HP Triangle

Christmas Magic for cat_itude [G] -- HP/GW/NL

2009-12-30T22:11:54Z

Title: Christmas Magic
Author: cyyt *
Recipient: cat_itude
Rating: G
Ship: Harry/Ginny/Neville
Warnings: None
Summary: Neville has always never felt good enough of Ginny Weasley. She knows that, and sets out to prove him wrong.
Author's Note: Hope you like it!(:

1994
One night of long ago. That was my chance. I snort.

How could I have competed against Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived. He’s been fighting You-Know-Who since he was born, and I can’t even Banish something properly.

Why would she choose me instead of him?

Pudgy, stupid, and weak Neville Longbottom wanting to win the affections of vivacious Ginny Weasley.

What a duffer.
---
2005
Ginny Weasley was one angry woman. She couldn’t believe her boss. Working on Christmas? Ridiculous!

If it was the one holiday Ginny adored, it would be this one. Some would even think that she took the meaning of family holiday to the extreme. She loved spending time with her family—it was the one day of the year that the whole Weasley clan would come together in the Burrow. And no employer of hers would take that away from her.

She huffed as she walked down the corridor to her superior’s office. Her anger completely clouded her thoughts that she didn’t notice someone coming down the hallway until she bumped, rather hard, into them.

“Sorry!” she gasped. “Neville?”

“Hi, Ginny,” Neville said as he rubbed his sore shoulder.

“I’m really sorry! It’s just that I was preoccupied…” she broke off, smiling ruefully.

Neville grinned back.

“What happened? You looked like a thundercloud there.”

“Nothing... Just some work stuff. Well, I’ve got to get going. Maybe we could meet up for coffee sometime?”

“Ye-yeah, that would be great.”

Ginny turned to walk away, then she heard Neville call her name.

“How about this Saturday?” he asked quickly.

Ginny noticed him tucking and un-tucking his thumbs into his palms.

“Why not? Madam Puddifoot’s at eleven?”

A smile broke out onto his face.

“Eleven. I’ll be there! See you!” He scuttled off.

Ginny smiled. At least someone was happy. Now, all she needed to do was to convince her boss to give her Christmas off.

---
Ginny rushed into the quaint teashop, having Apparated outside moments ago. She was late! Bloody work.

Actually, normally Ginny didn’t mind her work. It was just that recently, the workload was really piling up and she had had to work overtime the last couple of days. But she had promised Neville to be there, and here she was.

Neville was seated at a table in the centre of the shop. Though he was facing her, he was looking down, fidgeting with his thumbs again. He didn’t even look up when the bell over the door announced her arrival.

Ginny smiled. It was rather… cute how nervous he always seemed around her.

“Hi, Neville. I’m sorry I’m late,” Ginny said as she settled into her chair.

“Hi, Ginny,” Neville said. A loud silence fell upon them, despite the fact that the place was rather crowded by Hogswarts students.
“How’s—” Neville started.

“Do yo—” Ginny said.

A pause again, this time broken by Madam Puddifoot asking for their orders.

When they’d placed their orders, Ginny spoke up again.

“So, what are your Christmas plans?”

“Nothing much, ever since Gran moved to France. I’ll be spending it at St. Mungo’s with mum and dad.”

“Oh.”

Madam Puddifoot came back with their food and they ate.

“Your Christmas’ must be much more exciting, huh?”

“I love Christmas at the Burrow! All my nieces and nephews will be running about like we did when we were younger. The boys will most probably be playing chess or talking. Percy and Hermione will engage in some deep, philosophical discussion. Mum will be cooking, and dad getting underfoot in the kitchen. It’s the best!” Ginny’s lips curved upward as she remembered her past Christmas’. She caught Neville’s eye and bit her lip. “That was kind of insensitive of me, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no. I asked you and it sounds absolutely wonderful,” Neville said earnestly.

“Must be a Hogsmeade weekend.” Ginny quickly changed the subject.

“Yeah.”

“Do you know, I’ve never stepped into this place until today? Funny, right? With this place so crowded by students today.”

“Neither have I, actually.”

The rest of the lunch passed by with more amiable conversation. Ginny found Neville’s company rather enjoyable once she got him to relax and open up slightly.

When they were about to go in opposite directions outside the shop, Ginny had a spark of inspiration.

“Hey, Neville. If you’d like, maybe you could drop by the Burrow on Christmas. Just for awhile.”

“That’d be nice. Thanks, Ginny.”

---
Finally, it was Christmas. Ginny awoke to the sounds of her brothers’ voices downstairs. After washing up, she rushed down the stairs to greet them properly.

“Merry Christmas!” she exclaimed, running to hug each of them.

“Merry Christmas!” they chorused back.

Lunch was splendid, as usual, courtesy of Molly Weasley.

After lunch, she found herself playing Wizard’s Chess with Harry, Ron having gotten on diaper duty.

She was just about to check Harry’s king when Bill called her.

“Ginny! Neville Longbottom’s looking for you.”

“Neville’s here?” Harry asked.

“I sort of invited him over, seeing as his Gran’s moved to France and he didn’t have anyone to spend Christmas with,” Ginny explained. “Checkmate.”

“What!”

Ginny ran to the door, Harry following her.

“I can’t believe you beat me again, in a span of five minutes!” Harry exclaimed, behind her.

“That’s because your chess sucks.”

“Hey!”

She punched him lightly on the arm in response.

“Hey, Neville,” Ginny said.

“Nice to see you, Neville.”

“Hi.”

“Come in!” Ginny ushered. “It’s awful cold outside.”

Somehow, she found Neville seated next to her back in the living room, as the boys talked about… Quidditch.

The afternoon was one filled with warmth, though there was a snowstorm outside, the Weasley clan, Harry, Hermione and Neville crowded in the living room.

---
It was after dinner when Neville left.

Ginny walked him to the door.

“It was really nice today, Ginny. Thanks for inviting me over,” Neville said.

“It’s no problem. Share the Christmas spirit!” Ginny grinned.

“Well… er… thanks again.” Neville turned to go. Then, he turned back. “Would you like to…” From the living room, Harry’s voice called her. “Never mind. Bye, Ginny.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What did you want to ask?” Ginny persisted.

“Er… I wanted to ask you if you wanted to go out sometime after New Years’, but you’re going out with Harry. It’s not right.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You two are just so comfortable together, and you look good together,” Neville said. “I could never stand a chance.” He looked down.

“Harry and I… We broke up a long time ago, Neville. He’s in the past. And guess what? I realised… I like you now,” Ginny said, her cheeks turning warm.

“Huh? But you two…”

“It’s over.”

A grin burst onto Neville’s face.

“So I’ll be seeing you on the fourth of January?” Ginny asked, smiling.

-end

Turn for the community [PG] -- JP/LE/SS

2009-12-11T07:30:40Z

Title: Turn
Author: musamihi *
Recipient: community
Rating: PG
Ship: Lily/James, Snape
Warnings: None
Summary: When Severus was her best friend and guide, there was no question as to how he compared to James Potter, of all people. But a lot can change in seven years.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are drawn from Harry Potter, which I do not own.

It was Friday evening, with perhaps another hour of twilight left in the day. The weekend lay out in front of her like a sudden clearing in a thick forest, the first pause in the harried, unbelievable days that had been her first week at school. Lily felt like she was out of breath. It was all still so new and – well, magical - and so very, very different from home. She felt out of place in the vast, mysterious grounds. The hills swept away from the castle farther than she could see, farther than she had ever seen before; the sky seemed bigger, clearer, cleaner than it ever had been in the little town where she’d grown up. It was frightening, but it was exciting. Seven years seemed like an eternity. Surely she would have time to discover everything there was to know before she left again.

Severus looked out of place, too, but in a different way – as though he’d been gone too long and was only now remembering how to settle back in. Lily felt she’d been dropped in the middle of something new, something wonderful; Severus seemed to feel like he’d been brought home. She was a little jealous of him, which made her feel silly. But he already knew how to do so many wonderful things. He had already made a name for himself with the students in his House, even the seventh years; she’d seen him, all puffed up and pleased, accepting praise from that tall blond Slytherin prefect with the cruel eyes and the sharp mouth. Of course, he couldn’t eat with them or anything – he was too young – but she doubted if anyone outside of first year knew she existed, and while she felt like she was bound to be good at something here, so far she’d only just kept up with the rest of the class.

She sat down in the grass by the side of the lake, and Severus sat beside her. Almost instantly his hand came shooting down onto a newt in the mud, and he trapped it between his fingers and leaned close to the ground to watch it. Lily laid back and stared up at the washed-out looking sky, transfixed by its impossibly pale yellow color. There were no soot-spewing chimneys, no flapping clotheslines, nothing but free clouds and a gentle haze by the horizon.

“What do you think you’re going to be best at?” she asked after a few minutes of nothing but silence and the little squishing noises that came from Severus toying with the newt in the mud. Her anxiety about school was hard to shake, even out here where everything seemed too peaceful to be anywhere near the bustle of hallways and cramped classrooms.

“Dark Arts – Defense,” Severus said instantly, looking up from the ground with a smile that was almost smug. He pushed his lank black hair out of his face, leaving a little dirt on his forehead. “I know you’ll be good at it, too. I was watching you in class,” he continued, a little rushed, “And you’re really good. I can tell. You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Lily said, not really sure what she liked best, yet. Defense Against the Dark Arts was interesting enough. “But I think I liked Potions, too.”

“Oh, me too. I’m not surprised. Best friends always like the same things, don’t they?”

Lily smiled a little and looked back up at the sky, with a nod. She thought she was glad to have a best friend, here – she felt small enough that she’d get lost without one, no question.

+ + +

The Great Hall was almost empty, and absolutely silent. It was nearly curfew. Severus sat at the end of the table nearest the entrance, his books and parchment spread out across a space wider than he was tall. He’d insisted on studying here tonight, explaining to his classmates down in the common room that he needed more room for his papers. It was true – the OWLs might not be until next year, but he’d taken the professors’ warnings to heart and started preparing well in advance. He’d had other reasons, too, that he hadn’t seen fit to mention. His chances of seeing Lily here were slim, but they were nil down in the dungeons. The last couple of days he hadn’t spoken to her outside of class. She’d been strangely busy, and while it wasn’t so bad (he had plenty to talk about with his Housemates, of course), it felt like it had been far too long.

No luck tonight, either, he noted with a little frustration. In five minutes he and everyone else would have to be squarely tucked away for the night. He gathered up his books, feeling slightly sullen, and set out into the hall, towards the staircase that would take him down to bed.

At the end of the corridor, he just barely caught sight of a slender figure turning the corner, dark red hair disappearing after half an instant – the color of the trees he could see from the library windows in fall, distant on the hills and crossed with the iron window casements and distorted in the thick, twisted panes of glass, but always there and always recognizable.

“Lily!” His voice carried too far, too loud – but she appeared around the corner again, with a smile for him.

“Hey, Sev.”

He hardly realized he had run over to her until he was standing breathless by her side. It really was different, seeing her after they’d been so long apart. “Hey,” he said, suddenly conscious of the fact that the hallway was blessedly empty, and their little corner was dim and quiet and mostly out of view. “- Where have you been?”

“Been?” There was something wrong about the way she asked it. Severus was very good at telling when he was being lied to, and this wasn’t a lie – it wasn’t a statement, so it couldn’t be untrue – but it wasn’t genuine. She knew what he meant, and she was pretending not to. She didn’t want to tell him why they hadn’t seen each other. It gave him a terrible, sudden sinking feeling. He forged onward, eager to speak so that he wouldn’t have to hear whatever explanation she would give him.

“I’ve been studying a lot, personally,” he said, looking down at the books in his arms, trying to sound very busy.

“Oh, yeah, there’s heaps of work,” she agreed, her smile broadening. “I think everyone’s been stuck inside writing essays over the weekend. I’ve got about a ton of Transfiguration to get through.”

Severus straightened. “If you want any help –”

“Maybe later,” she cut in, looking slightly embarrassed. “We’d better get going, don’t you think? It’s almost curfew, we’ll be caught out.”

“Oh, is it that late? Yes – well – goodnight, then,” he trailed off, watching as she turned with a little wave and walked briskly on. He stood there for a minute, still, and feeling inexplicably disappointed – he didn’t know what he had wanted to do, exactly, but it had seemed on the tip of his tongue, and now … it would have to wait. Whatever it was. Only the sound of boisterous laughter coming up behind him in the direction of Gryffindor tower set him on the move again, and he disappeared down into the staircase just as a group of boys drifted past, filling him with dread.

+ + +

Groups of students passed in currents through the courtyard, or huddled in corners to exchange a quick word between classes. Lily tugged her scarf a bit more tightly against her face, and made her way slowly along the perimeter, where the crowd thinned slightly. She had nowhere to be, save the library – not her preferred hideaway for the afternoon, but she’d put it off long enough – and was eager to absorb what little sun was left in the day. The light left early this late in the year. It had already abandoned the edges of the courtyard; in the deep shadow under the colonnade, a little pack of Slytherins was hunched over together peering intently at something on the floor, all but obscured in the shade. Suddenly one of them gave a yelp, and fell backwards after hopelessly flailing his arms. The rest of them burst out laughing. As one leaned down to offer her scowling classmate a hand up, Lily caught sight of Severus. He was tucking his wand away, his face a careful mask of complacency. But she recognized instantly the dark gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that always appeared when he was pleased with himself.

She stopped, watching from behind the come-and-go of other students as the group disbanded, splitting off by years to go to their respective lectures. After a couple of minutes there was no one but Severus, who furtively drew his wand again and began to wave it in a complicated pattern at the flagstones at his feet. A gratified smirk was stealing out across his face now that he no longer thought he was being watched.

“What are you doing?”

At the sound of her voice he jumped, his shoulders tensing; one of the stones, which had begun to glow a strange purple color, faded once again as he pushed his wand back into his robes. She was taken a little off-guard by his reaction. It was suspicious, no doubt; and yet, it was hard not to compare him to certain people who seemed all too happy to be watched.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice curt and closed. It gave her a sinking feeling that had become all too familiar, recently; if he didn’t want her to know what his classmates had found so amusing, odds were she didn’t want to find out. She changed the subject immediately.

“Are you finished for the day, then?” She adjusted the stack of books she was holding under her arm uncomfortably. “I’m just off to the library; I’ve been really bad about keeping up with Astronomy the past few weeks, and now I’ve got to dig myself out from under it.”

Severus’s lip curled a little, but his tone was sympathetic. “I can’t wait until I’m finished with that nonsense,” he said, scuffing his shoe along the ground. “How on earth they’ve managed to fill up five years with it, I will never understand –”

“Reckon you’re used to that, though,” came a crowing interruption, echoing slightly in the open hall. A small, impatient sigh escaped her; she turned her head, in spite of herself, and found – as expected – Potter, looking like he’d just come through a gale-force wind. Pettigrew was half-running to keep up with him as he strode towards them. “All right, Evans?”

She very pointedly ignored him. “I think it’s because it takes ages to get through any of the assignments properly,” she said, turning back to Severus. “I spent a good four hours tracking down all of Jupiter’s moons, and I know at least half of them were off.”

“If you need help,” Severus replied, casting a particularly vicious glance at Pettigrew, “Potter’s got more first-hand experience than most with satellites. Not surprising, given the size of his head –”

“The trick is being able to fit behind the telescope, actually,” Potter retorted, with a grin so lop-sided it must have been affected. “Which I guess would be pretty hard for you, with that beak you’ve got. Were you actually born like that, or did you get it caught on something when you were –?”

“Alright,” Lily said, half to herself, when she saw that color rise up in Severus’s face and his mouth open to spit out a reply. She wanted no part of this; she’d seen all of it before, and it was nothing but a waste of time. Potter was insufferable, and, for some reason, whenever Severus came within five feet of him he became just as ridiculous. “I’ll see you later.”

She left before either of them could object, spinning on her heel and setting out across the muddied open plaza with her head ducked into the wind. It was strange, but when the two of them went at it like that, she almost always began to feel angry with herself - it was uncomfortable, and surely wrong, this gnawing sense of satisfaction that threatened to break through into a hint of a smile. There were times when it felt good to resent Severus, even if she could only do so vicariously. He was too close, almost always. When they spoke, these days, she had the decidedly unpleasant feeling that there was something he wanted to say but wouldn’t, something flowing under the surface of everything they did together; and she knew, on a visceral level, that she wanted nothing to do with it. The way Potter made him small was … wonderful.

And it made her feel terrible.

She looked over her shoulder, dreading the sight of Severus hastening after her, as he often did when she attempted to go off on her own – but all she saw was him and Potter quickly looking away, then shooting a baleful glare at one another before going their separate ways, as though they had forgotten what they were doing.

+ + +

James heard the dull echoes of his footfalls against the low ceiling of the earthen tunnel as he sprinted, light from his outstretched wand bouncing madly off the root-ridden walls, further and further underground towards the shack. He knew the slope of this place pretty well, by now, knew how far he had to go by the way the path leveled out and began to ascend again. The light reaching out ahead of him encountered nothing but emptiness. He began to feel a little sick to his stomach. Snape had probably gotten too much of a head start; he was probably too late. His heart beat too quickly, feeling high up in his chest. What would he find when he arrived? Did he even want to see? And then, this would be it, for Remus – he’d have to leave school, no question, through no fault of his own – and Sirius, too. His fear seemed to barrel forward into anger as he ran.

What the hell had he been thinking? Had he, at all? On some level, it was hard to blame him, because you couldn’t really argue that Snape didn’t deserve whatever he got – and they all liked a good joke, now and then – but tripping the slimy git down a flight of stairs or hexing his nose half off was something very different than making sure he got ripped to bloody shreds by a mad werewolf. He wondered, sometimes, about Sirius. He would never have said anything to him, of course; he was a good bloke, he knew that, if only by the way he had recognized his family for what it was and had the decency to split off. But … he had been raised by them, and their blood ran in his veins, and James could at times see some of their sharpness in him, some of their cruelty. And while Sirius only directed it at people who had earned it … Well, it was the sort of thing no one ever really earned, wasn’t it? Like this. There were lines that Sirius crossed that he didn’t care to approach.

Finally, desperate for any sign of life, he heard someone breathing heavily up ahead – but it was, as he had feared, too late. A wedge of light opened out into the tunnel as the door to the shack was pushed slowly open. He saw Snape’s skinny, hunched, coiled silhouette, saw him jerk clumsily backwards like a lurching insect as Remus – fully transformed, teeth bared, eyes empty – tensed and launched himself at the doorway.

”Impedimenta!” James shouted, aiming for Remus. It worked: the wolf jolted in mid-air as though he had run into an invisible wall, and the rickety door rattled in its frame, swinging half shut again with the momentum. Snape whirled on him just as James ran headlong into him, smashing him up against the wall, unable to stop himself in time. He felt the other boy’s wand arm struggling under him, and heard him draw in a breath. He struck out at his hand just in time to knock his wrist away, and Snape’s spell – nothing he recognized – connected with the ceiling rather than with his head.

Good thing, too, he thought, as the walls around them gave an ominous rumble. He heard a rough, angry snarl, saw Remus’s furiously contorted face flying closer once again – and then, everything went black.

He coughed weakly. There was something crushing down on his ribs. He began to panic. He couldn’t breathe, could hardly move; his hand was the only part of him that seemed willing to follow his order, and he groped for his wand, feeling nothing but loose clods of dirt and torn roots. That was when he realized, with just as much relief as horror, that he was buried. He began frantically to tug himself out from under the pile of debris, clawing into the ground for purchase. When he finally pulled himself to his feet, panting from the effort, he despaired of ever finding his wand. But luck was with him, and after no more than ten seconds of feeling along the floor on his hands and knees he found it once more.

“Lumos.”

Snape was just breaking free of the collapsed section of the tunnel himself. James could hardly see, his glasses were so caked with mud. A quick attempt to wipe them off with his equally filthy sleeve only smeared them hopelessly. There was a lonely, angry howl that seemed to come from far away – they were safe, at least from Remus. For now. He nearly tripped on Snape’s wand, and scooped it up before its owner could claim it. He’d done enough damage.

Snape brushed himself off, shaking his robes and sending large flakes of earth falling to the ground. “So,” he said, quietly, and James could perfectly imagine his stupid, smug little smile, though his eyes were flashing with anger in the dark, “A werewolf. What a surprise. Who ever could have imagined -”

“Shut up.” He pointed his own wand at Snape, and jabbed it in the direction of the school. “Start walking.”

“Came to watch, did you?” he spat back, staying right where he was. “Not content to picture someone getting mauled – had to come see it for yourself, I suppose? So sorry to disappoint –”

“I saved your life!” he shouted, incredulous. The injustice of the accusation stung him, and made him start to wish he hadn’t bothered.

“After you tried to kill me!” There was a desperate note in his voice, almost hidden, but undeniable.

It was Sirius’s idea, he almost said, but stopped himself in time. “I said, start walking.” He gestured with the wand again, not at all willing to let Snape follow him out. The other boy hesitated for a moment, and then set out along the tunnel with a determined air.

“I’m going straight to the Headmaster,” he said, sounding shaken, but gleeful. “Just you wait until he hears about this – you’ll all be gone, every last one of you – I should pack your things now, if I were you –”

“Shut up,” James said again, feeling nothing but contempt for his gloating. What the hell did Evans see in this little prat, anyway? The thought of her made him bring his wand to bear and fire off a stinging jinx at Snape’s heels. The way he scrambled forwards buoyed his spirits slightly, almost enough to shake off the cold, seeping feeling that the heavy ground was going to swallow them both up again. Let him go to Dumbledore, if he wanted. James almost wished he could be there with him, to see the rage on his face when he realized the Headmaster had known all along.

He let Snape run out onto the grounds ahead of him, not bothering to chase him down. When he had disappeared back into the shadows of the castle, James sat at the foot of the tree, his back pressed up against the spot that stilled the branches. He felt a little winded. The black tunnel opened next to him like a waiting mouth.

+ + +

The muted rustle of the trees and the dead rattle of leaves blowing along the road always reminded her of the beginning of the school year – and it always would, she knew, grow as old as she might. This little town, with its charming church and carefully planted rows of warm-looking houses, was nothing like the great vaults and expansive forests of Hogwarts; but the air, the darkening, clouded evenings, and the deep orange of the branches that stretched out over the tranquil little cemetery drew her always back into her time at school.

Harry was curled up peacefully (for once) in the sling that kept him close against her chest, no more than a tuft of soft, black hair and a small, tightly clenched hand. He had turned one year old, this summer. It had been years since she had last stepped away from the platform to board the train that would take her, once and for all, away from Hogwarts, which had changed so much for her.

And yet, even now, it was hard to separate the feeling of fall from the boy who had been the first to guide her ten years ago through the world that was now hers. The path he had chosen was horrifying, despicable. She believed she knew what had driven him to follow it – they had been friends long enough, after all, that she could articulate his failings, even if she couldn’t understand them. There was pity mixed with her revulsion. And sometimes she wondered, usually when the weather took this nostalgic turn into the descent of the year, whether she might see Severus again, someday far in the future, when this had all ended. She knew there was enough good in him, if his pride could be overcome, to pull him back from the mire he was in. James would tolerate it, even if she doubted he would understand the effort. He had a cleaner, simpler take on forgiveness than she did – which she found a little out of place, considering how very much he had changed in the recent past.

But, in truth, too much had changed. Any chance Severus might have had of returning to her as a friend had vanished a little over a year ago, when her son had been born. Her friendships, the redemption of men she had known and lost before Harry had come along, were second always to her new responsibility. She had only to ask herself if she ever wanted Severus, who had been capable of throwing his lot in with hateful, twisted murderers, to be a part of her son’s life – and she knew that she would not see him again.

It made her sorry. But the feeling faded as she walked towards home, to the father of her son, her fingers slipping lightly over the iron gate that passed into the graveyard as she turned the corner.

It's A Pity for triomakesmehot [R] -- RW/HG, HP/HG, HP/PP

2009-12-11T07:26:46Z

Title: It’s A Pity
Author: savepureness *
Recipient: triomakesmehot
Rating: I’d say R, to be on the safe side.
Ship(s): Ron/Hermione, Harry/Hermione, mentions of Harry/Pansy.
Warning(s): Oral sex!
Author Note(s): Two years post the trio’s graduation from Hogwarts, Harry is a heartbroken Auror-in-training, Ron and Hermione have an uneasy relationship, and when there’s whisky involved they all lose their heads.
Disclaimer: Characters and settings belong to J.K. Rowling, who was so kind to set a perfect playground for us amateurs; I thank her. There’s no profit I’m making out of writing this, no profit other than my giftee’s eventual pleasure.

oh, it’s a pity,
you already have a wife.
(tanya stephens: it’s a pity)

(i.)

Harry Potter decided it was high time he packed his things. The deadline for clearing the apartment was in two days, he remembered. It was his intention to be the first one to leave. His – he had to start thinking of her as “former” – fiancée was supposed to come back later on, the same day. He wanted to avoid another confrontation; he’d had enough of those.

Quickly, he began collecting his belongings. He started with the restroom, picking up two or three tubes and a stray towel; he decided to leave the kitchen alone. It was pristine, and not because any of its (soon to be “former”, as well) inhabitants was obsessed with cleaning; it was pristine because neither of them could cook. Thank Merlin for magic, or whoever invented it. Harry took a deep breathed and tackled his study. It was a small room. He had only used it for the long nights spent in the sole company of thick books. Nobody warned him that training to be an Auror was not always going to be a lot of fun. More was the pity, but he got used to it, to licking his fingers to turn the dusty pages easier, and then spitting the aftertaste, a disgusted look on his face. Pansy used to bring him coffee, after midnight; it washed the bitterness.

He chased away the thoughts of Pansy. After all there had been other things besides studying that had happened in the narrow room. Taking another deep breath, Harry shut his old, battered trunk, thinking the backpack should be enough for the small details forgotten in the bedroom. That was the room he had been trying to avoid.

(ii.)

“So?”

“Oi! Since when have you turned so tactless?”

“Since I’ve been living with this bundle of ingratitude!”

“Oi!”

It felt as if all three of them were back at Hogwarts again. Harry thought that he had missed their occasional harmless quarrels; by the looks on his friends’ faces, they were thinking exactly the same.

“Guess you’re slowly turning into an old fart, then”, he snickered.

His old buddy, his crony, his all-but-brother Ron Weasley had indeed gained some weight. One could easily see there was a certain plumpness gene running in the family, mostly visible in those who did nothing all day; just like Ron.

“Quite a belly you’ve got, eh?”

“It’s not!” Ron was almost furious, protective hands clasped on his small, round belly. “I’ve barely gained…”

“You’re fine”, whispered Hermione, hugging him silently from behind and placing a quick kiss on his cheek. “Now Harry. Unlike my lazy boyfriend here, you look pretty malnourished; what was the Parkinson bit – um – girl, doing to you?”

“You know, the usual. Slavery. Working after-hours. S&M and all that.”

“Harry!” Ron was scandalized.

“Just because you’re not into it…”

“What, and you are?”

Hermione blushed ever so slightly, but refused to answer. She turned on her heels and went straight to the kitchen. Soon the air filled with the delicious smell of fried bacon and eggs.

“She was a nice girl”, said Harry in a tiny voice. “We just weren’t – it wasn’t right.”

“See, Hermione, told you so, S&M is nothing but trouble!”

(iii.)

“So, are you planning on staying… how long?”

Harry glanced at Ron over his breakfast.

“If Hermione were here, she’d correct your topic.”

“Maybe, but she’s not. She’s off to the Ministry, of course. Every day she wakes up at 6, heads off at 7, and comes back Merlin knows when. I swear this internship is more important to her than I am!”

“Ron.”

Ron scratched his ginger head, sitting down awkwardly. He pulled his mug closer and cradled it in his hands. Harry noticed he looked disheveled, and not for having just woken up. His cheeks were almost hollow, unshaved, and that made a great contrast with the belly he had boasted with a couple of days before.

“Honestly? You don’t look very well.”

“Neither do you, mate. Neither do you.”

“I have an excuse”, retorted Harry. He felt he didn’t; Pansy didn’t leave him. They – he – decided it was for the best if they just – “Pansy…” – ended it. “There are times when I miss her, that’s all.”

“You’re lucky, then. I miss Hermione all the time.”

There are times when old friends, parted for a while, feel like they’ve never been away, like their lives just keep going on from the moment they left them, and walked on separate paths. It was one of those moments.
“We’ll make it through”, Ron went on, in spite of himself. “We’ll make it through.”

(iv.)

“Harry?”

The kitchen was drenched in darkness; and hot. Hermione squinted. She couldn’t see a thing. She couldn’t find the switch on the wall. Her wand was upstairs, and she was still half-asleep, too lazy to climb the stairs and fetch it down.

“Harry? Are you in there?” Her voice melted into a throaty whisper. “If you are, say –“

There was a quick swish, and then a trembling light traveled to the counter and stilled its shiver. Slowly, Hermione could make her friend’s features, first blurry contours; his face appeared worried, worn out. She stepped in the kitchen and sat directly on the counter, not worrying about her outfit: Harry had seen her in pajamas too many times before.

“It’s over, you know”, he broke the silence, his voice unsteady. Hermione’s eyes, adjusting to the darkness, spied the glass between Harry’s fingers. There was a sip of whisky still lying on the bottom. “Yet she won’t let go. She’s taunting me. I cannot sleep.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”

Harry gave her a nod. He drank the last sip of whisky. And he told Hermione everything he could think of at 3 a.m.; how it had started, and how nice it used to be; how surprised he had been to discover that there were Slytherins with souls, who were actually capable of love; how good the – he smiled – sex was; and how everything changed when Pansy’s father had stepped in.

By 4.30 a.m. Hermione had drunk two glasses of whisky herself. The bottle was almost done for, so they decided to finish it off, splitting up the last drops.

“To you”, Harry said, and he staggered to the counter, putting an arm around Hermione’s waist. He lost his balance and his head fell forward, leaning against her breasts; she exhaled quickly, surprised. “You smell… like… R-R-Ron”, he managed to articulate.

“I’m wearing one of his old t-shirts”, answered Hermione, quietly.

Suddenly, she dug her fingers in Harry’s hair, messing it. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, pulsing in her temples. “Forgive me”, she whispered; she leaned on, feeling for his mouth; the candle had burnt half an hour earlier. Her fingers found his lips. They traced their contour. Harry opened his mouth and poked his tongue out, teasing. He sucked hard at Hermione’s index finger, and then his hands were on her breasts, under Ron’s t-shirt; he felt her nipples going rock-hard under his caress.

“You should forgive me.” The words came out muffled, for he urgently pressed his mouth over one of Hermione’s nipples, tasting it; it had a vaguely salty taste; he loved it. He rolled his tongue over it till he felt her fingers crushing his ears, and squeezed the other nipple in response. Hermione stifled a moan in her throat.

Under the cover of blurry darkness, Harry groped under the long t-shirt, eager fingers pulling at Hermione’s panties; fingers that had been dipped in whisky – their touch burned. He kneeled. Hermione pushed and pulled at his hair, her eyes closed, circles of red light dancing within the shelter of her eyelids. When Harry’s tongue reached her, licking ever so slightly, she curled her fists and dug her nails sharply in her own flesh; her back arched; Harry’s tongue followed the shape of her folds, then began circling the very core of her desire.

Hermione bit her tongue till she tasted fresh blood.

(v.)

They never said a thing, yet they were certain that Ron knew something; suspected something.

He kept being unemployed, his girth kept growing, Hermione kept being absent, and Harry kept trying to persuade himself that he was getting over Pansy. He took up cooking in the house, in the spare moments allowed by his otherwise intensive study. It wasn’t long till he started being absent as well: finally, after months of reading thick books and getting nothing but a sore bottom in exchange, the Aurors-to-be were being called in for the “real” deal.

Harry had to check in every morning at the Ministry. He’d often meet Hermione in the lift; on the hall; outside, sipping from a huge cardboard glass filled with tea. They smiled to each other, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes longing.

“You should leave him, Hermione.”

It came out of nowhere. He wasn’t even sure he had really uttered the words. And it was such a fine day outside, late September, no rain but a constant falling of multicolored leaves. One of them, a rusty one, landed on Hermione’s shoulder. Harry took it; Hermione flinched.

“I can’t.”

“He’s not so helpless anymore – I even think that, if you could let him go –“

“I’d do what, Harry? Start something with you?” She looked away, pursing her lips. “He loves you, Harry, he trusts you, and you’re everything he’s ever wanted to be. Don’t take that away from him. And I – I love you too. I always did.”

“How?”

Hermione kept silent. She slowly turned to Harry; her hazel eyes were watery; her chest heaved.

“Never ask me this question again. I do love Ron, too.”

(vi.)

Once upon a time, there were three friends who didn’t know that they could keep each other’s love if they learned how to fully share it.

THE END

Authors & artist revealed

2009-12-04T05:21:32Z

The authors and the artist who participated in this year's Trianglefest have been revealed. If you haven't noticed yet, the names are now on the posts.

I will be posting a master list as soon as the last three pinch hits are in. For now, you can check out the memories for the list of the current entries.

Announcements, etc.

2009-11-29T02:42:20Z

Authors and artists will be revealed on December 1 (Tuesday). I apologize for having taken this fest too long to wrap up. Thank you, everyone, for bearing with me. I am surprised that no one chewed me out (yet). Instead, I've received a lot of supportive e-mails from you. Thank you very much. I wouldn't have endured this long without them.

Although this pains me to make this request, I cannot simply leave these participants without the fic/art they deserve. Once again, I'm calling out for pinch hitters. The last ones, I promise.

1. Any combination of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Cedric, Draco, Ginny
2. Ginny/Harry/Neville
3. Harry/Ron/Hermione or Harry/Draco/Hermione

PM me with the number you'd like to claim, and I'll reply with the details.

Thank you for participating in Trianglefest 2009.

Send Me an Angel for larasaku [PG-3] -- HP/DM/SS

2009-11-26T05:29:49Z

Title: Send Me an Angel
Author: flaminia_x ★
Recipient: larasaku
Rating: PG-13
Ship: Harry/Draco/Severus
Warnings: None, really, except one small implied threesome. Barely
noticeable.
Summary: Severus figures out his heart's desire.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompt: two characters get sent backward or forward in time and begin to fight over the third character. I do hope you forgive my tweaking of the prompt, but it seemed to work out better this way. Semi-loosely based upon the lyrics to The Scorpions' "Send Me an Angel," included below.

Send Me an Angel

"Well, isn't this interesting."

Severus Snape tentatively stepped out of the doorway and looked around.

The musty hallway didn't seem to have changed much, but the changes were there - perfectly obvious to someone who had spent as much of one's life at Hogwarts as he had. The tapestries were a bit more worn, there was a new portrait on one of the walls, and one window off to a side had a crack in it that he knew quite well hadn't been there ... before.

Severus knew exactly where he was, just not when he was.

Sighing, he gathered his robes around him and stalked down the hallway.

If this was where that blasted portal sent him, then he was reasonably assured of his safety, and besides, he desperately needed a cup of tea.

Preferably with a shot or two of something stronger in it. But he had to know how much further into the future he had been sent, and there was only one place that would hopefully give him both some tea and some answers. To the Headmaster's office it was, then.

"Ah, dear Severus, I was wondering when you might reappear." The drowsy portrait of Albus Dumbledore sparked to life as Severus walked in unannounced. Whoever the Headmaster was these days was dreadfully lax on security, but there was no time to fume about that now.

"Albus," Severus greeted his old mentor, then flopped into a rather cosy-looking armchair. “I don't suppose you have the power to summon one of the house elves for some tea, do you?”

Dumbledore winked and snapped his fingers. Immediately, Winky popped into sight, rubbing her hands together and staring at the sight of Severus Snape slumped by the fire.

“Prof – Professor Snape sir?” she stammered, looking confused.

“It's alright, Winky, it is Professor Snape, and I believe he is hoping for a nice hot cup of tea, perhaps with a bit of that Old Ogden's in it? You know the bottle I'm talking about. Can you do that for him, Winky?” Dumbledore asked.

“Oh, yes, yes sir, Winky will be right back,” she exclaimed and with an audible crack, she disappeared.

“So, Albus, here I am. Still at Hogwarts. Perchance, could you tell me the year, or is that too simple a question to ask?” Severus griped.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Oh, Severus, I'm so glad to see the years haven't changed you. But then again, years haven't gone by for you, have they?”

Severus sneered up at the portrait. “Given that yesterday I was sitting in this office and it was mine, I'd have to say no. When is it, Albus?”

“It's 2018, Severus. If my calculations are correct, you've jumped twenty years into the future.”

***

2018. Yesterday, he had been the Headmaster at Hogwarts. Yesterday, it had been 1998. Yesterday, Voldemort had perished at the hands of Harry Potter, and yesterday Severus had crawled, weak and trembling, into the Headmaster's office and begged Dumbledore to help him, just one last time. “Tell me what to do, Albus, I wasn't supposed to survive … I don't know how to live in this world ...”

Seeing his broken friend kneeling in front of him, Dumbledore had taken pity on him, and casting a small spell, one of the few left to his portrait self, the air in front of Severus shimmered, revealing the Mirror of Erised.

Severus raised his head, shaking. He saw the Mirror, saw what he desired most in the world. Too tired, too weak to rail against it, he bowed his head, accepting the truth of the sight. The mirror's surface shimmered and rippled, disappearing into a soft white light.

“Go, Severus. It is your time,” Albus whispered.

Slowly, Severus crawled through the mirror.

***

“2018. Am I – am I still ... have I aged? I – I didn't see, in the Mirror … it was all a blur ...” Severus said quietly.

“You appear the same to me – although in remarkably better health,” Dumbledore replied. “I would imagine that no time has passed for you, or at least only what time was sufficient for you to heal.”

Severus stared at the fire, barely noticing when Winky reappeared, carrying a tray laden with scones, biscuits, clotted cream, a very large pot of tea, and half a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhisky. At Dumbledore's nod, she sat the tray down on the table next to Snape and quietly Disapparated.

“Severus … you should eat something. At least drink your tea,” Dumbledore cajoled. Staring off into the distance, Severus fixed himself a cup of tea, pouring a large helping of Firewhiskey into his mug. Gulping it down, he fixed himself another … and promptly fell asleep, his biscuits forgotten by the fire.

“Oh, Severus, my poor boy,” Albus whispered, staring down at his former student and colleague. “I can only imagine what you saw in the Mirror that day, but whatever brought you here was strong, strong indeed. I hope it was worth it. Sleep now. You will find answers in the morning.”

***

“I'm telling you, Harry, I don't know why he's here, or where he came from,” an exasperated Draco spat as he walked into the Great Hall the next morning. Neither one of them spared a passing glance for any of the students that greeted them; instead, they marched to the head table in a huff, arguing quietly.

“Good morning, Headmaster,” Professor Sprout said cheerily to Draco as he poured himself a particularly large cup of tea. Nodding her way briefly in acknowledgement, he immediately turned his attention back to Harry and stirred in twice as much sugar as he normally took, distracted by Severus
Snape's sudden reappearance.

After the battle had ended and the furor had died down, life gradually returned to normal. Harry had taken a few years off, done some traveling, and later returned to Hogwarts as the Defense against the Dark Arts professor. Ginny had opted for a professional Quidditch career, and Hermione and Ron had married and become Aurors. Surprisingly, Draco Malfoy had become quite the potions specialist, restoring his family's name to some level of respectability by making near-miraculous improvements to Wolfsbane. After a stint as the Potions professor at Hogwarts, during which he and Harry had not only not killed each other but become quite good friends, he had been elected to Headmaster upon the death of Minerva McGonagall some five years earlier. But all anyone had ever known about Snape after the war was that he had been injured by Nagini. His body was never recovered, but no one could fathom a way in which he might have survived. His whereabouts were, quite simply, the biggest mystery in wizarding Britain, at least until now.

Draco had come in early the next morning to get ready for the day. He and Harry had been tucked away as usual in the other man's quarters, ostensibly grading this week's essays but in reality using the time for more personal purposes. While most of the faculty was aware of the true nature of Harry and Draco's relationship – had to be, after ten years – they thought it best to keep their personal life very, very private.

To his surprise, Severus Snape was curled up in a ball in his best armchair, a tray of uneaten food sitting by his side. Dumbledore's portrait was of absolutely no help – Draco tried to rouse the old wizard, but he only snored louder. His ruse fooled no one, but no matter what Draco did, Dumbledore would not respond. Draco's only option was to place an afghan gently around his former mentor and Floo-call Harry, who ran through half-dressed to stand next to Draco, staring down at the sleeping man.

They had little time to spare before breakfast, and Severus seemed more than willing to remain completely asleep, so they hurriedly finished their morning ablutions and, having put a series of confinement charms on the rooms, rushed off to the Great Hall, murmuring heatedly under their breath.

Harry, of course, had immediately asked Draco where Severus had come from, but Draco had no answers for him. To be honest, Draco was feeling rather more than a bit shocked. Between Harry and himself, it had always been Draco that was convinced that Severus had died, his body hidden or
destroyed by someone in a fit of revenge after the battle. But Harry had been equally convinced that somehow, Severus had managed to survive.

Draco had sneered at Harry, had said contemptuously that he only wanted Severus to be alive so that he didn't have to feel bad about their longstanding hatred for each other. At first Harry had ruthlessly denied it, turning the tables on Draco and saying that he only wanted Snape to be dead so that he had no reminders about his Death Eater father. But after months of fighting, they had both grudgingly acknowledged that there was a bit of truth in both their statements. After that, they were able to talk
more rationally about Severus, and found that while they certainly had different kinds of memories about the man, they shared a mutual respect for him now, a respect that quickly blossomed into one for each other.

They had actually joked once that Severus had been their matchmaker, albeit not in person.

But just because they had found that they both cared for the man, even shared a mutual attraction for him, they definitely did not agree about his being dead, an argument that caused strife between them every year on the anniversary of the Battle. Because there had never been a body, Severus had never been declared legally dead. Harry, convinced the man was still alive, wanted to push for further Ministry investigations, Aurors, Unspeakables – anything that would help figure out where Severus was.

But Draco vehemently disagreed, saying that the man was dead, and to act otherwise was a disgrace to both his life and death. Instead, he wanted to have Severus finally declared deceased, so that maybe in death he could have some peace.

Today, Draco had been proved very, very wrong.

Pouring himself a second cup of tea, he turned to face Harry at the head table. “Alright, alright, I give up. You were right, he's alive, and I was wrong. Okay?”

“Look, Draco, I wasn't trying to rub it in or anything – I'm just as confused as you are.” It was a mark of how distracted both men were that Harry almost reached over to hold Draco's hand, flinching back at the last second.

Draco sighed, reaching for more toast. “I know, Harry. I'm sorry. It's just that I was so sure ...”

“I know, love,” Harry whispered. “I can't say as I'm sorry to see him though. But are you okay?”

Draco smiled fondly at Harry. “Yes, I actually am. It's just a shock, that's all, but I'm okay, I promise.”

“Good,” Harry said firmly. “Then right after breakfast, I suggest we figure out exactly what's going on.”

Draco chuckled as he finished the last of his tea, grimacing at its sweetness. Leave it to Harry to need another problem to solve. Turning to Professors Sprout and Bones, he hurriedly discussed the day's plans with them, and then briefly spoke with Madame Pomfrey on his other side.

Finished, he raised an eyebrow at his partner, and the two rose in tandem, heading back to the Headmaster's quarters.

***

They found Severus wide awake, the tray of scones and pastries from the previous evening completely clear of even a trace crumb. He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, speaking with Dumbledore when they entered the room. Turning hastily toward them, he stopped, staring.

“You,” Severus whispered, his brow furrowing in recognition. “You – and Potter. Oh … oh no ...”

“Yes, Prof – Sev – uh, I mean, Mr. Snape, sir,” Draco said cautiously.

“Would you like to sit down?”

Severus fell most ungracefully into the same armchair he had slept in, robes and legs akimbo, staring at his two former students before he dropped his eyes to his twisted hands.

Waving his hand, Draco conjured up a fresh pot of tea – he'd make sure not to put so much sugar in it, this time – and poured out for the three of them.

“There now,” Draco said as he sent the cup floating over to Severus. “Do you feel up to talking with us a bit, or do you require some food?” “I – I -” Severus stammered, most unlike him. Clearing his throat, he closed his eyes, then opened them deliberately. “No, I'm quite alright,
thank you.” Sipping his tea, he focused very hard on not letting his trembling hands show.

Harry and Draco glanced at each other for a second, a world of conversations passing unspoken. “Sir,” Harry began tentatively, “I wonder if we might ask … well, where you've been all these years.”

Severus snorted, almost dropping his tea.

Mistaking his humour for derision, Draco hastened to explain. “You don't really have to tell us, sir, it's just that we all thought you were dead – well, I did, anyway – but no one could find your body -”

“Obviously because there was not one to find, Mr. Malfoy,” Severus said shakily, his words an empty parody of themselves.

“Well, yes, obviously,” Draco continued. “How is it that you managed to hide away all these years? I mean, we looked – it was months before we called off the search. And you … you look like you haven't aged a day ...”

“That's because it's only been a day for me, you twit,” Severus responded hollowly, his fingers twitching around the handle of his cup.

Harry started. “What do you mean, only a day? You've been gone for twenty years, sir!”

“No, actually, I haven't,” the man replied. “For me, it's May 3, 1998. I am thirty-eight years old, and you, Potter, defeated the Dark Lord yesterday.”

Draco and Harry gasped and looked at each other in surprise. “How – how is that possible, sir,” Draco whispered.

“I can't tell you,” Severus whispered back.

“You mean you don't know how you got here?” Harry asked.

“No, I mean I won't tell you,” Severus snapped, eyes darting up to his former students briefly before returning to his lap.

“Severus,” the portrait of Dumbledore rumbled, “it does you no good to hide.”

“What's he talking about, sir?” Draco asked.

“Severus,” Albus said compassionately, “You have faced more fear than anyone I've ever met, and all without a single word of complaint. I never asked you what you saw in that Mirror, but whatever it was was powerful, and you accepted it. You came here. But what good does it do you if you do not face your desires as well? You are alive, you are free – not just to live, but to be happy.”

Severus exhaled, slowly bending his head over his clenched fists almost like prayer. “Albus ...”

“Severus, accept it. It's alright,” the old professor whispered.

Harry looked at the tired man in front of him. He rose and crossed the room, kneeling down and putting his arms around him. Severus sobbed, one wracking cry, and clung to Harry, shaking. Draco swiftly followed, squatting next to Harry and rubbing Severus' back in soothing circles.

“Shh, sir – Severus, it's alright,” Harry whispered in the man's ear, brushing his hair out of his tear-covered face. Draco echoed Harry's words, reaching out and taking hold of one of Severus' hands.

“Please, Severus, tell us what happened,” Draco murmured.

Severus' body shook as he forced himself to take several deep breaths, calming himself enough to speak. Head resting on Harry's shoulder, he closed his eyes. “I was hurt. Very badly. I managed to make it back here to my office, and … I begged Albus to help me, to figure out what I was supposed to do. He showed me the Mirror of Erised. It … it melted, or transformed – I crawled through it. It brought me here.”

Harry's arms tightened around the man. He had seen the Mirror, knew the powers it contained. Dumbledore was right – whatever Severus had seen had to have been amazingly powerful. “What – what did you see, sir?” he asked, barely audible.

“You.” Severus raised his eyes to Harry's, shuddering when they widened in shock. Turning his eyes to Draco, he said, “And you.” Draco breathed in, as surprised as Harry.

“What do you mean, sir?” Draco said quietly.

“I saw you. Both. You two were apparently my heart's desire. And stop calling me sir – we're the same age now, if you haven't noticed, and it's a bit odd,” Severus said, his voice muffled in the collar of Harry's robes.

“Oh – oh,” Harry said, looking at Draco. “You wanted … us? Both of us?”

“Yes,” Severus said in embarrassment.

“Oh,” repeated Draco. He and Harry had another wordless conversation across the top of Severus' head. Almost immediately, they reached a silent agreement, smiling at each other lovingly.

Turning to Severus, Harry gently cupped his chin, pulling his head up so that he was forced to look at them both. “Severus – we want you, too.”

Pulling the man down with them onto the floor, the two proceeded to convince their former professor just how much they meant those words.

From above, Albus Dumbledore looked down on his former students, smiled, and pulled the curtain across his portrait. Sometimes, even Headmasters needed privacy.

FIN

Birthday Presents for scarletladyy -- AG/DM/PP

2009-11-26T05:14:52Z

Title: Birthday Presents
Author: seraphimerising ★
Recipient: scarletladyy
Betas/First Readers: T & S -- you are my saving graces yet again 0:)
Prompt: Draco's wife, Pansy Parkinson, has been sneaking around a lot lately with his ex-girlfriend, and he's determined to find out why.
Warnings: Infidelity
Summary: Asteria and Pansy have been planning to make Pansy's and Draco's birthday wishes come true. To bad that Asteria is a pain in Pansy's arse.
A/N: scarletladyy - I hope you enjoy this as it's more a triangle and/or square and/or several triangles depending on how you look at it. I'm not sure how your prompt inspired this but I loved the plot bunny that it sent my way. I had so much fun writing this.

Birthday Presents

"And you are absolutely, positively sure that you want him? Because if this a joke Asteria, then I will hex you back to Paris."

"I'm as sure about him as you are about Weasley, though I maintain you might need you head examined more than I regarding our taste in men."

Pansy studied Asteria Greengrass daintily sipping her tea, still befuddled that anyone would actually want her husband. It wasn't like she didn't love him. She had been in love with him since they were kids. It was more that she really didn't like him, though she did like a certain red-headed Weasley and that was more than she ever felt towards her husband.

