked for extra credit in Potions. He was great with the theory, but quite terrible at the actual chopping, slicing, mincing, and whatever other awful manners that they had to break up ingredients. He wanted to blame his mother’s disastrousness in the kitchen for his inability to make uniform pieces, but she was great at potions, so that wasn’t going to work. (Although, his father had apparently been awful at this sort of thing too, and he was a kitchen master challenged only by Grandmum, Uncle Harry, and Auntie Fleur, so maybe that wasn’t a decent scale anyway.)
Either way, he’d asked for a way to improve his grade, and sitting in the Potions classroom after hours while deboning bats’ wings for the lower years’ supply cabinet was what he got. He swore that Professor Slughorn had it out for him, because it had proven far more difficult than the usual ‘cube this’ or ‘slice that’ or ‘two-inch sections of horrible animal parts.’ But that wasn’t even the worst part!
No, because his beloved prat of a cousin was supposed to be the one tutoring him, with his sly, teasing humour that usually made Hugo warm with affection. Al might have been a Snake, but his coils felt more like a nice, lazy hug. Instead, though—instead!—he’d been laid up with burns and boils, and he’d sent along his best friend (boyfriend? there was an ongoing bet among the cousins but no one knew for certain and Al thought it was too hilarious to clarify, the arse) to take over the lesson.
And so, Scorpius Malfoy was leaning on the desk beside him, chin rested on his hand as he watched Hugo intently. He looked the very essence of ‘at ease,’ but something in the half-lidded gaze of warm silver made Hugo feel like prey. He couldn’t quite figure out if being watched was better than being instructed, because Scorpius would lean in and murmur the instructions like a secret, warm breath puffing across his ear or cheek or neck.
Part of him wanted to freeze in wide-eyed, uncertain terror. A more distant part wanted to throw the tools in his hands and flee wildly back to the safety of his own common room. A more primal part of him wondered how it would feel against his neck and shoulder if his clothes weren’t in the way.
Hugo swallowed hard and took a shaky breath—definitely visibly, if the twitch at the corner of Scorpius’s lazy grin was being read appropriately—and tried once more to focus on the task at hand. He was dissecting detached animal limbs and that was gross and smelly and definitely not the place for weird thoughts, okay? He did not need to falter—again—and invite the actual worst part.
Because the worst part yet? Was the touching. And the talking.
Now, Hugo wasn’t touch-starved or anything. His cousins were a rowdy, snuggly bunch and he was always ending up as someone’s pillow when they studied together; he was apparently quite comfortable. His Housemates loved to bunch up in great piles on the squashy pillows and armchairs around the Hufflepuff fireplaces whenever possible. The adults in his life were always ready with a hug or a cuddle or an affectionate arm slung around his shoulders. But this?
It was Scorpius’s slim fingers, cool against the back of his sweating hands every time he slid them slowly over Hugo’s to gently correct his grip, his angle, his pressure. With a warm, encouraging murmur of a little harder or right there, you’ve got it or mm, yeah, like that or almost there, almost there.
It was every time his hands started to shake, and Scorpius would assume it was from overworking them and pry his messy fingers away to firmly massage out any pain, unbothered by the sticky blood and ick (even if he must have silently cleaned his own off when Hugo looked away). And that would get a wee lamb, working so hard or let me help or I’ve got you—any and all of which very definitely appealed to his Badger side, damn it all.
It was tucking back one of Hugo’s curls as they fell into his face as he chopped so that he didn’t have to worry about smearing grossness on himself or waste time trying to awkwardly do it with his wrist. That didn’t get a comment, just Scorpius tracing the shell of his ear as he tucked the hair behind it. Or intently twisting the soft strands around a finger. Or sweeping his hand all the way back and gently pulling down a few of the further curls, just to watch them spring back up with a sweetly amused stare.
Hugo closed his eyes tightly and just barely held in a whimper, bringing all his Weasley stubbornness to bear to keep from outwardly reacting. Was this intentional? Was he tormenting Hugo on purpose? Was it accidental? Was he actually flirting?
Al and Scorpius were always seen shoulder to shoulder or talking quietly with their heads tilted together. Maybe this was just how Scorpius was? Innocently encouraging with soft touches and gentle words? Hugo certainly hadn’t interacted with him more than a casual wave or nod in the halls or a ‘pass the rolls’ when he came around with Hugo’s wonderful, horrible cousin for big family dinners, so hell if he knew.
Regardless, Hugo was actually improving quite a lot on the technique to debone bat wings. And he only had seven left to do. Of twelve. Oh, Merlin, he was either going to die of combustion before he was finished or mortification when he had to leave. Hopefully Scorpius wouldn’t assume he got hard over chopping up animal bits, because...ew.
Only one thing was for certain.
He was going to kill Albus for this. Or possibly hug him. Maybe both, jury was still out.