Still confused, she asked again, "So explain to me again why you would want him? You did catch him in bed with the Patil twins while you were with him last time?"

"Which I believe you set up?" Asteria purred, setting her tea cup down.

"And if I did?" Pansy smirked, thinking that this silly little idea they came up with a couple of months ago may actually work; as long as Asteria was sure she wanted Pansy's arse of a husband. "Why come to me now?"

"Because I never thanked you for removing him from my side when I wanted to see the world and he wanted a wife."

"And that's why you nearly killed him when you discovered him in bed with two someones not you?"

"Just because I wasn't ready to be his wife, doesn't mean that I didn't love him."

"And now?"

Asteria smirked, "Well I want a husband.."

"But what about children?" Pansy asked, wanting to make sure that the girl knew what she was getting into marrying Draco with his inability to produce children after having an heir.

"Scorpius is fine but I never was one to actually want to have my own children."

"And you are absolutely, positively sure..."

"I'm well aware, Pansy, of the Malfoy curse," Asteria laughed, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Actually made me thankful for you taking him off my hands. So speaking of why I want Draco and you want Weasley, you actually want more?"

"Yes," Pansy replied, leaning back. "Let's just leave it as I don't understand why you don't want them and you don't understand why I would want more."

"Deal. So I get you Weasley and you give me Draco?"

Biting her lower lip, Pansy leaned forward and said, "Deal. Draco is easy, but how the hell are you going to get me Weasley? I can't get that man to look my way for longer than five minutes without staring at his wife or her coming up in conversation."

Asteria picked up her tea daintily and smirked, "All you have to do is being your charming self the next time you see him and he's yours."

"So what makes next time so bloody different?" Pansy narrowed her eyes. If she was going to give up the Malfoy money, then she wanted to make damn sure she got the Weasley virility in return.

"It turns out that a certain Mrs. Weasley has been refusing her husband sex since their last child," Asteria smirked. "He's slightly horny and we are talking about the one with a purported stamina that could even equal yours."

"Doubt that," Pansy scoffed. "But this gets me him how?"

"Oh she's been putting out, just not to him. See I implanted this little suggestion as well as a very potent fertility potion in her morning coffee before her normal rendezvous with her lover. Pretty soon, your Weasley will learn that his wife is pregnant with his best mate's baby," Asteria purred, leaning over. "So all you need to do is be there for him and I promise you he's all yours."

"And you don't think he will forgive her?" Pansy retorted.

"Not the way I've seen his eyes take to following your arse every time you conveniently show up at the ministry when you aren't trying to get his attention," Asteria smirked. "Anyway, I'm surprised your deviant mind hasn't come up with something to make sure he gets in your bed and stays there."

Though she knew better than to trust Asteria, the idea of having someone in her bed that she not only liked but could quite possibly satisfy her proved to be too tempting at the moment. Leaning back over, she attempted to be as casual as possible and commented, "Sounds like you have been planning this for sometime."

"I've been planning for this longer, than you have been knowledgeable of your husband's desire to kill you instead of divorce you."

"So three years by my count. I'm impressed," Pansy replied with a laugh. "I never realized you were so tenacious. So I give you Draco for your birthday?"

"And you shall be presented your Weasley with a bow for yours."

"Deal. Be dressed to kill at the Malfoy Manor on Friday."

* * * * *

He had officially had it.

Granted it hadn't taken him long to reach the point that he found himself in -- torn between divorcing his wife of ten years or simply having her killed. He just couldn't decide which one was cleaner and easier for him: the divorce would definitely be cleaner but having her killed that would be easier. Unfortunately the only person he could trust with killing her, had a crush on his wife so that left him with divorcing her as the easier route.

"Do I even want to know why I see steam pouring out of your ears?" his wife's husky tone lilted into his ears. "Or should we leave it as on a need to know basis -- that is when you deem I need to know it, I will have died of old age or you will have had me killed?"

"How was your day, dear?" he sneered as he spun his chair around to face his wife. "Enjoy your tea?"

He had to admit, looking at her now perching in on one of the two chairs in front of his desk, that once she had gotten out of that awkward teenage phase where she looked like a pug, she had turned into quite a stunner. Complete with confidence, overt sexuality and just enough haughtiness to make men like Potter and Weasley drool after a woman who owned the room instead of merely existing in it like their own wives. He just couldn't understand why some red-blooded male couldn't take the hellcat off his hands.

"Quite lovely," she smirked back, annoyingly unaffected by his bad mood. "I had tea with Asteria Greengrass today again, you know Daphne's..."

"I know who Asteria Greengrass is and I don't know why you keep having bloody tea with her," he growled.

Clucking, she smiled innocently and remarked, "Having me followed now darling? Oh well. You know, now that she has actually grown up, she really is delight--...Of course how silly of me, I forgot that you two dated after the war...So please stop channelling a hissing kitten, Draco. It's really quite annoying from a man your age; with Scorpius it is actually endearing but he's three, darling."

"Stop being coy Pansy and distracting me. I know you didn't forget about that."

"I know," she replied, somehow managing to look at him in mocking shame with a unadulterated glow of glee. "Of course I didn't forget she dumped you after catching you in bed with...oh what was her name...that's right, Padma Patil...Oh and wasn't Pavarti there also, now that I think about it?"

"Pansy," he growled again.

"Anyway, the two of us have been talking about old times..."

"You two don't have any old times..."

"As I was saying," she purred, still completely unaffected by Draco's bad mood. "We were catching up on old times, and she told me she hadn't been to the Manor since I made improvements, so I invited her to your birthday party on Friday. The best part?...She accepted."

"Are you trying to get me killed? She damn near succeeded the last time she was in the same room as me," Draco yelled, slamming his hands down on his desk. That was it. As soon as she left this room, he was calling Theo to rid him of his wife, once and for all.

"Why no, sweetheart," Pansy purred leaning forward. "I was under the impression that's what you were planning to do to me. Perhaps as a birthday present to yourself this time around?"

Draco officially hated his wife now. Coolly, he replied, "And if I was?"

"Hold off until Sunday, darling," Pansy purred standing up. "I have plans for our birthdays I'd like to follow through on."

"Why Sunday? My birthday is on Friday," he growled back.

She just shook her head at him, like he was the simpleton in the room, and sweetly replied, "And mine is on Saturday so I don't plan on getting out of bed until Sunday, silly," as she rose to her feet. "Anyway, I promise I'll make the divorce clean and easy on you if you just have the papers on my vanity Monday morning. I promise I'll be out of the Manor by Tuesday. We can settle arrangements for Scorpius then."

"Why would you do that?" Draco asked, his eyes narrowing. He may still have loved his wife but he didn't trust her at all; though he did have to admit the idea of being single again did have its merits.

Without turning around as she sashayed to the door, she called, "Because, darling, I've decided I want more children and, that being plural, you simply won't work for me."

"And someone else will?"

"Of course darling; I have just the person in mind." Draco really hated how nonplussed his wife was by their conversation. Granted he knew he should be leaping for joy to be free from the witch without risking Azkaban but for the life of him, he hated the fact he still loved her, in spite not liking her as a person at all.

"Who?" he called back out. "Aren't all the Weasleys married?"

"Today, yes," she smirked back at him. "But by next week who knows?"

"And they are incredibly loyal..."

Her sultry laugh cut him off before she purred, "Men are only loyal as long as you let them stay in your bed. I happen to know one whose wife cut him off nine months ago after their last child. Easy pickings."

He quickly went through the Weasleys trying to pinpoint exactly which one had a child nine months ago. When he zeroed in on that one he knew he was going to have her killed for his birthday. He growled, "Pansy..."

"Like I said, divorce papers on Monday darling. I tired of this charade where I actually like being in the same room as you," she sweetly said before closing the door behind her.

Merlin, he hated his wife. Especially when she was right.

* * * * *

But she sure knew how to throw a party.

He had to admit that to himself as he stood over the ballroom full with guests laughing and socializing. His wife, admittedly a vision in a brilliant red dress he knew cost him a fortune. Yet, watching her flirt with her prey -- he wasn't sure if it was excitement or jealousy burning his insides at the moment. Though the entertainment of watching his wife work while her prey's wife was too busy to notice her husband's straying eye or Pansy's intentions, made him hopeful that it was excitement and not jealousy eating at him.

He couldn't help himself as he watched his soon-to-be ex-wife work her charms: he fell in love with her all over again. The smile that taunted and teased regardless if those painted lips were wrapped around a fag, drink, finger, or cock; the playful eyes that his son had inherited, eyes that caused you to give in to whatever they begged, pleaded, or whinged; he could almost hear her playful laugh even where he stood, the one that ached to be silenced with a bruising kiss.

Bloody hell, it would make his life easy if love was all they needed to make their marriage work. All it did though was keep them together. They both knew that their marriage had stopped working even before Scorpius was born. His conception more of a bloody miracle than Potter surviving the Dark Lord not once, but twice.

In this moment watching her a far from the balcony, he was in love with his wife: the one that gave him his son, the one that stood by his side after the war, and held him when his parents died.

In this life, every day he spent with her, he was admittedly completely smitten with the beautiful creature he married on Christmas day ten years ago this year.

However, he just didn't like her much anymore. If he honestly ever liked her at all.

"You aren't suppose to mope on your birthday," a sweet voice sang in his ear. "At least that's what I remember you telling me on my birthday years ago."

Turning around, he found himself face to face with the one he had convinced himself, he had foolishly let get away - Asteria. The passing years had done nothing to take away from the little girl quality of her porcelain skin, big blue eyes, pink bow shaped lips, and her thick, black ringlets that framed her face. He used to call her his china doll, his beautiful china doll.

"Asteria," he breathed her name.

"I'm glad to see you remember my name after, what, ten years?" she purred, taking a sip of her champagne.

Swallowing hard, that he may have underestimated her as the realization grew that she may very well be as dangerous as his wife, Draco responded, "I thought you were on the continent."

Asteria laughed, her laugh twinkling like bells in his ears, "You are still an awful liar, Draco. I thought being married to Pansy would have taught you better."

"Maybe it has?" he challenged back, wondering exactly where the china doll he remembered had disappeared to and where this wildcat that had replaced her had come from.

"Twenty galleons says you know that I have been having tea with your wife over the past two months," she smirked at him.

Draco blanched, though he found himself suddenly mesmerized by the confident woman who approached him and purred, "Pay up Malfoy...unless...unless you would rather spend those twenty galleons taking me to dinner? Say next Friday night?"

"I'm married, Asteria..." he started to say, hiding behind his sham of a marriage to a woman he wanted to kill at least once a day.

He purposefully gulped as he watched her move closer, purring the entire time, "That's funny. A little owlie tells me that divorce papers are being presented to Pansy on Monday as a belated birthday gift. So dinner? Or should we just reacquaint ourselves with dessert?"

Drowning in her ocean blue eyes, he whispered, "How about both?"

"Maybe dessert tonight, breakfast in the morning, and then go from there?"

"Asteria," he moaned, coming to his senses. "What about Pansy? I can't do this to her tonight."

"Oh love," she cooed. "Don't you worry about sweet little Pansy, she's going to have her hands full once Granger tells Weasley she's pregnant with Potter's next child."

"What?" Draco choked out as he realized both women were definitely more dangerous than even he had anticipated.

Coolly, he took the champagne flute out of Asteria's hand and icily whispered, "You forgot one thing in your plan, Asteria -- I'm no one's fool," before stalking away.

* * * * *

"We need to talk," Asteria growled in Pansy's ear, interrupting what she was trying to say to Ron.

Pansy turned and glared at the younger woman, before politely turning to Ron, she cooed, "Ron have you met Asteria Greengrass? Her sister Daphne as a classmate of ours."

"No I don't think I have..."

"I need to talk to you now," Asteria growled again, grabbing Pansy's arm.

Pansy shot an icy glare at Asteria before turning back to Ron and playfully saying, "It appears my guest has forgotten her manners at the moment Ron, please forgive her. I'll have to catch up with you later."

"No big deal, it was nice to meet..."

Ron didn't even have a chance to finish what he was saying as Asteria had started to drag Pansy out of the ballroom and into the side hall.

"What is your problem, Asteria?" Pansy growled, prying Asteria's fingers off her arm.

"You were suppose to give me Draco."

"And I did," Pansy said, more than just a little put out. It had taken her a full twenty minutes to get Ron to really pay attention to her and this little brat ruined it. "Or is Draco too much a man for you?"

Smack. Pansy took a step back, stumbling a bit after Asteria's hand contacted with her face. There were only so many things she would put up with in the course of getting rid of her husband and being slapped by a prudish little girl who thought she was actually in control was not one of them.

Knocking her on to her back, Pansy stood over the little wench and growled, "All you had to do was be yourself you little tart. One would think you could bed him easily as you are the one he believes got away. So what did you do?"

"Nothing," Asteria fussed getting back up to her feet and smoothing her dress. "I flirted with him and then he went and hid behind the sham of your marriage. When he starting showing concern for you and that, I told him not to worry about you that your hands would be full with Weasley soon enough..."

"You really are daft aren't you?" Pansy laughed. "No wonder it was so easy to get a leg over you last time."

"What do you mean?"

"You just told Draco, we set him up you little bint," Pansy smirked, advancing on the little tart who was ruining her birthday. "Draco hates to be played for the fool and you just told him we did. Why couldn't you just have done what I told you to do and flirt, be yourself, and plead stupid to my own actions?"

"But..."

"But nothing. I promise you Asteria, you cost me my divorce and Weasley, you will find yourself never being able to step foot on this little island again as long as you breathe," Pansy hissed. "Go sit in the bloody music room and let me see if I can save you from yourself."

Spinning on her heel, she stalked away from the silly little tart who was doing her damnedest to ruin her birthday.

* * * * *

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just looking for someone."

Asteria spun from where she stood by the window looking onto the garden as she watched Pansy approach Draco. Seeing that it was Pansy's Weasley, she softly said, "I'm sorry that I was rude earlier."

"No big deal," he casually responded. "I'll leave you..."

"What do you see in her?" Asteria asked, interrupting him; her eyes glued on the couple who now sat in the moonlight.

"Hermione? Well she's..."

"No Pansy. The woman I see you watch when you don't think anyone is looking."

"I don't...well, I'm not...I'm fucking married."

Asteria snorted with a sad laugh before continuing, "So is she but it hasn't stopped her from pursuing you every chance she gets. So what makes her so special? Why does her husband spend half of his time plotting to kill her and the other half hiding behind a marriage that is a sham on its best days?"

He gave her no response except the closing of the door. Sighing, she leaned her head against the cool glass and watched as Pansy place an affectionate kiss against Draco's temple. It hurt to watch the affection between two people who swore they no longer wanted to be married to each other though it sure as hell looked like they did.

"Maybe it's just easier," a soft voice sounded. Turning to the voice, she saw that instead of leaving as she had thought, Pansy's Weasley had taken a seat on the piano bench looking at the keys. "My wife won't let me near her anymore and when I bring it up that maybe we should end it, she screams at me at how could I ask her that."

"And Pansy?" Asteria asked, preparing herself to hear what her mind could see at the moment. That she was never going to leave Draco and that left her out in the cold, again.

"She sees me, I guess. A beautiful woman who for some reason sees me."

"And that's enough?"

"It's more than I get from my wife."

Silence filled the room as Asteria's heart broke a little more watching Pansy place an affectionate kiss on Draco's lips. Wiping a tear that had escaped, she turned to him and softly said, "It's bad enough for one of us to be played a fool tonight. Would you like to know where your wife is?"

"Why do I think I don't want to know?" came his equally sad reply.

"Because I don't think you you want to know who she is with," she softly replied moving to take a seat by him. "They are in the next room. I saw them tumble in there when Pansy sent me here to wait while she talked to Draco."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because tonight Pansy and I planned to play Draco for a fool and I lost. Maybe I realize now how unfair it is."

"Great," his voice had turned so icy that Asteria found herself taken back by it. Turning to look at him, she saw the anger radiate from him.

He had nearly crossed the room and was about to open the door when Asteria finally was able to come her senses, and cried out, "Wait...."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It's a little late for that isn't it?" His laugh so cruel, even though she had grown up around Slytherins, it cooled her to her very core. "One of these days, someone will stop treating me like a fool."

"Ron...Ron...Ron..." she called his name out as she went after him but the door abruptly closed in her face. Sinking to floor, she realized if Pansy hadn't killed her before, she was definitely going to kill her now.

* * * * *

"Pouting, I see," Pansy said flippantly, having finally found her sulking husband in the garden.

"I seem to remember you telling me that if I gave you a divorce, then I would have a good birthday," he growled back, sipping his drink; wondering if he could fix what had gone wrong. "Yet, I seem to be having the birthday from hell."

"Sorry about that. I'd forgotten what kind of fool Asteria was."

"That makes two of us."

Taking a seat next to her sulking husband, Pansy nudged him and said, "You know, in spite her being a roaring idiot -- she is head over heels for you, which actually might prove it now that I think about it. So why don't you give her a chance?"

"And be the fool? I don't..."

"If anyone's a fool in this sweetie, it's probably me," Pansy sighed, kissing her husband on the temple. "I should have realized how dangerous planning anything with that stupid little tart was. I just figured, presenting you with the one that you believed got away at your birthday would get me the divorce papers I want."

"Why do you want those so badly by the way?" Draco asked, finally turning to look at her. "Really, is the Weasel worth trading this?"

With a small laugh, Pansy said, "Trading a marriage where I love my husband but I haven't liked him in years for a chance at a relationship where I might actually like the man I share the bed with? I don't know how I could ever want that?"

She waited for a response from Draco but when she didn't get it she sighed and continued, "You aren't the only one that no one told that love wouldn't be enough."

When he turned her way, she did something she hadn't done since Scorpius was born, she placed a gentle kiss on his lips before whispering, "Let's end this charade. I want Ron and if it's not Asteria, then you deserve to find someone you don't want to kill on a daily basis."

"And that's it? You dosed me in a love potion and set me up with the Patil twins to get me away from her and now you are just willing to walk away?"

Pansy looked at her husband incredulously at his question before throwing her head back laughing, and said, "I knew you knew."

"Of course I did," he laughed. "It was the first time you did something like that that I didn't catch on to."

Ruffling his head, she teased, "And they said you were slow?"

"The papers will be on your vanity on Monday," he whispered.

"Thank you," she replied, kissing him on his cheek. "Now let's..."

The sound of glass breaking from caused the two of them to jump and turn around in enough time to watch a chair hit the garden pavers.

"I guess this means the Weasel found out about his wife and Potter?" Draco asked nonchalantly.

Clenching her eyes, Pansy counted until ten before saying, "Do you want Asteria or not?"

"And if I don't?"

"I may kill her before the night's over."

Draco laughed, "I'll take care of her. You try and make sure that the Weasel doesn't kill the boy who lived and the smartest witch of our age. I'd hate for my thirtieth birthday to end on that note."

* * * * *

Pansy discarded her heels before following Draco towards the music room. They hadn't gotten back into the house, when something else met it's demise on the garden pavers.

"You take Weasley," Draco said flippantly, putting his hand on the door.

"Why do I get him?" Pansy retorted. "You take him. I'll take Asteria. Since she fucked this up."

"I plan on getting laid on my birthday. You take Weasley and I'll play her knight in shining armour."

"You mean tarnished armour."

"Same difference," Draco smirked. "Just get Weasley out of the morning parlour and I'll throw in a flat in Muggle London as part of the divorce settlement."

"And an account to decorate it?"

"Deal," Draco said opening the door to reveal Asteria trying to hold Ginny back as Ron threatened Harry who was shielding Hermione. Turning to look at Pansy, he said, "How about I throw in the flat in Madrid too?"

"Add the house in Cape Town and we have a deal."

"You two are settling your divorce now?" Asteria screeched, momentarily letting go of Ginny before grabbing her again before she could get to her husband.

"Seems as good of time as any," Draco coolly said, as Pansy grabbed Weasley by the arm. The coolness of the look he sent her way chilled everyone who was watching while Draco attempted some levity by continuing, "So we good Pansy?"

"Yes, Draco," she responded, pulling on Ron's arms. "Come on let's find you a cold shower."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he growled, yanking his arm back out of her grasp. "I have a good suspicion you are at the root of all of this."

"Well, I'm not," Pansy replied, grabbing his arm again. "That would be the simpleton doing an impressive job of holding your sister back. Frankly, I didn't know Asteria had it in her. All I did was make the mistake of allowing such a simpleton know of my desire for you."

"What?" he said, the wind having been knocked out of him.

"Give me five minutes," Pansy whispered. "Let Draco deal with the drama. He'll let Ginny finish them off and fuck the simpleton mute."

"Okay," he mouthed and allowed Pansy to drag him out of the morning room with Hermione screeching after the two of them.

* * * * *

"You have five minutes," he snapped the moment she closed the doors to her bedroom suite. She watched as he looked around the room before realizing just where she had brought him, "And you bring me here?"

"Where should I have brought you?" Pansy purred taking a seat on her sofa. "The ballroom, the gardens, the kitchen?"

"Anywhere but a bedroom."

"What's wrong with here? It's far enough away that no one can disturb us and as I'm getting only five minutes, I want to make the most of it."

"Then start talking," Ron snapped, taking a seat on the bed. He continued to glare at her as he crossed his arms and legs.

"Are you always this charming? Or do I bring it out in you?"

"You aren't helping yourself."

"And you haven't been helpful much either," she purred, standing up. "I have been chasing after you for now going on two years and tonight, downstairs, was the first time I honestly thought you noticed. So whose fault is that?"

"You know you may not love your husband..."

"Oh that's where you are wrong," she interrupted. "I do love my husband very much and he loves me. Turns out that it isn't enough for either one of us."

Pansy couldn't help but laugh at the befuddled look on his face before continuing, "I know, doesn't seem possible but it is. I love him, I just don't like him at all; makes for a very cold, distant marriage when we aren't speaking to the other."

"But...but...but I love my wife."

"Even after tonight?" Pansy asked. "Even after catching her with your best mate?"

"Which I think you set up."

"Which I didn't. Don't you think, if I was going to something so sleazy like that don't you think I would have done it before now? I have been trying to get you into my bed for two years."

"I would say this reeks of desperation," he retorted.

"No this does," she said, grabbing his face and kissing him hard.

She felt his hands grip her upper arms and try to pull her away but she refused to let go. When she finally felt him relax under her body and started to kiss her hungrily back, she pushed him back onto the bed. Crawling onto of his body, now stretched on her bed, she found herself smiling into the kiss while cursing the tightness of her dress.

Pulling her lips back, she started to kiss along his jaw line, and whispered into his ear, "So did I convince you?"

"I think I'm in need of that cold shower now," he moaned as she nipped at his ear.

"Make it a hot bath and I'll join you."

"Deal."

* * * * *

"Took you long enough."

"Sorry," Draco laughed, handing a glass to the person sitting on the stairs that led away to the garden. "Turns out that Asteria has evolved into one hell of a wildcat in bed and it was too tempting."

His companion shuddered, "Oh gods, I do not want to hear about your sex life when it doesn't involve me."

"You asked," he replied taking a seat and working on opening a bottle of champagne. "So what should we toast to?"

"I was thinking we should start with the fact that your elaborate plan actually worked?"

"Seeing as your plan went so well and not only did I wind up with a son, so did you, and a niece. Oh and didn't your second brilliant-can't-fail-plan get you a nephew and a daughter," Draco laughed. "So Miss Ginerva? Now that your brother and my wife's happiness are taken care of -- what are you planning to do now that you are free of that husband of yours?"

"Depends?" she purred. "You think Asteria's up for me too? I'm kind of in the mood to shag her rotten for being a good sacrificial lamb."

Grabbing her, he huskily whispered, "And you are under the mistaken impression that I'm sharing you with her, now your husband is out of our hair."

"And you are under the mistaken impression that I'm going to share you again without quid pro quo."

"Fine. I'll send Asteria back to Paris first thing in the morning. A good obliviate should do the trick."

"Right answer love."

Fin

Brains for gala_apples [NC-17] -- RW/MC/AG

2009-11-25T08:59:25Z

Title: Brains
Author: mickawber_fics
Recipient: gala_apples
Rating: A/NC-17
Ship: Ron/Michael Corner/Anthony Goldstein; Ron/Hermione implied
Warnings: slash; bondage; implied non-con. Brains. And Nargles.
Summary: Ron's dreaming. Anthony and Michael have some ideas how to wake him up.
Genre: PWP, pretty much, with some odd plotty bits and attempted humor.
Author's Note: You gave me so many ideas, gala_apples ! I apologize that this took so long—real life intruded like the bugger it is—but I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

When Ron stumbled down to the common room having barely slept for the third time that week, he knew he needed to do something. When Hermione gave him her usual morning kiss and all he felt was a vague sense of shame, he knew he needed to do something soon. When Harry patted him on the shoulder as they started down toward the Great Hall and his knob decided suddenly to go periscope-up, he knew he needed to do something now.

The problem was, Ron didn’t have the slightest bloody clue what to do.

He wasn’t one to have weird dreams. Harry, sure—that was his thing, wasn’t it? Waking up screaming in the middle of the night, even now, more than six months after old Moldybreath’s very timely demise, needing a pat on the head and a tuck-in.

But Ron? The only dreams he could ever remember having before this month were a couple involving spiders from the summer after second year. He knew there’d been some others—he’d woken up often enough to find his sheets sticky and wet—but memories of those dreams, lovely as they must have been, were usually gone like dew before he’d managed to blink twice.

“Ron?” said Hermione, her worried face on. She was wearing the hair clip with mistletoe that he gave her.

“Hmm?”

Harry rested his hand on Ron’s shoulder and once again it brought up responses in Ron that he couldn’t for the life of him think of a cause for. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast. You coming down with something?”

“Dunno,” admitted Ron, truthfully.

“Want us to take you up to Madam Pomfrey?”

“Uh, no,” Ron answered, staring down at his sausages and very aware that he wouldn’t be standing up straight for a bit—certainly not while Harry’s hand remained on his shoulder. He nodded to his girlfriend, who was frowning at him. “You guys run on to Defense. I’ll catch you up.”

Harry gave Ron’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, Hermione kissed the top of his head, and they blessedly stalked off.

The suits of armor on either side of the main door started singing “I Saw Three Brooms Come Flying In.”
Ron sighed. His forearms itched.

He skewered a sausage and brought it to his mouth.

Sausage. Mouth.

He slammed it down again in disgust. Couldn’t he even eat in peace without getting hard as a beater’s bat?

Bloody fucking hell.

He needed to do something. Now.

Casting about desperately—incapable of standing—he saw a skinny, pale, long-haired figure crossing toward the Great Hall entrance. “OI! GOLDSTEIN!”

Anthony glanced up from his book, blinking.

Ron gestured furiously for the Ravenclaw to come over.

As he walked over, face blank but for one raised eyebrow, Ron felt both rising panic and rising certainty: Goldstein was exactly the right person. Smart. Taking the NEWT Healer course. Closed-mouthed as a clam with a Lockjaw Jinx cast on it. According to Neville he’d nearly died last year rather than rat out Luna and Ginny when those two had snuck up to the Owlery in order to send an order to George and Fred for more Darkness Powder. And of course…

“What’s up, Ron?” asked Anthony.

Ron coughed.

Anthony raised the other eyebrow. “You ought to take care of that.”

“Er, yeah,” said Ron, looking around. No one above fifth year, except for Ginny, who was sitting at the other end of the table with Loony. Giggling. Not trying to smuggle in Darkness Powder today, obviously. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, right?”

“What, a cough? Madam Pomfrey—”

“No,” said Ron, a bit more loudly than he’d intended. He could see his sister’s face and her friend’s pop up at the far end, one face bright with mischief, the other with bliss. His arms felt… warm. Scratching at his sleeves, he leaned forward and continued in a low voice. “No. Not Madam Pomfrey. I wanted to talk to you.”
“But—?”

“Still in Healer training, right?”

“Of course,” Goldstein said. His eyes, bright and brown, scanned Ron’s face.

“Well, see, it’s also because you’re…” Ron tried to think of a way of saying what he needed to say without just saying it. “You know….”

Anthony leaned back slightly, his few freckles bunching over his pale nose. “Jewish? I mean, Hanukkah doesn’t start for another—”

Ron gaped for a moment. “Uh, no. No. You’re…” He whispered, “You’re, you know, gay.”
“Yes,” answered Anthony slowly.

“Well, I’ve been having these… dreams.”

Suddenly all of the confusion on Goldstein’s face vanished. “Ah. Well that’s perfectly nor—”
“I don’t think they’re mine.”

Ron watched Anthony’s brain work at that. He rather liked watching people think—he’d learned that pleasure from Hermione, of course. Ron could almost hear Hermione-like words like denial and homophobia bouncing around in the Ravenclaw’s skull. He could also see that Anthony was intrigued. “Not yours?”

Ron shook his head.

The bell rang, and there was a symphony of laughter and of chatter and of benches scraping back, and all of the students still in the Great Hall rose and started to herd toward the doors and their first classes.
Ron stood.

“Look,” muttered Anthony, who suddenly looked shockingly short, “why don’t you come up to Ravenclaw this evening around eight. I’ll meet you at the door. You know where it is?”

Nodding, Ron waved as Anthony Goldstein pushed off into the river of departing students.

An impish voice piped up behind Ron. “Didn’t think he was your type, Ronnikins,” Ginny giggled.

“Nah, just talking about some of McGonagall’s, you know…” Of course, Ginny and Luna were now in Transfiguration with Ron and Anthony, so he couldn’t think what they’d need to talk about.

“Oh, but I think he’s rather cute,” sighed Luna. “He and Michael let me watch them having sex sometimes. It’s quite exciting.”

Ron gaped and spluttered, as Ginny laughed and pulled him toward their first class of the day.

: :

In Potions, Ron watched Goldstein and Corner working on the Draught of Living Death. Were their hands touching an awful lot or was he just imagining it?

“Got a rash?” asked Harry quietly.

Ron looked away from the two boys at the next table and realized that he’d been scratching at his arms again. “Er, yeah. Something like.”

“You ought to see the nurse.”

Nodding as he went back to crushing belladonna seeds, Ron murmured, “Yeah, yeah. Good idea. This evening.”

“Good,” said Harry, smiling, and patted Ron on the back.

Oh, bugger. Ron groaned. Another stiffy.

: :

By the time he crossed the seventh floor of the castle and climbed the stairs to the entrance to the Ravenclaw Tower, Ron had spent so much time that day trying to adjust himself that he felt as if he might as well have just dropped his trousers and had done with it. Being a teenage boy was hard enough, but bloody hell! He was almost nineteen!

Not only were the same impulses popping up every time Harry got near, but images of Corner and Goldstein…doing it were chasing themselves through his head. And where a while ago such an idea would have done anything but got him hot—at best he’d have probably wondered what the hell two boys could possibly do—now, his dreams had showed him some possibilities that would never have occurred to Ron otherwise, and would have been more likely to make him want to take a warm shower with lots of soap to clean himself off, rather than a cold one to cool himself down.

Shower…

An image flashed through Ron’s head: the showers, wet and steamy; Harry, hands bound by a bumblebee tie to the bronze, talon-shaped shower handle.

The dream…

“Rod,” Harry moans, wet skin glistening. “Please… Please…”

“Want it, Potter?” chuckles Ron, running the sharp edge of his signet ring up the length of his best friend’s very wet, very erect knob. “Want it bad?”

Harry groans again and writhes against the bonds. “Please, Rod. Black…”

At Ron’s shoulder, Hermione sniggers, her voice low as it usually only gets after a good fuck. “He wants it. He wants it bad. Shall we give it to him, or shall we leave him here?”

Harry gasps. “Please!”

Ron kneels on the warm, slick tile between Harry’s thin, wet, splayed thighs. “What a good bitch you are,” he grunts, grabbing slim hips and pulling them up over his knees and sliding his thighs beneath until his own cock—hard, dripping with more than shower water—splits Harry’s bollocks. Slides against Harry’s thinner but equally erect cock. “Isn’t Potter a good bitch?”

“Quite,” says Hermione, barely audible. Ron can hear that she’s playing with herself.

Picking up his wand from the wet floor—have to polish it later, he thinks, which makes him grin—Ron casts a quick Glissare on his own erection and on Harry’s arse. Sliding his arms beneath his friend’s knees, he lifts unresisting legs over his shoulders. Suddenly the head of his cock is pressed between the cheeks of Harry’s bum.

“God!” gasps Harry, twisting against the tie that binds him.

“Not yet,” Ron laughs. With one hand, he spreads Harry’s cheeks so that his cock presses right up against the tight ring of muscle that is the gateway to all good things. “You haven’t seen him yet. Shall we show him to you?”

Harry closes his eyes and whimpers.

“Open your eyes, Potter. Look at me.”

He does; they are open and full of fear and desire.

“Ask me.”

“Please…”

“Ask me to fuck you.”

Harry’s mouth flops open; he glances up to Hermione.

She chuckles. “You know you want it. Ask for it, or he won’t give it to you.”

“Please!”

Ron pushes gently, feels the muscles of Harry’s anus begin to give way and then tighten, panicked; too late—the tip of Ron’s head is there, keeping the entrance open, a foot in the door. In spite of himself, Ron groans at the pressure around his glans. “Ask, Potter. Ask me to fuck your arse. Ask me to—”

“Bugger me,” Harry whispers, so quietly that Ron can barely hear it over the drip and hiss of the water flowing around them. “Bugger my—aaaaaahhhh!”

Ron pushes in now, hard, brooking no denial; his spell-slick erection slides past the entrance into the tight passage of his best friend’s bony arse.

Harry thrashes, crying out, but his hands are well bound, and Ron’s hands hold his sharp hips steady as his prick rams fully home, spearing Harry like an insect in a case.

Hot. Tight. Even fucking Hermione…

“Fuck,” gasps Hermione.

“Like it?” Ron grunts to Harry. “Feel good having a real cock up your bum at last?” Ron withdraws and slides back in, and… Bloody hell, it feels good—beyond good—and Harry cried out, transported expressions of pain and pleasure intermingled. Too good. Don’t want to… Got to… keep control. “Black? Want some? I’m sure Potter has something left for you.”

Harry weeps, but he pushes against Ron, welcoming him.

“Yes.” Hermione steps forward, stiff prick in her hands; it takes both to hold the thing steady. “Open your mouth, Potter. Open your mouth and we’ll see you well and truly—”

To his horror, Ron came to himself to find that he was half-collapsed against the corridor wall. Something warm and wet was dribbling down his trouser leg, and he was panting and sweaty—as wet as if he had actually just been in the showers.

From across the corridor, Anthony Goldstein’s mild gaze pierced Ron with the intensity of a Cruciatus.
Ron blinked at him, gasping for breath.

“Dreams, hmm?” said Anthony. “You’d better come on up.”

: :

“And you think this is someone else’s dream?” Goldstein sat atop the oak desk that dominated the center of the Ravenclaw seventh year dorm, fingering the end of his ponytail. His expression was as neutral as ever but there was a sheen on his forehead; once he’d started to describe the dream, Ron hadn’t been able to hold back: it had all tumbled out, every bizarre, randy detail, and Goldstein had sat there, wide-eyed, nodding and occasionally pulling at his collar.

“Yeah,” grunted Ron. He was seated on the trunk at the end of Goldstein’s bed; somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to get on the other boy’s bed. “I mean, it’s the same bloody dream, every damned time, down to the bloody twist of the tie and the drops of water on Harry’s, um—that’s never happened to me before.”
Anthony shrugged, unconvinced. “Well, it’s not—”

“And,” Ron went on, “he calls me Rod. Not Ron, Rod. And Hermione! We both call her Black. And she… She’s got a bloody tadger!”

Anthony smiled. “A rather large one, you said.”

“Huge.”

“How nice.” Goldstein gave a tiny grin that seemed even more disturbing for being miniscule.

“I guess. I mean, you ever had a dream about your boyfriend suddenly having a, you know, girl’s stuff?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.” He turned his head slightly. “Rod… could also be a simple Freudian substitution…”

“A what?” Goldstein sounded like Hermione now—but didn’t have the nice bits to look at while you were listening, and so Ron was less willing to be patient. Besides…

“I mean, Ron,” Anthony stood and walked toward where Ron was, “did you enjoy what you were doing?”

Ron wanted to look away, but those soft eyes held him. “I… In the dream, hell yes. But come on. I like girls! I’ve never even wanted a go at another bloke, not even a little!” He scratched at his forearms.
“Not even once?”

“No! And no, I’m not, you know, in denial or anything. I like girls.” Only right now, Ron thought, the image of Corner and you frotting each other… Frotting? Where did that word come from? Bloody hell.

Anthony held his gaze for a long moment and then shrugged. “Okay. Fair enough. Do you mind if I ask you…? The other aspect of the dream—the power play. The bondage. That sort of sexual behavior is totally separate from gender preference. Do you and Granger…?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“What, you mean…?” In spite of the humiliation already heaped on him, Ron found himself blushing furiously. “Well, you know, we’ve played around a bit, just playing. But no, it’s really not like a big turn-on or anything for me. To be honest, her and me, every time we’ve tried something like that, we just end up… giggling. It’s kind of silly.”

“Didn’t sound like you found it silly when you dreamed it.”

“That’s my point, isn’t it?” Ron stood, towering over Anthony. “And the tie! Why the bloody hell would I be tying Harry up with a Hufflepuff tie?”

“You’ve been tying Potter up?” said a new voice. “Naughty boy.”

Ron spun around; even though he had watched Goldstein cast a Locking Charm on the door, there stood Michael Corner, smirking. “What…? Shit! It’s just a bloody dream, okay? And it’s bloody private.”

“Sorry, Ron,” said Anthony. “I didn’t… Michael and I know each other’s passwords.”

Corner leaned down and gave Goldstein a peck on the lips. Ron felt as if he should feel queasy, but didn’t. In all honesty, in all of the turmoil, he wasn’t sure what he felt. “Thought you liked girls,” he muttered, trying not to think about those same thin lips kissing his sister a few years back.

Anthony smirked at Ron. “Apparently, what he likes is short and scrawny, with freckles and a ponytail. Lucky me!”

Corner laughed, giving Anthony’s hair a tug. “Lucky me, too.” He peered at Ron. “What’s brought you up here? I don’t suppose you’re up for a game of Coppers and Criminals?”

Ron goggled at the pair. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Didn’t think so,” sighed Corner. “More’s the pity.”

“God,” groaned Anthony. “Don’t get him started. Not everyone geeks out over Muggle role-playing games like you do, Michael.”

“Look,” Ron muttered, starting to back toward the door.

“So this dream—sounds fascinating.”

“Corner, it’s private.”

Anthony looked between the two. “It’s true, Michael; I asked Ron up here so that I could help him try to figure out—”

Ron crossed his arms. “Something private.”

Corner shrugged, trying to look apologetic, but Ron could see the smirk fighting through. “Something private. To do with trussing up Potter with a Hufflepuff tie.”

Exasperated, humiliated, Ron started once again to leave, but couldn’t help trying to finish the point he’d been trying to make. He turned back to Anthony. “My point was, it doesn’t feel like, you know, a dream. It feels like I’m bloody remembering it.” Feels like I’m bloody living it. “Why in Merlin’s name would I remember Harry having a bloody Hufflepuff tie? Or, you know, any of that other stuff?”

Anthony sat up straighter in his boyfriend’s grasp. “It was Harry’s tie? How do you know that?”

“I just… do,” grumbled Ron, pulled between the impulse to leave and the need to make Goldstein understand.

“Don’t see the problem,” said Corner. “There’ve been Potters in Hufflepuff before.”

“What?” Ron peered at Michael, looking for the joke.

Michael had his swotty Ravenclaw face on, however; he was staring intently down at the desk. “Well, I don’t knowwhat this… dream—or whatever—is about, obviously. But…” Corner looked up, realizing that both Anthony and Ron were staring at him. “Well, Harry’s grandfather was a Hufflepuff. I mean, maybe he left a—”

“How the bloody hell do you know that?” Ron asked.

Anthony continued to stare up at his boyfriend. “He’s writing his thesis for NEWT History on the family line of the Peverells.”

Ron blinked. “You’re joking.”

Corner’s eyebrows shot up. Anthony put a finger on his boyfriend’s lips, intervening. “It’s a very interesting subject, given last year’s events.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not what I meant—I can see that, definitely, sure. No—you’re taking a NEWT in History?”
“Well,” said Michael with a laugh, “if there’s no one out there with the qualifications, they’ll never be able to replace Binns, will they?”

Ron startled into laughter himself. “Guess not! Still… you’re a braver wizard than me!”

“Quite a compliment from a Gryffindor,” said Anthony, plainly relieved that some of the tension had broken.

“Actually,” said Michael, “the work is almost entirely independent. I’ve been reviewing my research with Binns every week or two, but mostly it’s just me and the library.”

Ron recognized the misty look that descended over the faces of both Ravenclaws. “Yeah, don’t tell Hermione, she’d die of jealousy.”

The three of them shared a chuckle.

“So,” Ron continued, “Harry’s granddad was in Hufflepuff?” That somehow didn’t seem right.

“Oh, yes,” said Corner, looking—or trying to look—professorial. “Charlus. He was a prefect. Was at Hogwarts from ’22 through ’29. Quite a Quidditch natural, apparently, like his son and grandson.”

“That sounds right anyway.”

“He was also a leader in the movement that was very popular at the time to abolish the four houses, as it happens.”

“Wow.” Ron could see the face: thin, pale. Harry’s. But… Charlus. In the shower... He shivered. “Um… Did… Was there anyone there around the same time named… Rod?”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed, catlike, as Corner’s flashed. “Yes! How did you know? That’s one of the most interesting bits: Roderick Gaunt, a Ravenclaw, in the year ahead of Charlus. Last direct descendent of Cadmus Peverell. Another one of the leaders of the House Abolitionists. Distant cousin of—”

“Of Voldemort.” Ron shivered again. On his own finger, a ring… running up the edge...

“Y-yes.” Corner shuddered, and Goldstein with him, though probably for different reasons from Ron. “Yes. He died right before finishing Hogwarts, actually.”

“What?” That wasn’t what Ron had expected at all.

“Well, sort of.”

“How can you sort of die?” asked Goldstein, sensibly.

Well, Ron mused, Harry…

“Quite mysterious, actually. He was hit by some sort of curse while in the Great Hall. There were hundreds of witnesses—but no one ever saw who cast the spell.”

The thought floated through Ron’s consciousness: Invisibility cloak… “Uh… So, he died?”

“Well, actually, it’s quite interesting: he was dying—quite painfully, actually—and rather than let the curse take him, he donated his brain—”

“—to the Department of Mysteries.” The shudders had become a steady spasm. The vision swam before Ron: a tank, full of floating…

“How on earth could you have known that?” Corner asked.

Without a word, Ron popped open the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves as high as they’d go.

“Wow,” said Anthony, staring at the pattern of welts that scored Ron’s arms, red now, and raw. “How long have you had these?” He took out his wand and began running his wand over them.

Holding his arms out, trying not to look down at them, Ron sighed. “Couple of years ago. When we followed Harry down—”

“—to the Department of Mysteries.” Michael managed to look as though he were nodding and shaking his head at the same time. “So you and our friend Roderick met?”

“Met!” snorted Ron. “Yeah, right. I reached into the tank, sort of, um, by accident, and he…” He gritted his teeth to keep from shuddering. “He sort of… latched on to me.”

Michael’s eyebrows disappeared into his mop of hair.

“Cool,” Anthony murmured, lifting his wand. “And these have been bothering you ever since?”

“No,” Ron said, rolling his sleeves back down over the raw-looking scars. “Just for a bit, once before, and then the past couple of weeks.”

“Hmm.” Anthony looked up into Ron’s eyes. “And the dreams? Did they start up at the same time as this inflammation?”

“Yeah.” Ron looked down at his hands. “Was the main reason I was so sure the dream wasn’t… mine.”
“Hmm. And did you have similar dreams last time?”

“Well…” Ron could feel a blush pushing its way up, and hated it. “I don’t… You know. Don’t, um, remember my dreams, usually. But I had lots of… I was kind of randy for a bit yeah. Which is part of…” The blush swept over him, silencing his tongue.

“Part of?”

“Merlin,” choked Ron. He had never admitted this to anyone and wished he didn’t need to now—but he could see the puzzle-hunt brightness in Anthony’s eyes and recognized it from Hermione. He knew the Ravenclaw was on to something that might help. “Part of… You remember when I… wentoutwithLavender?”

“With…?”

The two boys blinked at Ron. Then Michael smirked. “With Bosoms Brown? How could we forget? The two of you were attached at the lip for—”

Anthony held his hand up. “Right around the holidays, wasn’t it, Ron?”

He nodded. It hurt to remember.

Anthony put his hand on Ron’s shoulder in a manner that Ron was sure was meant to be reassuring. “And did you have… homoerotic dreams then too?”

Ron puzzled out what Goldstein meant, and then shook his head. “I mean, like I said, I don’t usually
remember my dreams, now do I?”

“Hmm. But you kept going out with Lavender for a while after that, didn’t you?” Anthony asked.

“Yeah, ‘till around Easter. But… it wasn’t exactly the same after Christmas.”

“Less… randy?”

“Yeah… More like I was looking about, trying to figure out how the hell I’d got myself in such a mess.”
Michael laughed in sympathy; it was a relief to laugh along.

“May I ask, Ron,” asked Anthony, that brightness fairly burning in his eyes now, “have you kissed Hermione under the mistletoe this month?”

Ron blinked at Anthony. “Well… of course. I mean, got her a hair clip for her decorated with a bit of the stuff at the last Hogsmeade weekend, now, didn’t I?”

“Very smooth,” said Michael with a wink.

“Ta.”

Anthony nodded, his fingers fairly digging into Ron’s shoulder. “And two winters ago? With Lavender?”
“I don’t—“ Ron began, but then the memory flooded back: after the Quidditch match, Lavender telling him how brilliantly he’d played, then glancing up slyly at the weird-looking hunk of moon-glow greenery floating over their heads. And suddenly he’d… “Bloody hell. Yeah.”

Anthony leaned back, clapped his hands together and laughed. “That’s it!”

Ron found himself wondering if maybe Goldstein had got into the kosher wine or something. “Mistletoe?”

Anthony laughed again. “No. No. It’s too good! I can’t….” He began to giggle.

Michael goggled down at his boyfriend. “What are you on about, Anth…?” Then his jaw dropped and he too began to laugh. “No fucking way! She’ll be impossible!”

“She’ll have earned it!” guffawed Goldstein, and the two began to howl with laughter.

For a bit, Ron just let them laugh, but that got boring pretty fast. “Guys? Guys? Could…” He waited a bit more, staring up at the ceiling. They finally started to slow down. “Any chance you could, you know, let me in on the joke?”

They startled, clearly having forgotten that he was there. “Sorry!” they both said.

Ron shrugged. “So?”

They started to giggle again.

“Loony,” laughed Michael.

“Nargles,” guffawed Anthony.

“WHAT?”

Anthony wipe his eyes, sniggering on. “She’s been on about the dangers of mistletoe every bloody year—has these detailed charts of the life cycles of Nargles, their effects on humans—”

Corner laughed. “When I first met your sister, Ron, dancing with her at the Yule Ball, she starts grilling me about the bloody things—Luna’d told her to watch out for them at the ball, you see! I told her they didn’t bloody exist—”

“But they make people randy and have weird dreams?” Ron stared down at the lacework of red scars on his arms.

“Well,” said Anthony with a hiccough of a snort, “not exactly. But combined with the effects of having been latched onto by… Roderick—”

“Did I hear someone talking about Nargles?” A familiar, vague voice wafted from the doorway.

Ron shot to his feet. Luna was wearing pyjamas that had Thestrals dancing over them. “Er…” He tried silently to tell the two boys not to saying anything—

“Speak of the devil!” crowed Goldstein.

“Oh,” said Luna, “I thought you were speaking about Nargles. Never mind then…”

“No!” shouted Corner, though Ron was waving his hands—one to try to keep Michael and Anthony quiet and the other waving goodbye to Luna quite emphatically. It didn’t matter. “You’ve got to see this!”

Anthony leapt to the door and began pulling Luna towards Ron who was quickly shrinking back onto the desk. “All of those times that we told you that you needed empirical proof if you were going to talk about Nargles and whatnot and here it is!” He grabbed Ron’s wrist and pulled the lacerated arm out.

Luna’s eyes—always wide—expanded alarmingly. “Goodness. From the Department of Mysteries?” she asked, but not waiting for an answer pushed Ron’s eyelids open and peered into his eyes. Twisting his head, she stuck her pinky in Ron’s ear. “Oh, dear. These are classic symptoms. I’m so sorry, Ron.”

“Er…”

“Have you been having odd dreams? Picking up on others’ thoughts? Having visions of sugar plums with gnashing teeth coming to—?”

“Er… Yeah.” Ron twisted his head away from Luna’s pinky. Her eyes were enormous. “Er, the dreams anyway.”

“Ah!” Luna’s face, which had been unusually focused, broke into a huge grin. “That’s wonderful!”

“Well,” mumbled Ron, “I mean, they are really odd dreams.”

“Oh,” said Luna, and Anthony and Michael sniggered—Ron hoped at her reaction, not his own discomfort.
She tilted her head. “Do you know whose brain it was that attacked you?”

Before Ron could say anything, Michael Corner announced, “Roderick Gaunt.”

“Oh!” Luna blinked, quite slowly. “How awful for you, Ron. My father says he was a nasty bugger.”

All three boys gawked at Luna.

“Well,” she said, as if someone had actually asked something, “my father was a first year Ravenclaw when Roderick Gaunt was head boy. That was the phrase he used: nasty bugger. I believe that he meant it literally.”

Suddenly interested—in spite of himself—Ron grabbed Luna’s hand. “What do you mean?”

“Well, my father told me that he took a rather unusual approach to teaching discipline to the younger boys who wanted to get ahead. He liked to tie them up—”

“In the showers,” grunted Ron. “And fuck them up the arse.”

“Yes.” Gooseflesh sprung up on Luna’s arm. “Ron? That didn’t sound terribly much like you.”

He grunted again, non-verbally this time.

Huge eyes narrowing, Luna asked, “Have those been the dreams you’ve been having, Ron?”

He nodded.

“Oh, my. Those must be quite exciting.”

Potter, his legs over my… Ron bit down a groan. “But. They’re. Not. Mine.”

Fast as a Snitch, Luna’s hand shot out, yanked down the fly to Ron’s trousers, and yanked out his mostly-erect tadger.

“Bloody—!”

“Oh, dear,” Luna said, looking at Ron’s erection as if it were a sick Kneazle. She turned to Anthony. “This is quite an advanced case.”

“Nguh,” gasped Ron as she poked at the head of his cock. He looked down and saw that the shaft was marked with the same pattern of scarlet lacerations as his arms.

Luna patted his prick, and Ron had to fight an urge that wasn’t his own—at least, he hoped wasn’t his own—to flip the mad bint onto the desk and bugger her…. She spoke in an ethereal, calm voice. “Nargles feed on erotic feelings. In order to do that, they have to break down the natural Occlumency barriers that we all have—that keep us from hearing one another’s thoughts. However, they also make one susceptible to Possession from the outside. That is why I thought it so important to warn Ginny about them, and Harry. But I did not think to warn you, Ronald. I had not thought that your encounter with the brains in the Thought Room would affect you in this way. I am sorry.”

“Nguh.”

“So,” Anthony murmured, his eyes focused on the still-growing erection in Luna’s hands, “you think that he is in danger? Even if we remove the Nargles?”

“I think that, at this point, it is likely that the barriers between his own mind and Roderick Gaunt’s have been compromised.”

Anthony nodded. “And Gaunt was—is a fairly dominant and domineering personality. So you think—?”

“That he is using this opportunity to establish a hold on Ronald’s mind that will be quit difficult to break.”

Luna peered at the penis in her hand, which pulsed. “Ron, have you experienced these symptoms before?”
“Well,” said Ron through gritted teeth, “not last year, no bloody mistletoe, Fleur doesn’t like it—”

“Veela have many superstitions involving Nargles,” interjected Luna.

“Hmm. But. The year before…”

Corner finished for him. “With Lavender.”

“Oh.” Luna nodded. “Yes. That was rather excessive. It makes sense.” She turned his rod in a clinical fashion—Ron had to bite his cheeks to keep from howling and throwing her down on the floor. “I think he needs immediate help,” she said to the boys.

“Hmm,” said Anthony.

Luna nodded. “Yes. And Gaunt does seem to be a rather dominant personality.”

“Oh!” Anthony said. “You mean—?”

“Yes,” Luna answered.

Anthony nodded, smiling—flushing. “Psychothaumic inversion.”

Corner, who had, like the other two, been getting an eyeful of Ron’s manhood, gawked up. “What?
Psycho… Oh.”

Luna nodded. “Yes. I think it would be most effective.”

“What?” Ron growled.

“In the dream, it was Gaunt and a fellow named Black—” began Anthony.

Michael kicked in. “Must have been Regulus. Another nasty bugger of the first order, according to Slughorn, who should know—and another one of the leaders of the House Unification movement in the 1920s.”

“So,” sighed Luna, “it will take two.”

“Two?” groaned Ron, who was vacillating between bewilderment, rage, humiliation and sheer randiness.

“Hmm,” said Luna with a nod. She turned to Anthony with a rather predatory grin. “Can I watch?”

: :

“Uh… Guys?” Ron twisted against his bonds; the transfigured tie held fast. This didn’t seem like such a good idea to him. It hadn’t from the beginning, and his misgivings were only getting worse.

Heat flared in his forearms, in his cock; apparently, it didn’t seem like such a good idea to Rod either. Nasty bugger.

Ron bit down a whimper.

At least he’d managed to talk Luna out of watching. She was guarding the door.

He twisted his arms again. The yellow-and-black-striped tie dribbled water down his enflamed wrists. “Guys?”

“So,” Michael Corner said, his voice low. “You want this?” Corner was standing in front of Ron, naked, wet. Thiswas his very hard hard-on, which he was stroking. Did Ginny—?

“Uh…” Ron felt the twin explosions of Roderick Gaunt’s reactions to this situation: desire and fury. I should be the one showing these halfbloods—! Ron gulped. Bugger that for a laugh, Gaunt. Always wondered what it would be like to be a girl, he thought. Guess I’ll find out. “Please… Please.”

Corner licked already-wet lips and knelt between Ron’s knees. He glanced down at Ron’s cock, which was bouncing stiffly against his panting stomach. “Want it, Ron?” He gave a smirk and ran the back of his thumbnail up the length, evoking a deep, full groan—even Gaunt thought that felt pretty good, the berk. Michael’s smirk widened to a small, foxish grin. “Oh, yeah. You want it.”

Ron whimpered and twisted. “Please… Merlin. Please.”

Behind Michael, Anthony chuckled. Ron blinked up at him; not the soft-faced, quiet boy now, but dark-eyed, teeth white. “Oh, yes. He wants it. He definitely wants it. Gaunt knows he has it coming.” The smaller boy stepped forward, stroking himself…

MERLIN….

Ron had grown up with five brothers; he’d seen other pricks before now—hell, he’d seen them erect. The twins had loved to wank with their door open, the gits, just because they knew Ron had to go by their room on the way from the bathroom to his own. He’d even touched Dean’s one drunken night sixth year—Harry off with Dumbledore, Neville hiding, Seamus howling with pissed laughter, and Dean trying to claim that his tadger was the biggest in their year. Ron’d shown him: balls to balls, Dean’s foreskin barely coming to the edge of Ron’s head. As with Corner, he’d had to work not to think of his sister putting her fingers around….

But he had no doubt now: his cock wasn’t the biggest in their year—just in Gryffindor. Anthony Goldstein—small, swotty, skinny, pale, pony-tailed Anthony Goldstein—was squeezing his fist up the length of a mast of dark pink flesh that was as long as Ron’s and looked as thick as Ron and Dean’s together. Ron gulped.
If Michael’s grin was like a fox’s, Anthony’s was more like a wolf’s. “Shall we give it to him, do you think? Or shall we leave him here to suffer?”

He could feel Roderick Gaunt shriek within him; ironically, this calmed Ron. Yeah, you wanker. Let’s see how tough you are, eh? He could feel the bastard trying to yell, to say Take that thing away from me! Breathing as evenly as he could, Ron said, “P-please.”

Corner slid closer until the tops of his thighs slid beneath Ron’s bum; nothing was supporting Ron’s weight now but the strained, dripping tie and Michael’s slick, muscled quads. Bugger. He didn’t look so strong when we played Quidditch! His hair was black, trailing around his neck in wild, wet tendrils.

No, Potter, no, not YOU…

But it wasn’t Harry—or Charlus. Ron held his eyes open, and forced Roderick Gaunt to keep watching.
Corner’s cheeks were darkening; whether it was just acting or not, he was getting excited. “What a good bitch you are,” he growled, and it would have made Ron laugh, if it hadn’t made Gaunt screech indignantly. Corner’s cock met Ron’s own and slid up the length of it…. Frotting… “Isn’t he a good bitch?”

Ron felt his balls pulse around the other boy’s erection.

Anthony grunted and ran his fist back down the length of his spar. “Quite.”

“Glissare,” hisses Michael, and Ron feels a slickening warmth—first on his John Thomas, then inside his bum—smooth, relaxing heat.

Ron tamps down another internal squeal of outrage from Roderick just as Michael lifts Ron’s legs, opening his arse, pressing the tip of his cock against…

Hermione stuck her finger there once and it felt… amazing. Weird, but amazing. But the idea of this…? Not as big as Goldstein’s but still… The tip pushes open the circle of Ron’s bum. “GOD!”

“Too much?” says Corner, looking worried for a moment, and Gaunt almost manages to scream out YES! but Anthony growls, “No mercy. Gaunt is a frightened little bully, and deserves no mercy.”

Ron shakes his head, eyes closing.

“Look at me, Gaunt,” says Michael, his voice low and commanding. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
Gaunt doesn’t want to, but Ron opens them anyway.

“Ask me.”

“Please…”

“Ask me to fuck you.”

Ron tries, but Gaunt—panicked, terrified, furious—stops him. Throat in spasm, Ron blinks up at Anthony.
“You know you want it. You know you deserve it. Ask for it, or you won’t get what you deserve.”
Michael rocks his hips, lifting up onto his knees, and Ron’s weight pushes Corner’s spear up into Ron’s arse—just a half an inch, but AAAAAH! “Ask me, Gaunt,” says Michael, and gives Ron’s calf a playful bite. “Ask me to fuck your arse. Ask—”

Ron can feel that Gaunt is weeping, angry. “Bugger me,” groans Ron. “Bugger my—”
It slides in, and it hurts as it slides in; he remembers Hermione crying their first time, and now—“AAAAAAAAAAAH!”—but it feels nasty and hot and good to, even as it burns, and the muscles in Ron’s bottom fight the invasion.

Fingers gripping the points of Ron’s hips, Michael presses himself further in, and Ron feels as if that cock is a piston, pushing all of the breath out of him and he is crying, but…

“AAAAAAAAAH!” Ron’s body thrashes—is it his body, panicked by the feel of fucked, or is it Roderick Gaunt, rebelling against receiving what he’d always been so happy to give? Ron doesn’t know, but he can’t stop himself; yet those hippogriff-trap fingers, the straining tie, and Michael’s cock, pressing further into Ron, hold him in place.

Ron feels bollocks bounce against his open bum, and suddenly the tip of Corner’s cock touches a place inside of Ron that hurts, but BLOODY HELL! Ron’s tadger, no longer hard, flops against his belly, and precum oozes into his navel.

“Fuck,” gasps Anthony. YES! thinks Ron: FUCKFUCKFUCK!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO wails the thin, whispy soul of Roderick Gaunt. It is scratching and clawing at Ron’s mind, trying to take it over even now.

“Feel… good? Gaunt?” grunts Michael. “Feel… good having me… roger your arse like you rogered all of those boys? Like it?” He withdraws and—

NOOOOOOOOO! howls Roderick, but YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS thinks Ron.

Michael is beginning to fuck him in earnest now, Ron’s legs up over his shoulders. Ron grabs hold of the shower handle to keep from being slammed against the tile wall. Michaels face is sex-slack and dark, eyes heavy-lidded. He’s biting his lip and Ron can hear Gaunt whimpering, Yes, yes, you pathetic nancy boy, pop off, just as you’re getting started… Then I’ll show you!

But Michael takes a deep breath and slows, even as that terrific piston pounds in and out of Ron, giving and stealing breath with each stroke, touch that scary, wonderful spot where it feels as if every nerve in Ron’s body is wired, like one of his dad’s stupid Muggle contraptions.

Michael thrusts in. Stops, shuddering—trying not to come.

Ron, folded in half, opened like an oyster, weeps, and Gaunt weeps too, shrill and thin.

Turning back to where Anthony is stroking his enormous penis, Michael groans and says, “D-do you… want some? S-sure he’s got something left for you.”

Wolf eyes open, wolf grin feral, Anthony steps forward, that huge prick advancing on Ron’s face. The small, gentle, nice, quiet boy with the eight-inch forearm of a willie leans over, grabbing onto the shower handle for support. “Yes.”

The dripping head, plum-dark, pushes toward Ron’s mouth, which slams shut in terror. Nononononono! wheedles Gaunt, and Ron can barely hear him.

“Open your mouth, you little bugger. Open your mouth and we’ll see you well and truly fucked!”
Ron’s mouth opens of its own accord; Gaunt’s feeble objections ignite his courage and his desire, and he pulls forward against his bonds, against Michael’s thrust, and touches the tip of his tongue to the smooth, dark tip of Anthony’s cock. Anthony’s hisses. Gaunt snivels.

Michael pushes up into Ron again, tipping him off his precarious balance, and Ron finds that thick, hot flesh pressing his jaw open.

Anthony moans. Gaunt rages.

Michael pants. “Bloody… hell… You… okay…? You… Shit! You got… the whole… thing…?”

The thing wedges Ron’s tongue, jaw, throat open. It tastes… bitter. But good. Familiar. Ron struggles to breathe though his nose with two cocks squeezing the air out of him. And the one in his bottom is certainly disconcerting, but feeling this monster in his mouth, gently pulling out and thrusting back in—Anthony holding on to Ron’s ears to keep him steady—brown pubes dancing with the air streaming from Ron’s nostrils… It’s intimate. Intimate in a way that even being buggered wasn’t.

Michael pants on… “Shit… So… Ginny couldn’t ever…”

Ron glares at him with one eye. If I had green eyes like Harry, I’d cast the Killing Curse…

Michael wisely shuts the fuck up. Smiling a weak apology, he lets go of one hip and wraps his fingers around Ron’s bouncing semi-erection.

The feeling shoots through Ron, and he finds himself clamping down on a cock at either end.
YES, says a dark, whinging voice in his head. Oh, yes!

“No!” barks Anthony, and slaps at Corner’s hand, catching the head of Ron’s cock painfully. “Gaunt is here to serveour pleasure. So long as he’s here, he gets none!” And he thrusts back in, deeper than he’s ever done, and Ron chokes, but revels in the feeling.

NO, screeches Roderick Gaunt in his mind, fighting the final battle for dominance. I am the alpha, I am the omega…. I am… I am the Head Boy! I am…!

Screaming back in his mind—welcoming two quickening, swelling cocks into his body. You are a piece of dung too smelly for anything but the Vanishing Cabinet. You aren’t good enough to be fucked—who’d ever want to fuck a disgusting bit of bullying shite like you, let alone let you fuck THEM?

NO! NO! Don’t let…!

Ron hears, as Gaunt heard, both Ravenclaws groaning through clenched jaws. The twin pistons rock in and out of him—bollocks slap against his bum and his chin—and Ron can barely breathe, dark stars are floating through his vision.

NO! THEY CANNOT…!

Michael is beginning to twitch as he thrusts and Anthony’s fingers are squeezing around Ron’s ears and in his hair. Ron growls around Anthony’s bitter-spilling meat, swelling in his mouth: YES! THEY WILL! Triumphant, he tightens his arse around Michael, pushes his tongue up against Anthony and screams, COME!

: :

Hermione’d explained to Ron once—why?—that people’d used to call orgasms the little death. He hadn’t understood it, but as he dangled there, feeling both boys empty themselves into him, he thought that maybe it made sense after all. Vision blackening, body twisting, he felt as close to dying as he’d ever done.

And he hadn’t even come yet.

Molten fire poured down his throat and up his bum, and he was sure they’d meet somewhere.

He felt the tendrils of the foreign mind disengage from his own—like dead tentacles releasing. And stay out, tosser…!

Ah, well, he thought, letting go of consciousness at last, not a bad way to go….

: :

The tile was wet and cold against Ron’s back. Water was dripping onto his face. From hair.

His wrists and back burned. And his jaw… And his bum still felt...

“Ron?” called the panicked voice of Anthony Goldstein, suddenly several octaves higher than it had been. “Are you…? Enerva—”

Ron held up a weak hand—free now—hitting Anthony’s wand, and the spell misfired into the shower wall in a shower of sparks. “M’okay.” Better than okay.

“Thank Merlin,” said Michael, who was holding Ron steady. Who was still buried in Ron’s bum.
In agreement, Anthony gave what sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Are…?” He inhaled sharply. “Ron!”

“Huh?” Ron answered blearily. He could feel his consciousness fluttering still.

“Your arms,” Anthony whispered. “The scars. They’re… gone.”

“Huh.” Ron believed him. Felt too weak to pick them up to check.

“And from his upstanding Member for Cockshire too,” said Michael, closing his fingers around Ron’s prick, sending a thrill through overtaxed nerves; Ron let out a moan so huge it made no sound. “Tony,” asked Michael, meekly, sliding his fist up the length of Ron’s stiffening stiffy, “is it all right now?”

Anthony smiled that mild, scary smile. “More than all right.” He leaned down and gave Ron a quick kiss on the lips. “I’d say it was the least we could do.”

Expertly, Michael began to stroke Ron, who lay there on the shower floor in a gibbering mass. The pressure of Michael’s cock, softening, but still pressing against that spot…

And Anthony ran a smooth hand up Ron’s chest and tweaked his nipple, and the world…

: :

the little death.

Ron blinked. There was something on his face. His vision swam into focus. Anthony Goldstein, long hair untethered, grinned as gobbets of white dripped from from his cheeks. His chin. His nose. “Guess you liked that.”

Ron grinned. “Guess… I did.” Involuntarily, he shuddered, his arse contracting, finally pushing Michael out. They both groaned in disappointment.

“Well,” said a bright, diffuse voice from the far side of the showers, “how nice that the psychothaumic inversion worked.” All three boys turned; Luna was sitting against the base of the wall, one hand down her Snorkack pyjama bottoms, the other up the top. Her hair was stuck wildly to the tile behind her, and her usually pale skin was a deep, rosy pink. She blinked at them slowly. “I know I said I’d watch the door, but there was noise, and I thought you might need some help. Also,” she added, smiling less vaguely than usual, “that was rather interesting. In fact, if I had to choose a phrase, I would say it was rather…” The grin became predatory. “I would say that it was quite fucking hot. Wouldn’t you?”

Once Upon A Time There Was A Way To for lenina20 [R] -- HP/HG, HP/LL, HP/HG/LL,...

2009-11-25T08:41:55Z

Title: Once Upon A Time There Was A Way To
Author: savepureness
Recipient: lenina20
Rating: Extremely mild R.
Ship(s): Harry/Hermione, Harry/Luna, Harry/Hermione/Luna, mentions of past Ron/Hermione and eventual Viktor/Hermione.
Warning(s): Not really. There’s a mention of lovemaking and the presence of breasts.
Author Note(s): AU. EWE. In the modern era, Harry and Hermione find no difficulty in maintaining a convenient long-distance relationship. Things change and tumble toward an unexpected end when Hermione, Harry, and Luna (Harry’s ex-girlfriend, and possibly the love of his life thrice denied) all meet in Wizard London.
Disclaimer: Characters and settings belong to J.K. Rowling, who was so kind to set a perfect playground for us amateurs; I thank her. There’s no profit I’m making out of writing this, no profit other than my giftee’s eventual pleasure.

Luna Lovegood was used to being the centre of attention; yet, it was a very different kind of attention she got while she was still a somehow bizarre Hogwarts student. Back then, she wore the scars of teenage cruelty as proudly as she wore her clinging earrings. She had a whole lot of earrings, and she had taken a whole lot of wounds. Looking back at those times, Luna didn’t merely frown. She smiled. She found everything amusing. “And here I am now”, she always thought. Another sip of coffee, another pick at the Chinese food; Luna adored the cardboard boxes. At the beginning she had spent hours twisting and turning the boxes in her curious hands. She would heartily admit at any time that the Muggle world was so full of wonders, or mysteries; it was the perfect place for her.

-
“And did you hear Luna Lovegood lives among the Muggles now?”

The question found Harry unprepared. Of course he had heard. Every witch and wizard had. Living in the Muggle world wasn’t something out of the ordinary; it just happened. Being one of their celebrities was.
“Quite a weird girl she was, don’t you reckon?”

Harry stopped halfway between a nod and a shrug. Even now, after years, he had mixed feelings about Luna Lovegood – what for a name she had, he thought, so apt.

“I hear you’ve been –“

Harry’s eyebrows arched in surprise; he swallowed quickly.

“– classmates”, his interlocutor finished.

“Actually”, his voice merely shook, “we were in different Houses while at Hogwarts. But we were – we were friends.”

The word left an alien aftertaste, between acid and sugary, wasn’t she moody all the time, after all? Harry lifted his tray, half his lunch still lying there, untouched, and walked slowly to the waste bin. His annoying, nameless colleague followed him with his dark, narrow eyes. Potter. He puffed. Such a pug.
-
Excellent.

Hermione Granger fancied finding a letter on the kitchen counter every week. On the one hand, there was the excitement of not knowing which day was he going to choose; on the other hand, she had the safe feeling of being involved in something smooth and constant.

She dropped her shoulder bag and hopped on the counter, the letter in her hands. Browsing around quickly, she found a stash of cinnamon biscuits hidden behind a bowl half-filled with fruit; it was fine enough; certainly, there was nothing else to eat in the whole house, as small as it was. “My darling”, she read in a whisper. She frowned. “He’s slowly becoming more and more traditional”, she mused.

That was hard to understand. Hermione would have thought him more influenced by Luna’s ways; the two of them had spent a few years together, all in all. She hadn’t been too often in contact back then, she had to admit, what with struggling to advance career-wise, and not to sink all the ships she and Ron had built a safe – they thought – harbour for. The first one she had managed, as always; the second, they had failed together.

Do I miss him?

She didn’t mean Ron. He was too much of a distant character. They were sending Christmas cards to each other, Happy Christmas, joy, and prosperity, and let’s forgive you chose my best friend, and I let you do it. She meant Harry.

Being in France was lovely, indeed. She had fallen in love with the country when she was only a toddler. Working as an exchange teacher at Beauxbatons was part of a bigger picture she had always dreamed of. However, Harry wouldn’t join her there; Aurors didn’t switch countries at a finger snap. So they trailed further an awkward relationship sprinkled with Floo powder.

“...it would be lovely to have you here for Easter.”

Hermione was seriously thinking to go just to see what was making him be so tame.
-
It was good they didn’t use TV sets; he would be tempted to switch his on every Wednesday evening – though it’s silly, the name of the show. Luna Lovegood Tells You What Would. Hermione would comment it’s not even grammatically correct, Harry thought. He took another sip of tea. It was a fine brand, he liked it. Mildly spicy, sweet for the rest, no aftertaste, far from the Earl Grey days he and Luna would argue upon. She thought him funny for not trying magic brands, and sticking with a pompous Muggle product; it’s far from being pompous, he used to argue.

“You and your Muggles”, she would laugh. “One day I’ll run to live among them, to see what’s that you love so much about life there.”

She had done it; running away. Harry still wondered, three years later, if her decision has been – at least slightly, maybe partly – influenced by their intimate life. She always made up her mind in a split second, he would give her that. But why? Sometimes he wondered if she understood why they broke up.

“Luna –“

His hand trembled. The quill slid a few inches.

“- it would be lovely to have you here for Easter.”

-

Luna smiled to herself when she thought of her personal packing method. She had to come up with something that was both quick and magicless if she wanted to travel within the Muggle world. It had taken her a few months to brush it up, until she was completely satisfied; she had to be, at least every Tuesday, the day before she had to step on screen and predict the future for eager callers. Besides that, however, there were countless interviews, and the odd photo shooting, so she had to be prepared. No pillow marks, no skin imperfections, no bad breath – no tears, no memories of Harry Potter.

Clacking the suitcase shut, she straightened up. For a while she just let her gaze wander about the room, without focusing. Why am I doing this? American Muggles had a specific term for it – but then again, they had a specific term for everything; they called it unfinished business.

“So I fled.”

Luna was used to talk to her reflection in the tall Venetian mirror. Sometimes she liked to pretend it was her best friend, her alter-ego, her apparent twin.

“I fled from him.”

Eyes shut, she travelled back in time; only for a glimpse, and not very far, somewhere near the end, when they both knew the end was near and yet denied it every day; when there was still lovemaking and whispering and fondness. We could, Harry would start. Her index finger pressed upon his lips made him swallow his words bitterly.

He had loved her to the end.

She loved him still.
-
“Hi you.”

“Don’t go all French on me.”

“Actually –“and how he loved that smile! – “I do have a few new tricks to show you.”
-
“Father?”

Xenophilius looked older than she remembered him. No stress. People were getting older; it was in their very nature; no stress. Luna shivered at how quickly she seemed to adopt American ways of saying things; American ways.

“Did your accent change?”

She shrugged between his short barks of laughter, before throwing herself in his open arms. It’s good to be home for a while, she thought, shutting her eyes to block out the tears.

-
“I’m glad you didn’t go to Durmstrang instead.”

Hermione pierced Harry with an intent glare. He seemed at ease; she liked that. He was casually leaning on his elbow, playing with the olives in his plate. She remembered he hated olives. It was a very good restaurant, still, a fancy one. Harry and restaurants – the thought was almost scary.

“Someone’s quite an admirer of French tricks, then”, she teased.

“Oi! It’s not that. But I know the names of the current staff. There’s a certain Viktor Krum among them.”

He’s so silly, she laughed inwardly, then she laughed for real, and they laughed together; Hermione missed the hollow in Harry’s eyes because the laughter was so honest, so warm.

They walked out of the restaurant arm in arm. Hermione giggled every now and then; seeing Harry so lively, so purposeful was the last thing she imagined. It’s a good Easter present, she thought. They decided to walk home, and they paced gingerly, turning around a corner, stars ready-to-admire glittering in the sky.

“Watch out, you’ll –“

Stargazers never watch their feet. Harry rubbed his shoulder.

“Harry.”

The voice he had bumped into froze him on the spot.

“Luna.” Hermione tilted her head politely enough. “Mr. Lovegood.” Another tilt.

She came home. “You came.”

Hermione’s brow arched, but she didn’t dare ask.

“You summoned me.”
-
Harry thought of the last time when he had felt like hiding in a dark corner and not showing his sorry face to the world for centuries. His memory didn’t serve him well; he had to find something else to think of. He needed something entertaining enough, and silly, and not serious at all, to make him avoid thoughts and images he thought unwelcome.

She came home. And Hermione wasn’t speaking to him, of course. He had expected her to react more rationally, like she always did. He had to admit, though, that the encounter and its course haven’t been easy for her to take; no one felt at ease; maybe old Xenophilius, but he wasn’t part of it.

“I need to find her”, he muttered.

He wasn’t sure which one he meant.

-
“I’m having a hard time focusing in this fog.”

Same old. “Luna. The fog, it’s outside.”

She laughed softly; her long blonde hair was shinier than ever – American wonder products? It had a lighter hue upon it, and highlights. It looked good, very good. Liquid white gold. “I know. It’s the feeling.”

Hermione shifted in her chair. It was a very comfortable one, vintage for sure, Xenophilius Lovegood had fine taste in furniture, or maybe it had been his late wife who had furnished the rooms so elegantly. She didn’t like to think it was Luna’s touch, her hand, the same hand that had so often touched Harry in the past. It’s the past, that’s the key-word, Hermione, she tried; but then she looked in Luna’s big eyes, and she knew. It was still there.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Luna held the teapot with grace. Hermione wondered if she had learned some manners in the States – they were good at socializing there, she heard. No. Luna’s grace came from inside. She moved like a veela, and she wasn’t even aware of it.

There was no point in holding silence for too long. “I think –“Hermione started, talking to Luna’s teacup.

“Yes?”

Kindness or ruse? Hermione decided it was kindness. This was the same Luna of many years before, Loony Lovegood, the same big eyes, oversized but serene, the same weird earrings, an innocent soul trapped in an adult body that had to borrow social moves.

“I think Harry –“

Darn. Those eyes. And then, his eyes; when they had met, the three of them, so awkwardly, his eyes were burning like coals, iridescent coals dipped in – what am I thinking of? They burned. He burned.

“I think Harry still has feelings for you.”

-
Of course he had hoped. It wasn’t like he didn’t care about Hermione; Hermione was his closest friend. Edgy she might have been, when emotion took over reason, but, that asides, she could be trusted. She wasn’t flighty and volatile; she wouldn’t run away. And when they first made love, he didn’t feel empty, his hands cupped her breasts eagerly, and there was safety and comfort in getting inside her. She had seemed to enjoy it as well. All was good; except that, it wasn’t good for long.
-
“Convenience and comfort.” Luna was thoughtful; she patted the second cup of tea. “That’s something we never had. With us...”

“You were all for the thrill.” And how did I find the guts to smile?

“Perhaps. It worked out quite well. Every now and then we’d have our own quarrels; who doesn’t?”

We don’t. Hermione was almost ashamed to admit she had never fought with Harry. She kept it in. She wondered why she didn’t choose to speak to Luna earlier; it might have been the safe way out for them all. “He bought a ring”, she said, but there was no satisfaction, it was just a piece of casual information.

Luna swallowed difficultly. “He wrote to me, weeks ago. He asked me to come for Easter. I did. I have my father too. But I –“

Hermione stopped. She meant to say something; more; anything at all. It would be so easy, she thought.

-
Harry made up his mind.
-
Coming out of his safe place, he found Hermione packing hastily.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I thought it better to visit my parents for Easter; it’s in two days, I have the time to book a flight to Australia and get there safely. They’ll be happy to see me.” She didn’t look at him.

Startled, Harry grabbed her arm; Hermione stopped, a shirt hanging loosely between her fingers.

“What’s this?” he demanded; I don’t like his demanding voice. She was glad, however; it was easier if she tried to hate him; at least slightly, vaguely, just a bit.

“I’ve been seeing someone else”, she blurted out.

Lying hurts just as much as saying the truth. His mouth twisted. Hermione planted her nails in her palms, almost willing to make blood trickle out and wash away the shame she was feeling; the pain; the love. For the first time in her life, she felt she loved Harry. She loved him fully, truthfully, and righteously.

“Is it Viktor?”

The same male pride, but it wasn’t bothering her anymore; she couldn’t even perceive it properly between all the tears she felt flooding her throat. “It just is.”

-
“You shouldn’t leave again.”

Luna laughed softly. “Don’t you think America is good for me? Or perhaps it’s not good enough?”

An edgy smile; a victory. What does he want?

“Do you really enjoy being a television guru?”

She might as well. Harry thought of all the weird, odd, or eerie deeds she’s ever decided upon. She might as well.

“I don’t really have something to come back to, except my father. And he claims he’s happy; the money I make there is helping me to keep him safe.”

It was the longest conversational break he could think of, since the awkward years of Muggle pre-school. “What if –“

-
Her right cheek frozen in a glass kiss, Hermione kept her eyes shut. It was easier to control the tears. She didn’t like the idea of the other passengers seeing her cry; in many respects she was still very rigid. And that was exactly what had made her think there was something, a je ne sais quoi that had launched her in a deeper analysis; of course, she always analysed.

Harry had been slowly embracing tradition for her sake. Idiot. There had been no Viktor Krum; no one; no one else. She wasn’t sure before, for her it was more than convenient to have her freedom, her teaching and her books, and to still think warmly of a safe place to come back to, every now and then. Idiot, this time she aimed at herself. If only she had it figured out earlier; her feelings.

Muggles did say humans are only realizing the value of a certain thing when they lose it.

“Stay happy”, Hermione whispered, for she knew he was.

-

“No.”

Harry froze when she stopped his hand in mid-air. He had dared to hope, again. And –

“I’ll do it.”

He gulped; the tiny box in his hand felt suddenly heavy. He dropped it back in his pocket, and waited, biting his lower lip. With Luna, he never knew; one never knew.

“Harry Potter.”

There was tenderness in her voice he wasn’t sure he had heard before.

“Will you marry me?”

THE END

Childhood Sweethearts for literaryspell [NC-17] -- RL/SS, RL/SB

2009-11-25T08:37:27Z

Title: Childhood Sweethearts
Author: tania_sings ★
Recipient: literaryspell
Rating: NC-17
Ship: Remus/Snape, Remus/Sirius
Warnings: It's smutastic! Featuring my beloved slut!Remus. Bondage, spanking, toys, facial, references to fisting and shaving. Oh, and the buttsecks. Keep the kiddies AWAY!
Summary: Remus gets one night to revisit his past, but all is not as it seems.
Author's note: Written for the prompt: X and Y are together now, but X can't stop thinking about Z. What will Y think when X makes a crazy suggestion? Thanks to the truly amazing songquake for the beta work!
Disclaimer: blah, blah, notmine, blah

"Are you sure you're all right with this?", Remus asked for what felt like the thousandth time. Severus just looked so hurt, and -- unusually for him -- so damn fragile, that he was already regretting ever having brought the idea up in the first place.

His lover shrugged. "I'm not thrilled about it. Would you be? Finding out the person you love wants to shag his ex isn't exactly the recipe for undying happiness, as even you must be aware. But if you need to do it, then you need to do it. There's nothing I can do to stop you."

Remus gently touched Severus' cheek. "There's plenty you can do to stop me. Just say no, and this ends here."

Severus pulled away. "And then you'll keep thinking about Black. You'll keep wanting him, and you'll resent me for wrecking your chance. Eventually, you'll just give in to temptation and fuck him anyway, and then you won't even tell me because I stopped you the first time. I'd rather it all be out in the open between us, if you don't mind."

Remus nodded. A part of him wanted to just call the whole thing off. After all, he loved Severus, loved him quite madly as a matter of fact. Severus was the one who had helped him to discover and accept what it was that he really needed from a lover. But his relationship with Sirius had ended so suddenly, and not by choice for either of them. It had been Azkaban that had broken them up, and that was no way for a love affair to end. Sirius had been his first love, his first kiss, his first everything. He didn't want to hurt Severus, but he couldn't spend the rest of his life wondering if the spark was still there with Sirius. "Thank you for understanding."

Severus snorted and turned to leave. At the door, however, he paused and turned back, crushing Remus to him in a passionate, possessive embrace. "Just remember who you belong to," he muttered. "You're on loan for the night; you're not a gift."

Remus nodded quickly. He was already getting hard; hearing Severus talk about him like he was something he owned always turned him on. Well, he'd be ready for Sirius, at any rate. “I won't forget."

"See that you don't." And with one final kiss, leaving a mark like a brand on Remus' jaw, Severus was gone.

Remus hurried towards the mirror. He wasn't naturally vain; scars and prematurally grey hair didn't lend themselves to vanity. But he had been a lithe youth in his early twenties the last time he'd been with Sirius, and he hoped his ex-boyfriend wouldn't be too disappointed by the changes in him. He dropped his robes and carefully studied his reflection. He was wearing red silk boxers, remembering how much Sirius had loved the colour red on him. His body hair was already shaved off because that's how Severus liked it; he hoped Sirius wouldn't mind. Hurriedly, he shed his socks; there was nothing less sexy than a man standing around in his socks, after all!

"You look delicious."

Remus spun around. Sirius stood in the doorway, staring at him hungrily. Now that the moment he'd been dreaming about was finally here, he found himself oddly tongue-tied. "Thank you", he managed, staring at the floor.

Sirius moved towards the bed, shedding his robes as he walked. He was entirely naked underneath, and Remus felt his body responding to those familiar planes and muscles. Sirius stretched out on the bed. "Come here."

Remus moved towards the bed in a trance. Sirius pulled him down onto the mattress and then rolled them both over so that he was lying on top. "My Moony", he whispered, pulling Remus close for a kiss.

Remus' head swam with desire, but he had to make one point clear before this went any further. "Not yours", he panted. "Can't say that, okay?"

To his surprise, Sirius grinned. "Whatever you say. So long as I get to fuck you, I'm happy. I can't wait to get into that tight little arse of yours."

Once again, Remus was surprised. "You never used to want to be on top."

Sirius shrugged. "Things change. But if you'd rather top, that's fine too."

Remus shook his head. "Actually, these days I prefer to bottom. But, since tonight is all we get, maybe we can do it both ways."

Sirius smiled. "The best of both worlds. Sounds good to me! But no more talking, all right? I've been hard for you all day."

Action instead of talking suited Remus just fine. He set out mapping Sirius' body with his fingers and tongue, discovering what was the same after so many years and learning about all the changes, both little and big. When Sirius pinned him down, pulled off his boxers and sucked his cock deep into his throat, Remus almost screamed in stunned pleasure. That was a change; Sirius had never been this good at giving head before. Remus almost asked if he'd been taking lessons, before he stopped himself. If Sirius had been giving blow jobs in Azkaban, it probably hadn't been by choice. Reminding him of that might kill the mood, and Remus didn't want to do anything that would stop that amazingly talented tongue from massaging his erection the way it was doing.

All too soon, Sirius pulled away. "Enough of that. I need to fuck you now."

Remus moaned at the urgency in the other man's voice. He rolled over and settled himself on his knees and elbows, his arse sticking up in the air. Sirius gave it a few hard smacks, and Remus almost swooned from the pleasure. Merlin, he loved being spanked. In fact, he would have been content to spent the rest of the night just doing this, taking his punishment for setting up this sinful situation in the first place. A harder blow knocked him flat on his stomach, and he cried out as his hard cock made contact with the bedding. It was amazing how Sirius was able to guess what he liked.

Sirius spread Remus's arse cheeks and spit on his own hand. He ran a wet finger around Remus' hole. "Missed this, Moony," he chuckled.

"Don't tease", Remus begged. He thought he might burst if he didn't get fucked soon.

"Impatient as ever", Sirius laughed, but he slid a finger in anyway. "Mmm, that went in easy. Snape fucks you pretty regularly, then?"

"He fisted me last night", Remus panted. "I'm probably still open from that." He remembered Severus' arm buried in his arse up to the elbow, and his cock wept drops of precum at the memory. He loved how Severus pushed his boundaries, making him move past pain into pleasure, even making him crave the pain itself. No one else had ever done that for him.

"Well then", Sirius spoke, bringing Remus back to the present. "No need to waste time prepping you in that case." And with that, he withdrew the finger and pushed his cock into Remus.

Remus' eyes rolled back in his head, but he knew he had to stop this before it went too far. "Condom", he panted. "You need a condom."

Sirius groaned in a combination of pleasure and frustration. "Oh come on, Moony. You feel so good. There's been no one since you; you don't have to worry."

Remus shook his head. "I promised Severus. You need to wear one. They're in the drawer."

Sirius growled as he pulled out, yanking open the nightstand drawer. However, he grinned as he withdrew the thick black dildo. "Snape not enough for you, Remus?"

"It's not that", Remus blushed. "Sometimes I like to pretend I've got two cocks in me." That had actually been his original wish for tonight, but Severus had made it very clear there was no way he could get a hard-on if Sirius was in the room. Actually, he doubted Sirius would have been up for it either.

Nonetheless, Sirius looked very interested in the dildo. He rolled the condom onto himself with one hand as he ran the other one along the smooth black rubber surface. "That a fact?"

Stroking his own latex-covered length with one hand, Sirus slid the dildo into Remus. Remus gasped, savouring the length and thickness of the rubber cock. He barely had time to adjust to the feeling of fullness before Sirius positioned his own erection at the edge of his already stretched arsehole. "You ready?"

"Do it,", he begged.

That was all it took. Sirius crammed his cock into Remus alongside the dildo, and set up a punishing pace. There was no gentleness here, no concern for Remus' well-being. In short, it was exactly as he liked it.

"Oh yeah. Fuck me. Fuck me! Sirius ... Sirius ... Severus ... FUCK!" He babbled incoherently as Sirius slammed into him again and again, battering his prostate with the heads of both cocks. When he was right on the edge, he reached back to stop his lover. "I'm gonna come."

"Thought that was the point." Sirius obviously didn't want to be interrupted.

"I want to fuck you first, remember?"

Remus found himself unceremoniusly flipped over by a clearly furious Sirius. "Demanding bitch", the other man hissed. Sirius ripped off the condom and straddled Remus' chest. "I'm not waiting."

A few quick jerks of his wrist, and Sirius was spurting hard. Remus threw back his head as his face with splatted with come. He licked his lips, thrilling to the salty taste. There was nothing better than being covered in spunk. He scooped a gob off his cheek and spread it over his chest while Sirius rolled a condom onto him and spread oil lube over his length.

"Gonna ride me?", he grinned, as Sirius slipped a leg across his hips and teased his own hole with Remus' cock.

"In a minute,", Sirius smirked. He reached into the nightstand one more time. "Missed these the first time. You really are a naughty boy, aren't you?"

Remus's breath caught as Sirius held up his handcuffs. "Please..."

He reached towards the headboard and sighed with delight as the cuffs clicked around his wrists. He'd been too shy to ask for them before, but he loved to be restrained so much. Some evenings, Severus didn't even bother to let him loose, just fell asleep and left Remus bound until morning. The lingering soreness in his arms was always a delicious reminder of those nights. It was incredible how many of his kinks Sirius seemed to share.

Remus was so worked up that he knew he wouldn't last long. The tight heat of Sirius' arse clenching around his cock was like a sweet velvet vise. He rose up to meet Sirius' downward thrusts twice, three times, four, and then he was screaming, bursting, filling the condom with milky come.

Sirius unlocked the cuffs and cuddled up to Remus, his head resting on the werewolf's chest. "You okay?"

"Never better." It was true. He felt so good. It wasn't only the sex, incredible though that had been. He just felt so at peace, like everything that had been bothering him for so many years suddenly didn't matter any more. He ran his hands along Sirius' back. "Thank you for doing this."

Sirius laughed. "Believe me, it was my pleasure. We can do it again, if you want."

Remus shook his head. "I don't think Severus would like that. He's not into sharing; it took a lot for him to even give us tonight."

"Then forget him." There was an odd note in Sirius' voice. "Greasy git. I don't even know what you see in him. What do you need Snivellus for, anyway? You have me."

Remus forced down a sudden flair of anger. He knew Sirius didn't like Severus; he had been horrified when he had learned that Remus was in love with him. Still, he hated hearing his lover insulted, especially after he had been so generous. "There's no way I could do that. He loves me."

"So do I." Sirius wouldn't, or couldn't, meet Remus' eyes. "I love you so much, Remus; I always have, ever since we were children. When I found out you wanted me too... I just couldn't believe it. And I've never stopped loving you."

Remus felt his heart clench. This wasn't supposed to happen. "I'm sorry, Sirius. Merlin, I'm so sorry. But I'm in love with Severus. He's the one for me, the only one." He knew it was true. No matter how great the sex with Sirius had been, he'd never known it as thoroughly as he did right at that moment:. Severus was the one he wanted for the rest of his life.

"Then what was all this about?" Sirius' tone sounded strangely urgent.

"Just putting old ghosts to rest. Didn't Severus explain? He said he'd told you everything." Damn it, Remus knew he should have made all the arrangements himself. But Severus had been so insistent on taking care of it, and Remus hadn't wanted to argue since he was getting what he wanted. Still, he didn't want to see Sirius hurt.

"He told me." Sirius sighed. "I just thought... I guess it's really over then."

"It really is", Remus agreed. "Are you okay?"

"I guess I'll have to be." Sirius sat up and began to get dressed. "You're absolutely sure?"

"I am." There was no doubt in Remus' mind.

"Well, he's a lucky man." Sirius was buttoning his robes. "I mean that. It's not just because you're a great lay. Someone like you comes along once in a lifetime, Remus. If he's got you for keeps, he's the luckiest guy in the world."

"Are you sure you're all right?" Sirius' voice was trembling with emotion and Remus was afraid he was going to cry.

"I'll be fine. I just think it would be easier if ... would it be okay if we didn't talk about this again? I'd just like to pretend it didn't happen, so we can go on being friends. Is that all right?"

Remus nodded; that would be the most comfortable route for him too. "I'll see you around, then?"

"Not if I see you first." Sirius flashed his trademark cocky grin, but it didn't make Remus' heart flutter the way it had done yesterday. He knew those days were finally over. He watched Sirius leave the room with absolutely no regrets at all.

In the corridor, Severus Snape slumped against the wall, tears of joy and relief running down his face. It had all turned out better than he could have dared to hope. He headed down the stairs towards the guest room. He could sleep there until the polyjuice potion wore off.

Rose Red and Lily White for liliths_requiem [PG-13] -- SM/LLP, SM/RW

2009-11-25T08:33:40Z

Title: Rose Red and Lily White
Author: tania_sings ★
Recipient: liliths_requiem
Rating: PG-13
Ship: Scorpius/Lily Luna, Scorpius/Rose
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Never have been mine, and never will be!
Summary: It'd a strange thing to watch your boyfriend and your best friend falling in love. It's stranger still when you realise it before they do.
Author's Notes: This one was a pinch-hit, but I did my best with it. Hope it turned out okay! Written for the prompt: Flying motorcycles and fish and chips. Thanks to bendleshnitz1 for all the help!

The three of them land on a deserted strip of Cornwall beach, casting charms on the motorbikes that will make them look utterly unenchanted if any muggles should happen across them. Hot and sweaty from a day's flying, they plunge into the chilly blue water, crying out in pleasure as it washes over their sunburned skins. Rose, the strongest swimmer of the three, plunges towards the bottom of the ocean, resurfacing with a handful of seaweed and muck to rub into Scorpius' shaggy white-blonde hair. The young man swears, laughing, and wrestles with her, trying to push her head back under the surface. Lily watches them from the shallows, amazed at how very right they look together. They are totally comfortable with touching each other -- after three weeks on this round-the-country, Lily's-finally-of-age trip they've all pretty much shed their modesty -- but there's more to it than that. Rose's dark curls, looking almost black while wet, are such a pretty contrast to Scorpius' sleek pale locks, and her freckled skin against his white complexion reminds Lily of the speckled shadows that the sun makes on sand when it's filtered through leaves. Scorpius' hand is a perfect fit for the small of Rose's back, and, being nearly the same height, their lips are always ideally positioned for a kiss should they finally choose to close the gap between them.

How much longer they can keep from doing that is anyone's guess.

From this distance, Lily reflects, you'd never guess that Scorpius is not Rose's boyfriend, but hers.

After the swim, they walk along the beach. Scorpius dutifully holds Lily's hand, and she is reminded oddly of a parakeet that she had a child. She kept trying to train the bird to sit on her finger, since she knew that's what they were supposed to do. Her little pet, however, had no idea that it was meant to perch merrily on her hand, and it was positively terrified. It got to the point where the parakeet would tremble like a little blue leaf whenever Lily unlocked the cage door. She felt horrible, but she never gave up because she'd got it into her head that once the bird just learned the trick, everything would be fine. Eventually, the parakeet did learn to sit on Lily's finger without fear, but by then her gentle feelings for her pet were all mixed up with guilt and she very rarely took him out of his cage at all.

She should have learned from that; there's no pleasure in training someone to show affection for you. But there had been a time when Scorpius wanted to hold her hand, a time when he couldn't keep away from her. Now his limp hand clutched tightly in hers just feels like a cheap imitation of love.

Rose jogs ahead, putting some distance between herself and the couple. She's doing that more and more these days. Back at school, she'd had no trouble spending time with Lily and Scorpius as a pair, but now, as if instinctively, she withdraws at any sign of physical affection between her friends. At first, Lily couldn't decide whether to be hurt or grateful for this, but she's figured out that it doesn't matter. Rose has no idea that she's doing this, and, regardless of how Lily feels about it, it's still just one of a million indicators of the approach of something she's starting to see as inevitable.

Rose turns a cartwheel in the sand, and Scorpius, clearly unable to help himself or unaware of his own reactions, whistles quietly in appreciation. It's unlikely that Rose could have heard him over the crash of the surf, but she still looks back and smiles, as if responding to the feeling of admiration in the air.

Lily knows that, of the two of them, she actually has the more pleasing features. Rose's eyes are a pleasant brown, but Lily's are brilliant green. Lily's hair is a silky red curtain, a gift that she got from her Weasley relatives, while Rose, who has the Weasley name, inherited a dark tangle of Granger hair. She's curvier than Rose, with fuller breasts and a trimmer waist, even if her arse is a bit on the large side. Rose's body runs more to tomboyish chaser muscles. And Lily knows that Al and James still tease their cousin about her ragged, bitten fingernails. Lily looks down at her own perfectly manicured hands without pleasure. Because, somehow, Rose is the prettier girl.

Lily has taken to making bargains with fate. If Scorpius puts his sleeping bag closer to hers than to Rose's, that means they have no problem. If he gets Lily to rub sun lotion on Rose's back rather than doing it himself, that means he's not interested in her after all. It's silly, she knows, but it stops her from going insane. At the fish and chip stand, she makes another silent deal. If Scoripus orders the same thing that she does, that means that they're fine and that it's all just been in her head. To make it easier on fate, she keeps her order simple. She has the cod and chips.

Rose and Scorpius heap their twin orders of fried clams on one plate, and smother them in vinegar. Lily feels vaguely sick at sight of the greasy pile. Scorpius, because he is, no matter what, a nice guy offers her a clam. Lily shakes her head and stares at her plate. She uses her fork to draw little patterns in her mushy peas.

That night, they set up the tent on the beach. They had originally brought two tents, in case Lily and Scorpius wanted some privacy. But Rose's tent, borrowed from a friend of Hugo's, turned out to be crawling with mould, and no amount of scourgifying spells could get rid of the smell. In the end, it was easier to just enlarge the bigger tent.

Another group of campers have set up their own tents a bit further down. They look like college guys, having a boys-own style holiday. One of them has a guitar, and they sing increasingly raunchy songs as the moon climbs higher in the sky. At the beginning of their trip, Scorpius used to tease Rose whenever they same across a group of male travelers, telling her to go get lucky or to show them a good time. Lily had taken him aside and asked him to stop. Rose hasn't had a serious boyfriend in a while, and she's actually far more sensitive about it than people realise. And while she's not exactly prone to one-night stands, it's fair to say she's made some bad choices in the past. Scorpius hasn't send a word about it since; Lily finds herself wishing he would. Her own malice disgusts her.

The boys set off fireworks; great big flowers made of gold and green sparks explode in the sky above them. Rose cheers for the loudest bangs; she's always adored noise. Lily is transported back to her own childhood, watching Uncle George set off his own brand of fireworks every Victory Day. She'd been terrified of the firecracker dragons when she was little; she used to clear out all the space under her bed the night before so that she'd be ready to hide when the fireworks went off. Rose hadn't been scared at all, but she'd still join Lily under the bed just so she wouldn't have to be alone. Sitting here on the beach, she can still hear the frightening roar of the dragons and feel Rose's fingers stroking her hair. The girl in the green bikini, the girl Scorpius is looking at, no matter how much he might pretend otherwise, is still Lily's favourite cousin, still her best friend.

She knows how important it's going to be for her to remember that.

The beer and the warm summer evening have cast their spell on Rose, and she stands up and stretches. She's going to take a walk, she announces, and find out if any of those boys are worth knowing. A shadow flits across Scorpius' face, and they all pretend it didn't. He could use the exercise, he declares; he'll come with her. His voice is deceptively casual, and Lily wonders exactly who he thinks he's fooling. Rose nods; Lily realises that her friend half-expected this when she first spoke.

It's that far gone then.

To Lily's surprise, she feels nothing but relief. Maybe this means that soon it will finally all be over.

At the last minute, they remember her. Will she come with them? Doesn't she feel like a walk? Lily shakes her head, blaming the alcohol. She'll just rest here.

They walk away, and Lily knows this is it. They'll walk past the other campers and not look back. In the morning, there will be tears. There will be apologies and recriminations, and then who knows? Will everything change? Just some things? It's impossible to say. At the end of an era, who knows what comes next?

Of course, she could have postponed this. If she'd gone with them, they would have stopped at the other group of campers. They would have shared drinks, maybe smoked a bit of muggle weed if the boys had some to go around. Rose would have chosen one of them, a handsome blonde one most likely, to disappear behind the sand dunes with. And Scorpius' mouth would have gone all pinched and tight and Lily would have died a bit inside and, after all that, this would happen all over again some other night. Is there any point in fighting the inevitable?

Lily lies on her back and takes what solace she can in the softness of the sand, the crash of the ocean waves on the shore, and the familiar saltiness of her own tears.

Bound for the community [NC-17] -- DM/RW/NL

2009-11-25T08:27:41Z

Title: Bound
Author: tania_sings ★
Recipient: the community
Rating: NC-17
Ship: Draco/Ron/Neville
Summary: Loving doesn't mean gentle.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Draco grinned as he tested the strength of the knots binding his wrists to the bedpost. The silky scarves felt comfortable against his skin, but there was no way he was going to be able to pull himself loose. He sighed contentedly. "Perfect."

"If you say so." Neville looked concerned. "I'm still not sure if this is such a good idea."

"It's how he wants it." Ron shrugged nonchalantly, though it was, in Draco's opinion, a piss-poor attempt to cover up how excited he really was. "Who are we to argue?"

Neville worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "It's just, with the bondage and all, it's two big firsts all in one night. I'm just not sure-"

"If I might interject", Draco remarked coldly, "I'm actually getting old waiting for the two of you to get your shit together and fuck me."

Ron grinned. He loved it when Draco trotted out the Malfoy-of-old in bed. If nothing else, it made hurting him all the more enjoyable. "Hush, dear." He tapped Draco lightly on the cheek. "Neville's actually worried about you, and it's sweet. Don't be a wanker."

"If only I could", Draco sneered, rolling his eyes towards his hard prick, and then towards his bound hands.

Ron laughed. "Nev, do whatever you like. Me, I'm in no mood to go easy on him."

Nonetheless, the redhead's hands were gentle when he lifted Draco's knees on to his shoulders and slid the dildo into the bound man's arse. The blonde still gasped though, writhing at the stretching of his unprepared hole. "Ah, fuck!"

"All right?" Ron's voice was husky with a mix of concern and desire.

"Just ... just give me a minute", Draco panted. "Neville ... could you-"

He didn't even have to finish the request before Neville withdrew the toy and cast the lubricating spell. He tested Draco for a moment with his fingers to make sure he was ready, then slid the dildo back into place, working it in and out of his lover to stretch him properly.

"Yeah, that's better. Thanks." Both the other men relaxed, and Draco's heart warmed. They took such good care of him, always willing to let him experience pain the pain they knew he craved but never letting it go too far. With these two men, he could get both what he wanted and what he needed.

It hadn't always been like this. When he'd first approached Ron and Potter about becoming his keepers, rehabilitating him while keeping him on the straight and narrow, he hadn't imagined this kind of tenderness could be part of it. Of course, it hadn't been with Potter. That had been pain and punishment and what he'd thought was right, until the night it all went too far and Ron had put his foot down. The next time, he'd brought Neville along instead and ever since then Draco had begun to realise what it was he really needed.

"Just relax", Neville whispered, massaging Draco's tense thigh muscles. "This is nothing; you know you can take this."

He was right, and Draco's body instantly reacted to the wisdom of his lover's words. He unclenched, welcoming the invasion, welcoming the pain. Neville smiled, and nodded his approval to Ron.

The redhead smiled and opened his special box. He played his fingers over the scars on Draco's chest as he reached for the blonde's nipples, attaching the clasps to the little pink peaks. They hardened further, and Ron lowered his head to the right one, licking and biting at the sensitive skin.

The combination of the pain mixed with Ron and Neville's gentleness was enough to undo Draco. "Please...", he begged, not wanting to form the words and knowing that they'd understand him.

"Please what?" Ron moved to Draco's left nipple now, giving it the same treatment.

Draco shook his head in mute appeal. This was still hard for him, forming the words to admit that he needed anyone, let alone these two. He knew he would say it in time; they always got it out of him. But the Malfoy in him still resisted saying it out loud.

"What do you think he wants?" Neville played dumb astoundingly well, but Draco didn't miss the hitch in his voice. Neville was getting into this now, as he always did, on Ron was quick to notice.

"Dunno. Maybe he wants us to do this." Ron leaned over and captured Neville's mouth in a rich kiss. Draco groaned as his watched their tongues play with each other, his body cringing from neglect.

Neville broke the kiss. "Could be. Or maybe he wants me to do this." And with that, he slid off the bed and pulled Ron into a stnading position, taking the redhead's cock deep down inside his expert throat.

Ron's eyes rolled back in his head, and he struggled for words. "Yeah, that must be it. Draco must want to watch you suck me off. He wants me to shoot inside your -- oh FUCK -- your perfect mouth, so there's no come left for his arse at all."

"Fuck me!" The thought of being ignored all night drove Draco over the edge. "Please, I need your cocks in me. I need them both. Please."

Ron laughed. "Why didn't you just say so." With a final grunt, he pulled out of Neville's mouth and moved back to the bed. He pulled the dildo out of Draco, and the blonde could have wept at the feeling of emptiness. The loss was short-lived, however, as Ron's living flesh soon filled the breach and Draco arched against his bindings, every nerve in his body coming to life as Ron buried his cock deep inside him.

Ron was obviously enjoying himself as well. His freckled face was flushed as he thrust again and again. "Shite, Malfoy. I don't know what spells you cast on your arse to keep it so tight, but don't stop!" He moved faster now, and Draco could feel each slap of the redhead's balls against his arse, mimicking the spankings of earlier in the night.

Neville kissed Draco's neck, his brow, his cheeks. "Is this okay, so far?" He relaxed at Draco's nod. "Then, when you're ready, tell us how it feels."

Draco took a deep breath and let the words come spilling out of him. "It's like I'm being opened up, over and over again. Every time, I can't believe how deep he can go."

Neville's hands shook, and Draco went on, encouraged. He knew Neville had never been topped, yet, and so wanted to share this with the less experienced of his two lovers. "I love the way it feels when his cock's as deep as it can be. It's like he's rearranging my body, making my insides the way he wants them to be. It hurts and it feels wonderful and I want it to go on forever."

Ron chuckled, and Draco would swear he could feel the vibrations traveling through Ron's prick into his arse. "He's gonna give me a swelled head. Nev, you want to stop his mouth before it's too late?"

Neville didn't need any more encouragement than that to straddle Draco's face, one knee resting on either side of the blonde's head with his swollen cock danging in front of Draco's mouth. Knowing the restrained Draco couldn't do it for himself, Neville gently guided his erection into his lover's mouth. Draco strained to take more of it. Neville had the perfect cock for sucking. It was long and slim and perfectly smooth, and Draco loved the sensation of that big mushroom head sliding down his throat. He would have loved to lick and suck, to do everything he could with his mouth to make Neville feel good, but the other man, mindful of Draco's already overtaxed body, held him still. In this position, Neville had all the control and he used it, keeping Draco's head immobile while fucking his mouth. Soon, Neville's moans began to mingle with Ron's a Draco closed his eyes, listening to his favourite music.

All too soon, Neville pulled away and Draco whined at the loss. Neville soothed him with a quick kiss and whispered. "Are you sure?

Draco nodded enthusiastically. He was even more certain of what he wanted than he'd been at the beginning of the evening. Everything about this felt right.

Neville swallowed hard, then moved down Draco's body. He lay flush against the blonde's chest with his own arse facing Ron, so close that he could feel the movement from Ron's urgent thrusting behind him. "If you change your mind, just say the word."

Draco knew he wouldn't need it, as Ron ceased his fucking in order to let Neville's cock slide into Draco alongside his own. Oh, it did hurt; it hurt like nothing else he'd ever experienced in a lifetime that had known more than it's share of pain. But it felt so right -- so natural -- that he should have them both inside of him, that they should both take their pleasure from his body. His eyes watered at the perfection of the moment, and Neville, noticing, went still. "Draco? Draco, do you want me to stop?"

That was the last thing Draco wanted, the very opposite of what he wanted. He shook his head fervently. "Go."

Ron and Neville moved slowly at first, mindful of the damage they might cause. But Draco's bucking hips urged them to go faster, and soon they were slamming into him at a breakneck pace. Draco's fingernails dug into the fabric binding him to the bedpost, his legs wrapped first around Neville's back, then Ron's neck, then finally shot straight up into the air as Neville, then Ron, came deep inside of him.

As they delicately pulled out of his body, careful not to cause further damage, Draco was grateful for the tenderness. He was even more grateful to feel a pair of warm lips enveloping his cock. He was so close the the edge that it didn't take much, a few licks, a few strokes, and he was coming hard down Ron's throat.

He didn't even realise that Neville had untied him in the process until both his lovers settled down next to him, and he found himself able to wrap his arms around them. He rested his head against Neville's pectorals, as Ron whispered in his ear. "Good?"

"The best." It was nothing but the truth. "You take such good care of me, both of you."

He felt, rather than saw, Ron's smile. "You're worth it. Draco?"

"Mmm?"

"You don't have to, but is there any chance you'd think about taking Harry back? He was going through a rough time before, but he's doing better now, I swear?"

Draco was drifting off to sleep, only half aware of what he was being asked. Still, he felt a little tug of surprise. "You still see him?"

Ron sighed. "Well... he's Harry. You know how it is."

Draco did. There are people in everyone's life who they just need, no matter how little sense that makes. And nothing was too much if it made those people happy.

"I'll think about it", he promised, burrowing deeper under the covers. That seemed to satisfy Ron, who nestled about against his back to sleep. "I promise I will. But right now" -- he just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer -- "I have everything I want."

Lies We Tell Ourselves for ritaarabella -- RW/HG, RW/LB

2009-11-21T03:21:37Z

Title: Lies We Tell Ourselves
Author/Artist: lily_pearl ★
Recipient: ritaarabella
Rating: Adult
Ship: Ron/Hermione, Ron/Lavender
Warnings: Infidelity, cursing
Summary: Hermione had never expected to be the other woman.
Author's/Artist's Notes: For ritaarabella , I hope you like.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or their universe and am making no profit.

Hermione glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. She slumped back down into the bed, then sat bolt upright in a sudden movement that jerked Ron out of his post-coital haze.

"It's three o'clock," Hermione said as she tumbled out of bed and began scrambling for her clothes.

"Shit," Ron said eloquently from behind his hands.

He rubbed his face, sighed and heaved himself up. He dressed slower than Hermione, who had had a head start, and was still doing up his trousers when she was fully dressed. She picked up a brush from the bedside table and started yanking it through her tangled hair while Ron put his shirt on. She went into the bathroom to give herself a quick once over in the mirror. Hermione grimaced at her reflection and pulled her hair up into a ponytail, glad that she had an elastic in her pocket for just such an emergency.

When she went back into the bedroom she found that Ron was fully dressed (shoes and all) and was shrugging on his jacket.

"I've got to run, yeah?" he said quickly, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

He was out of the door before Hermione had a chance to respond. For a moment she felt the familiar emptiness, but she pulled herself together quickly and began stripping the sheets off the bed. By the time she had got out clean sheets, made the bed and put the dirty ones on to wash she had collected herself completely. She had only herself to blame for her current situation. She could get out of it any time she chose and the fact that she hadn't spoke volumes.

After the fighting was over and the dust had settled, Hermione had chosen to return to Hogwarts and complete her final year. Ron, on the other hand, had decided not to return. He had never enjoyed education, it wasn't compulsory and he wanted to look after his family. Hermione had fully supported his decision, which had come as a shock to Ron. She smiled to herself, remembering the look on his face as he'd braced himself for a lecture which hadn't come. The simple fact was that his family needed him more than she did. They'd had a long serious talk after that and come to the conclusion that they couldn't maintain a long distance relationship with her at boarding school and him working full time with George and looking after his parents and Percy at every available moment.

The decision hadn't stopped them from making the most of the time they had left. They couldn't keep their hands off each other. It was an exhilarating feeling, being wanted, and Hermione couldn't get enough of it. There had been a repeat of that at Christmas, but at Easter Ron had been strangely distant. As his friend (and definitely not girlfriend) Hermione hadn't made an issue of it.

It wasn't until she had sat her exams and come home for good that Hermione found out that Ron had been seeing Lavender. She kept her cool until she could get Ron alone, then she icily told him that he could have just told her. He had been just as shifty and sheepish as she had expected which was exasperating in and of itself. Ron had babbled endlessly about not knowing what to do, not wanting to hurt her, how much Lavender had changed, how lonely he had been without her. Hermione could only focus on the fact that he was sitting with his head in his hands, not looking at her.

Before she could think about what she was doing, she had grabbed his hands and pulled him out of his chair. They were pressed against each other chest to chest and when she went to step back he wouldn't let her. She had looked up and he had kissed her with just as much fervour as the first time and her brain didn't seem to be working properly because she hadn't pulled away or slapped him.

Things had escalated from there until Ron was officially dating Lavender and he and Hermione were engaged in what could only be described as an affair. Hermione knew that she shouldn't be doing it. She knew that it was beyond low to save Lavender's life then steal her boyfriend but she couldn't make herself care enough to stop when Ron's hands were all over her. And if she couldn't stop, then she should give Ron an ultimatum. She told herself that she hadn't asked him to leave Lavender because she was afraid that he'd say no but that wasn't true.

In her secret heart, she thrived on the knowledge that Ron wanted her. She had always thought herself the steadfast sensible choice - the sort of woman whose husband would have affairs with prettier girls. It was exciting to be the prettier girl. She had bumped into Lavender a few weeks ago and a bad little voice in her head had said Look at her in that tight green dress. Look at all that make up, all that time and effort. Does she know that her boyfriend gets off on messy hair and ink-stained fingers? Does she know that he gets hard when he's told what to do?

Hermione pushed down those thoughts again and scanned the bedroom. There was a crumpled T-shirt at the foot of the bed that she hadn't noticed before. She picked it up and realised that it was one of Ron's. He had been wearing it under his shirt when he arrived and clearly hadn't put it back on again. Hermione smiled to herself as she put it in her laundry basket. Another thing to add to the small but growing collection of his things in her flat.

The real reason that she had never asked Ron to leave Lavender was this: he was going to, soon. He may not have said it aloud, but it was there all the same.

The Truth is Hard to Come By (or Who is Harry Shagging?) for the community [NC-17] -- HP/RW/DM

2009-11-21T03:12:12Z

Title: The Truth is Hard to Come By (or Who is Harry Shagging?)
Author: cephalopinguin
Recipient : community
Rating: NC-17
Ship: Harry/Ron/Draco
Warnings: slash, rimming, anal, alcohol use, slight cross-dressing
Summary: Ron wants to know exactly who Harry is shagging. Maybe a game of Truth-or-Dare will give him his answer.
Author Notes: Hogwarts-era, post-war, slight AU, thanks so much to my betas A, N, and SK
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. You know that, I know that, 6.2 billion people know that. All characters are 18 or older.

The Truth is Hard to Come By

“You’re obviously trying to impress someone, Harry.”

Harry watched in the mirror as Ron’s head whipped up at Hermione’s words. He buttoned his top button, then changed his mind and unbuttoned it again. Catching Hermione’s eyes in the mirror, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous.” When Ron looked down again, he winked at Hermione. She smiled.

It was the year following the war and everyone had returned to school to finish their education. Some dubbed it their “Eighth Year,” while others claimed it was still just seventh. All Harry knew was that school was a lot easier and much more boring when no one was trying to kill you. Of course, Snape was there, still making his life difficult and giving him unnecessary detentions, but even that was getting a little mundane. With the war over, most of the students who returned were feeling the same effects as Harry, so they occupied their weekends with parties. It was a luxury never previously afforded to most, and Harry always managed to have a splendid time.

Currently, everyone was headed down to the Slytherin common room for a party. The other houses had come to a precarious truce with the Slytherins, and had soon discovered that they threw the best, most entertaining, and most raucous parties. The Slytherins knew all the best party games and seemed to have never-ending supplies of alcohol. Harry had woken up several times after a Slytherin party in a strange place with his trousers missing. He was just so happy to be experiencing his teen-age years that he never worried about it.

The parties were fun, and a sufficient distraction from the ordinary, but the best part of no longer having a responsibility to the Wizarding World was all the sex.

Well, not all the sex. Harry wasn’t a slut. It was just sex with one person, but it was frequent and it was incredible.

“Who are you shagging?” Ron asked, coming up beside Harry as they made their way down to the Slytherin dorms. Ron claimed Harry kept coming back to the dorms looking sufficiently debauched, and he was quite curious and adamant about getting his answer. Harry attempted jokes to change the subject – “My hair always looks like this, Ron!” – but Ron always ended up mad at him for not telling.

“Leave it, Ron. I told you, I’ll tell you sometime. I’m just not ready yet.”

“Harry, we tell each other everything,” whined Ron. Harry smiled sadly. They did tell each other everything, and Harry missed that closeness with his best mate, but he wasn’t ready yet for Ron’s reaction.

Harry was saved coming up with an answer when Seamus came up behind them, clasped them both on the shoulders, and said, “I’m well ready to get pissed, mates.” He stumbled a bit behind them.

“I think you’re already halfway there,” Harry said, laughing.

“Too right. What do you know about that Greengrass bird? She seeing anyone?”

As they reached the dungeons, they could hear the party already well underway. Music and laughter filled their ears as they made an immediate bee-line for the Firewhisky. Ron glared at Harry as he left with Seamus to find Dean. Harry sighed and looked around the room. He refilled his glass before walking over to Hannah and sitting down beside her. Neville had expressed an interest in her, but was too shy to say anything. Harry was going to subtly feel out the situation. He caught Ron’s suspicious gaze from across the room. Harry shook his head in an attempt to deny that Hannah was the person he was shagging.

After finding out that Hannah was very much interested in Neville, and speaking with a few other friends, Harry returned to fill his glass. Draco sidled up beside him to pour his own drink. Harry nodded at him. Draco smirked and said, “Weasley’s in love with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He is. His eyes haven’t left you once tonight.” Draco took a sip of his Firewhisky and nodded in the direction of Ron. Harry looked up and met Ron’s eyes, who quickly diverted his gaze.

“He’s just trying to figure out who I’m shagging.”

“Sure, because he wants to be shagging you. He needs to size-up the competition.”

Harry snorted.

“I think you should snog him and see.”

“What?” Harry asked, incredulous.

“He’s an attractive bloke. I’d snog him.” Draco waggled his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry laughed at that. “Wait, really?”

Draco smiled. “Come on. Pansy is starting a game of Truth-or-Dare. Let’s go. Get Weasley if you want.”

Harry crossed the room to Ron. As they joined the group, Pansy help up a hand. “Everyone who joins the game has to take a shot. Alcohol makes the game better. Potter,” she said, handing him a shot. “Weasley,” she simpered, winking at him. They took the shots, Ron with a confused look on his face, and drank them. Then they sat down in the circle. Hermione squeezed in next to Ron.

“Where have you been?” Ron asked.

“I just had to put the finishing touches on my Ancient Runes homework. Did I miss anything?”

“No, just Harry chatting up anything with a pulse,” Ron grumbled. Harry and Hermione both rolled their eyes.

“Sure. Just so you know,” Hermione leaned in to whisper, “Pansy has spiked all the shots with Veritaserum.”

“What?” both boys shouted.

“I saw her on my way in.”

“Shit,” Harry said, looking sidelong at Ron.

Ron’s face lit up as understanding finally dawned on him. “Well, Harry, this should be an interesting game.”

“Ron,” Harry started.

“Shhh, Harry, the game’s starting,” Ron interrupted with a smirk that could rival Draco’s. Hermione reached across Ron and patted Harry’s knee in sympathy. “Sorry,” she mouthed. Harry shrugged.

Pansy stood up in the center of the group and explained the rules of Truth-or-Dare. Not that the rules needed explaining, but Harry supposed Pansy likes to be the center of attention for a while. She did make up a new rule this time that if someone chose dare one time, they had to choose truth the next, and vice-versa. She chose Zabini to start the game, and he dared a pretty Ravenclaw girl to make out with Pansy.

Harry leaned into Ron and said, “Please, Ron, don’t ask me who I’m shagging. Please.”

“Harry, I don’t get why you think I would react badly. Is she human?”

“Yes, human,” Harry answered.

“And is she attractive?”

“Very attractive, in my opinion.”

“And it’s not Hermione?”

Hermione hit Ron in the arm and Harry laughed. “No, Ron, though she is both human and attractive, it’s not Hermione.”

“Potter.” Harry had lost track of the game, and it was apparently his turn.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Truth or dare?” Bulstrode asked.

“Dare.”

Bulstrode tapped her chin in mock contemplation. “I dare you to snog Granger for fifteen seconds, with tongue.”

Harry looked at Hermione, and she shrugged. Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust as Harry leaned over him and snogged his best friend. She was like a sister to him, but the kiss wasn’t awkward. Hermione was actually quite a good kisser, and Harry caught himself jealously wondering if she had learned from Ron. Though the two’s relationship hadn’t worked out, they had still spent a lot of private time together. When the kiss ended, Harry leaned back and said, “You’re a good kisser!”

Hermione blushed bright red and said, “So are you.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry looked around for his victim, and his eyes landed on Neville. “Neville,” he said, smiling. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” Neville’s cheeks had already flushed pink when Harry said his name.

“I dare you to kiss Hannah for ten seconds.”

Neville shot a pleading look at Harry, but Harry just nodded in encouragement. Hannah, in the meantime, had crawled over to Neville, the brave girl. Not to say Neville wasn’t brave. He clearly was. Just not when it came to girls. Neville took a deep breath and kissed her. Afterwards, instead of crawling back to her seat, Hannah squeezed in next to Neville. He couldn’t stop smiling.

“Truth or dare, Malfoy?” Neville asked.

Draco looked surprised that Neville picked him. “Dare, I suppose.”

“I dare you to switch clothes with Pansy for the rest of the game. Including undergarments.”

The whole crowd ‘ohh’ed at this, as Pansy was wearing an incredibly short skirt and a very low-cut blouse. Draco’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, but Pansy laughed with good-natured humour and dragged him to his feet. “That’s a good one, Longbottom,” she said, pulling Draco into the bathroom.

The crowd waited eagerly as they swapped clothes, and laughed as they heard a shouted, “My balls won’t fit in these tiny things!” through the bathroom door.

The door swung open, and Pansy exited first, in Draco’s trousers and button-up shirt, and Draco followed, with more confidence than he should have had, wearing Pansy’s outfit. The group whistled and yelled, telling him how pretty he was.

Draco held up a hand to silence the crowd and sat down beside Pansy. “I’m glad you’re all amused, but Pansy, I swear, if I catch anything from these panties, I will kill you.”

“That’s hilarious, darling, but you can’t sit like that.”

Draco looked down to realize that his legs were bent at the knee and folded into each other, leaving his skirt to gape open and reveal just how little the panties could cover. “Bollocks,” he said, straightening his legs in front of him and smoothing the skirt over his thighs.

“Exactly,” someone said, and everyone laughed uproariously.

Harry felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked over. Hermione had snaked her arm behind Ron to get Harry’s attention. Hermione nodded at Ron. Harry looked at his mate. Ron’s eyes were darkened and slightly glazed. He followed Ron’s line of sight and discovered he was staring intently at where Draco’s exposed crotch had been. Harry looked up to see Draco staring at him. Draco’s eyes flicked to Ron and down to his crotch and back to Harry with clear amusement in his smile. Harry shook his head.

“Weasley,” Draco said loudly. This shook Ron out of his revelry.

“Huh?”

“Truth or dare.”

“Oh, um, dare.”

Draco’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Dare, eh? I dare you to snog Potter and grope his arse.”

Ron looked stricken. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Harry glared at Draco, but he just shrugged.

“Can I take truth?”

“No, sorry, Weasley, too late,” Draco said with a smirk.

Ron looked at Harry. “Harry,” he whined.

“It’s just a snog, Ron.”

“And an arse grope,” Draco added from the other side of the circle.

“Right,” Ron said. “Just a snog. It’s fine.” He took a deep breath and got onto his knees. Harry followed suit. “Don’t look at me; I’ll get nervous,” he whispered. Harry nodded and closed his eyes as Ron leaned in. Ron’s lips tentatively touched his and after a couple of seconds the kiss noticeably deepened. Ron rested his hands on Harry’s hips, and slowly slid them around to Harry’s arse. Harry opened his mouth a bit to try and coax Ron’s tongue into it. Ron lightly traced Harry’s top lip with his tongue before slowly sliding it past his teeth to rub against Harry’s. Harry moaned as Ron kneaded his backside, causing Ron to still briefly before deepening the kiss yet again. Harry had forgotten how to breathe when Ron finally pulled away. Harry’s eyes fluttered open in what was a probably much too feminine manner, and he looked at Ron, who had already sat back down and turned away from him.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” Harry’s brain hadn’t caught up with the situation yet.

“Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

“You picked dare last time, Potter,” Pansy called from across the circle. “You have to do truth this time.”

Harry looked back to Ron with horror. “Ron, no.”

“Truth, then. Who are you shagging?” Ron smiled triumphantly.

Harry could feel the Veritaserum forcing his answer out of him. The harder he fought the compulsion, the stronger it became, until it came whooshing out of his mouth against his will. “Malfoy.”

A synchronized gasp filled the room. Harry looked up at Ron and saw in his face the fury that he had always expected to see when he finally answered that question. “Ron?”

Ron stood up abruptly and fled from the room. Harry followed.

“Ron! Wait up. Ron!”

Ron came to an abrupt stop next to the Potions classroom and swiftly turned around. He pointed a finger at Harry and yelled, “Malfoy? Malfoy? He began pacing back and forth in the hallway like a caged animal.

“Mate, you said yourself that Draco has changed,” Harry answered in a soft, pleading voice.

“But, Harry, Malfoy?”

Harry huffed. “Is it because he’s a bloke?”

All of the sudden, Ron grabbed his hand a pulled him into the Potions classroom. He pushed him roughly against the wall and pressed his body against Harry’s, pinning his wrists above his head with one large hand. Voice low, he said, “Of course it’s because he’s a bloke. You’re shagging a bloke, and it’s not me.”

“Ron,” Harry started, eyes closing at the feeling of Ron’s body pressed against his. Next thing he knew he felt lips on his, and he automatically deepened the kiss. Ron gasped, which opened his mouth slightly, and Harry pressed forward, sliding his tongue softly against Ron’s. Ron let go of Harry’s wrists and Harry automatically wrapped his arms around Ron’s neck. Ron ran his hands down Harry’s thighs and Harry gave an undignified yelp as his feet were lifted off the ground. He wrapped them around Ron’s waist for purchase as Ron dove back in for another kiss. Harry leaned his head back in an attempt to break the kiss, but Ron just attacked his exposed neck. “Ah,” Harry moaned. “Ron, I can’t… Draco… I, ah.”

Over Ron’s shoulder, he watched as Draco appeared from the shadows, and guilt washed over him. They had never discussed being exclusive, but Harry really did have feelings for him. It wasn’t love. No, it was too soon for that, but it could be someday soon. Harry shifted so Ron would let him down.

“It’s alright, Harry,” Draco said. He came up behind Ron and gripped his shoulder. Ron stilled at the touch. Draco pressed himself against Ron’s back, leaned up to his ear, and whispered, “I’ve seen how you look at Harry. Despite popular belief, I did learn to share as a child, and I have no qualms about doing so now. But, Weasley, I’ve also seen how you look at me.” He punctuated his statement by taking Ron’s earlobe in his mouth. Harry watched as Ron closed his eyes and his mouth fell open. Ron’s head fell back, allowing Draco better access. Draco ran his tongue around the shell of his ear. Draco looked at Harry over Ron’s shoulder with lust in his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Ron swallowed several times, and finally spoke a weak, “You’re not wrong.”

“And you want to be with both Harry and me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Ron moaned. Harry took in the whole conversation with wariness, but Ron should still be feeling the effects of the Veritaserum. Draco turned Ron’s face to the side, and stretched up to meet his lips. The snog was hard and passionate. Draco pulled away.

“Do you want to fuck Harry?” Draco asked as he ran his hands around Ron’s hips and lined up Harry and Ron’s erections. Then he used his hips to push forward, causing the boys to moan as their erections slid against each other. “While I fuck you?”

Ron’s eyes flew open. “Yes, but…”

“But you’re nervous. Never done this before?”

“No.”

“How about with a girl?”

Ron closed his eyes again and shook his head.

Draco winked at Harry. “Our own virgin, Harry.”

“Draco,” Harry started to admonish the other boy.

Draco reached around and began to unbutton Ron’s trousers.

“Are you sure about this, Ron?” Harry asked. He looked intently in Ron’s eyes.

“More sure than I’ve been about anything.” Harry smiled as Ron leaned in to kiss him again, and moaned as Ron unbuttoned his shirt and slid it to the floor. Ron’s large, calloused hands felt incredible on his skin. He suddenly heard Ron moan against his chest and he looked down to see a pale hand wrapped around Ron’s cock.

“Let’s move to that desk and I’ll show you how to prepare Harry.”

“That’s Snape’s desk!”

“Yes, and wouldn’t you love to defile it?”

Ron stopped and blinked and said, “Yeah, I would.”

Draco stepped back and said, “Great. Now make Harry lay on his back on that desk.”

Instead of asking, Ron looked at Harry, smiled, and picked him up off the floor again by his hips. “Ron!” Harry yelled in surprise as Ron carried him to the desk and sat him on the edge. He pulled off Harry’s shoes and slowly removed Harry’s trousers and pants, staring at Harry’s cock with reverence.

“Now what?” Ron asked, nervously.

Draco smirked. “Now you touch his cock, while I show you how he likes to be prepared. So you’ll know for next time.” Ron looked surprised that there would be a next time, but bravely reached out and gripped Harry’s cock. Harry arched into Ron’s hand, which spurred on Ron’s confidence. He worked Harry’s cock with his hand as he watched Draco drop to his knees and pull Harry’s arse out to the edge of the desk.

Harry could see the amazement in Ron’s eyes as Draco spread Harry’s cheeks apart with both hands and licked a broad stripe up his cleft to his balls. Harry moaned at the dual attention. Draco shortened his licks until he was concentrating solely on the soft, furrowed skin of Harry’s entrance. Harry moaned continuously at the feelings and gasped as Draco pointed his tongue and speared it into him. Ron gasped as well and moved his hand quicker. Draco replaced his tongue with two fingers.

“Oh, fuck, stop. Stop, or this will be too short,” Harry whined. “God, Ron, fuck me.”

Ron’s eyes darkened as Draco conjured lube onto his hand a slicked it along Ron’s cock. Draco lined Ron up with Harry’s hole and whispered into his ear, “Now push in, slow and gentle.”

Ron pushed forward, and Harry pushed back to meet him. The head of Ron’s cock breached Harry, and Ron slowly let out a breath he’d been holding. When he was finally fully seated in Harry, he leaned down over his body and whispered, “Fuck, Harry,” and gave him a slow, lingering kiss. Harry was about to tell him to move, when Ron tensed on top of him, and inhaled sharply. Harry looked around Ron to see that Draco had dropped down behind Ron to give him the same attention he had just given to Harry. Ron moaned and began shallowly thrusting his hips and covering Harry’s chest and neck in love bites. After a few minutes, Harry could no longer take the slow teasing.

Just then, Draco stood up, and said, “You ready, Weasley?” Draco still had Pansy’s clothes on, he had just dropped the panties and flipped the skirt up over Ron’s hips.

Ron nodded, eyes screwed tightly shut. “Relax,” Harry whispered. “Look at me.”

Ron looked into Harry’s eyes and smiled. He leaned down to kiss Harry and Harry felt his breathing increase as Draco entered his body. Draco thrust in short, slow strokes to get Ron used to the feel.

Ron finally relaxed and managed a simple, “Okay.”

Draco increased the depth and speed of his thrusts, which in turn, send Ron deep into Harry. Harry moaned, rolled his hips up at an angle, and threw his ankles on Ron’s shoulders. “Ah!” Harry cried out. “That’s it, fuck!” Harry took his cock in hand to stroke it in time with the thrusts, but soon Ron noticed Harry’s hand and batted it away. He replaced the hand with his, and though the synchronization between his hips and his hand was sloppy, it was the most incredible feeling in the world. Draco, his lover, propelling Ron, his best mate, deep inside of him. Looking up into Ron’s amazed blue eyes finally sent him over the edge, and he cried out, placing his hand over Ron’s to guide him as he arched and surge after surge of come decorated his chest. Ron closed his eyes and grunted. He thrust deeply into Harry and stayed there, shuttering and leaning over Harry’s body to rest his forehead on Harry’s breastbone. Harry felt warmth line his insides as they gently rocked until Harry heard Draco moan and the rocking suddenly stopped.

Draco appeared from behind Ron and hopped up on the desk next to Harry. He leaned in to place a soft, lingering kiss on Harry’s lips, then lay back on the desk, chest rising and falling in satisfaction. Ron looked down at Harry, who reassured him with a smile. Ron slowly smiled a shy, lopsided smile, and ran his finger through the come on Harry’s chest. Harry watched as Ron collected as much as he could with one finger, then slid his hand behind Harry’s balls and rubbed the semen into Harry’s hole. Harry gasped and closed his eyes, a huge smile dominating his face.

Harry wasn’t quite sure how this would work. It was unconventional, and who was to say that one or another wouldn’t get upset eventually about this arrangement. But for right now, Harry was happier than he’d ever been in his life. Nothing could ruin his good mood. Nothing.

“When you three are quite finished,” came the sneering voice of Severus Snape, “which it appears you are, I expect that desk to be scrubbed thoroughly with Madame Mimzy’s Magic Bleach.” The three boys all shot up and scrambled to cover their naked bits. “And I will see you all in detention, separately, for the next month. If I find you in here again, doing… that, I will see to it that you are all castrated in a magical ‘accident’,” he finished, disgust lacing his voice. Snape turned with a whirl of his cloak, and left.

Lupin's Other Secret for the community [NC-17] -- SB/RL/SS

2009-11-21T03:08:03Z

Title: Lupin's Other Secret
Author: ritaarabella
Recipient: community
Rating: NC-17
Ships: Sirius/Remus/Severus
Warnings: This is going to be way AU.

His parents always sounded regretful when they ask him to spend holidays at Hogwarts instead coming home, but he knew they were happy when there was any excuse not to go through the guilt of having their son, the werewolf, home. He took the news stoically, nodding on cue at the right words; giving them the proper dispensation. And there he stood in the great hall as his best friends waved good bye. James, with his arm slung around Sirius’s shoulder, walking toward the door, turned once to say good bye. Sirius threw him a breezy kiss. Only he and Sirius knew he had given him a better, more passionate good bye kiss in their secluded sanctuary. Remus knew they couldn’t be together; James would never understand their attraction.

James thought the answer to everyone’s problems was a quick shag with a beautiful girl. Sirius could shag a girl with the same enthusiasm that he had when he sucked Remus’s cock. Sirius just loved sex.

Remus doubted that Sirius loved him as much as he professed, but Remus knew that he liked it when he fucked him. But he was probably in his coach in the Hogwarts Express this minute shagging that cute girl from Hufflepuff.
Remus turned around and ran into Professor Slughorn. During the holidays, Remus was supposed to take extra potions classes to make up for the days he missed because his furry little problem, as Sirius called it.

“Ah, my boy,” said Slughorn, “ready for your first tutoring session?”

“Yes, Professor,” Remus said politely.

“I’ve arranged for a very gifted student to help you with your lessons. I have been called away to the Ministry of Magic on important business,” he said puffing out his chest. “Don’t dawdle, young man.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and turned toward the potions’ classroom.

Remus opened the classroom door and there were four other students there; all Slytherins. He nervously went inside and started toward the front of the classroom. There at the first table was that horrible boy that Sirius and James absolutely hated. Severus Snape. He had such a sad countenance about him. He looked up at Remus and something closed his expression. Remus tried to smile at him, but he looked away. There was something about the boy that captivated him. He felt a distinct stirring in his loins at his pouty lips and sad eyes.

It was Snape who was doing the tutoring. There was no way the other Slytherins in the classroom could have possibly learned anything and since Remus was the only interested one, Snape naturally gravitated to him. By the end of the session, Remus had actually completed a complicated potion. He presented it proudly and Snape actually smiled and complimented him.

After the class was over, Remus tried to come up with a reason to hang around, just to be close to him. He knew Severus hated Sirius and James as much as they hated him, but he didn’t know what the disagreement was all about.

“Snape,” he said clearly as Severus was putting away his supplies. “Need some help?” he asked earnestly.
Severus looked at him dubiously. “No,” he said.

But Remus helped him anyway. “I just wanted to tell you that, uh, I really learned more from you in one session than I have from Professor Slughorn all term. You’re a good teacher.”

Snape reddened, waiting on the inevitable ‘but,’ but Remus blushed and looked down. He stared at him. Finally, the corners turned up just a bit and there was a little smile. Remus felt he had been hit in the gut. “Thank you,” he said.

“Will you be doing all the classes?” Remus asked, playing with the handle on a cauldron.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Professor Slughorn should be back in time for the next session.

“Oh,” Remus said, disappointed. “Maybe you could…” he blushed deeper.

“Maybe I could what?” he asked.

“Tutor me privately. I know I can learn more from you. But if you don’t want to; I understand.”

Severus looked surprised than his eyes got dark. “I doubt your little friends would appreciate you spending time with me.”

“Well, they’re gone, aren’t they?” he said smiling. “Besides, it’s nobody’s business, is it?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Don’t count on anything.”

Remus did the first reckless thing he’d ever done in his life; he put his hand on Severus’s shoulder and let it linger there. Snape looked at his hand, and then he looked at Remus, surprised. They stared at each other. Remus was blushing, but he was also smiling. “Please,” he said leaning in closer.

Severus let out a rush of air he’d been holding. What was he doing to him? It was another trick, he was sure, egged on, no doubt, by that despicable James Potter. He started to say something, but Remus let his hand fall off his shoulder, but not before he gave it a little squeeze.

“I do want you,” Remus said even quieter. “And I think we can become clo--, uh, friends.”
“Why do you want to become my friend?” Severus asked.

“Because I like you,” he said honestly.

Severus let out a snort.

“And,” he said fast, closing his eyes, “I think we have a lot in common.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You do? And what, pray tell would that be?”

“I think we’re both lonely and have been hurt and,” Remus licked his lips, “I think we both have secrets.”

Severus Snape couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Had Lupin seen inside his heart and knew about the secret he kept inside for so long? He had fought his feelings for so long, was there finally someone he could talk to and who thought the same way he did? How could anyone know the stirrings inside at the sight of a naked man? How he wanted to run his hands over the tight muscular frame and hard arse. He had never tasted the sweet flavor of cum but he dreamed about it so many times that he thought he would go mad. And to feel the delightfully agonizing pain of a huge hard cock fucking him until he exploded in sheer pleasure, and then hearing his name as he came in him, was something he had desired for so long.

When he didn’t say anything for a long time, Remus started to turn away, but Severus reached out and touched his arm. He didn’t know what to say. His breath was quickening and he thought his heart was about to explode. “Perhaps I could help you with your potion-making,” he said quietly.

Remus closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. “And maybe I could teach you a few things, too,” he said. He was dying to taste him. One taste, he thought. He reached out and moved his hair away from his face. He felt himself get hard and he wanted Severus to feel him. He gently took Snape’s hand and placed it on his groin. Severus gasped but didn’t move his hand away. Encouraged, Remus moved his hips and squeezed Severus’s hand. “See what you’re doing to me?”

Snape closed his eyes and nodded. He became bolder and rubbed his knuckles against his hardening cock. Remus moaned with pleasure. “Kiss me,” he begged. He clasped the back of Severus’s head and pulled him to him. Their lips found each other’s and they moaned as their tongues flirted in an erotic dance.

The sound of a chime brought them back to their senses. Reluctantly, Remus let him go. “Meet me tonight,” he said, “in the astronomy tower.”

All Severus could do was nod. It may very well be a trap, but he wanted, no, needed Remus. “What time?” he asked.

“As soon as it gets dark. I want to take you somewhere where no one will bother us. Tell me you’ll come,” he said, brushing his fingers against Severus’s lips.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Before Remus could say another word, Snape had gathered his books and walked hurriedly out of the potions master’s classroom. He wasn’t going to show. He wasn’t. It was a trick. Severus touched his lips, remembering the feeling over his whole body.

During the evening meal, Remus caught Snape’s eye and smiled at him shyly. Severus didn’t look away, but he didn’t smile either. Embarrassed, Remus looked down at his hands. He had made a fool of himself; Severus wasn’t interested in him, why should he be? He was an outcast.

Still, he went to the astronomy tower and waited. Finally after two hours, he gave up. He started back to Gryffindor Tower, disappointed. He turned the corner when he spotted a billowing robe quickly ducking down a deserted hall. Bravely, Remus followed the figure as it sped away. It was Severus, he was sure.

“Stop,” he said. The figure paused for a second then disappeared down a corridor. Remus thought about following him more, but he quickly decided he would chase after him. He hit the wall with his fist, turned and walked slowly back to Gryffindor. The portrait of the Fat Lady looked at him expectantly.

“Abyssinian shrivelfig,” Remus said, moodily.

“There was a Slytherin hanging around here. Said he was looking for you,” the Fat Lady sniffed. “I ran him off. I asked him what a Slytherin was doing, hanging around like a little criminal.”
“Did he say anything? Leave a message or anything?”

She thought for a minute then shook her head. “No.”

“Thanks,” Remus said sadly. The portrait swung open and he crawled inside. There were only five boys and two girls left in Gryffindor.

Next morning, at breakfast, there were only a dozen children left. Snape was the only Slytherin boy; there were two Gryffindor boys and a total of three girls. Most of the remaining boys were from Ravenclaw (four) and two from Hufflepuff. Since there were more Ravenclaws left, Headmaster Dumbledore moved the other children with them.

Remus was placed in a four man dorm room with the other Gryffindor boy, a first year by the name of Homer Harrington and Severus. He tried to hide his pleasure at being roomed with Snape, by shrugging nonchalantly. Snape looked stoic, clutching his potions’ book tightly to his chest. Remus watched in fascination as he absently tapped his long fingers on the book. Then he began to stroke the binder, deliberately. It was probably some sort of comforting habit from childhood, but it was the most erotic thing Remus had ever seen. He caught his breath and closed his eyes imagining Severus stroking his hard cock. He licked his lips and let out a low moan. Severus looked at him and gave him a slow smile.

Just then Homer jumped on this assigned bed and snorted. “Rather not be in here with a Slytherin,” he said haughtily.

“Then I suggest,” Snape said barely moving his lips, “boy, that you find other arrangements. For here I shall stay.”
Remus chuckled to himself. That would be perfect, he thought, alone with Severus for a whole week. What naughty thoughts popped into his head.

Unfortunately Homer stayed put, but Remus thought seriously about putting a sleeping potion in his pumpkin juice. He borrowed Severus’s potion book, and went through it, looking for something. When Severus came in he wondered what he was doing with his book, and when Remus looked at Homer guiltily, Severus took the book away from him. He turned several pages then saw the page he wanted and thrust the book back into Remus’s hands with a smirk on his face. Lupin smiled back at him when he saw that the book was opened to a sleeping potion. So, they were thinking the same thing.

He leaned over closer to Severus, “Can you make this potion?” he asked.

Severus pretended to look annoyed, but he nodded. “Of course I can. It’s so easy, even this moron could do it.”
“Let’s try it and see,” he said.

The sneaked in to the abandoned girls’ bathroom where they knew no one would come around, and set their cauldron and ingredients down and began brewing the concoction.

Remus watched in wonder as Severus cut and measured and stirred the brew. He was a genius with his hands. He imagined the delicious feel of Severus’s hands on him and he began to get hard. He stroked himself as Severus added the components. When he moaned, Severus looked up in surprise. He stopped and watched him stroke his hard cock.

“Don’t stop, Severus,” Remus said, panting, “I love watching you work; you’re an artist, and as much as I hate the little porker Homer, I don’t want you to kill him, I just want you to knock him out so I can kiss you without him watching us.”

“But you’re distracting me. You look,” he stopped and blushed.

“I look how?” he edged him on.

“Never mind, and don’t worry, this potion will put anyone to sleep, this isn’t just for Homer.”

Remus reached over and had his mouth by Severus’s ear, “Bullshit, you want me just as much as I want you. I cannot wait to suck your beautiful cock.”

Severus’s hand was no longer steady. Remus took his hand and put it on his hard cock and moved it up and down the shaft. “Fuck this,” he said, as he unzipped his fly and pushed Severus’s hand inside.

“I’ve never,” Snape said, squeezing hard, “I mean,” he moaned as he felt a bit of fluid ooze out of the head of Remus’s penis and on to his hand. Remus glided his hand out and put his fingers into Severus’s mouth.

“Taste me,” he said. Severus licked his own fingers and groaned, thrusting his hand back on Remus’s stiff cock. He stroked it harder and faster; Remus arched his body back and watched as he pulled and massaged. He thought he’d go mad with pleasure, but before he was about to come all over Severus’s hand, he released him. “No,” Remus said, but Severus smiled at him and bent over and took his cock into his mouth, sucking and tonguing it, driving Remus mad with pleasure.

“Fuck! That feels good, I’m going to explode.” Remus pulled Severus’s hair and cried out. And when he came with a powerful thrust, Severus took it all. Remus grabbed Severus’s cock and stroked it until he came. He licked the sweet cum from his fingers. He pulled him close and kissed him hard, thrusting his tongue inside his mouth, lapping up the remaining taste of him. He licked his lips. “I taste good on you,” he said. “Fuck! You get me so hard. I can’t believe you’ve never sucked a dick before. You’re a natural.”

Severus was trying desperately to control his breathing. He was embarrassed because he’d never even kissed a boy before and he liked it. Remus must have been reading his mind, because he stroked his face and said, “It’s not just that you make me so hot I can’t think, Severus. Believe me when I say I really like you.”

He looked up surprised. “No, you don’t, you’re a friend of that Sirius Black.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “We’re friends; more than friends. We fuck, but I’m not in love with him. I mean I like him and all, but we’re more like fuck buddies. I’m looking for someone I can care about and talk to, you know share my deepest darkest secrets.”

“You have dark secrets?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You have no idea. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you one day.” He kissed him hard again. “Better get back to work, I want a sleeping potion, not a poison.”

“It’s done,” he said reaching for a vial to pour the liquid in. He filled the bottle and stoppered it and handed it to Remus. “You get to do the honors,” he said.

“And I get to do you,” he whispered. “I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

Severus pretended he didn’t feel the thrill in the pit of his stomach. He stumbled and Remus steadied him, moving his hand down his arse and squeezing.

That evening after the dinner, Severus and Remus hurried back up to the common room and sat around until it was a reasonable hour to retire. Severus showed him a nonverbal hex that made the ears hum of everyone within listening range so they could talk about anything and no one could understand what they were saying. Remus was delighted with this hex and explained in great detail how he was going to fuck him hard in the arse and Severus would be begging for more. He also told him how incredible he felt when Severus sucked his cock, making him come so hard; he didn’t think Severus’s mouth could hold it all.

He laughed when Severus groaned with pleasure and finally they could hold out no longer. They ran upstairs into the dorm and found Homer sitting on his bed reading.

“Want some pumpkin juice?” Remus asked, trying to hide his enormous erection from the boy.

Homer nodded and lapped up the liquid. Before he put the empty glass down, he was snoring loudly. Remus laughed and the two of them put the boy into his bed and closed the curtains. “Now,” he said, pulling off his robe, “fun time!”

Just to be safe, Severus did the muffliato spell as Remus tugged at his robe while kissing him. “I’m so hot,” he said, showing off his hard cock. “I want to fuck you now,” he said huskily. “It’s going to hurt, but it in a good way, if it’s too bad, I’ll stop, I promise; I want you to enjoy my cock in your arse. Ok? You’ll tell me?”

He nodded solemnly. “Just do it before I explode,” he said.

“Here,” he said, handing Severus a jar of lubricant. “Rub this on my dick so it’ll go in easier and I’ll put a little inside you.” Remus dipped his finger into the lubricant and put his finger in Severus’s bum. He pumped his finger in and out and Severus moaned. This was going to feel good, he thought.

Very carefully, Severus covered Remus’s penis and balls with the concoction and dried his hands on a towel. Remus said, “Get on your hands and knees and we’ll do it doggy style. Sirius really likes it this way,” he snickered at his private joke.

Remus knelt behind him and entered him slowly, a little at a time. Severus moaned and leaned back begging for more. He thought he was going to pass out from the sheer exquisite pain. Once inside, Remus started fucking, he tried to be easy, but it was so tight and it felt so good that he rocked harder and harder. He held on to Severus’s cock and he pulled it with the same frantic rhythm that he rode him. He pulled him up and Severus leaned his head against his shoulder moaning his name.

“Fuck. Me. Harder.” Severus panted. “Come in me.”

Remus pounded his cock and balls into him harder and harder. “Fuck!” he repeated with each thrust. “I’m going to come in your tight arse. Fuck!” He said as he exploded inside him with a shuttering force that had them both crying out.

“Merlin’s fucking beard,” Remus said finally, collapsing on top of him as he pumped the last of his cum on him. Severus had not yet climaxed, but he was close, those Remus threw him on his back and began licking his cock and balls, sucking his balls into his mouth and licking the long shaft. His tongue traced the tip of his penis and he lapped up the juiced from the opening, then sucking hard until cum shot out into his welcoming mouth. He licked his lips and the cum around it and groaned happily.

They fell into each other’s arms and held on. They stroked each other lovingly and Remus bit him on his neck, leaving a mark. “This means you’re mine,” he said, touching the mark and then kissing it. “You’re mine,” he repeated, snuggling.

They fell asleep holding each other and it was the best sleep Remus had in years. He was perfectly content and he felt safe. He wanted to tell Severus everything; he was certain he’d understand and want him anyway. He was falling in love.

The rest of the week was pure heaven. They slept in each other’s arm and made love. Severus was a very quick study and he found that he enjoyed fucking Remus as much he loved Remus fucking him. They discovered a way where they could suck each other’s cocks at the same time, and they were so in tune with each other’s bodies that they would climax almost at the same time.

Remus was constantly touching him and Severus was afraid they would be caught. “Fuck ‘em,” Remus replied. “I don’t care who knows. You’re mine.”

“What about Sirius?” Severus asked.

“Shit.” Remus had forgotten about him. “I’ll tell him.”

“Sirius hates me because James hates me. He won’t like it.”

Remus squeezed him playfully. “He’ll get over it.”

“Severus, I love you, but I can’t tell you everything now. I promise I will one day. Just don’t give up on me.” He stroked his face. “It’s our last night together. I don’t want to fight. We’ll work it out, I promise.”

That night, they returned to their own houses and they didn’t get a chance to be together. Remus missed his lover and was gloomy the rest of the night. Even the thought of James, Peter, and Sirius’s return the next day didn’t cheer him up.

His friends knew something was wrong as soon as they returned because he became moodier and didn’t laugh at Sirius’s stupid antics. Sirius made time for them to be alone, but he made excuses. Finally, one day, Sirius confronted him after a DADA class. He had sat next to Severus and Sirius noticed the looks that passed each other. No one else noticed, but Sirius knew Moony too well.

“Did you fuck him?” he yelled at Remus after he’d pulled him into a broom closet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Remus said, pushing his hand off him.

“You bastard! How could you? You’re mine.” Sirius cupped his hand behind the back of his head and kissed him hard. “Snivellus is a greasy piece of shite…”

“Stop it!” Remus yelled at him, hurling himself away from Sirius. “I love him and he loves me. He treats me good; he doesn’t use me like you do.”

A look of fury crossed Sirius’s face. “Don’t ever think about choosing him over us!” he said threateningly. “I’d really hate for your little secret to get out.” Sirius turned around and stomped back to his house.

“Sirius,” Remus called out after him, but Sirius didn’t turn around. James came up to him and cuffed him on his head.

“What’s up, Moony?” James asked. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

“You could say that,” he said sadly. “He’s very mad at me.”

“He’ll get over it. You know how he gets. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

After a week, Sirius was back to normal, apparently forgiving Remus for his indiscretion. He acted like everything was fine and he even stopped torturing Snape. They had had a romantic evening together a week before the full moon; he explained to his lover how he was surprised and overwhelmed by the attraction he had to Severus and how he had taught him how to make love. He still had strong feelings about Snape and he hoped that Sirius understood.

He told Sirius the difference was that even though he loved Severus; he couldn’t be one hundred percent honest with him, which is why he’d never want to give up his friendship with his true friends.

“If he ever found out what I am, I know he would hate me,” Remus said.

Sirius cupped his hand around Remus’s head and drew him in for a passionate kiss. “Let’s hope he never finds out,” he said giving him a sly smile.

On the first night of the full moon, Moony was safely ensconced at the Shrieking Shack; it has been arranged that the rest of the Marauders would meet him later when they were able to sneak out. Sirius appeared to be in an especially good mood that night. He had charmed a seventh year girl to give him head in the precept’s bath room. He met James as he and the girl were coming out. He shooed the girl away.

“James, my boy,” he called to his friend. He threw him a half full bottle of fire whiskey. “Drink up, it our night to celebrate.”

“What do we have to celebrate?” James asked, taking a long swig from the bottle.

“Tonight, we get rid of an annoying pimple on my bum.” He laughed drunkenly.

James took another drink. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m getting him back,” he said. “He had the nerve to cheat on me with that repulsive worthless Snape. And now Snivellus is going find out exactly who Remus really is.”

James dropped the bottle. “Sirius, what have you done?”

“It was very clever, really, I told Snivellus that Moony wanted to meet him in the Shrieking Shack,” he said laughing at his own joke.

“Merlin’s beard, Sirius. Remus will rip him to shreds. We’ve got to stop him.”

Sirius waved his hand dismissively. “So what if he does? He thinks he can take away my boyfriend?” Sirius was clearly drunk and not thinking clearly.

James shook his head, disgusted. He knew his best friend would regret his little prank later, but the important thing was getting to Snape before Moony did.

James ran down the long hall calling out to Severus. He could hear him ahead and he ran faster. “Stop! Wait!” He cried. “You can’t go in there. Please don’t.”

“What do you want, Potter?” he asked.

“You can’t go in there. Please. Come here.”

Severus saw the door to the Shrieking Shack open, and there stood not 10 feet away from him, the horrible form of the werewolf. Fortunately, Moony hadn’t smelled him yet, so James was able to grab his arm and pulled him to safety. He pushed him all the way out through the whomping willow and dragged him the rest of the way until he cleared the tree’s range.

Remus, of course didn’t remember anything that happened that night and James decided not to tell him. He would never have forgiven himself had he known and he would have forgiven Sirius either. James figured Sirius too drunk understand what the true consequences of what he had done.

What Remus never did understand was that after that day, Snape never spoke to again. It broke his heart, but he still had his friends who knew his secret and loved him anyway.

What did you put in my drink!? for coonassblondie [NC-17] -- FW/HG/GW

2009-11-18T07:36:38Z

Title: What did you put in my drink!?
Author: feigned_living ★
Recipient's LJ name: coonassblondie
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Fred/Hermione/George
Word Count: 1487
Warnings: double penetration, almost infidelity, almost twincest
Summary: Hermione's bachelorette party takes a wrong turn when the twins slip an experimental potion in her drink.
Author's notes: Not normally something I write, but I hope I did alright for you :)

When Ginny drank she had a tendency to run her mouth; that's how the whole thing started. The twins saw their last chance to pull one over on Hermione; she would be drunk and off-guard at her bachelorette party. It wasn't hard to get Ginny to do their dirty work, slipping it in Hermione's drink. But Hermione was sure they hadn't expected their little sister to reveal their dastardly plot and their hiding place.

Hermione stormed to the nearest empty backstage area, feeling flustered and mildly light-headed. The twins were a little surprised, in fact, Fred looked downright mortified... that was unusual. But Hermione was unfazed. "What did you put in my drink?"

"Technically it was-"

"Not Ginny." Hermione cut him off. George and that charming smirk of his! Charming? No, she hated that smug look. Well she wasn't falling for it. "What was in it?"

"George, we should go."

"No!" Hermione had no idea why she heard George's voice agreeing with her. Her eyes, a bit wide from shock, flicked toward Fred. Her pupils were dilated. She pressed on. "I want an answer."

"Oh, no, you really don't."

Why was George so close and why did he smell so good? Like parchment and ink. Hermione shook her head to try and focus... not on the smooth curve of Fred's jaw where it sloped up to meet his throat - on his guilty expression! "Fred..." Hermione narrowed her eye a bit, singling out the weaker link, "Tell me!"

"Golden opportunity here, Fred." George was closer, moving behind her. Hand on the small of her back. Slowly rubbing circles. Hermione involuntarily leaned back against him.

Fred hadn't answered. "Tell me!" She was insistent, but forgetting about why it was getting very warm in here suddenly. Hermione ran one hand gently across her over-exposed cleavage and - was that George's hand on her arse? No, couldn't be. But Fred was so close. Pursing his lips in thought. Devious, plotting, perfect lips.

Hermione reached her hand out toward his face but stopped herself. No. Wrong. Ron's brother. Brothers. This wasn't one of her 5th year fantasies. But why was he so close... so blurry... so enticing...

"Go on, Hermione." George was talking to her, whispering in her ear. Hermione's whole body was flushed. "It's your party, you can do whatever - whoever you want."

Hermione hesitated. The suddenly very quiet voice of reason told her to go home. Rest. Find an antidote. But there was a part of Hermione speaking up that was usually repressed. The part that could rationalize breaking the rules and all the bad that she had done for the greater good. The part that told her cold feet was normal - and it was okay to act on it as long as Ron never knew.

"What do you want, Hermione?"

Fred. Usually loud, obnoxious and immature. And suddenly the quiet, reluctant, nervous one. Hermione watched him, absentmindedly rubbing against George's hand on her hip. "Fred."

George grinned and gave a soft chuckle. "Well this is an unexpected turn of events, eh Fred?" George's hand brushed against the soft skin of her stomach. Her hip nudged against him as Hermione slowly grew more comfortable with the idea.

Fred din't move, even when Hermione brushed her fingertips against his lips - soft, not like Ron's forever-chapped lips. Temptation was getting too sweet to pass up suddenly. "C'mon then, Fred. You heard the lady. It's her party after all."

The idea that this was wrong appeared to cross Fred's expression. But it was gone as soon as it appeared. It wasn't like they planned this. And she had to want it to begin with or the potion wouldn't have worked at all. Sure, Fred was shocked, but definitely not against the idea.

Tentatively, Fred's lips pressed against Hermione's. She didn't hesitate. In fact, she practically pounced him. If George hadn't already had a hold of his brother's shoulders, Fred might have toppled over with Hermione on top of him. Hermione giggled, one hand tangling into his hair and the other clutching a handful of his shirt. Heat flooded Hermione's face, spreading down across her chest as Fred's tongue tangled with hers and his hands grasped her arse rather firmly.

Great as it was, Hermione knew it couldn't last. She just didn't expect George to be the voice of reason at that point. "You two might want to get out of the hallway." Fred pried one hand from Hermione's arse to shove it in his twin's face. George was unrelenting. He took a different approach, leaning in close to Hermione's ear, breath hot against her delicate neck as he brushed her curls aside. "There's dressing rooms about two feet away, you know. Get Fred in there and you can have his clothes off in no time."

"What about yours?"

For the first time in a long time, both twins looked a little shell-shocked. But there was hardly time to respond before Hermione turned her head to capture George in a kiss that sent the blood rushing straight to his cock. Without missing a step Hermione pulled them both into the nearest room. And as suddenly as the potion had taken affect on Hermione, Hermione took affect on the twins.

What Fred and George had neglected to account for in their experiments with the lust potion, was that normal lust tended to be contagious. Their potion reacted according, spreading perhaps through that kiss that had left them both breathless, or maybe it was something in the air. But Fred and George were definitely feel the effects of their own potion.

Clothes went flying. Hermione was obviously in a hurry. And neither Fred nor George was going to argue with her. Fred had lusted for her for long enough that he was willing to go along with anything she said, and George was willing to go along with anything Fred was doing. So the three of them ended up in a tangle of clothes coming off and hands on each other. The lines between right and wrong were a little blurred, sure. But when had the twins done anything less than that.

In the back of Hermione's mind, she realized that there was something wrong with this situation. She was engaged. She was getting married tomorrow. And while she had been extremely nervous about it, it hadn't called for this. But the potion had done away with her inhibitions and Hermione's better judgment was buried away in the back of her mind.

Fred was the first one to touch her. His mouth moved across her throat as he pushed her against the door. And for a moment the world seemed to move in slow motion. His hand slid up her bare side and caressed her naked breast, finding the nipple and twisting it gently. Hermione moaned a little, her inner thigh rubbing against the outside of his leg. She could feel his cock, already hard pressing against her stomach.

From there things moved in a blur. She couldn't be sure how anything happened. From her position pressed to the door, Hermione was suddenly on top of Fred. George was kneeling behind her, face buried in her mass of curls as he leaned over her to grasp his brother. And without thinking of much more than how good this would feel, and how many times she had imagined it, Hermione slid down until Fred completely filled her. She gasped a little, arching back into George, who kept her from falling back completely.

There were hands and tongues everywhere at this point. And the world all seemed to blur. She came at least twice on top of Fred. How many times he did wasn't clear. But it was the next part that really cleared up the evening for her. The potion was wearing off, but Hermione was too consumed with what they were doing to let reality sink in just yet. And just when she was about to gather herself, she felt George pressing against her back.

"Hold still now, love. This is going to be a tight fit." And it wasn't until too late that Hermione realized what he meant. Too late as in she felt George's prick gently nudging its way into her arse. Hermione groaned in the back of her throat for a moment as she adjusted to the feeling of having them both inside of her at once. It took a minute for them each to match the other's rhythm, but once they did it was amazing.

Hermione came first. Followed by George when her orgasm's tightened her around his cock. And Fred (who had come at least once already) followed shortly after... mostly due to the expressions on their faces. It was intense. It was unexpected. And it was everything Hermione had fantasied and more. Now she just had to find someone willing to obliviate her before her wedding.

What If? for lunalovepotter [NC-17] -- TL/VW, TL/LLP

2009-11-18T07:32:48Z

Title: What If?
Author: seraphimerising ★
Recipient: lunalovepotter
Title: What if?
Main Pairing: Teddy Lupin/Victoire Weasley
Secondary Pairing: Teddy Lupin/Lily Luna Potter
Rating:Strong R/NC-17
Prompt: A wedding!fic in which one of the betrothed is having doubts. A former lover (or a secret crush) comes into the picture to mix things up.
Warnings:angst,
Summary: Either way, Teddy was either going to lose the love of his life or his life.
A/N: Special thanks to Tania for lending me a hand when I needed it.

What If?

What if?

Those two simple words hung unspoken in the oppressive air filling the room in which Teddy was standing as his wedding grew closer the more the second hands ticked to the appointed time. His hair darkening to a mousy brown with every passing minute while the question taunted him as he stood staring out the window; lost in the moment -- staring at long red hair with freckled, peaches-and-cream skin clad in a mint green sundress that he knew brought out her pale green eyes.

What if?

That simple question folded upon itself again and again like an oragami crane as his mind went into overdrive.

What if he had the courage...

To walk down the stairs and straight to her -- in front of his entire adopted family, in the yard of the Burrow, moments before he was suppose to marry into the family, to another member of the family, and take the beautiful redhead, the one he had tasted a lifetime ago and should never have walked away from, into his arms before capturing her lips. Her beautiful full lips that he remembered tasted of strawberries, of them being full, soft, and inviting, of them relenting to his silent demands, of them being what he dreamed a woman's lips to be.

Nothing like what Victoire's had ever felt like. Victoire's were thinner. Her kisses more chaste, more subdued. Kissing her felt like a duty; her kisses were ass cold as ice at times. Sometimes when he was feeling cruel, he wondered if she learned how to kiss from Aunt Hermione. He had seen her kisses with Uncle Ron and somehow he was the only one in the family that hadn't been surprised when they announced they were getting divorced.

He just knew there needed to be more in Victoire's kisses than there was. He knew he needed Lily's kisses, the way they made him feel alive and his knees week. In her lips, he had found out what heaven tasted like.

He just wished he had the courage to walk down the stairs and straight to her.

What if he possessed the courage...

To take the young woman who had invaded his thoughts and fantasies uninvited. The woman he dreamed of whimpering and moaning under his body. Her beautiful body nude, arching into his from his touch. Her voice moaning in pleasure with his names on her lips. The sounds that he was teetering on forgetting. The sounds she made on that April day, the two of them exploring each other's bodies for the first time: here at the Burrow, out by the pond, as a steady April shower came down around them. He had no idea how he got out there with her that day but all that mattered anymore was that he had. He had allowed her to pull him out the back door after he waited an hour for Victoire before she sent him a message that she wouldn't be meeting him that day. He had relented to Lily taking his hand as he moaned about Victoire's rudeness and she teased him sarcastically about Victoire's tendency to always think of herself first.

His heart stopped beating after they took a tumble to the ground, one of them tripping over something. He found himself laying on top of her, her body pinned perfectly underneath his, her eyes still smiling, her voice still laughing until everything changed. His life suddenly became more complicated as he couldn't resist the pull of her until his lips found hers that first time.

In that moment, he found himself drowning and he didn't want to stop. He hadn't wanted to stop the moment she kissed him back. Or the moment her hands slipped underneath his shirt.

And when she whispered, "Please Teddy, please." Pleading with him as that spring rain began to fall, he couldn't deny himself or her. She looked so beautiful with her pale, green eyes swirling in lust; her long red hair darkening the longer the rain went on; her face so sweet and innocent. Her lips whispering, "Please Teddy, you don't know how long I have wanted this. Wanted you. Please Teddy."

In that split second he thought of all he could lose, if he did this – took what was being offered, took exactly what he wanted -- the beautiful nymph begging him to take this tumble off the edge with her.

"Love me," she whispered so quietly he barely heard the words but they went straight to his heart and his soul giving his courage the foothold he had been grasping for in that moment.

He just wish he possesed that courage now: to claim Lily as his own, her heart, mind, soul, and body.

Just as she had claimed his a lifetime ago. The part of him that had been missing since his courage failed him that Christmas Eve night. And so he stayed with Victoire, though she had given him an out.

He just wished he had had the courage to do right by Lily and had taken her hand that snowy winter night.

What if he had the will...

To walk away from his first love. The one he thought would be his only love: on their wedding day, in front of her family, his chosen family and friends. Could he bring himself to ruin her wedding day? Could he bring himself to alienate the only family he had, just to take a chance on a certain redhead who didn't make his days so dark, his life so bleak?

Shaking his head, he knew that he couldn't do that to Victoire, not after all their years together. All the fighting and making up. He knew he loved her and would always love her but he wanted more.

He wanted the earth-shattering, mind-blowing feeling he got with her. He wanted the kisses that revitalized his soul, tore at his very being. He longed for the heated caresses and the joyous laughter that rattled his mind. He longed for those moments, sated, the lingering kisses and caresses remained as they nuzzled, cuddled, and laughed. Those intimated moments so playful, so wonderful -- nothing like he had ever experienced with Victoire, who treated their most intimate encounters as a chore and not something to be enjoyed.

Collapsing on the bed, he buried his head in his hands. For in that moment, he no longer had the will to keep living the lie he found himself in. He had to do what was right by Victoire.

What if...

"What if I asked you not to do this?" a throaty voice whispered. "That I've decided I won't let you do this."

Looking up, his eyes locked with Lily's. She quietly closed the door behind her and moved over to him. His eyes never left the ones he knew he would love the rest of his days.

Whispering as she knelt before him, he said, "I'm not."

"Good," she whispered, her hand caressing his cheek. The touch that he thought he would never feel again. The one he had almost forgotten. The soft fingers that knowingly seduced him. "I wasn't looking forward to interrupting the wedding."

"Lily, I'm so sorry," he whispered back. "I should never chosen her. All I have thought about these last few years is you and how I missed you, your laugh, your smile, your touch."

"And I should have fought harder. You are the only thing I have ever given up on and the only regret I have."

"Your family is going to hate me," he sadly whispered, his eyes leaving hers as he admitted the biggest reason for denying to himself who he really should be with.

"Yes, more than likely."

Teddy's head popped up at the matter-of-fact tone in which Lily spoke. She continued, "Well it's true. Then Victoire will finally admit to what is really going on with Nott and then you will be forgiven."

"What?"

"You aren't the only one wanting to call this hoax off."

Teddy stared at her and whispered, "Why didn't you say something?"

He watched as she pulled back and painfully replied, "Because I wanted you to choose me this time before you had a chance to choose me as a consolation prize."

Grabbing her face with both hands, he said, "You have never been nor will you ever be the consolation prize. Walking away from you has been the worst mistake of my life."

"Really?" she whispered, the tears forming in her eyes and starting to slip out.

Falling to his knees in front of her, he pulled her in and captured her lips.

He felt her hands grab his dress robes and pull him closer. When she started to kiss him back, he found himself drowning in those lips that he had missed, the smell of her -- the wondrous combination of Christmas trees and hazelnuts, the feel of her body pressing against his. He knew that he had been a fool to let this go, the love of his life, for the noble reasons of not wanting to hurt his first friend, his first best friend, his first love, his first lover.

"I don't know what's more troubling," a distinctive male voice caused them to stop kissing, though their lips never left each other. Which wasn't probably a good thing as they had been caught by her father. "Walking in on Victorie shagging Nott on her wedding day or my godson kissing my daughter on his wedding day. Care to explain?"

Commitment Issues for the community [R] -- NL/HP, HP/DM, NL/DM (2)

2009-11-18T07:21:35Z

Title: Commitment Issues
Author: larasaku
Recipient: community
Rating: T, maybe light R
Ship: Neville/Harry; Harry/Draco; Neville/Draco
Warnings: slash
Summary: 1) Two people in one of the listed threesomes are a couple, but one of them can't help lusting over the third person. Angsty, happy ending optional.
Genre: Romance, Humor and attempts at angst.
Author's Note: I really tried to make it angsty, but it kind of always dissolved in humor. I'm really sorry but I hope the end is at least acceptable for the recipient.
+ After DH, Canon compliant but EWE.
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.

CHAPTER FOUR

The holiday spun away for Harry without him really noticing. When he stood up on Monday morning to finally begin his dreaded practical Auror training, he was in a grumpy mood. He didn't look forward to it, but he wouldn't give up everything he had worked for, just because he had the misfortune to be given that particular Senior Auror.

He was dressed and ready, when Neville finally came downstairs to the floo, this time with his wand, which he had forgotten earlier. Neville still sometimes forgot essential things, but he had gotten quite good in remembering them in the last minute, when it was needed. It made him Neville, and Harry didn't want him to change. He found it endearing, when Neville had sheepishly declared that he had forgotten his wand upstairs. It made Harry forget his gloomy mood and smile.

They entered the floo and arrived at the atrium together. They made their way to the Auror department. When the lift opened and they entered the small assembly hall, where all the trainee Aurors had to wait, before being officially introduced to their Senior Aurors. Harry spotted Hermione, who was waving them over to her and Ron. Harry and Neville walked through the crowded hall. When they reached them, Hermione hugged Harry and Neville exuberantly.

“How was your holiday?” Ron asked, grinning like a maniac, while he beamed at them. He and Hermione had spent the whole week honeymooning and only got back yesterday night. Harry didn't think Ron could attract more attention, if he tried. News hadn't traveled far, up until now, neither the Daily Prophet nor the rest of the Weasley family had gotten wind of Ron and Hermione's wedding, but if that was to stay so, they'd had to be more careful.

“Fine. But I'm sure nothing compared to yours.” Harry stated in a much quieter voice, grinning at Ron.

“Well, for such a great time you'll have to wait for your own honey moon with Neville.” Ron declared at the top of his voice silencing the crowd around them. Neville and Harry flushed red and Ron swore, when he noticed his slip.

“Really, Ron!” Hermione said shrilly, but the damage was already done. Both secrets had been aired. One could hear the crowd whisper and glaze in their direction. Harry knew it would only be a matter of time until the news spread, but he had hoped, it would be a secret for a little longer and when he hadn't to deal with other things like today.

“Great. Just great,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“Sorry, mates. I kind of forgot nobody knows... knew about the two of you.” Harry rolled his eyes. Ron was horrible at keeping secrets, he always took them as common knowledge.

“It's fine. But now they know of your marriage too,” Harry said, sighing.

“It would have been apparent anyway, when I'm called as Hermione Weasley to the front.” Hermione stated.

“Right you are, Mrs. Weasley” Harry agreed mockingly.

“Harry, you should be nicer to you friend.” Neville scolded smiling.

“Ron, you should be the one defending my honor, not Neville.” Hermione complained.

“Why should I? I like it that you are Mrs. Weasley,” Ron finished loudly for everybody to hear, embracing his wife. She huffed but leaned into his touch. Neville and Harry smiled at each other and Neville moved to hug Harry as he was the taller of the two. After all life was short and their secret relationship was already out, why shouldn't they take advantage of that.

“Well, at least we know what will be in the Daily Prophet tomorrow.” Neville said quietly and the others laughed.

The ceremony began and Harry soon saw Neville leaving with Dawlish. They had agreed to meet for lunch, to discuss their new superiors. Harry moved to the stage, as it would be his turn next. He looked up to where his Senior Auror was already seated. His appearance was sleek and proper. His posture conveyed superiority to those surrounding him. He was just like Harry remembered: blond, cool and immaculate.

“Trainee Harry James Potter will be herewith entrusted to Senior Auror Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.” A pompous ministry official declared. Harry climbed the stair onto the stage and Malfoy stood up from his seat. They met in the middle of the stage and shook hands to the polite clapping and whispering of the crowd.

Harry met the cold stare of his superior with a stare of his own, neither relented. They were interrupted by the ministry official, who was already announcing the next pair of people. They held no interest to Malfoy as he turned and strutted away. Harry followed him. He knew he had to even if the arrogant man hadn't said anything to him. Harry knew that would change soon, thus Harry savored the silence. He was aware neither of them was very happy with their predicament, but it would have to work, no matter how annoying Malfoy would be.

They walked through the ministry in silence, Harry, trailing after the elder Malfoy. When they entered Malfoy's office, Harry wanted to roll his eyes. The office looked like an antique shop. The desks, armchairs and armoire were without a doubt old and expensive. The armchairs were cushioned in green velvet and were of black ebony like the rest of the furniture. Their carved ornaments spoke of their value. The room was practically screaming of Malfoy's and their snobby attitude. Harry had to crush the urge to snort, when Lucius sat down on his throne-like armchair, to look down at him from his imaginary kingdom. Harry was sure he'd have to bite his tongue a lot for the coming six months, if he wanted to be given clearance.

“We haven't seen each other for a long time, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy drawled crossing his legs. Harry remained silent, it was a redundant statement and he wouldn't begin to babble like an excited school boy. He had made a plan for dealing with Malfoy Senior, he would be polite and respectful. He would do exactly what Malfoy didn't expect him to. Harry knew he was known for his rash decisions and hot-headed temper, but he had grown up. He would show that he deserved to be respected as an adult and soon as a colleague. Apart from that Harry liked the irony that he would treat Malfoy just like Hermione always demanded of him to behave towards his elders.

“Why haven't you sit down, Mr. Potter?”

“Because I have manners, sir and you haven't invited me to do so.” Harry drawled in the same tone Malfoy had used. He saw him look for a moment blankly at him, until his expression formed a smirk.

“Please excuse me being so inconsiderate and do sit down.” There was a note of amusement in Malfoy's voice, but Harry didn't care and sat down. He was much more interested in how things would proceed from there. They would have to work together and he wanted to know under which set of rules Malfoy would put him.

“I imagine you are interested in what I expect of you for the following months,” Malfoy declare raising an eyebrow. Harry only inclined his head in accordance.

Their discussion over the arrangements for the following months began and Harry felt Malfoy probe his mind with Legilimency a few times throughout their conversation, but his Occlumency shield held. He had mastered Occlumency in memory to Professor Snape and was proud that his shields were solid to keep people out. He hoped the professor would have approved, had he survived the final battle. Harry was quite surprised by the outline Malfoy presented, it was sensible and what he had hopped for in his practical training. Malfoy was still arrogant and haughty and would therefore be sometimes a pain, but it wouldn't be as horrendous as he had imagined. It would be acceptable and he certainly could learn a lot from Malfoy, as he wasn't for nothing in Voldemort's inner circle.

After they finished Harry was told to sit down at the desk on the right wall of the room, where one of the artificial windows was set. The desk was smaller then the one in the middle of the room, but still much bigger than the normal ministry model, still Harry wondered why there was a third desk at the left side of the wall. It was crammed with various staples of papers on the right side and hotchpotch on the left. Harry found that somewhat peculiar, but ignored it to begin his task of reading the newest cases Malfoy Senior was working on.

Harry and Malfoy Senior were working in companionable silence, when suddenly the door burst open. Harry drew his wand, while Malfoy Senior only sighed in exasperation, when the person slammed his hand on his desk. Harry couldn't see the face of the person, but even though the hair was long and reached past the shoulder-blades, it was still this outstanding pale Malfoy blond that let Harry in no doubt that he was seeing Draco Malfoy standing before his father's desk. Draco certainly hadn't grown since the last time, Harry saw him, he was sure he had managed to become taller than Malfoy even if only by a few inches. It was petty, but it filled him with glee. Harry was sure he'd probably never outgrow his archrivaly which Draco.
He just seemed to get under Harry's skin and it made him uncomfortable.

Harry cleared his throat, his wand still clasped tightly in his right hand, leveled at Draco. The two Malfoys turned to him and the younger one's eyes widened, when he saw who was sitting at a desk in his father's office. The elder Malfoy sat back and looked at his son with a bemused expression as one could, the emotions he was having to the sight that was presented to him. First there were shock, confusion, realization and finally anger and annoyance. The young man turned back to his father and glared at him clearly conveying that whatever had happened to him was only his fault.

“I expect this is a friendly visit?” Harry finally asked, when the silence persisted.

“Yes.”

“No!”

Both Malfoys answered at the same time. Draco stamped his foot. “It certainly isn't father.” Harry lowered his wand. It was amusing to see them interacting. Draco didn't appear to have outgrown his spoiled child attitude and Malfoy seemed to find it as amusing as Harry. Draco was ranting about some business matter and accusing his father of everything that had gone wrong.

After some time Harry blended out Draco's tirade and got back to work, he had still to finish one report or he wouldn't make it to his lunch date with Neville. He read until a meanwhile lowered voice caught his attention.

“You can't be seriously considering to keep him. He is horrible. I'm sure you can exchange him for someone else.” Draco implored upon his father.

“You know that I don't get to chose my trainee, Draco,” Lucius answered calmly.

“But he is Potter, they can't possibly expect you to keep him!” Draco exclaimed loud enough to reverberate in the room. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I'm not a pet, Malfoy. Your father isn't keeping me. We're going to work together and I don't think that is any of your business.” Harry said annoyed.

“It certainly is my problem as I work here too and have to put up with your presence.” Draco sneered at him folding his arms in front of his chest.

“What!” Harry exclaimed incredulously, putting the last page of his report down.

“It seems you really can't read. On the office door stands Mr. & Mr. Malfoy, therefore it is obvious that I work here too.”

Harry burrowed his head into his arms. His day had been looking better after his discussion with the elder Malfoy. He really had begun to think that the time of his practical training wouldn't be a catastrophe in the false hope he'd get along with the more or less reasonable Malfoy, but Draco. He was whiny, arrogant, exasperating and annoying, how would Harry manage to get along with him for six months. Harry took a deep breath and resolved to just follow his general Malfoy plan to be polite whatever happened. He straightened again to gaze at the two blond men. 'They were pretty to look at.' He shuddered at his stray thought and pulled himself together.

“It's nice that we'll be working here together.” Harry plastered his photo-smile, he gave the reporters on his face and tried to convince himself of what he had said through nodding. The two blonds watched him puzzled.

“You're weird, Potter” Draco said before walking to his clustered desk to sit down.

The office finally quieted down and all Harry had left was to finish the last page of his report. He did that and revised the notes he had taken, it was five minutes to noon. He decided to wait and looked around the room. The elder Malfoy was reading some reports and frowning, while the younger one was going through a pile of letters, Harry hadn't seen beforehand. Harry wondered what Draco's job was, as he was certain he wasn't an Auror. Draco had a lot of correspondence, but only divided the letters into two staples without formulating any kind of reply. He was focused, but nibbling at the end of his quill. Harry was thinking that it was kind of adorable, when a knock sounded. Harry looked at the time and flushed it was ten past twelve. He had been contemplating Draco for the last ten minutes without noticing and totally forgotten about Neville and lunch.

“Come in.” The elder Malfoy called and Neville appeared in the door.

“I was wondering if Harry is free for lunch?” Neville asked, addressing Malfoy Senior, he didn't appear to have noticed Draco who nearly disappeared behind his staples of paperwork.

“Yes, I have to leave anyway for a meeting of my own.” Lucius answered, before collecting some reports and leaving without a good bye or any other acknowledgment.

“Well, that wasn't too bad. I'm sure it could be worse, Harry.” Neville said in a gentle tone.

“So it is true. You two are a couple.” Neville started at Draco's voice, he turned to Draco wand drawn.

“Yes, we are together Malfoy. Do you have a problem with that?” Harry asked icily, still annoyed, because of his earlier watching of the blond.

“No, I'm just trying to figure out who is showing more bad taste. Can't make my mind up which of you is worse.” He sneered derisively, stood up and sauntered away taking one pile of letters with him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tuesday morning brought as expected an unusual amount of owls to Grimmauld's Place Number 12. The distribution of the Daily Prophet was like always efficient, as it appeared that half of the wizarding population already wrote a letter and send their opinion of whatever the Daily Prophet fabricated. When Harry went downstairs, he ignored the growing piles of letters in the living room and walked into the kitchen to see if yesterday's revelation was reported as good news or as bad news. He knew it would influence the content of the letters in the living room and it'd help him gauge
how likely he would be hexed by opening a letter.

Harry entered the kitchen and was greeted by a blurry hello from Neville who was already nursing a cup of tea and reading the morning paper.
Harry said down beside Neville with a cup of his own and began to serve himself tea. They both remained silent while they drunk their tea neither of them was a morning person and both preferred to be really awake before starting any kind of conversation.

Harry sighed, when he finished his cup and watched Neville anxiously as he filled his cup and then Harry's again.

“Thanks. So? What does it say? How bad is it?” Harry asked curiously. He knew he wouldn't like the headline but as long as the content was fine he'd be satisfied. He didn't look forward to Malfoy Senior's and even less to Malfoy Junior's comments of today's morning paper.

“It isn't bad. They wrote something extremely nice about Ron and Hermione's wedding, even if they are hinting that Hermione might be pregnant. Well, they really positive of our relationship.” Neville recounted hesitantly.

“What do you mean with 'positive of our relationship'?” Harry asked suspiciously. Neville cringed, Harry wasn't going to like how he was described.

“They kind of like the idea of us together. They think of it like a fairytale.”

“A what?” Harry asked. Neville gave up his explanation, shook his head and wordlessly handed over the newspaper.

The Daily Prophet was split. On the left side one headline and on the right side an other. It appeared someone took yesterday the chance to take a picture of the two pairs hugging. As on each corner of the paper was a photo of them in their trainee Auror uniform. The photos were sweet. Each person looked happy in his significant others arms which would explain the rather positive headlines or like Neville put it. An extract out of a fairytale.

“ELOPED! War hero and heroin married in secret romantic ceremony!” / “ Harry Potter and his prince in shining armor!”

Harry blinked at the headline regarding his relationship and began to read.

Harry Potter was after the last years of mourning the loss of Ginny Weasley, soon to be Wood, seen with Neville Longbottom, Gryffindor in Harry's year at Hogwarts, who killed with the sword of Godric Gryffindor Voldemort's snake and fought beside him in the final battle of Hogwarts. But Harry Potter's prince had always fought at Harry site, even in their fifth year, when Death Eaters invaded the ministry, he helped the savior survive.

Nowadays, he appears to be the reason our savior broke lose from his depression. We have to thank him for being the person who again saved our most dearest citizen. Mr. Neville Longbottom truly is a prince in a shining armor who will keep his sweetheart save and protect him from any harm, he might encounter.

Harry groaned. How was anyone going to take him serious as Auror, when he was practically declared to be the fair maiden in distress and Neville his prince who had to come to make everything better for him. It was a ridiculous comparison and he would certainly be laughed at, once he made it to the ministry. He already could see the smirking faces of the two blondes in his office. It was horrible, he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him.

In spite of Harry's reluctance to get dressed and floo to work, he unfortunately had no choice. Harry already had bit farewell to Neville, as he had to meet Dawlish in the department of Magical law enforcement and was now walking to his office shared by exactly the person's he would love to avoid today. Harry still had a faint hope that maybe Draco wouldn't come to the office, if he had luck, Draco would have some meeting elsewhere. The problem only was that his luck only tended to work, when someone was trying to kill him and his embarrassment was mostly ignored.

Harry opened the door to the office and held his breath ready not to react to whatever biting comment was thrown at him, but when he looked up the office was empty. He walked to his desk and looked at the tabletop. He found a note in elegant script with the instructions to finish reading the reports, regarding Malfoy's unsolved but older cases and to be ready for lunch to discuss things further. Harry was glad that the two blonds weren't there to make fun of him, but at the same time, he was disappointed, because his first two days of practical Auror training had entitled nothing more than reading to become up to date. It was a strenuous task for Harry, he didn't liked the whole paperwork that came with the job.

He began to read and soon lost himself in the reports. He was deeply concentrated, when like the prior day the door was flung open and an aristocratic blond entered. It annoyed Harry to no end that Malfoy hadn't mastered in his life the task of entering a room silently until now. He was a disturbance par excellence.

“Where is my father, Potter?” Draco asked impatient, as if Harry should have given him the information without him having to inquire.

“I'm not his secretary therefore I have no idea.” Harry said and the blond frowned. Harry debated if he should relay the information of his note and decided to be nice and give it to Draco, after all he would probably otherwise nag him into insanity. “I believe he will come back for our lunch meeting.”

“Lunch meeting!” Draco parroted.”Potter, I was under the impression that you already have a 'prince in shining armor', so I don't think it's appropriate to ask my father on a date.” Draco smirked, when Harry's eyes widened and he gaped like a fish. Harry didn't appreciate his subconscious, when Draco's bait conjured and image of him and Draco having a candle light dinner. Harry knew his reaction must have made him look like an idiot, but his actual thoughts would have delighted the blond and would be far worse if the blond found out about them. So, When Harry finally managed to shake of his stupor to counter Draco's statement, he was flushed. It didn't help that the blond was biting his lips enticingly and looking incredibly cute leaning against his father's desk. One couldn't blame him for his careless retort.

“Oh, grow up, Draco!”

“Such familiarity and you aren't even denying that you want to date my father. Do you have a thing for blond men.”

“No, I have not a thing for blond married men!” Harry emphasized and watched as Draco slowly walked up to his desk and put both arms on the table top leaning forward to him stopping mere inches before his face.

“Ah, but I'm not married,” Draco said in a husky voice, gazing intently at Harry's lips.

Someone behind them cleared his throat and Harry jumped to his feet to get distance from Draco. Guilt was written plainly over his face, he was rivaling the Weasley family in his shade of red, he appeared to always attain in proximity of Draco.

“Am I interrupting?” Lucius Malfoy asked with a raised eyebrow, closing the door as silently as he had opened it.

“No, we were just trading basic facts, catching up.” Draco said lightly, as if they hadn't just been nearly caught in a compromising situation. Draco walked back to his father's desk to sit in the armchair Harry had occupied the day before, during his discussion with the elder Malfoy. The Malfoys began to discuss business and so Harry too went back to work, until he finished. When Harry was no longer concentrated on his reports, he felt the stares, someone in the room was giving him and discovered that they were the Senior Malfoy's. Harry didn't relish in the speculative glance his observer was giving Draco and him, but he couldn't blame him their behavior had been more than suspicious. Harry grew bored with his observation and as he had already revised his notes, he decided to interrupt the elder Malfoy to see if they could begin the discussion of the reports earlier.

“Sir?” Harry asked to get Malfoy Senior's attention. Malfoy Senior regarded him expectantly and Harry continued. “I finished the report and wondered, if you were agreeable to begin their discussion before lunch.”

“Yes, I am. Come with your notes and we will begin in a minute.“ Malfoy ordered.

Harry moved to sit in front of Malfoy and they worked well into the middle of the lunch break until a knock sounded against the door. Malfoy Senior bid the visitor to come in and Harry turned around to face him, when Malfoy's eyes twitched in displeasure. The person he saw before him certainly didn't come to visit either of the Malfoy's

“Hello, Mrs. Longbottom. As you can see we are still having a meeting. Maybe you could come back at a later hour.” Malfoy proposed.

“I'm old and could be dead then. Your meeting can wait until later, little Lucius.” Mrs. Longbottom said with conviction. Harry was sure, Lucius Malfoy would be gaping like a fish from the shock of being called 'little Lucius', if he weren't gritting his teeth like a werewolf on full moon to contain his anger. The elder Malfoy straightened his back and stood up.

“I assume I can't contradict your argument, Madame. Therefore I'll take my leave. Good day, Mrs. Longbottom. We will discuss this further later, Mr. Potter.” Malfoy had manged to make in Harry's opinion an extraordinary polite threat. It had to be some Malfoy eccentric to be polite even though it is clear one was on the brink of committing murder. Harry was clearly impressed, but didn't look forward to his next meeting with his superior.

Harry greeted Mrs. Longbottom and invited her to sit down. Draco came to sit with them, after a few minutes, but only nodded in greeting. He was doubtless interested in something or he hadn't bothered to join them.

“I wondered Mrs. Longbottom, was there any particular reason why you greeted my father in that fashion?” Draco asked his eyes sparkling in amusement.

“Well, certainly young man. Your father was named after his grandfather, so he was always little Lucius to my generation. I believe younger wizard and witches have already forgotten that.”

“I'll keep it in mind from now on.” Draco assured sincerely and made the others laugh.

They continued with small talk until Mrs. Longbottom came to the reason of her visit and opened the discussion of marriage. Draco instantly became alert and decided to keep out of the following part of conversation. Harry didn't seem to find the topic worrisome and talked without a care.

“Isn't it lovely that your best friends have married.” Mrs. Longbottom said cheerfully.

“Yes, they are perfect for each other I think their marriage will be good.” Harry agreed, unknowingly, beginning to dig his own grave.

“So, do you see yourself as well married in the near future.” Mrs. Longbottom asked, clearly expecting Harry's affirmation.

“No, I'm not the marring kind. I think I'm far to young to commit myself like that. I mean it is fine for Ron and Hermione, they love each other and it is clear that they'll stay together no matter what happens, but I think marring now would be a horrible idea.”

“And what do you think of an engagement?” Mrs. Longbottom asked with barely restrained anger.

“Engagement is just as bad as marriage. I'd just bring expectations. So it'd be a idea as horrible.”

“I see, Mr. Potter. It is a shame that you think so.” She said sternly and stood up. “I'll leave you to your work, good day.” She banged the office door, when she left, leaving a puzzled Harry behind.

“Smooth, Potter. Like a dragon in an apothecary.” Draco was laughing and had little tears in the corner of his eyes. Harry thought it suited him, he looked years younger and beautiful. Harry shook his head to clear it, he really must have been shaken by Mrs. Longbottom. Or he wouldn't have this kind of more than inappropriate thoughts of Draco.

“Oh, as if you could do better with relatives.” Harry answered after a pause.

Draco walked closer to Harry inclined his head and breathed in his ear. “I do know better than to tell my lover's family that I'm just fucking him and don't intend to ever make him a honest man.”

Harry closed his eyes, when Draco's breath caressed his ear, he knew he shouldn't but he couldn't resist. He shivered at Draco's voice and would have answered to that crude statement, if their momentary position hadn't given him a plain view of the expanse of Draco's pale neck. Harry knew, he would love to explore it, but his conscience made him replay Draco's words and his albeit confused love for Neville made him finally react to Draco's accusation. He shoved Draco away and answered in a breathy voice.

“I never said that. It isn't about that we are in a serious relationship and care about each other.”

Draco smirked at him and walked back to his desk swinging his hips teasingly. His light blue robes were clinging to his backside in a way that should be prohibited outside of a bedroom were one couldn't exploit the more than the tantalizing sight. Draco's action got the message across Harry, if he was so fond of his love why was he looking at Draco like a fresh delicious meal for a starved man. If they were in a serious relationship, why was Harry even noticing Draco? How could he have this thoughts about Draco? How could he do this to Neville, if he loved him? Did he really loved him, if he had this kind of thoughts?

Harry picked up his notes and walked to the door, when he grabbed the handle, he was stop by Draco's voice.

“If you want to you could come to the Venus flytrap, the new club at the end of Diagon Alley. I'll be there if you want to catch up.”

Harry left. He knew he'd be damned, if he took Draco up on his offer to catch up, as he was sure that would be the last thing in the blonds mind.

CHAPTER SIX

Harry finished up his work early on Tuesday. After the tongue lashing Malfoy Senior gave Harry about keeping private life and work separated, they finished the remaining reports. Malfoy allowed him to go home, as tomorrow they would finally go in the field and Harry couldn't do any more work.
It left Harry in a deserted Grimmauld's Place with nothing better to do than thinking, as he and Neville had planned to go out to eat. He already had tidied up what was left from the morning, but both of them were extremely neat persons due to their upbringing that it wasn't that much.

Harry couldn't forget Draco, when he laid on his bed in the master bedroom. He couldn't decide, if he had been always so aware of him or if the blond had developed that magnetic trait in the last years. Draco hadn't really changed physically that much apart for his hair. He was still the pale, blond and fair beauty, he was in Hogwarts. Harry tried to pinpoint the change and came to the conclusion that it were his behavior and eyes. He was happier and open. Still arrogant and sarcastic, but no longer malicious. His eyes were still the silver gray from their school days, but they were no longer cold and had lost their haunted look. Draco like many others had been affected by the peace. With the peace in the wizarding world, he had found peace for himself and he radiated it. 'Draco is radiant' was Harry's last thought, before he fell asleep.
Harry was woken up by someone shaking him. He slowly opened his eyes to find Neville standing in the last sun rays of the day, frowning at him from his position. Harry yawned and looked at his alarm clock, it was seven thirty, he had slept for two hours. When Harry opened his mouth to say something Neville cut him off.

“I'll wait downstairs,” He said curtly and left without further ado.

Harry wondered what was going on. He knew, he could have handled Mrs. Longbottom better, but normally Neville didn't take little disagreements to heart. He resolve to find out. He stood up from his bed, stretched and run down the stairs. He looked into the kitchen first but it was empty. It worried Harry, because they usually spend their time in the kitchen or the library, if they weren't engaged in bedroom activities. He went to check the living room next. When he entered, he found Neville pacing.

“Has something happened?” Harry knew it was the wrong thing to ask, when Neville glared at him.

“You insulted my grandmother and her belief in marriage.” Neville said in the same tone his grandmother had used, shortly before leaving.

“What! I didn't insulted her or her belief. I only told her that I don't want to get married now. You know that. It isn't like you ever proposed to me for her to react so strongly.” Harry claimed and Neville sighed.

“On the chain you are wearing at your neck is a pendant with my family crest. It is the equivalent of a promise ring in the wizarding word for gay couples, that is why you insulted her and humiliated me.” Neville explained in a hurt and defeated tone.

“What.... but you gave me the chain over a year ago.” Harry said dumbfounded.

“Yes, I was under the impression it would be a good idea. It seemed I was wrong.” Neville walked away, leaving Harry behind to gaze after him.

Harry sat down on the couch resting in a sea of letters. He was shocked. He had never taken Neville for the marring kind. They had never talked about it, Harry had always assumed that Neville agreed with him that they were far to young to commit themselves in this fashion. He was more than a bit confused. He had no idea how his steady perfectly stable relationship suddenly deteriorated. He loved Neville, since they shared a tent in the jungle of Argentina, searching for some legend magical plant, Neville had promised to a little girl. Their adventure had been fun. They understood and complimented each other. They were happy. Why were they no longer happy, if Harry still loved Neville like the first day? Why was Harry attracted to Draco and Neville? Why couldn't Harry stop his thoughts of Draco. He didn't want to break up with Neville. He didn't want to hurt him, but could he marry him to hold him.

After thinking for hours, Harry decided he needed an objective and honest opinion, when his thought began to circle without conclusion. He knew in his state of mind, he wasn't in any danger of advances. So, he resolved to ask Draco for his opinion. He'd certainly be the most honest of the persons, he could ask. He changed his clothes and pocketed his wallet, before he left the house and apparated to Diagon Alley.
It was already dark, when he stood before the entrance to the club. He saw there was a queue, but he wasn't in the mood to wait and it wouldn't harm anybody, if he used his fame one time to enter a club. He walked into the crowded place and tried to spot Draco. He moved to the bar form where one could overlook the whole club.

When he found a head with blond hair, he couldn't believe his eyes. He began to walk to him and his dance partner without conscious thought. Draco was practically glued to the man, he had his arms around his neck, while the man's hands were kneading Draco's backside slowly, before wandering upwards to grope Draco's side. Harry was shocked by what he saw and felt betrayed by both persons who were currently wriggling against each other.
He didn't think, he'd find Neville here practically devouring Draco through dancing. It made him boil and Harry fervently wished, he could say it was from anger alone, but it didn't matter, he was out to attack.

“You tell me you asked me to marry you and then you go to throw yourself at Draco.” Harry yelled at the still intertwined pair that broke his connection at the sound of his shrill voice.

“Don't be a hypocrite, Harry. After all, Draco told me you were doing it, too behind my back.” Neville responded unimpressed with Harry's fit of jealousy.

“I didn't grope him in public!” Harry exclaimed indignantly.

“That is not the point. Your intentions were clear as were mine.” Neville retorted heatedly and continued more calmly.”And now we can all benefit. The three of us together without strings.”

“You want a third party, because I refuse to marry you?” Harry asked incredulously.

“No, because we both want him.” Neville rebutted, piercing Harry with his gaze. Harry shook his head in disbelieve.

“That is crazy. I can't believe you are suggesting it. I don't want that. That's not true.” Harry ignored the little voice that told him he was lying.

“I think the lady doth protest to much.” Draco drawled and smirked at Harry's angry glare.

“Oh, do be quiet, Draco,” Neville said and Draco obeyed in a huff. “Harry, I think it would be the best for us all.”

“Best for us all! As if! I don't care, if you want him, you can have him. You can both have each other. I don't need anybody of you. We are finished!”

Harry disapparated, before anyone of them could see his tear streaked face.

~The End~</div>

Part 1

* Posted as two parts to fit.

Commitment Issues for the community [R] -- NL/HP, HP/DM, NL/DM (1)

2009-11-18T07:20:45Z

Title: Commitment Issues
Author: larasaku
Recipient: community
Rating: T, maybe light R
Ship: Neville/Harry; Harry/Draco; Neville/Draco
Genre: Romance, Humor and attempts at angst.
Warnings: slash
Summary: 1) Two people in one of the listed threesomes are a couple, but one of them can't help lusting over the third person. Angsty, happy ending optional.
Author's Note: I really tried to make it angsty, but it kind of always dissolved in humor. I'm really sorry but I hope the end is at least acceptable for the recipient.
+ After DH, Canon compliant but EWE.
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.

CHAPTER ONE

Harry felt them starring. He was aware of the pitying looks they gave him behind his back. Every time something good happened in Ginny's life, they thought it would affect him, badly, it would manage to finally break his spirit. They still thought, he had feelings for her. He hadn't told them why and neither had Ginny. He still cared about her, but soon after he had finally destroyed Voldemort, it became apparent that what love they had shared, had vanished, through their time apart. It left him with the pity of the wizarding world and her with Oliver Wood. When the two of them became official, everyone at Hogwarts stared and watched him in their eighth year of school. They all thought he would snap. He didn't but the watching and staring hadn't stopped since then.

He hated it in the beginning. The worst was that Ron and Hermione seemed to think like the rest of Hogwarts' population. He saw the uncertainty in their eyes, their caution in his presence. Until Harry decided he needed distance. He didn't make it obvious. He talked less, spent more time on his own, thinking.

He lived in his own world for the rest of the year. He knew they talked about him, said it was depression, speculated if he would kill himself. They didn't get that he just wanted to be left alone. Everyone wanted something of him. They always asked him to do something for them. They assumed, they had a claim on him because he was after all the savior of the wizarding world. He despised it and hated with even more fervor the girls who would throw themselves at him. They would nag him and drag him somewhere he didn't want to be.

Afterward, they would say that he was their boyfriend, when he denied that, they would claim they were pregnant or that he molested them against their will. If the girls claims hadn't been rubbish, he'd have enough kids for various Quidditch teams. He'd have more kids than all the Weasley generations together. Therefore he lost his wish to ever have a family of his own. After all, it was easier to be just a godfather and at that time, he was sure Ron and Hermione would take care of that, sooner or later.

Hogwarts soon came to an end. Harry made his N.E.W.T. s, got an order of Merlin first class and laughed out at the irony, when he received the same award as Tom Riddle for special service to the school. His slightly crazed laughter after the ceremony was only witnessed by Peeves.

He made a journey before Auror training started to see some of the other countries, when he came back. He was the 'old' Harry for his family and friends. He had finally 'overcome' his depression. He was glad that everyone seemed to loosen up around him. But like today, they still regarded him warily, when Ginny had news. They thought he hadn't dated since their break-up, because he was still pinning for her and hoping she would come back to him.

They thought he was pathetic. Ginny and Oliver had been going out for about three years now and were finally announcing their engagement. They even had been living together for the last year without Mrs. Weasley's knowledge.

Most of the attendants at the Burrow were pitying him. For the last two hours, they were giving him pats on the back and glasses with some kind of alcoholic substance. They were waiting for his explosion. They expected him to make a fool out of himself by trying to win Ginny back.

Harry was making his way into the garden to the one person who was watching the behavior of the people with amusement and probably the only one apart from Ginny and Oliver, who knew that he loved Ginny, but only as a sister and as nothing more than a sister.

To the mingling people, his friends and family, the amused person was to Harry nothing more than his friend, colleague and flatmate. They didn't know of their relationship. He hadn't even told them that he was Bi but preferred men to women. He didn't suppose that they would even get this distinction, when he told them. Harry loved them all dearly, but they tended to think in terms of right and wrong or black and white. In short they like cliches and if he was with a man, he was gay and if he was gay he liked bright colors, was feminine and had to be cheerful. They'd expect him to be in accordance with the stereotype of a gay man.

Normally, these reasons for not telling them sufficed to keep him quiet, but today he was pissed, not only because of the alcohol, but also because of their attitude towards him. Their forced cheerfulness in his vicinity was getting on his nerves and he wished to hex each person who thought they had to pat him comfortingly.

Harry drained the rest of his glass, which Mr. Weasley had given him and left it on one of the garden tables, before he walked the rest of the distance to his lover. Their relationship had begun on their trip after Hogwarts. They had actually met coincidentally in Argentina and decided to travel together for the rest of their trip. Long story short; one thing lead to another and they came back to move together into Grimmauld's Place.

Harry stopped before his lover and saw his amusement shinning brightly from his eyes. Harry couldn't share the humor of the situation. He was fed up with it and he knew, he would finally bring an end to the surrounding tattle.

Harry stepped closer to his lover into his personal space. He was still gazing into his eyes and Harry asked for permission to do what both knew Harry's intentions were. His lover gave him a slight nod without breaking eye contact. He seemed pleased with Harry's plan and his lips curved into a tiny smile, before he licked his lips in invitation. Harry's eyes darted to his lover's mouth and he saw how the tip of his lover's tongue traced his bottom lip, which was certainly a good enough incentive for Harry to lean in and bring the glistening lips of his lover to his. Harry opened his mouth to trail his lover's bottom lip with his own tongue, beckoning him to open his mouth to deepen the kiss. They closed their eyes, when Harry entered his lover's mouth to explore its depth'. They got more comfortable, when Harry slung his arms around his lover's neck and his lover positioned his hands on Harry's hip. Neither of the men was fighting for dominance in their embrace, both were savoring the sensation of their tongues sliding together. They lost themselves in their embrace, oblivious to the commotion they were creating.

“Harry James Potter, how could you assault poor Neville like that!” exclaimed Mrs. Weasley outraged, as she stormed out of the Burrow living room.

'With my tongue' Harry wanted to reply cheekily, when he broke the kiss with Neville, but he knew even in his fogged state better than to enrage the Weasley matriarch purposely. Harry licked his reddened lips tasting the remaining flavor of Neville which consisted of mint and indefinable spices. He loved Neville's flavor. It reminded him of the herb garden Neville had planted in the backyard of their house.

Harry finally let go of Neville neck, but let an arm rest around Neville's waist, when he turned to face Mrs. Weasley and the rest of the agitated crowd. Some people looked at him in disbelief and the others looked simply shocked. Harry had to squash the need to smirk. No one was looking at him with pity like for the last three years. It had finally evaporated out of their eyes. Harry was very pleased with himself. Neville caressed Harry's hip as he seemed to sense his satisfaction. Harry could see that he continued being amused by the people around them.

“I don't think Neville minded my assault,” Harry drawled sluggishly and saw from the corner of his eyes as Neville regarded his drunken boyfriend with a fond gaze, he smiled. Harry didn't knew, he always became an arrogant prick, while drunken, reminiscent of Draco Malfoy's daily behavior at school. But the resemblance appeared to have struck Mrs. Weasley, as she became the famous shade of Weasley red and was inhaling air to began a certainly full-blown tirade.

Harry was getting ready to argue. He had been spurred on the whole evening and he wanted to let some steam off. Just as he and Mrs. Weasley were about to start their argument simultaneously. Harry heard Neville clear his throat next to him. Harry frowned but wouldn't cut his lover off.

“What Harry meant to say, Mrs. Weasley, is that as his boyfriend, I don't mind his attentions,” Neville stated calmly and diplomatically. Harry furrowed his brow. He didn't get why Neville was repeating what he had said earlier. But Mrs. Weasley's face seemed to regain his normal color with only two spots of red on her cheeks.

“That's nice,” she said faintly, before clearing her throat and carrying on more steadily, “Don't let me interrupt you. I was on my way... inside to get something to drink.” She fled in the opposite direction and Harry gave in to the urge to snicker inanely, which Mrs. Weasley's comical departure had created.

Harry was drawn into a hug by Neville. He buried his head into Neville's chest, still giggling and ignorant of the excited chatter from the people around them. Harry heard Neville heave a sigh and was coaxed by Neville's gentle hand to look his lover into the eyes.

“Harry, I think it is time to go home,” spoke Neville softly, while his hand caressed Harry's cheek.

Harry stopped giggling and leaned into the touch, while he was looking at a strand of hair that had fallen into Neville's face. The curly lock fascinated Harry, so he stretched out his hand to touch it, tickling Neville's nose accidentally. Neville laughed in delight and Harry smiled at him. The people around them, who had been watching them unobtrusively, could see the love shining in the eyes of the pair. Nobody in attendance could deny that the two were made for each other. They both seemed happy and at peace. Most felt stupid for being so blind to what had been the whole time before their eyes .

Harry let go of Neville's strand of hair, when he yawned. He was getting sleepy. His earlier anger had been strenuous and now that it had left him, he only wanted to rest. Harry scurried closer to Neville and hugged him tightly. Neville's warm embrace certainly was his first choice to fall asleep, he couldn't dream of anything more comfortable than being with him . He only noticed faintly, when he was lead by Neville through the crowd to Ginny and Oliver to take their leave. He didn't see their fond looks, when he snuggled into Neville's chest, murmuring his own goodbye quietly.

CHAPTER TWO

Sun ray's brightened the master bedroom of Grimmauld's Place number 12. It streamed into the earth-colored room through the curtains, shining into the eyes of its current occupant of the bed, who tried to shut the light out by burrowing his head into his pillow. Harry didn't want to wake up and even less to stand up. Both were bad ideas as the light, which had fallen onto his closed eyes, had been enough to make him aware of his major headache. He really wasn't keen on opening his eyes. He was pretty sure, he would regret it dearly, if he did.

Harry heard clattering and clinging of dishes from downstairs and wished he would be deaf to escape the agonizing sounds, which made his headache pound. He blocked his ears and didn't cease to do so, until even the low sounds stopped. Someone opened the door to the bedroom quietly, walked to the window and shut the outer drapes to darken the room. When Harry turned on his back and tried to slowly open his eyes, he saw the outline of the smiling face of his beloved.

Neville walked to the bed to sit on Harry's side. He was holding a glass with some kind of liquid in his hand, which smelled awfully. So Harry supposed that it was hangover potion. He really didn't want to taste it, as he knew the smell and taste could be described with one word: disgusting. But he hadn't any choice left, if he wanted to get rid of his headache and function remotely normal for the rest of the day.

“C'mon, Harry. Sit up.” Even Neville's quiet tone hurt Harry's head. He knew Neville was being reasonable, he had to sit up to drink the potion, but he really didn't want to move, as his muscles didn't seem to work and his whole body felt heavy like lead. He reluctantly began to move onto his arms and waited until Neville arranged the pillows behind him. Having Neville caring for him in this manner, made Harry feel extremely loved. He generally didn't liked to be fussed over, when he was ill or had been injured, it made him cranky, but having an hangover was an exception, then he liked Neville's attention. It made him warm and happy. Neville seemed to understand and Harry had to smile at the thought.

When Harry finally got comfortably settled down on the bed. He took the glass of potion from Neville's hand. He tried to breath without getting the smell of the potion into his nose. After regarding it for a moment distastefully, he drowned it in one gulp, grimacing at the horrible taste.

“Thank you.” Harry said sincerely after a minute, when the potion had kicked in and his head had cleared. He was feeling human again. He smiled at Neville, before he leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“What time is it?” Harry asked kicking the duvet of his form. He lay back down on the bed and stretched like a cat. He was wearing only underwear, but even in the dim lit room one could still see his abdomen muscles ripple, while he moved to get the kinks out of his back. Harry looked up to Neville, as no answer was forthcoming and smiled slyly at Neville's look of adoration.

“Hungry for something?” Harry asked huskily. “Yeah...” Neville replied admiring Harry's body.

“Then let's eat breakfast,” Harry said cheekily, before jumping on his feet and bolting from the room. Neville shook his head, as Harry's laughter could be heard in the whole house.

Harry was already taking out plates, when Neville entered the kitchen. He seemed to have recuperated fully from his hangover, as he was humming some tune askew. He settled everything needed on the table, while Neville sat down to watch him. Harry was quick and made no unnecessary movements. He had evolved a grace, after their first year of Auror training, which made him beautiful to look at. He was well coordinated and didn't have any problem with carrying various plates with food to the kitchen table. He put them down and cocked his head.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing. Let's eat.” Neville said, pulling a plate towards himself.

Harry stood there and waited for a moment, before he carefully shoved Neville back into his seat to climb into his lap. He kissed Neville gently, then took a piece of orange into his hand, offering it to the stunned Neville. Neville opened his mouth and bit into the orange. He chewed and swallowed his piece, but some juice ran down his chin. When he was about to wipe it off, Harry stopped him and licked it of with his tongue, trailing from the underside of Neville's chin to his bottom lip. Harry initiated an other kiss, but this time it was no longer gently and shallow, but with tongue and needy. Harry wriggled in Neville's lap intensifying his stir of arousal. When they broke their kiss for air, Harry moved to straddle his boyfriend's lap. Both hissed, when Harry began to grind himself against his lover. The thin material from Harry's boxer and the smooth fabric from Neville's sweat pants disturbed them too little, to cease their grinding, to get rid of them. Neville tangled his right hand into Harry's hair and crushed once again their lips together. They moaned into each others mouths and were quickening their tempo to get more friction, when suddenly a tapping sounded against one of the living room windows. They groaned and tried to ignore it, but the owl making the noise was insistent. They broke their kiss and Harry stood up cursing every owl in existence, when he made his way to the window to retrieve the missive.

Harry came back scowling at the two letter's in his hand, he could have done without them for rest of their breakfast. But as they already had ruined the mood, he could as well read them. He gave Neville his letter, before sitting down on the chair beside him, to read his own. The letters were in cream toned envelopes with the red Ministry seal, marking them as apparently work related.

Harry broke the envelope's seal and took out the letter. It was indeed a missive from the Ministry and to be more exact from the Auror department. When Harry looked over to Neville, he saw that they appeared to be identical except for the address.

He returned to his own letter and began to read. After the first paragraph, which basically told him that he hadn't failed Auror training up until now. The letter came finally to the point of why it had been send.

But Harry couldn't believe his eyes, he was sure someone had to be playing a prank on him, when he finished reading. Never could what he had read been true. It was ludicrous and ridiculous, but still despite his disbelieve, he already knew deep down that it was true, because his life was nothing more than a spectacle with a lots of twists and irony.

Harry had just been officially notified that in two week time his theoretical Auror training would be finished and that soon his practical would begin. As it was tradition, he as a trainee would be assigned to a more experienced Auror, assuming that he would profit from the Auror's knowledge in the field. He would be his subordinate, while following the Senior Auror in his daily routine and would have to do whatever the Auror requested. The practical phase was designed for the duration of sixth months, after which the Senior Auror would evaluate the progress of the trainee and give or deny clearance for the final Auror exam. If clearance was given and the exam passed, it was the end of Auror training for the trainee and the trainee could begin his work as an Auror. If clearance was denied the trainee had to repeat the practical part for another full sixth months and would afterward again be brought to evaluation. If he would be denied clearance again, he would have failed his education and would be dismissed of the Auror training program.

Up until that point Harry had been aware of everything that was said and he hadn't learned anything new from the missive. But then he read the name of the Senior Auror assigned to him, his eyes bulged. He felt cheated, because his life was a cruel joke. He wanted to reclaim the ignorance he had had beforehand.

Harry shifted his gaze to watch Neville's reaction to the missive. His lover seemed pleased, but that was no wonder to him he hadn't been announced Armageddon in an innocent looking letter, so he'd no reason to be discontent.

“Whom did they assign you?” Harry asked calmly, when Neville folded his letter and put it back into the envelope.

“Dawlish,” Neville told content and continued oblivious to Harry's disposition, “I think he'll be alright. I met him once. He is a little gruff, but appears to be a good guy. He is quite straightforward.”

“That's nice. I'm sure you'll learn a lot from him.” Harry said in a strained voice, taking a croissant from one of the plates and bit into it. Neville frowned. Harry's tone was off and he was staring into space again.

“Why are you looking like that? Is it because yesterday? Are you worried what the others will say?” Neville asked wondering, if Harry regretted outing them.

“Huh?” Harry had been so lost in his reverie that he was momentarily out of the loop with the conversation, after processing what Neville had asked, he furrowed his brows.

“No, I'm not worried about the others. Are you?” Harry inquired, turning to look at Neville.

“No. If you aren't worried about that, then why are you looking so afflicted?” Neville asked.

Harry sighed and handed his letter over wordlessly. When Neville arced his eyebrow, Harry shook his head. Neville began to read and couldn't contain his gasp of horror, when he found the part with Harry's future superior name.

“It's certainly a mistake. They wouldn't seriously...” Neville's voice trailed of, when Harry snorted. But he didn't continue, because even though Shacklebolt was now Minister of Magic, there were still a lot residues from the old ministry.

“At least you can be sure that he is very knowledgeable with dark wizards.” Neville said trying to see something positive. Harry remained silent.

CHAPTER THREE

The workdays gave way to the weekend much more quickly than normally. This Saturday would be a party to celebrate the end of the theoretical Auror training and afterward everyone would have a week of holiday to get everything in order for their following practical training. The holiday was mainly a break before the real hectic life began.

Harry and Neville were just getting ready for the party. They planned to floo into the Auror department were the party was being held. The floo suddenly chimed. Harry waved Neville back into the adjoining bathroom of their bedroom, when Neville made a move to go and went himself to the floo. He authorized the arrival, when it was identified as the Lime-tree Ron and Hermione's flat.

Harry wasn't looking forward to their visit. He had managed to evade them at work the whole week. He didn't want to hear what they had to say to his disclosure of Saturday night. He knew they had been looking for him, but he had managed to ditch them each time, as they were assigned to different departments. He even went so far to ask Rachel the department's secretary to warn him, if she saw them coming. No, Ron and Hermione certainly weren't happy with him.

Harry stepped back, when the floo flared green. Hermione stepped out first and Ron followed shortly after her. They both began to shake out the ashes from their clothes, neither greeted him, nor was Hermione hugging him like she usually did. This silent anger was even worse than the tongue-lashing Harry had expected. It was making him nervous.

“Er... hello?” Harry said, after the silence became unbearable for him.

Hermione glared at him and Ron rolled his eyes. Harry wasn't sure at whom Ron was rolling his eyes. Regardless, they both seemed to be waiting for more than that, because they still refused stubbornly to say anything.

“Look... I'm sorry for avoiding you, okay?” Harry tired again, hoping it would bring more results.

Hermione's glare intensified and her eyes sparkled from anger. Harry knew he was in for it, when she took a deep breath and Ron inconspicuously took a step back to gain more distance from his girlfriend. Hermione was walking closer to him and Harry had to squash his urge to run, when she stopped before him only a few inches apart.

“You are in so much trouble, Harry James Potter,” Hermione said poking Harry into his chest.

Harry wanted to say that she was hurting him, but that would have been embarrassing, so he decided to try to sidetrack her, before she managed to poke a hole into his chest. He appreciated Hermione, but he appreciated her violent side more, if it was directed at a dark wizard like Draco Malfoy and not at him.

“How about we go into the living room?” Harry asked, hoping she would agree. Harry knew disturbing Hermione, when she wanted to tell you off, was the best way to deflate her anger and made her more reasonable.

Hermione folded her arms and left with a huff in the direction of the living room. Ron gave Harry a pat on the back in a well done gesture and followed Hermione. Harry just sighed and hoped to get it over quickly. He wasn't really looking forward to the party but at least it would differ a little from the monotonous week. When Harry entered the living room Ron and Hermione were already seated on the couch leaving him the armchair across.

“You are going to listen and won't interrupt.” Hermione stated, pinning him with a glare in his armchair. She took his silence as agreement and continued.

“We wouldn't have forgiven you, if we hadn't found you today. You'd have had to do a lot to redeem yourself from that hell.” Hermione told a mystified Harry.

“Er... ,” Harry tried to clarify but was cut off by Ron.

“Just listen mate. She won't let you off the hook” Ron yelped, when Hermione hit the backside of his head for his comment. Both boys submitted to silence under her frown.

“Harry, you should be ashamed. We are your best friends since we began Hogwarts and you didn't trust us with a really important part of your life. You made us worry the whole time for your well being, while you were perfectly fine.” Hermione stared at Harry, when he made a move to defend himself, he relented and remained silent.”I'm sure you think you had extremely good reason for not telling us, but we are your family, if you don't even have trust in us, in who are you going to trust then. I'm really disappointed in you.”

Harry really thought it was mean of her to play the disappointment card, he hated it when she said that and gave him her earnest 'You hurt me' look, her warm brown eyes glistening with moisture. It made him feel guilty and he wanted to apologize even if it wasn't his fault. He couldn't stand to see her hurt.
“I'm sorry, Hermione.” Ron cleared his throat.” And Ron. I know I should have told you. But why is it so important that you found me today?” Ron, who had been fidgeting throughout the whole conversation, nearly jumped up from the couch in excitement. He looked at Hermione, who nodded and began to grin like a maniac.

“We're getting married.” Ron said proud, taking Hermione's hand into his.

“REALLY!. That's great! Congratulations!” Harry said, shocked, but with enthusiasm. He stood up and hugged them both, when they all calmed down and ended the group hug, Harry frowned, thinking of what they'd said earlier.

“Wait a moment, when do you plan to get married?” Harry asked and they both only grinned in response.

“You want to elope? TODAY?Are you crazy?” Harry was aghast. They were his best friends and they suddenly intended to get married without forewarning. They always seemed happy unmarried and said they were to young to finally commit themselves, when they were asked about a marriage date.

“No, we are not crazy. We have been thinking about it for quite some time and we planned this for nearly a week. You would have known earlier if you hadn't avoided us.” Hermione scolded gently.

“But you always said you didn't want to get married!” Harry exclaimed.

“Well, we've been really worried about you for the past years, mate. We even decided to do something about it at the end of the year, if you hadn't made your little announcement...” Ron trailed off, his cheeks blazing red.

“Like what?” Harry asked, flabbergasted.

“We would have asked you out.” Hermione said in a matter of fact tone. Harry went red. He looked from her to Ron, his mouth agape. Ron smiled slightly and shrugged, even so he was beet-red like Harry. “Oh, come on,” Hermione said in exasperation.”We love each other. I'm sure we could have made a relationship work.”

“Are you hitting on my boyfriend?” Neville asked, when he entered the living room. Harry gave a startled yelp and looked at Neville horrified. He turned back to Ron and Hermione, he didn't like the gleam in their eyes, he knew it meant trouble.

“Yes, we are. You don't object do you?” Hermione asked coyly, bating her eyelashes exaggeratedly at Harry. Harry's flush traveled down his face to his neck and disappeared into the neckline of his dress-shirt.

“We would take good care of him,” Ron said, placing his hand on Harry's knee. Harry yelped and jumped to his feet.

“That's not funny!” he whined.

“Yes, it is!” The other three room occupants said before bursting out laughing at Harry's pout.

Ron and Hermione let Harry and Neville in on their plan for the evening. They'd certainly miss the party but being at your best friends wedding was much more exciting in Harry's opinion. He certainly couldn't imagine to get married this early in life. He knew it was custom in the wizarding world, but he had lived most of his life hoping not to get killed the next day. Thus he had never the chance to plan much ahead and settling down seemed confining.

Harry found himself whirled away and the rest of the evening happened in a blur. They met Ginny, Oliver and Luna at the small church Hermione had chosen. It was a nice little chapel with dark hardwood benches and purple cushion. Someone had arranged some lavender bouquet to match at the aisle. It was simple but beautiful all the same. When everything was ready and everybody had changed, Oliver played the wedding march on the small piano, which was at the left corner of the church, while Neville escorted Ginny down the aisle to her place as bridesmaid. Harry stood beside a nervous Ron, while Luna stood serenely on the place of the priest as she would be the one conducting the binding ceremony. Hermione was looking elegant and beautiful. She stole Ron's breath, when she walked down the aisle, with her muggle wedding dress which flowed to the floor, her hair pinned up in a bun with only a few perfect curls to accentuate her face. Harry had to smile, when he remembered the first time he saw his bushy haired best friend. They had all grown up since the train ride in the Hogwarts express. Hermione had become a wonderful woman and Ron a self-assured young man no longer in the shadow of his brothers, both were worthy of each other and would be most importantly happy. After the ceremony, they celebrated until Ron and Hermione said their good byes to catch their Portkey to their honeymoon suit in France.

Part 2

*Posted as two parts to fit

Taking Care of Harry for the community [NC-17] -- HP/RW/HG

2009-11-15T08:46:51Z

Title: Taking Care of Harry
Author: triomakesmehot
Recipient: community
Rating: NC17
Ship: Harry/Ron/Hermione
Beta: slu64 has my eternal gratitude for not only beta work, but plot suggestions. Any remaining errors are mine.
Summary: Both Harry and Ron have a difficult time accepting what it is they really want, and it takes some rather extreme circumstances to finally bring the trio together.
A/N: Thanks to an INCREDIBLE amount of help from Sheree, nudging me along with both plot and the fixing of numerous errors, I finally managed to finish my fic for the trio fest, hp_triangle .
I'm not sure it's my best work ... but it's something to read if you get bored.

Ron wasn't sure how long he and Harry had sat crouched in the smelly alley, but it felt like days. He glanced over at his mate. Something was bothering Harry when they'd started their shift, but Robards had been in such a rush to brief them about the suspected Death Eaters they were supposed to be watching for, there had been no time to talk.

"Mate," Ron whispered into the darkness. "What's eating you tonight?"

"We're on assignment, Ron," Harry hissed. "Shut it."

"We've been sat here nearly eight hours and not even so much as a toad has moved in this blasted place!"

After several minutes of hushed argument about the necessity of following protocol, Harry gave up and confessed he thought things were over between him and Ginny.

"I dunno, mate. She just said she hoped one day I'd get my head outta my arse and admit what it is I really want because everyone else knows, and it's definitely not her. Bugger if I know what she was on about, and then she just Apparated away."

"But what do you want if it's not . . ."

Ron didn't get to finish his sentence before Harry lunged at him, just as a flash of red light hit him from behind.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The first thing Ron saw when he opened his eyes was Harry, laying on his side in a bed with something white surrounding both forearms and most of both hands. The next thing he saw was the giant sign above Harry that read:

ABSOLUTELY NO MAGIC
IS TO BE USED IN THIS ROOM.

Ron sat up and looked around, realizing at once they were in hospital. Then the memories started to flood back in. They had been in the alley watching for any sign of Death Eater activity when someone had cursed them. They were talking about Harry's love life, or rather the apparent end of it, and then he recalled Harry lunging towards him just as he saw the jet of red light in his peripheral vision, but that was all he could remember. Bugger! This was all his fault. He was the one who'd insisted on talking about what was bothering Harry, and it was probably that distraction that got them cursed.

Ron slid out of bed, wincing at how sore he felt all over, and padded softly across the space between his bed and Harry's. Harry looked perfectly fine, except for the things around his arms. Ron reached out and carefully touched one with his finger. It was hard and rough, and it extended from just below Harry's elbow downward and covered all but the tips of his fingers and thumb. Ron was about lift one of Harry’s arms to see if the thing was as heavy as it looked when the door opened suddenly. He made a quick grab for his wand, then realized it wasn't there. No pockets in hospital-issue pyjamas.

"No, no, no, Mr. Weasley! No magic is allowed around you and Mr. Potter right now," said the woman who'd entered the room. Ron recognized her as a Healer from the lime green colour of her robes. "We know the curse that hit you was a rather old bit of dark magic that causes excruciating pain to those touched by it each time they are exposed to further magic, but we've not yet found the counter curse. Until we do, you and Mr. Potter will need to make believe you are Muggles."

"How did you know what we were cursed with?" Ron asked, truly puzzled since neither he nor Harry had been conscious when they'd arrived. He wondered if the other pair of Aurors watching the opposite side of the building had heard it. He assumed they had brought him and Harry to St. Mungo's.

The Healer flushed. "You were both in a lot of pain when the other Aurors Apparated in with you. They didn’t realize, of course, that they would be causing you further pain and thought it best to get you here quickly. Since you both relaxed a bit once you arrived, we didn’t realize it was the Apparition that had you in such a state. It wasn’t until we saw Mr. Potter’s reaction to our standard diagnostic spell that it became obvious what curse had hit you both. I truly am sorry about that. I didn't want the poor boy to suffer any more than you both had already."

Ron felt a little sick at the thought; after all, it was his bloody fault he and Harry were in this mess. "So what are those things on Harry's arms?"

"Mr. Potter has unfortunately broken several bones. As I understand it, he was diving toward you when the spell hit. His impact with the ground broke both his thumbs and snapped the radius bone in his left arm just above his wrist. He's also broken the third metacarpal in his right hand and the ulnus in that arm about halfway between the wrist and elbow." The Healer cleared her throat. "We could mend them instantly, of course, however the use of even more magic on Mr. Potter at this time is not advisable. The sort of pain it would cause is rather like the Cruciatus, and he has already been subjected to quite enough in the past few hours. We've had to resort to using a Muggle method for healing broken bones. His bones have been set back into their proper positions and it is imperative he not move them at all while they heal. He will need to wear these casts for six weeks," she paused, "well, at least until we find the counter curse for you both."

"Is that all that's wrong with Harry ... just the broken bones?"

"Indeed, Mr. Weasley," the Healer said. "We will want to look you over once more now that you've regained consciousness, but unless we find something unexpected, you are free to go ... provided, of course, you feel you can care for yourself without the use of magic."

"No problem," Ron said, almost smiling for the first time since he awoke. "My girlfriend is Muggle-born. She'll look after me. But what about Harry? Can he come with us?"

"He's still unconscious, Mr. Weasley, and we can't use magic to wake him. We'll have to see what his condition is when he wakes."

"I'm not leaving until Harry does," Ron declared resolutely.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry woke the following morning, and after giving both him and Ron a thorough going over, the Healer pronounced them well enough to be discharged. She then launched into a rather long-winded speech about avoiding all forms of magic, and cautioned that neither Ron nor Harry would be allowed to return to work until the counter curse was found because of their restrictions. She handed Ron a bottle of white tablets, explaining they were a Muggle pain reliever. Harry stopped her before she got into dosing instructions, saying he was familiar with the pills because he'd been raised by Muggles.

She looked disappointed at not getting to lecture them about the proper use of paracetemol, but cautioned Harry to be mindful of his casts and not get them wet. Then she turned to Ron. "Mr. Potter will need your help, Mr. Weasley. He will not have use of his hands and will require help with even simple tasks like holding a glass and feeding himself. She prattled on for another ten minutes with do's and don'ts, then said she would send an Owl when the counter curse was found.

When she opened the door to leave, Hermione stuck her head into the room and said she would be waiting for them in the corridor whenever they were dressed and ready to go. Harry smiled widely when he saw her, having missed her visit with the Weasleys the night before while he was still unconscious.

Ron crossed to the wardrobe and retrieved his and Harry's clothes. He tossed Harry's on his bed and began stripping off his pyjamas. He was fully dressed and ready to go before he realized Harry wasn't making any progress. He was awkwardly pushing at the buttons on his pyjama top with the fingertips of both hands, but couldn't work them through the holes.

"Want some help there, mate?" Ron asked cheerfully.

Harry flushed a little, but nodded his head. He stood up and allowed Ron to undress him, then redress him in his uniform from the day before. "This is bloody embarrassing," he grumbled as Ron tied his trainers for him. Ron tried to console him, saying that Harry would do the same for him. Harry knew that to be true, but it didn't make him feel any less helpless.

Ron let Hermione in once they were both dressed and she lead them to where she'd parked her mother's car in a space outside the seemingly abandoned Purge and Dowse, Ltd. Since the usual means of transportation were off limits to Harry and Ron, she’d had to find another way to get them both home. Hermione didn't have a great deal of driving experience, but managed to get them all safely to their destination, in spite of Harry's protesting that he could go back to Grimmauld Place as he was perfectly capable of behaving like a Muggle. Ron refrained from reminding him he couldn't even dress himself and Hermione tutted at him, declaring he was moving back into his old room in the flat the three of them had shared since finishing school up until Ginny had convinced him that he was keeping Ron and Hermione from taking their relationship to the next level. She'd offered to move into Sirius’ old house with him, and Harry had finally agreed.

Mrs. Weasley had already been to the flat and left a huge meal set out on the table for them. Fortunately, Hermione had gone in first and was able to stop the boys coming in long enough for her to cancel the warming charm. She'd have to remember to Owl Molly later and caution her about their “no magic” restrictions.

Harry grumbled about having to be fed by his friends, and then he teased them about him being good practice for when they had kids. Ron blushed, but Hermione reminded Harry that they would be able to spank their children to keep them in line, so Harry had better be a good boy if he didn't want to find himself turned over her knee. He groaned at the sudden shock of feeling his cock twitch at Hermione's words. Where the hell did that come from?

"Y'okay, mate?" Ron asked through a mouthful of treacle tart.

"Umm, yeah. Just a little cramp in my fingers," Harry lied.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Things went along fairly smoothly after dinner until Harry got up to use the loo. He quickly realised once he got there that he couldn't manage the button and zip on his trousers. He started back toward the door and nearly collided with Ron.

"I, umm, thought you might need a little help."

"Err, yeah," Harry said sheepishly. "I guess I do."

Ron opened Harry's trousers for him and backed out of the way, trying not to watch as Harry used his fingertips in an effort to push the waistband of his pants down enough to free his cock. He got them pushed down, but the moment he moved his fingers off the elastic, it started to ride up again, pointing Harry's penis directly at his face. Harry growled in frustration and pushed the elastic down again, this time securing it below his balls, but when he tried to lean forward enough to point himself at the toilet, he lost his balance and would have fallen if Ron hadn’t grabbed him.

“Blimey, mate,” Ron exclaimed as he pulled Harry upright again. “This is going to be harder than I’d thought.” Then he and Harry both laughed at the implication in his words.

“Err,” Harry said, looking down at his cock, which his balls pushed forward a bit naturally, but they did so even more with the elastic of his pants trapped behind them. If he didn’t do something to change his angle, he was going to piss on the lid, and he was starting to get a little desperate from the need to go. “Just make sure I don’t tip over again, mate,” he said as he started to lean forward, more slowly this time.

When Harry thought he’d leaned in enough, he let the stream flow, but it hit the edge of the seat and splashed against the back. “Fuck!” he swore, embarrassed at his helplessness, but unable to stop himself. Ron groaned, but stepped behind him and reached around, pushing Harry’s cock down with his index finger to correct his aim. Even in his unaroused state, Harry was very aware of how Ron’s finger felt against his skin, and he bit his lip to stifle his own groan.

When he was done, Harry used his fingertips to try to pull the elastic free from under his balls, but cried out at the sharp stab of pain in the palm of his right hand. “S’okay, Harry. Let me,” Ron said, his breath ghosting across the shell of Harry’s ear as he reached down and pulled Harry’s pants back into position. He then pulled his trousers back into place and fastened the button. “Err, sorry,” he said as he gingerly pushed Harry’s prick safely back into his trousers so he could raise the zip.

Harry ignored how his prick was starting to harden and instead surveyed the yellowish droplets spattered on the seat and the underside of the lid. “Hand me some tissue, mate, so I can clean this up.”

A couple hours later, Harry muttered and swore about being utterly useless as Ron undressed him and helped him get ready for bed. Then he lay awake thinking, unable to sleep. He knew he wouldn’t be able to make it alone with his hands in casts, but Ginny’s words about admitting what he really wanted were starting to make some sense. Just a teasing suggestion about giving him a spanking had him going hard, and the feeling of Ron touching his cock earlier, even though it was out of necessity, still tingled on his skin. He’d never thought he fancied his friends that way, particularly considering one of them was a bloke, but evidently Ginny believed he did.

He thought hard about his relationship with her. What had he done that might make her think he wanted her brother and his girlfriend?

Certainly he had missed them since moving out of the flat. The three of them had been practically inseparable since first year. It was only logical he wanted to spend time with them, and often suggested the four of them do things together, well not those types of things, but Ron and Hermione had been his best friends since he was eleven, so naturally they were important to him. It’s not like he said “no” if Ginny suggested doing something with Luna.

Of course, there was the first time Ginny sucked him off. She’d gotten her knickers in a right twist when his first words were “Merlin, s’good. I wonder if Hermione has done this to Ron yet?” She actually stopped sucking him when he said it. She just bloody stopped!

Then there was the time when he’d sort of wondered aloud if Hermione tasted as good as Ginny did. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone down on her, of course (he’d learned that lesson well enough), and he’d quickly clarified that he meant to Ron ... if she tasted as good to Ron ... but Ginny still thought he was out of line. She told him as much when she shoved him off the bed and said she was going to sleep in the room she used to share with Hermione. Harry realised then he'd taken quite a few cold showers since he'd moved in with Ginny.

In retrospect, his biggest mistake had probably been the last time he’d taken her from behind. Harry loved taking Ginny from behind. Well, not like that, because Ginny wouldn’t let him anywhere near her arse, but he sometimes fantasized about it. But they were doing it doggie style, and he still didn’t know what made him say it, but he’d looked down at all that creamy freckled skin in front of him, and with Ginny’s hair swept over her shoulder the way it was, she kind of reminded him of Ron. Honestly, most siblings do not get that angry when someone comments on a family resemblance. Ginny’s Bat Bogey really was one hell of a curse!

That had been the night before she’d packed a bag and told him to get his head out of his arse; the night before she’d left him.

Well, okay, maybe it was a little unusual that he thought about Ron and Hermione when he was having sex with Ginny. But there was a difference between thinking about them while he was having sex and thinking about having sex with them, right?

Hmm ... he wondered what it would be like to have sex with them. Well, maybe not them, maybe just Hermione ... yeah, he could imagine himself pushing Hermione’s bushy hair to the side so he could watch her sucking him. And he could imagine her flavour as he went down on her. And then he’d flip her over and ... no, she probably wouldn’t let him either. He wondered if Ron would. He pictured Ron on all fours, arse in the air waiting for him. Harry would run his tongue along Ron’s cleft and circle his ...

Bollocks! A sharp twinge in his cock made Harry realise he was torturing himself. He was hard as a rock, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He rolled onto his stomach and began dry humping the mattress. Ahh, much better He started to imagine Ron again, then stopped short, ceasing his thrusting immediately. This was not going to work. He could not get off this way. Well, he could, but then he was going to be wet and sticky, with no way to clean himself up. Shit!

It was a long time after that before Harry fell into a fitful sleep, surrounded by visions of bushy brown hair and creamy skin covered in freckles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was nearing the end of the first week when Ron decided he had to talk to Hermione about their situation. Together they’d entertained Harry, and after that first night, Hermione had taken over feeding him and making sure he got enough to drink whenever she was home. She’d even taken responsibility for things like brushing his teeth and shaving him, and she'd washed his hair each night at the kitchen sink. Ron had to admit he'd felt a little jealous, what with all the attention Hermione was giving Harry, and the easy affection between them. Of course, they'd always been more touchy feely with each other than with him, at least before Ron and Hermione had finally admitted their feelings to each other. But now Ron wasn't so sure who he was jealous over. And that idea bothered him a little.

Ron swore he wasn’t homophobic. Not exactly, not really. It was just that the future of the wizarding world depended on heterosexual relationships to make more wizards and witches to carry on. Muggleborns, like Hermione, were rare. The Weasley family certainly did its part to keep the magic alive, and there was no way he was going to let the family down by being a poufter! Not only that, but he loved Hermione. Not that he didn't love Harry, too, but ... well, that was different. Wasn't it?

It was just that Ron was the one who had to help Harry when he went to the loo. You couldn’t handle a man’s cock several times a day and not start to think about it ... how soft the skin felt against your fingers and how thick it was when you finally gave up the pretense of trying not to touch it and just held it to aim properly for him. You couldn't help noticing if it twitched a bit at your touch and had started to stiffen a little as you tucked it away.

Things had been a little embarrassing at times, but everything had basically been fine the first four days. It didn't go all pear-shaped until Hermione looked him square in the face at breakfast that Wednesday morning and said quite plainly, "Ron, Harry stinks."

Both boys had looked at her like she'd grown another head. "Blimey, 'Mione! Why don't you just insult the man!" Harry beamed at Ron for defending him.

"It's not his fault, Ron, it's yours," she'd pronounced matter-of-factly. "Today, while I'm at work, you are going to give him a bath.

Harry's eyes had gone round as saucers and he'd begun to look rather panicked. He sputtered a bit and finally asked if Hermione couldn't just cast a cleaning charm on him. She refused of course, reminding him of his restrictions and the pain he would be in if he was exposed to magic.

Hermione had gone off to the Ministry after that and Ron and Harry ignored the pink elephant in the room for as long as possible. But when time had come to feed Harry his lunch, Ron had to admit that Harry really was getting pretty rank.

"So, you wanna go ahead and get this bath thing over with after lunch?" Ron asked nervously.

"Ron, you don't have to. Just Scourgify me. I survived Voldemort casting Crucio on me. I reckon I can handle a cleaning charm from you."

Ron actually considered it for a minute before he realized why it seemed like such a bad idea. "And just what do you reckon will happen to me if I cast a spell when I'm not even supposed to be in the same room with magic?"

"Oh, right then," Harry conceded with a sigh.

So that was how Ron had found himself running a bath that afternoon while stripping off his best mate's clothes. He'd added some of Hermione's bubble bath to the water, thinking he'd be better off not being able to stare at Harry's prick the entire time, and that Harry would appreciate the extra privacy.

When the tub was filled, Ron grabbed Harry by the arm and steadied him as he stepped over the edge of the tub and carefully eased down into the water. Harry sighed and lay back against the edge of the tub, enjoying the heat of the water while Ron fetched some soap and a flannel. Ron sat on the edge of the tub and dipped the cloth into the water, then washed Harry's face, being extra careful not to get soap into his eyes. After that, he dipped the cloth into the water again and pulled Harry back into a sitting position. He washed his neck and shoulders, and down each arm as far as he could without wetting Harry's casts. Then he dipped the flannel into the water again and raised Harry's arms up one at a time to get to his pits. He wrinkled up his nose at the smell and scrubbed, rinsing the cloth several times as he worked, until he was finally satisfied Harry no longer stank. He tossed the flannel into the sink and picked up a fresh one, dipping it into the water and starting on Harry's back.

Harry moaned with pleasure. "Got to admit that feels good, Ron."

Ron bit his lip so he wouldn't say anything stupid, and just kept washing until Harry's back was well past clean. He wet the cloth again and started on Harry's front, trying not to notice the muscle definition in his chest or the way Harry's nipples pebbled under his touch as he drug the flannel across them. He tried not to be fascinated with the swirl of dark hair around Harry's belly button, but Merlin help him, he was. He could feel his prick straining against the zip on his denims, but it was nearly his undoing when he looked down and realised the bubbles were nearly gone.

“I’ll be right back, Harry,” Ron said, and nearly bolted from the room. He had to get himself under control before Harry noticed the state he was in. Needing some excuse for his sudden departure, he went into the kitchen to fetch a pitcher, while mentally chanting to himself I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I’m not gay.” When he’d gained some semblance of self-control, he went back into the bathroom.

“I thought I could do a better job rinsing you off with this,” Ron said, gesturing toward the pitcher in his hand as he returned. He helped Harry stand, making sure Harry faced the wall, because it just wouldn't do to be eye level with Harry's bits. Ron started washing Harry's legs, working from the foot upward, but managing to stop at mid-thigh on each side. He just couldn't go on, the rest was too personal and he didn't trust his own reaction, so he declared “All done! Now just to rinse you off.” He filled the pitcher with warm water and poured it over Harry’s left shoulder. He filled the pitcher again and repeated the action on the right, feeling a stab of pure hunger as he watched a lone drop of water slide down Harry’s back and into the cleft between his cheeks. Two more pitchers, one poured over each leg, and Ron let out a silent sigh of relief that his torture was nearing an end.

He grabbed a large, fluffy towel from the shelf and helped Harry step out onto the mat before securing the towel around Harry’s waist. He took another towel and carefully patted down Harry’s arms and back and chest, soaking up as much water as he could. A quick swipe down each leg was all Harry got before Ron was ordering him to head for his room, then promising to meet him there after he put all the dirty stuff in the hamper.

And that was how Ron ended up pacing the floor of Hermione’s room that night, waiting for her to come to bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Mione,” Ron said before he could lose his nerve, “we’ve got to talk.”

“About Harry,” she said. It was not a question.

“How did you know?”

“Ginny told me why she broke up with him.”

“What?” Ron was genuinely confused.

“About how she thinks it’s us that Harry really wants,” she said quietly.

“Harry wants us? As in both of us? But I'm not gay! Hell, Harry's not gay!"

“Ron, I’ve seen the way you look at Harry.”

“No! You’ve got it wrong, Hermione. I’m not gay!” Ron declared, panic evident in his voice. He grabbed at the first lifeline that came to mind. “Just because you want him, it doesn’t mean I do. I’ve seen how you rub your tits all over his back when you wash his hair, and I’ve seen the tent in his pants when you do it, so I know he wants you, too!”

Hermione slapped him. “That was for being crude, Ronald Weasley.”

“Well, I’m sorry for how I said it, but you do want him, don’t you?”

“No more than you do,” Hermione said very softly, carefully gauging Ron’s reaction.

“See,” Ron said, pumping his fist in triumph, “I knew you want .... oh, right then.” Recognition of what he’d just admitted hit him rather hard.

“So what do you want to do about it, Ron?”

“Merlin, Hermione. I don’t know! It’s not like I’m gay, not really. It’s just that I’m stuck here all day and I’m bored outta my mind, and Harry’s the only one here and I’m dressing him and feeding him and touching him,” Ron said in a rush of words, then when he saw Hermione’s smirk, “not like that,” and then today you made me wash him, and ...”

“Slow down, Ron,” Hermione said before he could build up steam again. “Go back to touching him.”

“Hermione, I said ‘not like that.’ I’m not taking advantage of him.”

“No, Ron, I didn’t think you were. But I do think you probably aren’t taking care of him either. When was the last time you wanked?”

“Umm ...” Ron didn’t want to tell her the truth.

“When, Ron?”

“This afternoon, afterIfinishedgivingHarryhisbath.” He slurred the words together, hoping she wouldn’t try to work them out.

“And when did Harry last have use of his hands?”

“On the stakeout on Friday, before we were cursed.”

“And just how long can you go without some relief?”

Ron’s initial expression was utter confusion, then he sputtered. “Fuck, Hermione! I can’t just ask Harry if he needs me to jerk him off!”

“Well, Ron, he probably does need it, and it would be a good way for you to see if you like doing things with blokes, and to see how he reacts. This way if he’s not interested you can always put it down to just offering to help out a friend who can’t help himself right now.”

Ron considered her suggestion. It made sense in a way, because if Harry was utterly straight or just not interested in him, he could just say no thanks, and he never had to know that Ron was having inappropriate thoughts about him. He’d just think Ron was being a really good mate to offer. But wait ... “What about us, Hermione?”

“Oh, there’s still an us, unless you’re saying you only want Harry. And once you and Harry work things out, I’d sort of like there to be a ‘three of us’ actually.”

Ron blinked at her rather stupidly, then he smiled and pulled her into a hug. She really was the smartest witch of her age.

They made love that night, whispering to each other what it might be like if they added Harry to their bed, and their orgasms were some of the most powerful they’d ever experienced. Neither of them had stopped to consider that their lack of a silencing charm meant that Harry could hear their bed squeak. He could hear their moans of passion and Hermione’s desperate cry of “Yes, Ron, right there” as his two friends found their release.

Harry groaned and rolled awkwardly onto his stomach, pressing his aching cock against the mattress. He struggled to think of anything that would make the need go away, but all he could think of was Ron and Hermione, naked and sliding sensuously against one another as they made love. He knew he couldn't take much more. It had been a solid week since he was last with Ginny, and that had ended prematurely because he didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

He couldn't possibly want his best friends. He couldn't want Hermione because she belonged to Ron, and there was no way he'd do that to his best mate. And he couldn't want Ron because Ron was a bloke and he was a bloke, and that just wasn't right. Uncle Vernon had always called them freaks when they were out driving and passed two blokes walking along the street holding hands. Nancy boys, he'd said they were, and that what they got up to was unnatural. Of course, back then, Harry hadn't known what Uncle Vernon meant by that. Back then he hadn't even known what a proper couple got up to, but he'd gotten the message loud and clear that blokes did not show affection to one another, not if they were normal at least, and hadn't Harry always longed to be just a normal boy?

He'd learned about sex in school, of course. There were required classes in fifth year, thankfully separate classes for boys and girls, that talked about everything in very clinical terms and covered the various spells witches and wizards needed to know for cleansing and lubrication and to prevent unwanted pregnancy and the transmission of disease. The classes had been quite informative, even if they were somewhat embarrassing, but Harry had learned much more by listening to the older boys in the dorms. He'd even heard a few whispered conversations about what two blokes got up to together, as there was a considerable amount of speculation about Justin Finch-Fletchley and Terry Boot. From what Harry could tell, the wizarding world didn't exactly hold the same prejudices about homosexuality as the Muggle world, but even so, being gay wasn't all that common because of the need to continuously repopulate the magical community.

Harry fell into another fitful sleep, completely frustrated by his growing attraction to his best friends and knowing that he could do nothing to pursue either of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next two days passed fairly quietly. Ron got up in the mornings and prepared breakfast for the three of them while Hermione got ready for work. One of them would come to wake Harry, and Hermione would feed him, then she'd take him into the bathroom, brush his teeth and shave him. She didn't know she was torturing him as she leaned forward to scrape the shaving cream off the side of his jawline with the razor, giving him a clear view down the front of her blouse. She didn't know how his cock stiffened when her breasts brushed against his ear as she leaned over him to reach the towel. She didn't know how he longed to turn his head and thrust his tongue into her mouth when she kissed him cheerfully on the cheek and told him to be a good boy for Ron while she was at work.

Then Hermione would be gone and Ron would come in with his clothes for the day. He'd pull Harry's shirt off over his head, then push his pyjamas and pants down over his hips and let them fall to the floor. Harry would step out of them, and then Ron would reach around him to hold his cock so he could relieve his full bladder. If Ron noticed how he was always semi-hard at this point, he politely didn't mention it and Harry would struggle to think of anything he could to take his mind off sex and how good Ron's hand felt on him at that point. Once he'd relieved himself, Ron would dress him and they'd go into the living room to watch telly, or if the weather was nice, they'd go out for a walk in the nearby park. The time off work had been nice at first, but both Harry and Ron were starting to get bored with being home every day, particularly as they were unable to use magic.

On Saturday at breakfast, Hermione announced she was going out to do the shopping and said she thought Harry was due for another bath. Ron inhaled sharply, choking on his pumpkin juice. He knew at once what Hermione was telling him to do and glared at her. Harry, who had sensed Ron's discomfort at the last bath took his choking much the same way.

"He doesn't have to," Harry began to plead hastily, "really, Hermione. It's been a solid week now. I can handle it if you'll just do the cleaning charm. It won't last long, and I've been Crucioed before. It's not normal for two, umm, straight blokes to be that, umm, familiar with one another."

"Harry Potter, I will not cast a spell on you knowing it's going to hurt you, and you will have another bath today." Hermone paused for a breath before she continued. "In fact, you should be having one every day, and starting today, you will have a daily bath if I have to give it to you myself. You and Ron can decide which way would be the least embarrassing, and you'd better have it by the time I get back, or be ready for me to give you one." With that, Hermione picked up her purse and her jacket and stormed out the side door, leaving Harry and Ron to stare at one another.

"Well, she was in a right huff," Ron said as he started to clear away the breakfast dishes. The basic bath, he thought he could handle. He'd gotten a little more used to touching Harry in intimate places as the days had passed, and while he hadn't exactly wrapped his mind around the idea that he was attracted to Harry, he wasn't quite as uptight about it since his conversation with Hermione. At least if Harry was the bloke he fancied, it didn't have to be an "either/or" with Hermione. But he wasn't exactly sure he believed Harry fancied him in return; Hermione, maybe. Yet Hermione was expecting him, at the very least today, to offer to get Harry off while she was out. He understood Harry probably needed some relief. Merlin knows he would if he'd been this many days without a fuck, or even so much as a wank, but how did you offer that to your best mate who, as far as you knew, was straight?

"Do I smell that bad again already, Ron?" Harry asked dejectedly, but managed a half-smile when Ron shook his head 'no'. Harry didn't know how much more he could take of Ron touching him. He was already half hard just thinking about the bath, and having Ron rubbing his skin with the flannel. But it had been so long now since Harry had been able to wank that even his mental images of Mrs. Figg in a bikini were starting to look good to him and if Ron noticed he had a raging hard on during his bath, he was going to lose his best mate and his caregivers. That thought helped to deflate Harry's eager prick a bit, but it didn't do a thing to ease his mind.

After he'd cleaned the kitchen, Ron said they might as well go ahead and get the bath over with since they didn't know how long Hermione would be out. Harry had followed him reluctantly into the loo and let Ron brush his teeth and give him a shave. At least the shave was less erotic than when Hermione did it since Ron didn't have breasts.

Of course, after that came the difficult part. Ron pulled his shirt off so as not to wet his sleeves, then filled the tub with warm water. He added some of Hermione's bubble bath again, then he unfastened the buttons on Harry's pyjama top and worked the sleeves off carefully over his casts. He pushed down Harry's pyjama trousers and pants and waited for Harry to step out of them before grasping his arm and helping him into the tub.

The bath proceeded much as before, with Ron washing first Harry's face, then his neck and shoulders. He didn't spend as much time scrubbing Harry's pits since he really hadn't begun to stink again, having had no reason to work up a good sweat. Washing Harry's back was pretty easy as there was nothing particularly sexy in doing that, although Ron did notice the muscle definition there. But when Ron shifted around to wash Harry's front, he couldn't help noticing the slight flush in Harry's cheeks or thinking it was a rather attractive look. He also noticed Harry's nipples were already hard, even though he hadn't brought the flannel across them yet.

Ron wet and soaped the flannel again and began to wash Harry's chest. He unconsciously licked his lips when he drug the cloth over Harry's left nipple, and told himself he was only trying to be sure it was clean when he circled it with his thumb. Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Ron pretended not to notice, and moved on with the cloth. He only lingered a few seconds longer than was really necessary in washing Harry's right nipple, and moved down toward that tempting swirl of hair around his belly button, and it was then that he noticed.

Ron just happened to glance down, and he saw the tip of Harry's very erect cock peeping up at him through the bubbles. "Fuck!" he swore.

Harry blanched, looking at Ron and seeing where he was looking, and he began apologizing at once. "Oh Merlin, Ron, I'm sorry! I guess I was just thinking about how good the bath felt and it's been such a bloody long week without being able to use my hands, and my mind kinda wandered."

Ron leaned in and pressed his lips to Harry's to shut him up. At first, Harry just froze, thinking maybe Ron really was only trying to shut him up and his mouth was all he could use as his hands were both soapy. But then Ron nipped at Harry's bottom lip with his teeth and sucked the tender flesh into his mouth. Harry groaned at the suggestiveness, which went straight to his cock. He let his mouth fall open just the slightest bit, and Ron used the opportunity to push his tongue inside. He dropped the flannel into the water and circled his arms around Harry, pulling him into the kiss.

Harry tasted mostly of mint toothpaste, but there was the faintest hint of maple syrup from breakfast, and Ron thought it might be the best thing he'd ever tasted. He let his tongue slide alongside Harry's and moaned when Harry began to kiss him back. When the need for air finally separated them, Ron stood up and kicked out of the rest of his clothes then waited for Harry to look at him. Ron was hard as a rock and needed to know that this was okay with Harry. When their eyes met and all Ron could see was want in Harry's eyes, he eased into the tub behind his friend and pulled Harry back against his chest.

Harry let his head fall back onto Ron's shoulder and sighed at the comfort he felt. Ron slipped his arms around Harry's waist and let his hands wander until they found Harry's nipples again, teasing the taut buds. He groaned as Harry shifted his weight, causing his bum to rub against Ron's cock.

Ron let his right hand drop, easing into the water until it found its goal, hard and thick and slippery from the soap bubbles. He wrapped his hand around Harry's shaft and began to stroke, long and slow, from base to tip and down again.

"Oh, fuck, Ron!" Harry cried out. "That feels so fucking good, but, oh God, you know this isn't right."

"What's not right, Harry?" Ron asked softly. "How can something that feels this good be wrong?"

"Hermone ..."

"Hermione reckons I've not been taking good enough care of you because I let you go a whole week without this," Ron said.

"She knows?" Harry asked, then almost growled, "Oh God, Ron, I'm close."

"She's a smart one, our Hermione," Ron purred against Harry's ear. "Come for me, Harry."

Ron slipped his left hand into the water and cupped Harry's balls, caressing them gently until he felt them tense. He stroked Harry slowly with his other hand, rubbing his thumb across the slit, and kissed the side of Harry's neck. "Come for me."

And Harry did. He gasped as his balls tightened and his prick erupted with all the past week's pent up sexual frustration, shooting streams of thick, white fluid up through the bubbles to splatter on his chest and Ron's forearm. He closed his eyes, letting his head loll on Ron's chest as he panted, trying to regain control of his breathing.

"That has got to be the hottest thing I have ever seen!"

Harry's eyes snapped open at the sound of Hermione's voice. She was standing at the side of the tub, wearing only a lacy red bra and very skimpy red knickers with the crotch pulled to one side as she rubbed herself. "Ron, why don't you help Harry dry himself off a bit and the two of you come join me in the bedroom." And with that, she was gone.

Harry started trying to apologize the moment Hermione left the room, but Ron was having none of it. "She wants this, too, Harry. We both do." Harry just gaped at him, but let Ron climb out of the tub then help him out. He didn't know what to say as Ron dried them both off and led him naked down the hall and into Hermione's room.

Both boys blinked as they entered the bedroom. Hermione had lit about a dozen candles and turned the covers back on the bed. She was laying back against her pillows, one hand teasing a nipple through the lace of her bra and the fingers of her other hand stroking the fabric between her legs. Ron, who was still hard as a rock, just groaned.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry," Harry began, trying to hide his nakedness behind Ron. "I shouldn't be here, and I shouldn't have let Ron ..."

"Ron should have looked after you sooner, Harry," Hermione purred, "and you are right where we both want you ... if you'll stay."

Ron stepped sideways and got behind Harry, practically pushing him toward the bed. When they got to the edge, Ron helped Harry climb on and stretch out along side Hermione, then he climbed up on the other side and quickly relieved Hermione of her remaining clothes. Harry groaned and closed his eyes.

He felt the bed shift and when he heard Ron groan, he had to look. Ron was on his back next to Harry now, and Hermione was knelt between his legs, licking along his shaft as if it were an ice lolly. Harry swore as he felt himself harden again, and he tried to roll onto his stomach to hide his reaction.

"It's okay, Harry. You can watch," Hermione invited. "You can help if you like."

Ron moaned at Hermione's words and Harry couldn't help watching as Hermione took Ron's cock into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the head, then let her lips slide down along the shaft. She bobbed her head up and down, and before he even realised what he was doing, Harry had pushed himself onto his side and was twisting toward her. She let Ron slide from her mouth with a pop and pressed her lips against Harry's.

They kissed hungrily, and parted gasping for breath. Harry looked into Hermione's eyes, asking her permission then rested his head against Ron's belly and sucked the head of Ron's cock into his hungry mouth. Hermione and Ron moaned in unison.

Harry was clumsy, being not only new at going down on a bloke, but also not being able to use his hands. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for with enthusiasm, and was soon taking most of his best mate's erection into his mouth. He scraped his teeth lightly along the shaft and Ron swore and bucked against him, making him gag slightly, but Harry didn't give up. And then he felt his own shaft surrounded in wet heat ... Hermione was sucking his cock!

She had taken him into her mouth, completely and without warning, and all Harry could do was groan around Ron's shaft, the vibrations of his vocal cords making Ron moan in pleasure. Her mouth was like nothing Harry had ever felt before. Her tongue caressed his length as she bobbed her head in slow strokes up and down, and her lips surrounded him with just the right amount of pressure.

Hermione slipped her hand between Harry's legs and cupped his balls, massaging them gently. After a few minutes, she nudged his legs apart. He hissed in surprise when she stroked her thumb across his perinium and let it brush lightly across his entrance, but he relaxed quickly and spread his legs a little further, inviting her to continue. For several minutes, Hermione just rubbed her thumb back and forth, massaging him softly. Then she swirled a finger inside herself, getting it slick with her own juices, and pressed it to his opening. Carefully she slipped the tip of her finger inside him, and wiggled it gently before slowly pushing it in all the way. From the sound of Harry's moan, he loved it. Hermione took her time, pumping it slowly in and out of his arse as she sucked him. Harry struggled not to thrust into her mouth, all the while doing his best to mimic on Ron the way Hermione was sucking him.

Ron tugged on Harry's hair, but Harry ignored him. "Harry, mate, I'm so close," he warned.

"Harry, stop" Hermione said, pulling her mouth away from her task. "I've got something a little bit different in mind, and I don't want him to come yet." Both boys looked at her quizzically. "You trust us, don't you, Harry?" she asked sweetly.

Harry pulled his mouth away from Ron to answer. "I can't even believe you'd ask me that, Hermione. There's no one I trust more than the two of you!

"Good," she replied. "I want you inside me, Harry. She rummaged in the bedside table and retrieved the tube of lube that Ron liked to use when he wanked, then dropped it on the bed and lay back against the pillows. She held up her arms for Harry to come to her.

Harry crawled over to her, but hesitated. "I want to taste you first, 'Mione."

He settled in between her legs and rested his weight on his elbows so he could dip his head between her legs. Ron came up beside them and slipped his hands in to pull Hermione's folds apart, giving Harry full access. Harry mumbled his thanks and lapped at Hermione's clit with the flat of his tongue, making her murmur about how good it felt. He licked lower, sliding his tongue along her folds, before pushing it inside. He was amazed at how wet she was!

"Harry, please," Hermione pleaded. "I want you inside me."

Harry raised his head and Ron helped him straighten up, then pulled him into a kiss, thrusting his tongue into Harry's mouth to share Hermoine's flavour. When he pulled back, he grinned at his friend and warned him that Hermione didn't like to be kept waiting.

Harry shifted so that the tip of his erection nudged at Hermione's folds, and Ron reached in helpfully to guide him inside. "Oh God, Hermione," Harry exclaimed as he sheathed himself. "You feel fantastic!"

"You feel pretty good yourself, Harry," Hermione purred. "But be still a minute for me. Can you prop up on your elbows?" She picked the lube up from beside her and tossed it to Ron. "He's really good at this, Harry. His fingers are a little bigger than mine, so it might sting just a little, but if you just let yourself relax, it will feel really, really good. In fact, it should feel even better to you than it does to me."

Harry's eyes went wide with surprise. "You mean you've let him take you that way?"

"A few times," Hermione said.

Harry jumped when he felt Ron's fingers stroke along his cleft, but he tried hard to relax. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Hermione's, thinking that if he focused on kissing her, he'd be less nervous about what was coming next. He felt Ron's thumbs pulling his cheeks apart, exposing his hole, and then he felt something he truly hadn't expected. Ron was licking him there! And ohmyfuckinggod it felt good! Ron swirled his tongue around and around the puckered flesh, coaxing Harry into a state of blissful relaxation, then he started trying to press the tip inside and Harry thought it just might have been the most brilliant thing he'd ever felt.

As Harry relaxed more and more, Ron squeezed some of the lube onto his fingers. Harry moaned when Ron stroked a slippery finger along his cleft, then circled his entrance before pushing the finger slowly inside. It stung a little, but it felt good, too, and Harry pushed back against his hand. Ron fucked him slowly with just the one finger until Harry was begging for more. He hissed when Ron added the second finger, the stretch then genuinely causing a bit of discomfort, but not so much so that he wanted him to stop. Ron moved slowly, wiggling and rotating his fingers, doing his best to stretch Harry gently. When he felt Harry relax a bit, he began to pump them slowly in and out. When Harry asked for more again, Ron knew that he was ready.

Ron slathered the lube generously over his cock and rubbed a little more onto Harry's hole for good measure, then positioned himself at Harry's entrance.

"Do you want this, Harry?" Ron asked, silently praying Harry wouldn't say no.

Harry just rocked backward in answer, his hole flowering open to suck the tip of Ron's cock inside him. Harry swore at the burn, and Ron swore at how wonderful it felt to be even that far inside his friend. Little by little, Ron worked his way inside, marveling at the tight heat that surrounded him.

Once Ron's balls rested against Harry's bum, he grabbed Harry around the waist and pulled him up onto his knees with his back against Ron's chest. Hermione raised her legs, resting the backs of her thighs and calves against Harry's belly and chest, and causing her to grip Harry's cock much more tightly within her.

"Just let my legs support your weight, Harry," Hermione instructed. "You won't hurt me."

Harry was about to reply, but Ron chose that moment to pull back and thrust into him again, causing Harry's cock to drive more deeply into Hermione, rendering him utterly speechless. Harry felt a little awkward letting Ron do the hard work, and letting Hermione support his weight, but the sensations he was experiencing with Ron thrusting into his arse and pushing his prick deeper and deeper within Hermione were too exquisite to give up. He looked down when he felt Hermione's hand brush against his shaft and he realised she was rubbing her clit as he thrust into her. Ron pounded into him from behind and then he shifted his angle just a bit and hit a spot inside Harry that nearly make him see stars.

"Oh fuck, Ron," Harry moaned. "Do that again!"

Ron wrapped his arms more tightly around Harry and began slamming into him, battering his prostate on nearly every thrust. The harder he fucked Harry, the harder Harry drove into Hermione, who soon was clenching around his cock and flooding him with her warmth.

Ron struck his prostate yet again, and Harry's orgasm simply exploded from him, practically without warning. He cried out his friends' names as he spilled himself into Hermione. Ron thrust into him twice more before Harry felt his passage fill with Ron's release.

When their breathing returned to normal, Ron pulled himself gently from Harry's body, knowing Harry might feel a little tender, and helped Harry stretch out beside Hermione. He was just about to cuddle up behind him when they heard the tap at the bedroom window. Ron got up to let in the large brown owl.

He pulled the parchment from the owl's leg and offered it a treat from Pig's dish. The owl snatched it a bit suspiciously from Ron's hand and took off through the open window.

"It's from St. Mungo's," Ron said excitedly. "They've found the counter curse. We can go in tomorrow and they can put us right. And no more casts for you, Harry!"

Harry didn't look too pleased at the news. "What's wrong, Harry," Hermione asked him.

"Nothing, really," he lied. "I guess I'll be able to go back to Grimmauld Place after that, and you two won't be stuck taking care of me anymore."

"Harry," Hermione said cautiously, "this wasn't a one off, you know. This is what we want. We love taking care of you, and we want you here with us, we want it to be the three of us, Harry, just like it always has been. Just as it should be."

"Yeah, mate, Ginny was right," Ron said, "Get your head outta your arse and admit you want us, too!"

Harry grinned at them. "You have no idea how much!"

Things Happen In Australia for the community [NC-17] -- RW/HG/DM (2)

2009-11-15T08:43:49Z

Title: Things Happen In Australia
Author: teenage_hustler
Recipient: community
Ship: Ron/Hermione/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: errr, something that could be dubbed infidelity, but I don’t think is.
Words: 17,850-odd. Bloody long, in other words :P
A/N: This was an incredibly difficult fic to write. It became longer and longer and in the end I was really struggling to finish it on time. Because of that I’m incredibly proud of it and I really hope you like it. I love the idea of this triangle and your prompts were inspiring. Enjoy! Extra special thanks to jasmina22 and becauseshecan for their fantastic beta work.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling. I merely like to play with them.

~*~

“Any coffees or desserts tonight?”

Hermione looked up and smiled at the waiter. “Yes, I’ll have a chocolate gelato and an espresso.”

Excellent. And you, sir?”

Silence. Hermione switched her attention to across the table and saw, to her irritation, that Ron wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to what was going on. She kicked him in the shin.

“Ow!” Ron gritted his teeth. “What was that for?”

“What was what for?” Hermione asked, smiling innocently. “Dessert?”

“What?” Ron finally noticed the waiter, who looked a touch uncomfortable.

“Oh, yes. Um, I’ll have the crème brulee, please.”

“No coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

The waiter nodded and quickly left, looking quite relieved.

“Why did you kick me?” Ron asked sharply.

“Because you weren’t paying attention!” Hermione hissed back. He’d been like this all day. She’d said she wanted to go to the zoo that morning and he’d agreed, but hardly in an enthusiastic way. This was bizarre, because Ron had been saying for years that he wanted to see a real-live platypus, and she thought he would have responded to the opportunity to do so in a much less bland way.

They’d spent the whole day at Toronga zoo, feeding kangaroos and holding koalas, looking at poisonous snakes and steering clear of the spiders. They’d seen a weird and wonderful array of animals, and even though Ron wasn’t much of an animal fan, she thought he’d enjoy at least some of the stuff they’d seen. But even the platypi couldn’t wangle a smile out of him.

Hermione wasn’t sure whether or not he was still bothered by whatever was bothering him yesterday, or if his current irritation was due to something entirely different; but she was going to put a stop to it. She refused to spend the next three days with a gloomy, withdrawn husband. That wasn’t what they’d come here for.

“Out with it,” she said to him now.

“What?” Ron asked, still rubbing his shin.

“Out with whatever the matter is,” Hermione clarified. “You’ve been quiet all day. You’re obviously bothered about something. Tell me what it is, and I’ll try to fix it.

Ron sniffed. “Like you would.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me that you’re annoyed by something that I’ve done?”

“Wow,” Ron said, his voice quiet but positively oozing with sarcasm. “You really are the brightest witch in your year, aren’t you?”

Hermione brought the palms of her hands down on the table with a loud thump. Ron jumped, and a few of the other customers looked over at them in surprise. Hermione paid them no heed.

“That’s enough,” she said. She also spoke quietly, but it would have taken an absolute idiot not to notice her anger. “You’re being the immature child that I was very close to not being able to ignore when we started to go out. You’re better than that now. And if you don’t tell me what’s wrong I will pack my bags and, I don’t know, stay in Draco’s room for the rest of the holiday.”

“I’m sure he’d love that,” Ron said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned forward slightly. It could have been an affectionate change in body language, had he not been challenging her with his eyes.

“You want to know what my problem is?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “Of course I do.”

“Fine.” He held up his hand, the better to count off his troubles. “First, you were short with me while we were bridge-climbing yesterday.”

That genuinely took her by surprise. “What? It was a tough climb, Ron. I would have been short with anybody—“

“I’m not done,” he interrupted her. “Then, you were gone for ages last night. Last time I checked, a ‘quick drink’ doesn’t last for three quarters of an hour.”

“They can, do, sometimes—“

“I’m still not done. THEN I discover that you are at the bar, chatting to Malfoy, and he’s tucking your hair behind your ear.”

Hermione’s mouth opened in further surprise. “You were spying on us?”

“I wouldn’t call five minutes of observation spying.”

“Well I would!” She would have stood up indignantly and left, had she not still been waiting on her gelato. She really was very fond of gelato. “We were talking. It’s no big deal. Anyway, if you’d kept on spying you would have seen me take his hand away.”

“I did see that,” Ron said. “It was... a relief, I admit.”

Hermione shook her head. “This is your jealousy problem coming in again.”

“I don’t have a—“

“Yes you do. I’m sick of you pretending otherwise, and you know what? I don’t understand it. What possible reason do you have to be jealous? You know that I would never do anything ... sinister ... behind your back.” She frowned at him. “Don’t you?”

Ron looked away. He didn’t seem angry anymore. Now he seemed ... uneasy. “Yes ... no ... I don’t know. It’s not ... you’ve never given me any reason to worry. But I still ... I worry. I’m ... sorry, about that.”

Hermione sighed, rubbing two fingers against her temple. “Well, I suppose one could argue that it would be stupid of you not to worry at least a little bit. But I’ve never worried about you doing anything like that to me.”

“Well, why would you?” Ron asked. “It’s not as if I’d ever want anybody else.”

Hermione smiled, but then a sudden thought made her smile falter. “That’s nice to know, but surely you know that I would never want anybody else, either?”

“Really?” Ron asked, raising his eyebrows sceptically. “Not even someone better than me?”

His scepticism would have annoyed her, but there was more to what he was saying than what he was letting on. Her sudden thought was that this wasn’t just about Ron’s jealousy.

She had spent six years attending school with Ron and Harry, and in that time she had only seen Ron beat Harry two or three times. In his family life he had been overshadowed by his smarter, funnier and better-looking older brothers and younger sister. It hadn’t taken long for Hermione to notice that Ron had a terribly low self-esteem. His achievements in the Great Battle had helped somewhat, but he still doubted himself. Throughout the course of their relationship she had tried to nurture him, to help him see that he was an exceptional person in his own right, and that he had a lot to be proud of. Her efforts seemed to gradually work over time, as could be seen by the change in Ron’s posture and the authority with which he commanded junior Aurors-in-training and delegated tasks to other members in his department. But she knew that he still thought of himself as average, and seemed to struggle with the idea that she could see him as anything more than that.

Hermione laid a gentle hand over his. He didn’t pull away, which was a good sign.

“Ron,” she said, “I know you find this difficult to comprehend, but believe me when I say that to me, there is nobody better than you.”

She felt his fingers tense under hers, but still he didn’t pull away. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Well, in this case, it doesn’t really matter what you think, does it?”

He frowned at her, but only for a moment.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” he relented.

“I’m glad you agree.”

Hermione could see the corners of his mouth upturning sightly, and knew that she had, to some small extent, been successful. He was smiling.

“To be honest,” he said, after several minutes of awkward but not entirely uncomfortable silence, “it’s Malfoy that really worries me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I think he fancies you.”

Section 6 – Day 5:

Ron knew that he got annoyed with Hermione a lot. There were things about her that caused him worry, irritation, and yes, he supposed he could admit it in his own head, jealousy. Her stubbornness, her often preferring to work late at night than make love to him, the breathy tutting sound she made when he’d done something she didn’t approve of, her being such a know-it-all even now, and her always, always being right. This in turn, had a tendency to drive him very mad very quickly. He’d lose his temper, and Hermione, having a temper just as bad as his, would retaliate with equal vigour.

At first they had just accepted this that their arguing was part of how they worked, like having sex on the kitchen table on a regular basis was part of how Harry and Ginny worked (Ron hadn’t eaten off that table in many years).

More recently, however, the arguments seemed to take their toll. Hermione became more and more defensive, and he, Ron, grew more scared. He could cope with the rest of Hermione’s irritating habits pretty well by now, but he couldn’t handle how she liked to befriend other men. He hated it and he often hated her for thinking it was OK.

Ron wasn’t a particularly self-doubting person anymore, but he could hardly be called arrogant either. He knew his good traits as well as his bad ones, and while he wouldn’t call himself the greatest of catches, he knew he had a lot to offer and was, by and large, confidant about his offerings.

But he knew that other men had much more to offer than he did. What if Hermione met such a man and decided that she preferred this man to him? What if she decided that she would rather this bloke’s company than his during the cold winter nights? What if she left him to be with this man, while he watched helplessly from the sidelines?

What if she fell in love, with someone that wasn’t him?

He had struggled through his days at Hogwarts, watching her with Krum, and sometimes with Harry, in seemingly romantic situations. Even now, years later, remembering her with either of them made his skin crawl. He couldn’t handle the idea of her being in love with anybody except him, and he would do all in his power to stop that from happening.

All he had ever really, truly wanted was her, to be his and his alone.

~*~

Draco flopped onto a bench in the hotel reception and regretted it immediately. The instant the pressure of gravity pressed the back of the seat against his flaming red skin, he felt as though millions of tiny needles were simultaneously stabbing his back. The pain was nothing short of excruciating.

He wasn’t sure what had made him go to the beach. He had woken up that morning, looked outside, and instantly known what he wanted to do. After a quick breakfast and a thick lathering of sun cream, he was off to find the bus station and pay five dollars, for the privilege of riding on an abysmally hot and humid bus for half an hour, before he arrived at his destination.

Despite the hot day, the beach wasn’t very crowded. It was a week day and, supposedly, winter, after all. Draco found himself a nice spot just on the edge of the crowd and laid out his towel. He swam for about half an hour, enjoying the rare and exquisite feel of cold, salty water on his skin. He then returned to his towel and, before it had occurred to him to apply more sun cream or put his shirt back on, had fallen asleep.

Three hours of strong sunlight doing its worst on pale, unprotected British skin caused Draco to wake up with the worst sunburn he’d ever had. And after an afternoon of strolling along beach roads and lounging in cafes, the sunburn reached its tough, painful stage. He was, to put it frankly, in agony.

The annoying thing was that he knew several healing spells, plus one potion, that worked brilliantly on sunburn. Astoria used to need such spells every now and then. But he had stupidly decided before he’d left England that he was going to leave his wand there and attempt to holiday in true Muggle fashion. He had no idea how Muggle Australians went about healing sunburn.

Draco shifted in his seat. Lifting his shirt up slightly, he twisted around to inspect his damage for about the seventy-billionth time that afternoon. He was no hard core expert on the severity of sunburn, but considering how he’d seen lobsters less red, he assumed that his was pretty bad. Worse than anything Astoria had had before, anyway.

“Jesus, mate.” Draco looked up to see a clearly very adept beach-going Australian cringing at the sight of his back. “You’ll wanna get some Aloe Vera on that.”

The Australian walked off, leaving Draco to scowl. That was probably advice, and good advice at that, but what in Merlin’s name was Aloe Vera?

“Draco?”

Again Draco looked up, this time to see the altogether far more pleasant face of Hermione looking back at him. King Weasel stood next to her, looking as though he’d rather be wrestling a white shark in his birthday suit than here.

“Hi Hermione, Weasley,” he acknowledged them. “All right?”

“Fine, thank you,” Hermione answered distractedly. “Why was that man telling you about Aloe Vera? Are you sunburnt?”

“Just a little.”

“May I see?”

Draco could swear he saw King Weasel twitch. That was interesting. Either the Weasel wasn’t used to the strength of Australian coffee, or he was bothered about something, and it seemed very likely that if that was the case, that something involved Draco somehow.

“You may see, if you want," he twisted around so that his back was facing them and lifted up his shirt.

He heard her gasp, and very nearly smiled. It was kind of fun to shock people. He heard some shuffling, followed by whispering, and then King Weasel cleared his throat and Draco yanked his shirt down again.

“That looks pretty nasty Malfoy. If I were you I’d use a skin repair spell, then a moisturising potion,” King Weasel said. Before either Draco or Hermione could give any kind of response, King Weasel grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the stairs. Hermione seemed reluctant to go, but she didn’t put up any struggle.

How very, very interesting, Draco thought. He wondered what was upsetting King Weasel so much. Maybe sunburnt backs turned her on? Not that he should be thinking about turning Hermione on, jokingly or otherwise.

He stood up and ambled toward the stairs, wincing slightly with every step he took.

~*~

When they entered their room, Hermione pulled her arm away from Ron’s and pushed him as far away from her as she could manage.

“What’s the matter with you?” she yelled. “That was as unforgivably rude as it was uncalled for!”

“Uncalled for?!” Ron retaliated. “You wanted to help him!”

“He’s sunburnt! I don’t think he brought his wand with him; he probably doesn’t know how to treat sunburn in the Muggle way. AND he’s my friend! Of course I want to help him.”

Ron sighed and looked away from her. “Would it kill you to make female friends every once in a while?” he murmured.

“What?”

“What is the Muggle treatment for sunburn?”

“Huh?” Hermione faltered. “Um, well, they don’t have healing potions, so they use moisturiser and this stuff called Aloe Vera. You rub it on the sunburnt area a few times a day. It lessens the painful burning feeling and stops the skin from going dry and peeling while it heals itself.”

“I see.” Ron looked back to her. “And you were going to ... administer ... this treatment on Malfoy?”

“Well, yes,” Hermione answered, wondering if this was a trick question. “I brought some Aloe Vera with me, and he’d feel so much better with it ... what?”

Ron’s face had twisted into a very ugly shape.

“No,” he said to her. “Absolutely not. I forbid you from touching Malfoy in any way.”

Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m sorry? You forbid me? This might be news to you, but I’m not your child. I’m allowed to do what I want.”

Ron appeared to consider this. “What if it meant losing me?” he asked her.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Ron said, narrowing his eyes dangerously, “that if you go out there and help Malfoy, then you cannot come back here. It’s him or me.”

Again, Hermione couldn’t quite comprehend what he had just said. “Ron, this is far, far from being a matter of choosing him over you. You’re being utterly ridiculous—“

“I DON’T CARE!” Ron yelled, shouting so loud that Hermione could have sworn the windows shook. “I don’t care if I’m being stupid. I don’t like you being around Malfoy! He’s got his eye on you and I don’t think he understands that you’re mine.”

Hermione was outraged. His? He thought that she was his property? Was that what he got jealous over? Other men looking at her as though she was an expensive and widely sought-after toy?

Hermione had to give Ron credit. He made her decision easy. She made for the door, smiling with satisfaction at the look of shock now adorning her husband’s face.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She considered looking back, but why bother? The sight of him would only anger her more.

“I’m not yours,” she said quietly, opening the door and exiting before Ron could say anything more.

~*~

Draco was surprised to hear the knock on his door. He was even more surprised to open it and see Hermione standing there, looking ... angry. Very angry, actually. So angry, in fact, that instead of the generic but at least acceptable ‘All right?’, “What did I do?” was the greeting he issued to her.

“It’s not you,” Hermione answered, letting herself in as though this was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Ron’s being unreasonable.”

“I see. So, what did he do, then?” Draco closed the door and ambled toward the bed. He needed to lie down.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Hermione said shortly.

“All right.” Draco wanted to take his shirt off. It was rubbing against his sunburn in a most painful way and it was becoming quite unbearable. At the same time, her being there was a nice surprise, and he hardly wanted her to go. He wondered if... “Sorry, Hermione. Feel free to stay here, but is it okay if I take this off?” He tugged at his shirt. “It’s irritating me.”

“Oh!” Hermione appeared startled. “Yes! In fact, please do.”

Perhaps Draco was imagining things, owing to sun-related light-headedness. “Sorry?”

Hermione rummaged in her bag, eventually producing a bottle full of some sort of gel. “I have some Aloe Vera. I’ll put it on for you. It’ll help, trust me.”

The colour of the gel didn’t exactly encourage trust. Muggle remedies generally weren’t that vibrant a shade of green. But, it was Hermione that he was being asked to trust, and whether it was wise to trust someone he’d only been acquainted with for a very short time, he trusted her.

“Okay, then,” he said.

“Good. Lie on the bed and take your shirt off.”

He did as she asked, lying flat on his stomach and feeling suddenly very naked. He couldn’t see her, but he felt the weight of the bed shift as she sat on the edge, right by his feet.

For a moment nothing happened. Draco wondered if he was supposed to feel anything. He then gasped in an embarrassingly feminine way when he felt her hands, slippery with gel, pressing into his left calf.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” she asked.

Draco had to admit, the gel was rather cooling. Gone was the burning sensation in his leg.

“This is a really bad burn,” Hermione said. “I can feel the heat of it on my hands. It must be painful.”

“It hurts a little, yes,” Draco confirmed, not wishing to elaborate on just how much it was killing him. “I stupidly fell asleep in the sun after swimming, and neglected to reapply sun cream.”

“You went swimming, did you?” Hermione switched over to his right calf, and Draco had just enough time to bite back his sigh of satisfaction. “I like swimming. I would have gone swimming here, but Ron hates it, and it’s not worth listening to him complain about getting sand in his swimming costume.”

There was definitely bitterness in her voice. Draco wondered what could have happened between them. Maybe his behaviour before, in the hotel reception, had been due to some apparent fault of hers.

She paused, and he could hear the sound of the bottle being squeezed. Then her hands were on his back, massaging the soothing gel into the worst of his burnt skin. This time he couldn’t help himself; he let out a small moan of relief.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.

She didn’t know the half of it. The gel was incredible, but it was her hands that elicited the moan more than anything else. He doubted that she knew she was doing it, but she was applying light pressure on his back as she worked, so he could feel her hands moving slowly over his skin. It was probably how she touched King Weasel when they made love. What a wonderful feeling that would be. Her hands touching him, caressing him everywhere that she could reach, then him being allowed, even encouraged, to do the same to her. She’d be pale, like him but maybe not so much, with the occasional mole, freckle, stretch mark and roll of fat just visible in the dim light. He would enjoy those imperfections. They would serve to prove that she was real, she was human, and she was there, satisfying him like he so badly needed to be satisfied.

He was so glad that he was lying face down, but a certain tightness down there indicated that he needed to distract himself somehow. Hmm... he was sunburnt, and he’d gotten sunburnt by falling asleep on the beach after swimming ... swimming! He could talk about swimming. She wanted to swim...

“You know,” he found himself saying, “if you wanted to go swimming, you could just go by yourself.”

“I could, couldn’t I?” she agreed. “Indeed, I’d have to go by myself, now. I might go tomorrow.”

“Why would you have to go by yourself?” Draco asked, hoping that this would lead to some distracting tangent.

Hermione didn’t disappoint. “Because I don’t think Ron will want to come anywhere with me right now.”

“Why not?”

“We had a fight.”

Ahh, Draco thought. So that’s what’s bothering her. Well, that’s distracting enough. That should stop me from thinking about her lying naked underneath me – stop it, Draco.

“What was the fight about?” he asked. “I know you didn’t want to discuss it, but it might help.”

He heard her sigh, and then nothing happened for a moment. She was presumably thinking of the best way to explain the situation.

“He has jealousy issues,” she finally said. “He’s had them since before we got together. I was the same, but I grew out of them after we married, but he didn’t, and I think it’s only just clicked since we’ve been here that he has them. He hates it when I make new friends, because the friends I make tend to be male and he gets ... scared, I think. He’s scared that these friends will try to make a move on me, and that I’ll, I don’t know, decide to leave him.”

“I see.” On second thought, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. They were starting to head into dangerous territory with this conversation.

“Unfortunately this involves you to some extent,” Hermione continued. “Because we’ve become friends, Ron’s gotten all worried that you fancy me or some rubbish like that. He said that if I came here to help you we were over.”

This was definitely dangerous territory. Draco wondered if he could somehow change the subject.

“It’s ridiculous!” She had been massaging the same spot for at least five minutes and hadn’t seemed to notice. “I mean, you don’t fancy me, do you?”

Draco stiffened, and he could tell straight away that Hermione noticed. She took her hands away and lifted herself off the bed. Draco did the same.

“Draco?” He forced himself to raise his head and meet her eye. “You don’t fancy me, do you?”

“No,” Draco said, waving his hands in front of him as though clearing the notion away. But then before he could stop himself he added “Not exactly.”

Hermione jumped on that. “What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“I mean...” Draco paused. What did he mean? How could he explain what he felt about her, when he wasn’t entirely sure himself? Did he fancy her? No. He didn’t think so. But he was certainly thinking about her, a lot, in compromising situations. Was he lusting after her then? That was possible, though hardly complimentary, and surely if it was mere lust then he would feel it for just about any girl he came across? But maybe not.

Hermione was still standing there, waiting for an answer. There was little point in lying to her now, so he attempted to voice his feelings as accurately as possible.

“I don’t think I fancy you,” he said, “but I ... I’ve been thinking about you, and when I do think about you, we’re normally, erm, not exactly merely holding hands.

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. She said nothing, but she had crossed her arms defensively in front her; as sure a sign as any that she was trying to cover herself.

“I’m not going to act on it, and it will probably ... hopefully, go away after his holiday,” Draco continued. “But right now that’s what it is. I don’t really know what it means, but that’s what it is.”

Hermione nodded, keeping her arms firmly crossed. “Thanks for, um, telling me ... that,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. A stupid thing to say, in respect, but the best he could come up with.

“I think I’d better go,” she said quietly.

It was Draco’s turn to nod. She strode past him and let herself out before it occurred to him to offer to open the door for her, or something equally gentlemanly.

He sighed loudly and lay back down. He felt something near his shoulder. She’d left the Aloe Vera there. That was some small act of mercy, indeed.

Section 7 – Day 6:

Hermione sat down and dug her feet into the soft, dry sand. She fiddled around in her bag for a moment before dinging her enormous bottle of sun cream. It wouldn’t do for her to end this day as sore and red as Draco was.

Draco. The thought of him send a shiver or two down her spine. She had wondered, when he had played with her hair and touched her cheek a few nights ago, and again when Ron had said the night afterwards that he fancied her, but she had dismissed the thought almost straight away. She certainly hadn’t thought that Ron’s suspicions could be correct.

To be fair, Ron’s suspicions were that Draco fancied her. That implied feelings of love and romance, which was what Ron probably feared the most when his jealousy issues came to play. Draco had said that he didn’t think he fancied her, and dubious though his uncertainty was, it at least meant that Ron hadn’t been 100% on the money.

But there was definitely something there. Something that was clearly worrying Draco and that meant that Ron was closer to being right than to being wrong.

She was still annoyed at Ron, but now it was only because he had talked about her like she was his most prized possession. And she couldn’t even be too mad at him for that, because she knew that Ron loved her, and there was probably some hidden meaning in what he’d said that she hadn’t understood.

After leaving Draco’s room last night she had left the hotel and found a small pub in which to eat dinner. She had taken her time eating, indulging in chocolate cake and several glasses of white wine. The bill was humiliatingly expensive for one person, but it hardly mattered. When she got back to the hotel, she ignored what Ron had said to her and went straight back to her room. Ron was asleep, and she spent a fitful night sleeping and waking up on the floor. She left the room as early in the morning as she could, leaving the spare blanket and pillows there.

If Hermione hadn’t been so troubled, she would have been having a fantastic day. She’d had breakfast in a lovely little cafe, then headed straight for the beach and swum in the sea for most of the morning. Now it was lunchtime, and she figured that she would get some fish and chips, and then read for the rest of the afternoon, before going back to the hotel and facing an awake and probably irate Ron.

~*~

While certainly awake, Ron was more miserable than he was irate. He had been relieved to find the blanket and pillows on the floor that morning. That meant that she’d ignored his threat and slept there. She hadn’t gone away.

His relief gradually turned to worry as the long day wore on. Now it was early evening and she hadn’t yet come back, and he was in a state of near panic.

He would say that he couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been, except he could believe it. Undoubtedly. Hermione was absolutely right about his jealousy. It had gotten out of hand last night, and he’d chased her away because of it. Hadn’t she told him just the other night that she would never leave him like that? Why hadn’t he listened? Of course she wouldn’t leave him. She just wasn’t that kind of person. She’d only left last night because he’d pretty much made her, over something so stupidly unimportant that thinking about it made him want to bang his head against a table. It was only natural for her to want to help Malfoy, if they were friends and all. But because helping him would have involved a little touching, he had completely overreacted.

He needed help. He needed to get over his jealousy. They weren’t at school any more. He and Hermione had promised themselves to each other years ago. With some people those promises don’t hold, but damn it, he held them, and he knew, knew, KNEW that she did too. It was time for him to stop being so stupid and let his wife do what she wanted to do.

The distinct sound of the room door opening startled him out of his reverie. He stood up as the door opened wide, and he saw his wife standing there.

She looked at him. He looked at her. Neither of them spoke for what could have been ten seconds or ten hours. And then something seemed to hit them and they were running, uninhibited relief coursing through and spilling out of them as they embraced each other.

“I’m sorry,” Ron mumbled into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. You were right. I was stupid and jealous and I’m going to try not to be like that again. I know I could have lost you.”

“It’s OK,” Hermione whispered back, clutching him closer. “It’s OK.”

“No, it wasn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s something you need to know,” she said, “about Draco.”

Ron loosened his grip on her, holding her at arm’s length. “What is it?”

She bit her lip. “You weren’t entirely wrong,” she told him. “He’s been thinking about me.”

~*~

Half an hour later the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the bed, a large pizza between them.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Ron said, chewing uncharacteristically slowly. “You say he said he doesn’t fancy you, which I’m relieved at, by the way, and yet he apparently can’t stop thinking about you? What does he mean by that?”

“I don’t think even he knows,” Hermione answered.

“Do you know how he’s been thinking about you? Like, romantically or whatever?”

“Put it this way,” she said grimly. “I wouldn’t project his thoughts to a classroom full of underage wizards.”

Ron couldn’t exactly say that this news pleased him. He scowled at her.

“Can I hit him?”

“I forbid it. And in this case I think I’m being reasonable.”

“Fine.” Another thought then came to him. “Maybe he just wants to sleep with you then.”

Hermione raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Blokes think like that all the time. I’m pretty sure most girls do too, actually. Have you never thought like that?”

“Not really.” Hermione racked her brain. “With Professor Lockhart it was hero-worship more than anything else. I was sort of interested in Viktor, but not really. It’s always only been you, and I wanted it all with you.”

Ron couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say to that. He doubted he could have said anything anyway. He’d hardly call himself an overly sensitive bloke, but hearing her say that very nearly brought him to tears.

“But why would he want to sleep with me, of all people?” Hermione continued. “I know I’m not horrendously ugly or anything, but surely he would go for someone a bit more attractive than me.”

Ron cleared his throat a few times before answering. “You are very attractive, Hermione, as you would phrase it. I would go so far as to say you’re well fit—“ Hermione smiled “—but even if you weren’t, that wouldn’t matter so much. He could be curious about you. About what’s going on, er, underneath.”

She pondered this. “Well I’m all for people satisfying their curiosity. Merlin knows I hate not knowing something that I want to know. But he’s going to have to be disappointed. I wonder if he’ll just forget about it.”

Ron snorted. “Unlikely. I was interested in you for years, and we didn’t have sex for a long time. My curiosity never went away. It only got stronger.”

“It did?” Hermione patted Ron on the arm. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready.”

“It’s okay. I probably wasn’t ready either. And hey, I found out in the end, didn’t I?” He grinned at her slyly.

She grinned back, but her grin quickly disappeared. “But then Draco’s just going to keep on longing, isn’t he?”

He knew that compared to his wife he seemed a complete ninny, but Ron wasn’t totally stupid.

“You want to satisfy his curiosity, don’t you?”

“What? No! How can you even suggest that?”

“Come on, Hermione.” Ron grabbed a paper napkin and wiped his greasy hands with it. “I know you. You hate to see someone not knowing something that they want to know, because you hate not knowing things yourself. You said so not five minutes ago. Be honest with me. If there was any chance in hell that you could help Draco out, would you do it?”

“I ... I don’t know.” Hermione couldn’t believe that he was asking her to think about this. “I suppose... if there was a chance... like if we weren’t together, or you let me, or something, I would. But it’s irrelevant.”

Ron didn’t reply straight away. He thought back to fourth year, when she was being courted by Krum. He hadn’t quite realised that he was in love with her then, but he must have been, because every time he saw them together it was like they had grabbed a knife, plunged it into his heart, and given it an extra thrust for good measure. He remembered sixth year and catching the look of hurt on her face whenever she saw him with Lavender. And then of course, after they’d gotten together, he had had to restrain himself from throwing himself on her and demanding sex, because he loved her and knew that she didn’t think herself ready. Were they now both being just as cruel to a possibly desperate Malfoy?

She wouldn’t be cheating on him; not if he gave her permission. She would be helping him, which is what she wanted, and Malfoy would stop thinking about her, which he, Ron, definitely wanted. And he knew now without a doubt that Hermione would come back to him, because she loved him and him alone.

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” he ended up saying.

Hermione looked up. “What?”

“Go to him.”

She didn’t understand. “What?”

“Go to Malfoy. Help him out.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Ron... you’re... you’re sure about this?”

“Just for tonight,” he clarified. “Just so he can find out what he wants to know, and move on. He clearly wants you, and you clearly want to help him, so you should do it. Just ... put an Imperturbable Charm on the door.”

“I can’t. We don’t have our wands.” Hermione rushed to her suitcase and pulled out two tiny knobs of ... he wasn’t sure what they were.

“Put these in your ears,” she instructed him. “They’ll block out sound.”

“I... er...” Ron considered the weird things now in his hand. “All right then. Why do you have these?”

“Because your snoring could wake the dead.”

“I don’t know THAT—“

“Ron.” Hermione placed a finger on his lips to silence him.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” she said after a moment’s silence.

“Neither can I,” Ron agreed, “as I said before."

Hermione smiled, reached up, pulled him towards her and kissed him. “You amaze me sometimes, you know?”

“You amaze me all the time,” Ron replied, kissing her back. “And I hope you will understand if I ask you to erase my memory when we get back to England.”

“I doubt you’ll need me to do that, but I will if it comes to pass.”

“Good.” Ron gave her one more kiss before stepping back. “Now brush your teeth and go, before I change my mind.”

~*~

Draco was contemplating the Aloe Vera in his hand. He wanted to use it, that much he knew. But he also knew he couldn’t reach all the way around and get to all of the skin on his back. He could just apply it to all areas that he could reach, but that seemed insufficient to him.

He heard the door opening and looked up to see Hermione standing there. He opened his mouth to greet her, but no sound came out. He wasn’t sure what to say to her. For one thing, they hadn’t exactly parted on good terms yesterday. For another, there was something strange about how she was looking at him. At first glance one would say she looked determined, but her soft and slightly mysterious smile indicated something else. Like that something was pleasing her or causing her mild amusement.

“Um, hi,” he ended up saying. He’d seen fish at the aquarium exchange better greetings than that, but he supposed it would suffice.

“Hello,” she replied, before pointing at the bottle in his hand. “Do you want me to put that on?”

Was this a trick? What happened to yesterday? With his creepy confession and everything? Had she forgotten about that? What was going on?

He would have said no thanks, and suggest she leave, but his sunburn was crying for relief, and he couldn’t ignore such a tempting offer. So he nodded mutely and settled himself on the bed like he had yesterday.

He felt the shifting of the mattress as she positioned herself on it, and then shuffled closer to him. A pause, then he groaned out loud as the cool gel touched his body. He closed his eyes and focused on the wonderful feeling of her applying the gel.

It didn’t take long for him to realise that something different was happening. The gel was still being applied, and it still felt like bliss, but the way that she was putting it on... her hands moved even slower than they had before, and they pushed more deeply into him. It was by no means unpleasant, but it felt kind of ... deliberate.

“Are you massaging me?” he asked.

“Maybe I am,” she answered, and Draco jumped in shock. Her mouth was inches away from his ear.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Did I startle you?”

“Well, a little, yes... ah!” He jumped again when he felt her fingers in his hair. Fingers, cool and slippery with gel, running through the delicate strands that he was sure he was starting to lose.

“What are you doing?” he asked, unable to avoid a slight squeak in his voice at the ‘ing’.

“Me?” she said. “Nothing.”

Draco sat up, the better to actually see her. “You sure about that? I wouldn’t exactly call that noth—“

He would have said more, but her lips on his made it impossible.

If he hadn’t been scared before, he certainly was now. What the hell was going on? He wrenched his mouth away from hers, then for extra measure leapt off the bed and scooted to the opposite wall.

“What the hell?” he gasped.

“Hmm.” Hermione cocked her head to one side. “I didn’t picture you as the swearing type.”

“Yeah? Well I didn’t picture you as the... the... the whatever-the-hell-that-was type! What the hell WAS that!?”

“Why?” Hermione slid off the bed and faced him. All of her, from her sandalled and currently firmly planted feet to her knee-length sundress to her flyaway hair, looked raw, kind of threatening ... and sexy. Very, very sexy. “Does it scare you?”

“No,” he lied, “but what about ... last night? And you’re married, in case you’d forgotten.”

She smiled; an action that simultaneously increased the threatening appearance and the sexiness in her.

“Yes, I am married. Happily married, even.” She seemed to be agreeing with him, but she was inching toward him. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I think you’re a little confused.”

“Nope.” Her smile turned into a grin. “See, Draco, we’re so happily married, that he agreed to let me come here.”

Draco narrowed his right eye. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you? I think you might, actually. You don’t fancy me, no, but you still want me. You’re ... curious.”

Draco said nothing. Hermione, fortunately, didn’t seem to expect him to say anything.

“You know, Draco, I like to help people that are curious. But in this case, I wasn’t going to help without Ron’s okay.”

Draco’s eyes widened in comprehension. “He let you come here.”

She stepped closer to him. Now there was barely half a foot between them.

“You get one night, Draco. One night to find out whatever you want to know. If I were you, I’d use my time wisely.”

At first Draco did nothing. He could smell her; all sandy and salty from the beach, with a hint of cherry lip gloss. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Hermione stood still.

The next sound to escape her mouth was a small ‘Ahh!’ uttered at that very moment when her arms were grasped tightly and she was turned around, then pressed firmly against the wall.

She shook herself and grinned up at him. “That’s more like it.”

“Shut up,” he murmured, before leaning in and kissing her.

Despite his previous fast actions, his kiss was tentative, almost shy. She had a feeling that he didn’t want to be tentative, but it had probably been so long for him that he felt it necessary to restrain himself. A sweet gesture, she supposed, but really most unnecessary. She therefore slipped her hands to the back of his head and deepened the kiss. It didn’t take Draco very long at all to get the message and kiss back with equal vigour.

When they needed air they broke apart, Draco rested his forehead against hers. He was breathing heavily, but she could just about hear what he was saying between breaths.

“... Merlin... want you... so badly...”

She offered no verbal reply, being too busy simultaneously unbuckling his belt and kicking off her sandals. She reached behind her and unzipped her dress. A pale yellow two-piece swimming costume was all the clothing that now remained on her.

The sight of her practically naked form seemed to stir him. He kissed her again, moving from her mouth to her cheek to just below her ear. He nibbled lightly on her earlobe and she nearly lost her grip on the zipper of his trousers, the sensation was such a shock.

They managed to co-ordinate each other to the bed, Draco shook off the second leg of his trousers as they reached it. Hermione lay down comfortably, and Draco, upon seeing her lying there, itched to touch her just as he’d frequently imagined touching her in the last few days.

He settled next to her and, working carefully, slid a long, pale finger slowly down her body. From her chin to her chest, through the crevasse between her breasts, along her stomach, dipping at her naval, then reaching the elastic of her bikini bottoms.

He grinned slyly at her before slipping his hand into the bikini bottoms and cupping her sex, already damp with arousal, in his hand. She sighed contentedly, and it took all of the strength he possessed to not rip aside her bottoms and fuck her right there. But he managed. After all, he wanted to experience all of her.

He shifted his position, now climbing on top of her. Keeping one hand firmly on her crotch, he used the other to once again explore her body. He cupped her left breast, still concealed in her bikini top, feeling the fullness of it in his hand. He pushed aside the material and ducked down, taking the now-exposed nipple in his mouth. She squirmed, and her hands moved to either side of his head, keeping him there. He sucked and bit lightly, clearly hearing her moan of ecstasy. Who would have thought that prim and proper Hermione would enjoy being tit-sucked?

He transferred his administrations to her right nipple, while his other hand felt over her moist slick folds, searching for that little nub of pleasure. When he found it he started massaging it with his two strongest fingers.

“Oh God,” Hermione panted. She seemed to be thrusting against his hand; an encouraging sign. Apparently she liked hand-jobs too. He continued moving his tongue along her body, following a similar line to that of his finger previously. He felt her rise to him when he licked at her naval. He travelled still lower, and eventually replaced his fingers with his tongue. As he started to lick and suck at her clit, his fingers thrust forcefully in and out of her entrance.

Hermione was on fire, she spread her legs wide and clutched desperately at the bedspread as she thrust hard and forcefully against him. Just when he thought he couldn’t keep it up for much longer, he heard her guttural moan of absolute ecstasy, and felt her shake and spasm against him.

She lay there for several moments, struggling to regain her breath. She looked amazing, sprawled and sweaty on the bed, limbs at odd angles. Eventually she sat up and beckoned him over.

“Kneel here,” she instructed him. “Sort of over my head.”

He did as she asked and immediately gasped when he felt her hand grasp his erect cock. Up and down she stroked, several times, before bringing the tip to her mouth.

He felt her tongue circle his sensitive foreskin and groaned with pleasure. She took him further in as he thrust into her mouth. He couldn’t believe that she could be into giving and receiving head, but she could and she was, and she was very good at it. He was so, so close to coming when she abruptly stopped.

“What the hell?” he grunted.

Hermione grinned at him and slipped off her bikini bottoms.

“Fuck me, Draco,” she demanded him. “Fuck me hard and fast.”

He didn’t need telling twice. In one second he shifted, his thick hard cock inches away from her pulsating pussy. In the next second he pushed into her, and she wrapped her legs around him. In the third second he was stroking furiously against her, one hand locking her arms behind her head and the other reaching between them rubbing her clit.

He continued his relentless rhythm, every moan, shriek and grunt from her sent him that much closer. When he came, he came like he had never come before. He felt himself releasing hard into her, and with one more stroke she was orgasming for the second time, stretching up and into him. Milking the pleasure for all it was worth.

Tired and spent, he collapsed on to her, and neither of them spoke for several moments. When the silence was finally broken, it was Hermione who made the enquiry.

“So,” she said breathlessly, “did you satisfy your curiosity?”

Draco smiled, too exhausted to look anywhere except at the ceiling.

“Yes,” he answered. “I found out everything I wanted to know.”

Section 8: The End

When Draco woke up the next morning he found a note on the table.

Draco,
I couldn’t stay. I hope you understand.
I’m glad I could give you what you needed, and thank you for being my friend. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.
Love Hermione.

Draco smiled. She really was a remarkable woman, and an admirable friend. King Weasel was a very lucky man. Draco hoped that he knew that.

~*~

“That was quite a holiday, wasn’t it?” Ron commented as they settled into their seats.

“Mmm,” Hermione agreed, taking his arm and moving it around her shoulders. “That it was.”

“So, come on, tell me. How was it?”

“How was what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“All right, fine.” She considered the question for a moment.

“It was ... different,” she finally said.

“Different? Different good or different bad?”

“Different ... different.” Hermione looked up at him. “Why? Are you worried he might be better than you?”

“Would it annoy you if I was?” Ron asked.

“No. It would amuse me.” She picked up the safety card and started reading through it.

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t really matter how good he was,” she explained. “It’s always going to be better with you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hmm.” She looked up again and could see that he was grinning quite stupidly. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“I’m pleased you’re pleased.” Hermione looked out the window. She could just about see the tallest of Sydney’s buildings over the aeroplane sheds.

“Do you think we can come here again?” she asked.

“Why not?” Ron answered. “If I’ve learned anything at all from this week, it’s that things happen in Australia.”

Part 1

* Posted as two parts to fit

Things Happen In Australia for the community [NC-17] -- RW/HG/DM (1)

2009-11-15T08:43:05Z

Title: Things Happen In Australia
Author: teenage_hustler
Recipient:
Ship: Ron/Hermione/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: errr, something that could be dubbed infidelity, but I don’t think is.
Words: 17,850-odd. Bloody long, in other words :P
A/N: This was an incredibly difficult fic to write. It became longer and longer and in the end I was really struggling to finish it on time. Because of that I’m incredibly proud of it and I really hope you like it. I love the idea of this triangle and your prompts were inspiring. Enjoy! Extra special thanks to jasmina22 and becauseshecan for their fantastic beta work.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling. I merely like to play with them.

~*~

Section 1: The Week Before Arrival

“Hermione,” Ron said, “this isn’t working.”

Hermione looked up from her Daily Prophet, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips with little to no resistance. She wasn’t in the mood for talking to Ron right then. Besides, what with him being slouched unflatteringly in his chair with his hair looking atrocious, his toast burnt and with the equivalent of half a jar of marmalade on each slice, and the loose coffee-ground-and-milk residue from the preparation of his morning beverage scattered all over the table that she had been trying to eat her breakfast from, she couldn’t for a second see how this morning was ‘working’ any less differently than any other morning in their three years of marriage.

“What’s not working, Ronald?” she asked. “Not that I’ll be listening to anything you say, until you apologize for laughing at my self-transfiguration last night—“
“Hermione, even the one person in the world, with the greatest concentrated mixture of ‘boring’ and ‘sensitive’ in their personality description, would have laughed at your self-transfiguration last night,” Ron defended. “That beard made you look like a mini version of Hagrid.”

“But that’s who I was trying to look—!”

“This is what’s not working!” Ron reached out impulsively and grabbed Hermione’s hand. She grimaced, feeling the milk and grainy raw coffee sticking to the bottom of her just-washed forearm.

“I love you, Hermione,” Ron said softly, “that’s never changed and never will. But our marriage … our relationship … it’s getting ridiculous. We argue over every tiny little insignificant thing, we hardly ever see each other, we haven’t had sex in Merlin knows how long, and even now I can tell you’re paying more attention to the mess on the table than you are to me.”

Hermione defensively wrenched her arm out of his grasp and attempted to brush the coffee and milk off.

“You know how I am about messes,” she said feebly.

“Of course I know, but you need to be a bit more tolerant about me not being good at using a coffee scoop. Do you see what I’m saying here?”

She sighed again, although now the sigh was less in exasperation and more in recognition and defeat. He was right, of course. She herself had felt that they were having difficulties for some time now. His snoring, while no louder nor different in pitch to what it had been before, was now not so much a sweet yet mildly inconvenient character trait of his to her as it was. Instead it had become a constant plague on her already headache-inducing lifestyle that gave her ample practice in ear-blocking charms. She found his queries about her work irritating and pretentious for no discernable reason. Sex had been out of the picture for quite a while, as he had correctly pointed out. And they were managing to drive each other crazy with little effort at all.

She missed the previous years, when she and Ron had been under the strong grips of new love to such an extent where the little difficulties between them were completely insignificant. While returning to that state was probably impossible, there should be a happy medium, where she and Ron can recognize the annoying habits and irritating features they both possess, but still be at peace with each other enough for those little details to become immaterial.

She would have said something about her worries before, but she had never been one for presenting a problem if she was unable to offer a solution. She knew that Ron was similar to her in that respect, which was evidence enough to suggest that he had some kind of preposition for her.

She glanced across at Ron, who now had his hands behind his head and was slouching in his seat in a satisfied, self-confident way. Hermione knew that it was largely thanks to her that Ron had built the relevant confidence and problem-solving skills that caused him to regard her so smugly now. She would normally, therefore, have been quite proud of him. Right now, however, she was merely annoyed.

“Figured it out yet?” he asked.

Hermione moved to rest her arm on the table, thought better of it, and folded it into her other arm instead.

“What is it?” she asked.

Ron reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a long and very Muggle-looking envelope. He tossed it to his wife and, with an extra and unnecessary wave of his hand, told her to open it.

Hermione carefully peeled back the seal of the envelope, trying her best to ignore Ron’s eyes boring into her as she did so. She pulled out a single piece of cardboard that she recognized from previous trips to France with her parents as an aeroplane ticket. What was completely new to her was the destination.

“Sydney?” she asked Ron.

He nodded, and the grin on his face widened. “For one week, you and I are going to have a fantastic holiday, absolutely devoid of work, home, cleaning, or any other form of stress, in Australia’s most exciting city.”

His grin slackened quickly, leaving a very contrasting look of seriousness on his face. “I obviously don’t think that it will solve every problem that we might have,” he said, “but I do think that what we really need, above all other things, is a holiday.”

Hermione looked from Ron to the ticket, then back to Ron again. She knew that she was indulging him, but she couldn’t stop the smile that was creeping onto her face. She rested her arms back on the table and didn’t even notice the coffee-mess. Already it seemed to be working.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

Section 2 - Day 1:

Ron shifted in his uncomfortable, barely-padded seat, trying his best not to breathe in the unbelievable body odour of the taxi driver. Blimey, he thought to himself, between day-long flights in sardine can-like cramped seats, the endless long queues, and taxi drivers that don’t shower, it’s no wonder that Muggles complain all the time.

He wished they could have Apparated there. He was still a terrible Apparater, but even with the dozen or so stops he would have to take along the way, they would still have arrived at Sydney 21 and a half hours earlier than they had. But he had suggested to Hermione that, as part of this break, they should try to survive the week with no magic at all. This, he’d explained, was why he had bought the plane tickets. Hermione had eagerly agreed and confiscated their wands, but after 22 hours on a plane and an additional two at passport control, they were both beginning to regret their decision.

“Are you sure you didn’t pack one of our wands, at least?” he asked a tired Hermione to his right, “or even a Pepper-Up potion?”

“For the last time, no!” Hermione snapped.

Ron bit his lip, in an attempt to not let her harsh words sting him. If he argued back, as he normally did, it would defeat the entire point of their holiday. Besides, Hermione was only snapping because she was tired. She apparently couldn’t sleep on planes.

“We are at the hotel now,” the taxi driver interrupted his thoughts. At least, he was pretty sure that was what he had said. His thick Indian accent was difficult to decipher.

“Cheers, mate,” Ron thanked him as he pulled open the taxi door. He breathed in the cool, BO-free evening air and sighed in satisfaction. The air felt good in his lungs. He scooted around to the other side of the car and opened the door for his wife, who tumbled out of the taxi in a haze of messy hair and droopy eyes.

The driver pulled out their heavy suitcases out of the boot and Ron gave him 50 Australian dollars (which, as a side note, he thought the most incredible-looking money he’d ever seen. British muggle money was decidedly boring in comparison) for a job well done. The driver had weaved through what appeared to be the trickier streets of Sydney all the way from the airport to get them there, after all.

After the driver drove away Ron patted Hermione on the shoulder. “We just need to check in, and then you can get to bed, okay?”

Hermione nodded mutely, and Ron wondered if she had heard anything that he had said apart from the word ‘bed’.

~*~

“Good evening, sir,” the receptionist greeted the hotel guest, smiling in a haze of pretty bubblyness that he really was not in the mood for. “How can I assist you?”

“I wish to change rooms,” the guest said, running an exhausted hand through his light blonde hair. “Hopefully it is within the realms of your capability to organize this for me?”

The receptionist faltered, presumably at his use of long words. He’d always enjoyed acting like a smart-arse and generally flooring people with his ability to string complicated words together with barely a hitch. He was so good, indeed, at this secret little pleasure, that he could even do it when he hadn’t been asleep for 36 hours straight, as he had only just now discovered.

After taking a moment to figure out what, if anything, the guest had said, the receptionist again smiled sweetly at him. “Certainly sir. May I ask what is wrong with your current room?”

“The room itself is adequate,” he answered. “But I arrived here from the United Kingdom at 6 o’clock this morning after 24 hours of travel and terrible aeroplane food. I’ve been trying to sleep all day, but the people in the room next door, who are presumably on their honeymoon, have not rested all day from their near-deafening consummating.”

This wouldn’t have been a huge problem for him, were he not so starved for sex that the mere mentioning of it was distracting. From what he could hear (which was everything, really), the couple next door were thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. While he would have loved to have broken down their door and demanded to be allowed to join in, such distractions were definitely not what he needed right then. He was there for a week and he intended to enjoy a nice, relaxing holiday, but he couldn’t do that until he had a good night’s sleep.

Hence the room change that he had deemed most necessary.

“We only have one other room free,” the receptionist said, taping a few buttons on her weird muggle contraption. “It is also next-door to a married couple, however, so you might still encounter the same, erm … problem.”

Even in his tired state he didn’t miss the cheekiness in the pretty girl’s smile. He sighed. He had never known a more hard-working and efficient nation, but he felt that the people really needed a lesson or two on professionalism.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said.

“No worries.” She tapped a few more buttons, and then slid a plastic card through a magnetizing machine. “We will have a porter help you with your luggage.”

“That’s not required, thank you,” he dismissed the offer. “If you would please just tell me where the room is, and that will be all.”

“All right. It’s room 14. Let us know if there’s anything else you might need.”

He nodded shortly and turned toward the stairs. He had barely walked two steps when a female voice behind him said “Draco Malfoy?”

So much for anonymity. But how could anybody in this country have even the faintest clue as to who he was? He found himself answering his own question when he turned around and found himself staring into the surprised eyes of Hermione Granger.

~*~

Hermione thought that she was hallucinating in her almost obscene level of fatigue. Sydney was a very Muggle city; a Muggle city halfway across the world, no less. She’d heard that wizarding Sydney-siders tended to flee to Melbourne; an altogether more suitable town for witchcraft and wizardry, according to many sources. Bearing that in mind, it made absolutely no sense for Draco Malfoy to be there.

And yet, she couldn’t have been hallucinating, because he looked different than how she had last seen him. It was still quite obviously Draco, but there were marked variations in his appearance that Hermione didn’t think she would imagine him having. His hair, for instance, white still so blonde that a more accurate description of it would be ‘white’, was no longer slicked back and thus accentuating his pointed features. It now flopped more naturally with a slight wave over his eyes. He was dressed in a no-nonsense white polo shirt and beige cargo trousers; an ensemble he somehow managed to wear in a casual yet elegant way. He had always been tall-ish (not as tall as Ron, but still tall enough for her to have to look up to see him properly) and very thin – too thin, in her opinion. But he seemed to have filled out since then. He was still thin, but he didn’t look like he would break upon impact. His previously dull and often pink-tinged eyes were now clear, though droopy from fatigue that looked as though it might equal her own. His skin was now pale without looking almost grey as it once had.

Okay, she admitted it: he looked dynamite. As he stepped towards her, she felt a delightful little tingle travel down her spine and end, to her horror, somewhere in the vicinity of her reproductive organs. She took a deep breath and, ignoring the tingle, smiled at him.

“Hermione Granger,” he murmured, his voice containing the scratchy quality of a man who hadn’t slept for a good while. “Merlin’s beard.”

“How … how are you?” While he had changed in appearance, Hermione couldn’t forget that Draco had never liked her, or Harry or Ron, at school. There was also the tiny matter of him having previously been a Death Eater. She had heard through the grapevine that Draco had become a lawyer, specializing in matters of prejudice amongst Wizarding communities, and had been incredibly successful in his few years on the job. Such a career was a remarkable turnaround from his days at school, but that didn’t necessarily mean his opinion of her as an individual would have changed. Would he be hostile towards her, or would he seem prepared to make amends, act civilly and, perhaps, start over?

“I would be well,” Draco answered her, “if I could attain some sleep at some point tonight. I haven’t been this tired since my … anyway, how about you? I heard you married King Weasel?”

Hermione almost bristled at the familiar nickname, but something about his tone stopped her. There was no malice or cruelty there. It was almost as though he was using the nickname as a term of affection, or even just as a way of distinguishing Ron from the other Weasleys without using his first name.

“I did marry Ron,” she nodded. “He’s checking us in now. We only just got here.”

“How long are you planning on staying?”

“Just a week. We decided we needed a holiday, and he bought us tickets to Australia. And yourself?”

“Also just a week. I felt it necessary to take a holiday as well.”

“Are you here with anybody?”

“No,” Draco answered, and Hermione swore she could see a flicker of sadness grace his tired features, “just me.”

“Hermione!” She turned to see Ron striding towards her, his eyes glued to the pamphlet in his hand. “We’re in Room 12. I got the Porter to take our bags up. Let’s get you to bed.”

As Ron finished speaking he looked up and saw Draco. His eyes widened in surprise, but, Hermione was relieved to see, he didn’t look ready to hit him or anything like that.

“Draco Malfoy,” Ron breathed, “I’ll be damned.”

“How are you, Weasley?” Draco asked, extending his hand. “I hear you became an Auror?”

Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the blatant look of surprise on Ron’s face. A courteous Draco Malfoy was, after all, not what he was used to.

“I’m good, thanks,” Ron managed to stammer, shaking Draco’s hand. “I am an Auror, yeah. This is my first break from it, actually.”

“A break well-deserved, I’m sure.” Draco covered his mouth as he yawned. “I apologize, but I’ll have to leave. I need to change hotel rooms, and then hopefully, finally, get some sleep. I’ll see you both soon, perhaps.”

As Draco turned and drifted away (and ‘drift’ seemed an accurate description; he moved so gracefully), Ron placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Blimey,” he said, “he’s changed, hasn’t he?”

Hermione nodded, looking back at the stairs Malfoy had just climbed. “Yes, he has.”

Section 3 – Day 2

Ahh, Draco thought as he sat down for breakfast, a good twelve hours’ sleep can make a world of difference.

After instructing the waitress to bring him bacon and scrambled eggs with a large black coffee, Draco pulled out the Sydney Traveller’s Guide that he had impulsively bought a few days previously from a Muggle book store in London. He opened it to the page on a particular suburb that had sparked his interest. Reaching this suburb apparently involved taking a ferry – something he had never done before.

He saw a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye and, looking up, noticed that Ron Weasley and Hermione Gran—well, Weasley, he supposed, if she was now married to him, were being led to a table on the other side of the hotel restaurant. Neither of them had seen him.

“Your breakfast, sir,” said another waitress; a pretty girl of East Asian appearance and absolutely no East Asian in her accent. Draco knew from research that around 30% of Sydney’s population was of East Asian descent. This waitress had clearly either migrated here from a very young age, or was 2nd or 3rd generation Australian. He was used to people who didn’t look stereotypically British talking in British accents, but to hear a twangy, slightly nasal Australian accent coming out of someone who looked so, so Chinese threw him just a little.

“Thank you,” Draco said, offering the multinational girl a warm smile. He spent a moment considering her long, thick black ponytail before shaking himself and turning his attention back to the Weasley couple.

King Weasel, as Draco still liked to think of him, seemed almost exactly the same as Draco remembered him. Same long nose, pale skin, freckles and hair of a vibrant enough shade of red to burn out one’s corneas if one wasn’t careful. The only real difference in Weasel King seemed to be in his posture. Draco had always known him to be a sloucher; the by-product of a person of tall physical stature with low self-esteem. Now he was sitting straight and confidently, a soft smile on his face as he prepared his tea and listened to what appeared to be his chattering wife.

Draco wasn’t sure what to call her now. ‘Granger’ was no longer appropriate, and it probably wouldn’t be in his best interest to call her ‘Mudblood’. He supposed he didn’t have any alternative but to call her ‘Hermione’.

Hermione … Hermione … it didn’t seem so bad to call her that. He watched her attempting to eat cereal and talk to Weasel King at the same time, and he found himself intrigued. She, unlike her husband, had undergone radical changes in her appearance. Her hair was less bushy than before, possibly owing to her discovering a better kind of shampoo, and had grown out enough to now hang down her back in mostly glossy, though still slightly dry and wild-looking, curls. Muggle attire suited her well, and Draco could see the soft, feminine curves that she had kept hidden in thick wizard robes for years. Her skin was relatively free of blemishes, and her eyes were wide, bright and currently excited-looking. Draco wouldn’t go so far to say that she was conventionally beautiful, but there was something about her not-quite-perfect features that made her a pleasing combination of pretty and mysteriously sexy. He knew from Hogwarts days that there was often a lot going on inside that head of hers, and that she was a woman of passion; something that Astoria certainly wasn’t.

Draco turned away from Hermione in order to berate himself. Now was not the time to think about Astoria.

He downed the last dregs of his coffee (which, he was pleased to discover, was strong. Having to ask for double and triple shots in England all the time tired him somewhat), wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin previously resting on his lap and stood up to leave. As he headed for the exit he glanced back and noticed Hermione looking at him. She offered him a quick smile before turning back to Weasel King, and Draco left with an unfamiliar feeling of light happiness in his chest.

~*~

“So Muggles sing in this building, do they?” Ron asked, glancing up at the massive, white, fin-shaped structure before him. Its design was bizarre, yet oddly appealing. He could picture himself taking Hermione to some grand performance there, allowing her to enjoy a glass or two of that obscure fizzy wine stuff that she seemed to enjoy, and walking along the lovely Sydney Harbour, perhaps having a captivating snog by the light of the shimmering moon.

“It’s got terrible acoustics, apparently,” Hermione commented airily. “They use speakers a lot.”

“I see,” Ron replied, deciding against asking her what ‘acoustics’ and ‘speakers’ were. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” Hermione admitted, smiling sweetly and almost shyly at him. “Shall we call it a day and head back to the hotel?”

“Okay.” He offered her his hand and she took it with another sweet smile. The hotel was about a mile away, and neither of them was eager to pay for a smelly taxi and an even smellier taxi driver to take them back when they would just as easily walk. So walk they did.

“Should we tackle that tomorrow?” Ron asked, indicating the enormous bridge that had constantly been in their view all day, silently daring them to climb it.

“Ooh, yes,” Hermione said, nodding enthusiastically. “My parents did the climb once. They said it was amazing; like standing on top of the world. You can see all of Sydney from up there, I’ve heard.”

“Should be fun,” he agreed.

She said nothing, and Ron looked to see that she was looking back at him, her expression blank in a way that indicated to him that she was thinking about something.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she answered, quickly looking away, her hand escaping from his at the same time, “it’s just been a wonderful day.”

“You seem surprised about that.” Ron grinned teasingly at her, and he could see her cheeks quickly tinge with pink.

“Maybe I am a little surprised,” she admitted after a moment’s silence. “I told you that I thought this trip was a brilliant idea, and I did think that, but you know me. There’s always a niggling doubt. But that doubt’s now gone. I think that this trip was exactly what we needed.”

“What did I tell you, hey?” He took her hand again and they continued walking in comfortable silence. Ron would probably never admit it, but he had also been worried. He’d been concerned that this trip would make them realize that they weren’t right for each other, and he for one didn’t want that. He’d been in love with Hermione for years, and he hated to think that his love was misdirected.

~*~

“You coming upstairs?” Ron asked.

Hermione did her best not to smile. Between the somewhat anxious look on his face and the way his hand was currently running up and down the top of her arm, she could tell that he was hoping for a little something. To be honest, she was kind of hoping for a little something as well. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. He could discover it all for himself.

“I am,” she promised him, lightly prying his hand off her shoulder. “I just want to get a drink first. See you there?”

“Okay,” Ron agreed, grinning at her before turning around and climbing the stairs with more vigour than she would have thought appropriate. She half expected him to yell out “Yippee!” and maybe click his heels together. Shaking her head with undisguised fondness, she made for the hotel bar.

The bar was a modest little affair, with a wooden counter and floor, and a few equally wooden tables scattered here and there. Hermione liked it. It definitely suited her better than really big bars.

“G’day.” Hermione looked up to see the barman smiling at her. “What’ll it be?”

“A margarita, please,” Hermione requested.

“No worries.” The barman turned toward the multitude of spirits lining the back wall, and Hermione perched on one of the stools to wait.

“They’re very casual here, aren’t they?” said a voice to her left. Hermione looked over to see Draco Malfoy watching her, a glass of red wine in his hand. He raised one delicate hand and beckoned her over. She paid the barman and, moving carefully so as not to spill any of her ridiculously overpriced drink, walked over to him. He indicated the stool next to his and she sat.

“You never struck me as the margarita type,” he commented.

Hermione took a sip of her drink, licking her lips free of salt as she put her glass down. “You never struck me as the Australia-loving type,” she responded.

Draco considered this for a moment.

“I suppose I don’t, do I?” he eventually said, smiling more to himself than to her. “I came here for my honeymoon, and, as the saying goes, fell in love with it. I wish I’d come here sooner.”

“What made you decide to come?” Hermione asked.

“It wasn’t my decision. My wife wished to go somewhere sunny, and Australia was recommended to her. She loved it also.”

“So why didn’t she come with you this time?”

“If she was still my wife, she might have done.”

“Oh.” Hermione quickly looked away, but wasn’t quick enough to miss the frown etched onto his unblemished features. It struck her that this was a very recent development. He might even have escaped here to recover, or whatever it is you have to do, after a divorce. “I’m sorry.”

Draco snorted; something she found bemusing. She would hardly have imagined him a snorter. He seemed much too elegant for that. “Don’t be sorry. It’s hardly your fault.”

“Well, no, of course not. But I’m sorry it happened.”

“I know,” Draco assured her, smiling grimly. “I was trying to be amusing. I’m sorry it happened too.”

“So, it wasn’t your decision?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself. It was hardly her business, after all. But her curious side couldn’t be quietened.

To her relief, Draco didn’t seem to mind. “No, not at all. We were having problems, and I’d have had to have been a poorly experimented-on dungeon rat not to have realised that. But I sort of figured we’d get through it. I thought we cared about each other enough to make it work. We tried everything, even Muggle methods ...” Draco shrugged. “Perhaps my ... fondness ... was unrequited.”

Hermione said nothing. She couldn’t have said anything even if she’d wanted to. The huge lump in her throat was too constricting for speech. Poor Draco. How awful would it be to have something like that happen? Hermione had nothing but sympathy for people forced into a divorce against their will, particularly after so much effort. She was struck by an insane desire to hug him right then.

She probably would have hugged him, but she wasn’t sure enough about where she stood with him to perform such an obvious gesture of affection. She settled instead for patting him on the shoulder.

“I don’t really know what to say,” she finally managed to articulate, with only minimal voice-cracking, she was pleased to note, “except that if you tried so hard and she still declared it over, she probably didn’t deserve you.”

The grim smile returned to his face. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But she had me, all the same.”

The lump in Hermione’s throat returned, and she could only nod in agreement as she finished the last of her margarita. It was only then that she remembered that Ron was expecting her.

“Oh damn,” she said, earning a raised eyebrow from her unexpected companion. “I’ve got to go.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you later.” She picked up her purse and jumped off the stool.

“I wouldn’t have minded, you know,” Draco said to Hermione’s retreating back.

Confused, she turned back around. “Sorry?”

“You wanted to hug me,” Draco said. Before Hermione had a chance to voice her obvious surprise, he continued, “you could have, and it would have been fine. I might have even hugged you back.”

“Oh, right,” Hermione stammered. “Well, I’ll ... bear that in mind for next time, then.”

“Please do.”

She remained frozen on the spot for a moment, trying to figure out something else of worth to say. In the end she thought of nothing, and turned away.

“About time,” Ron greeted her when she knocked on the door to Room 12. “What kept you?”

“Sorry,” she apologised, “I got distract—woah!”

Without any warning to speak of, Ron had pushed her quite violently against the door.

“Was that necessary?” she asked him as he stepped closer to her.

“Well, no,” Ron answered, placing a hand on either side of the door, blocking all possible routes of escape on her part, “but I know you like being, what’s the best way of putting it? ‘Thrown about’?”

“Only by you, of course.” Hermione grinned as Ron leaned down to kiss her.

Section 4: Day 3

3:30am

While Draco knew that that was technically only 6:30pm GMT, right now he was operating on Australian Daylight Saving Time (ADST) and really wanted sleep.

But no. It seemed that the amused receptionist from last night had been right. The couple next door were also lovemakers. They weren’t as loud as the precious lot, but there was definitely enough moaning, heavy breathing and banging into walls to keep Draco awake.

He probably could still have arranged himself into a state of fitful and unrestful sleep, but sleep none-the-less, if he hadn’t picked up a few disturbing words from next door fairly early in the piece:

“Oh ... oh Ron ... Ron ...”

“Hermione ... so close ...”

“Come for me, Ron ... come for me ...”

Now that, Draco thought to himself, is the stuff of nightmares.

He could picture it, clear as a bell. King Weasel’s freckly arse bobbing up and down, a look of determination on his sweaty red face, changing to one of pure ecstasy as he finally released, and collapsed in a triumphant thoroughfare of masculine glory.

Then of course Hermione would be lying beneath him, legs spread apart, perhaps wrapped around his back. Her wild hair would be splayed around her head like a thick chocolate-coloured mane, her skin, smooth and slightly damp, glowing in the dim light of the room. As she moved, her large-but-not-unsightly breasts and maybe the tiniest of tiny rolls of fat along her belly and arms would jiggle, and in the case of her breasts bounce up and down, up and down, in almost hypnotic waves. With one last thrust she would seize up, her grasp on reality leaving her for one fleeting, wonderful moment as she orgasmed, stretching from top to toe and letting the waves of pleasure surround her, consume her, delight her...

Draco shook the mental image away and turned on his bedroom light. Sitting up, he discovered that his thoughts had had a substantial effect on Little Draco down there. Indeed, a reasonably-sized colony of the Little People could have resided under the perpetual tent that Little Draco and the blanket created.

He’d never enjoyed how he couldn’t rise above his body’s more primal urges, and normally he would have ignored Little Draco, in a move very out-of-character for most men, but admittedly pretty in-character for his ex-wife. This time, however, he wanted to get to sleep, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to with such a massive boner. With a sigh he snuck his hand under the duvet and into his pyjama bottoms. Wrapping his hand around his manhood, he closed his eyes and cast his mind back to the few erotic images he had stored in the back of his head for just these sorts of occasions. He stroked, back and forth, for a good five minutes before pausing and opening his eyes. It wasn’t working.

Merlin. Maybe I should play ring toss with it instead. Draco chuckled at the thought, and then heard a hard thump against the wall. Without thinking about it, he cocked his head to the side and listened.

He could hear ... breathing. And sighing. They could just have been executing a fairly rigorous aerobics routine, really. Then he once again heard voices.

“Ron ... let me be on top ...”

“Yeah ... sure ... oh, that feels ...”

“Touch me ... I need you to touch me ...”

I’d touch you, Draco thought, his hand starting to move up and down again, I’d touch you as much as you wanted me to touch you. His eyes fluttered closed as he pictured Hermione crawling over, her naked breasts swaying slightly with her movement. Slowly, carefully, she’d climb onto him, one curvaceous thigh pressing into each side. She’d smile and lean down, letting her hair fall over her face as she’d kiss him. Her tongue would press into his lips, parting them and tasting the inside of his mouth, slowly and deliberately. He’d groan, and thrust his hips upwards. She would know that he was ready, raise her hips and lower herself onto his painfully erect cock. He’d groan in ecstasy.

“Touch me, Draco,” she would purr.

He would move his hand toward the valley between her breasts, and let his fingers lightly graze the pale skin. He’d then go lower, smoothing his palm along her stomach, dipping slightly into her naval as he reached his ultimate goal. He’d get to the area between her legs and find her clitoris, already engorged and slippery with her arousal.

“... right there, ooh, yes, there ...”

He’d press on her clit and she’d moan out loud, tilting her head back and starting to lift herself up and down. Her hands would make their way to her chest, cup her breasts and massage them with vigour.

“... faster... faster...”

His hips would move in time with hers, thrusting up as she pushed down, straining to fill her as much as possible. As her pace quickened she would stop playing with her breasts and lean down again, take one hand in each of hers and pull their joined arms above their heads, lengthening her gorgeous body, the better for him to see.

“... I’m close... so close...”

Still faster she’d thrust, her breath now coming in panting gasps, her eyes shut and her mouth slightly open. His eyes would squeeze shut too. He’d feel every part of her that’s touching him, and focus on how glorious it feels to have somebody in this way after so long. She’d thrust down on him one more time and clamp her mouth on his neck to stop herself from screaming out his name. He would have no time for that, and would yell her name into the air as he shot his seed into her... Hermione.

“Oh Hermione ... Hermione...”

Draco slept well that night.

~*~

He couldn’t believe he’d let her talk him into this.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

If Hermione had been able to, he was sure she would have turned around and glared at him.

“Excuse me?” she said instead. “As I recall, this was your suggestion.”

“Then you should have talked me out of it. I told you I’m scared of heights.”

“You’re talking rubbish. You were perfectly fine flying 20 feet in the air for Quidditch.”

“I had magic protecting me then.”

“And you’ve got a harness now. And why don’t you shout out the word ‘magic’ a little louder, hey? Some of the people below us might not have heard you.”

Ron sighed. And to think, this morning had gone so well. They’d woken up later than they’d planned to, in that fantastic post-sex haze that he had almost forgotten about. They’d showered, dressed and left the hotel to indulge in a lovely brunch by the harbour.

But then ... came the fear.

It somehow hadn’t occurred to Ron yesterday that while they climbed that enormous bridge there would be no protective magical cushion to prevent injury, like there reportedly are in the magical sections of the Himalayas, or the Alps. He had voiced his concern to Hermione, who had seemed surprised more than anything else.

“It’s perfectly safe, darling,” she said. “They have these contraptions, called harnesses. Think of them as a strong rope. You tie one end to yourself and the other to the bridge. Then if you fall, you won’t fall far.”

“What if the harness breaks?”

“You’re in three harnesses.”

“What if all three break?”

“Ron.” Hermione placed a hand over his and stroked it gently; not at all like how she’d stroked other parts of his body last night. “You’re being silly. They’ve done these climbs for years and there has not been a single incident. You will be absolutely fine.”

Ron grimaced. He still wasn’t sure about this.

“Please, darling,” Hermione cooed, “for me?”

He hated the ‘for me’ plea. It always worked. This time was no exception.

“Okay, fine.”

Hermione grinned at him. “You’re going to love it.”

... he was not loving it.

So far it had been nothing but flimsy-looking stairs and laborious climbing. Also, they were so close together that they couldn’t see much other than the posterior of the person in front of them. He was lucky enough to be constantly greeted with Hermione’s sweet cheeks, but she had some overweight bloke in his mid-fifties’ bottom in her way. He doubted the bloke behind him was terribly pleased with the view either.

“Hermione?” he called to her.

“Yes?” There was definitely irritation in her voice. This climb wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t normally an active person. She was probably exhausted.

“Are we there yet?”

“Ha!” came the voice of that unfortunate man a few steps below. “Good one mate.”

“Cheers,” Ron replied.

Hermione huffed in annoyance. “We’ll get there when we get there. You can still look at the Harbour as we go.”

“No way. While we’re climbing I’m thinking about nothing except climbing.”

“Suit yourself.”

They continued to climb in silence, but Ron was now uneasy. They weren’t arguing, exactly, but she was being short with him. Admittedly he had just teased her, but this morning she would have brushed it off with a light laugh and perhaps a playful comeback, rather than the not-so-playful retort that he’d just got. Hopefully he was overreacting, and she was just a bit tired, and they’d soon be back to being all lovey-dovey and fuck-like-bunny-y.

“Okay everybody,” their leader shouted to them several moments later, “This is it.”

Ron looked out, and gasped. The view was spectacular. He could see the entire harbour from up here, which was no mean feat for a harbour as big as this one. The buildings that had seemed to shiny and tall from the ground now seemed insignificant, if still quite shiny. He doubted there ever would be a better view of the Opera House. Then on the other side were miles and miles of houses, cars and Sydneysiders. His hands gripped the railing with excitement. He’d done it. He’d climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

“Amazing,” he breathed.

Next to him, Hermione nodded. Her face was red, she was panting, and her hair had been reduced to her school-girl days of optimum bushiness. But she seemed pleased.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I think we should be proud of ourselves.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. They remained like that for a moment, before she shrugged his hand away.

“Sorry,” she apologised. “It’s a bit uncomfortable when I’m getting my breath back.”

“No problem.” He turned back to the ledge, trying to shake away the growing niggle of worry in the back of his head.

~*~

“Are you all right?”

“Hmm?” Hermione looked up from her fried ice cream. Ron was sitting opposite her, his banana split already eaten. Despite the dab of chocolate sauce on the corner of his mouth, he appeared the epitome of worry and concern.

“I’m fine, Ron. Why do you ask?”

“I just...” Ron looked uneasily back at his plate. “I was just making sure.”

Hermione, as everybody knew but always seemed to forget, was no fool. She knew that something was on Ron’s mind. She’d noticed how subdued he had been on the climb back down. He had nearly left the climbing centre without her. Then, when she’d suggested they have Chinese for dinner, because Chinese food in Australia was apparently some of the nicest you can get outside of China, instead of his normal response of asking “Do they do nice desserts?”, he had merely said “works for me,” and nothing else until they found somewhere to eat.

“Is there something on your mind, darling?” she asked him.

Ron raised his head back up and looked at her. He didn’t speak for a moment. To Hermione, it seemed as though he was doing some quick thinking.

“No,” he ended up saying, smiling at her at the same time. “Nothing at all. I think I’m just tired from the climb.”

He was lying. He had never been a convincing liar, and she knew him better than anyone. There very clearly was something on his mind; something that he was not willing to tell her.

Hermione had always felt that their marriage was difficult for two main reasons. For one thing, they were both often reluctant to share inner feelings with each other until those feelings had culminated into extreme pent-up emotion perfect for a mighty screaming match that normally resulted in at least one of them being emotionally hurt. The other reason was that Ron didn’t like her being friends with other men, besides Harry of course. He had jealousy issues that she wished he would sort out. Of course, he refused to admit that he had jealousy issues, so she wasn’t holding her breath on his resolving them any time soon.

But his jealousy wasn’t the issue here. Unless he told her what was troubling him soon, she would turn around one day and he would explode.

Despite that, and probably against her better judgement, she decided to leave it for now. She wasn’t in the mood for a personal talk. Not until she’d at least had a good night’s sleep. That climb really had been very exhausting.

~*~

When they got back to the hotel Hermione told Ron that, like last night, she wanted a drink before bed. Ron nodded and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before heading upstairs.

She entered the bar and, approaching the counter, immediately noticed the light blonde head of hair that was fast becoming very familiar to her. She smiled. Seeing him there felt ... comforting, almost. Or refreshing, even.

Was it possible for something to be comforting and refreshing at the same time?

She slid onto the seat next to him and he, sensing her movement, turned and smiled at her. It occurred to her that he didn’t smile very often. It was a pity. He had a lovely smile.

“I thought you might turn up,” he said.

Something occurred to her. “Were you waiting for me?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I might have been.”

An interesting response. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was he flirting with her? And if so, why would he be flirting with her? She wasn’t much of a flirter; she’d never really needed to be. She also didn’t have the natural charisma required to flirt successfully. She wasn’t sure if she should flirt back or ignore it.

“Stop thinking.” Hermione jumped at Draco’s unexpected interruption.

“What?”

“You’re thinking,” Draco said. “Stop it. You’re on holiday. You’re paying people to think for you.”

Hermione huffed, but she was mildly amused. “So if I thought more, would I get a discount?”

“You might; but I’d grasp the opportunity to not think by both hands if I were you. It will do you good.”

“How would you know what would do me good? You don’t know me.” She didn’t mean to be offensive, but it occurred to her after she’d said it that her words were harsh.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem offended. He also, however, didn’t agree with her.

“I think I might know more than you think,” he said.

“Really?” She waved the bartender over and ordered a margarita.

“Yes, really.”

“Okay.” The bartender placed a glass in front of her and she handed him a bright blue $10 note. “Answer me this then. Why did we decide to come here?”

“Hmm,” Draco mused. Either that or he was pretending to muse. “Something to do with your marriage, perhaps?”

While technically correct, his answer was too vague for her to be impressed. A lot of couples go on holiday because of marital issues, after all. “What gave you that idea?”

“Mainly, the fact that you’re at the bar by yourself, talking to me,” he answered. “If you weren’t having problems you’d be here together, wouldn’t you?”

Hermione shook her head. He couldn’t have been further off the mark. “Ron’s an Auror. He doesn’t drink. He never comes into bars with me. In fact, the only time he ever does come in is when he’s paranoid that some man is going to try and woo me. So, you’re dead wrong. Sorry.”

“Damn.” He clicked his fingers in mock disappointment. “I hope you don’t blame me for trying to impress you.”

He was definitely flirting. But, she found that she didn’t mind so much. It was actually kind of fun, bantering like this. Maybe she wasn’t so bad a flirt after all.

“Well, if you’re that keen to impress me,” she said, “I suppose I can let you try again.”

“You’re very merciful,” Draco complimented her. “Excuse me, barkeep? May we have two more drinks, please?”

~*~

Where was she?

Ron checked his watch for the 40th time in as many minutes. How long did it take to get a drink? She had taken less than twenty minutes last night, and that’d been quite long enough for him and his long-withstanding erection.

Should he go to the bar? He normally stayed away when she want to bars. They were her way of getting some space. Like her version of the Auror training room. He’d hate it if she visited him there on a regular basis and, thankfully, she normally stayed away. The only time she had come down was when a trainee Auror had gotten a bit excited and cast a particularly nasty Stupefy on him. Hermione had come down to Apparate him safely home, at his boss’s request.

What if she was in trouble? He knew that Hermione wasn’t a big drinker. She’d generally have two drinks at most in one sitting. But other people were big drinkers, particularly Australians. What if some big, drunk Australian blokes had noticed her and started trying to do ... Merlin knows what ... to her? And she didn’t have her wand. She was defenceless.

He had to go to her. Right now. Without stopping to consider just how ridiculous he was probably being, he exited the room, strode down the hallway and down the stairs as quickly as his legs could carry him. Past reception, around the corner, he could see the bar now...

When he got to the entrance he stopped short, breathing a sigh of relief. Hermione’s hair was unmistakable, and she was perfectly fine. She was sitting at the main counter, having one of those weird salty drinks of hers, talking to...

Wait. Ron took a step closer, not quite believing his eyes. Was that Draco Malfoy? It had to be. That blonde hair was almost as unique as Hermione’s. The pair of them were sitting next to each other, which in itself wasn’t a terrible thing, especially considering how Malfoy seemed to have grown up a bit since Ron had last seen him, but there was something about their body language that gave Ron the creeps.

They were facing each other, their heads bowed in. Hermione seemed to be smiling, her hands relaxed in front of her, holding her glass. Malfoy made a brief gesture in the air and Hermione’s shoulders shook with laughter.

As Ron watched, he saw Draco’s hand move toward her. It reached up to the side of her face, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. Then his hand stayed, resting against her cheek.

The gesture was so romantic that Ron was struck by a desire to turn around and fake-vomit. That desire was nothing, however, compared to his anger. How dare he touch his wife like that? And how dare she let him? He was two seconds away from storming in there, grabbing Hermione’s arm, throwing the rest of her weird drink in his face and leading her away to yell at her for about half an hour, when she brought her hand over his, took his hand off her cheek, and quickly let go. She looked more defensive now, which lessened Ron’s anger. It reassured him to some extent, to know that she wasn’t comfortable with the gesture.

Before either of them could notice him there, he turned around and walked back to his room. When he got there he realised he’d left his key in there. Great.

Section 5 – Day 4:

“You waiting for anyone else, Darl?”

Draco opened his eyes to see a slightly overweight, middle-aged mother-type waitress standing before him.

“No,” Draco answered, smiling pleasantly. “It’s just me today.”

“Pity.” She took a notepad out of her apron pocket and poised her pen. “What’ll it be then, love?”

Pity? Draco thought. You have no idea. He ordered a ham, lettuce and tomato sandwich with a black coffee, and commenced his closed-eye thinking exercise as the waitress retreated.

Despite the almost complete lack of company so far, Draco had been having quite a satisfactory holiday. His ferry ride to that mysterious suburb (which he found out was called Manly) had been lovely, as had the place itself. He had gone to the history museum, which was interesting but laughable (Australia, in his opinion, had about as much history as England had space), and to an aquarium, which had been most impressive. At the same time he got to experience four full days of sunshine, ridiculously pleasant mid-August temperatures and more multiculturalism than he would have believed possible. He genuinely enjoyed being there. It was a pity, indeed, that he was too connected with the UK to actually contemplate living in Sydney.

Great as it all was, it would have been better with company. A friend or a relative ... even a lover would have been nice. The only person who had been able to come was his mother, who had adamantly refused to join him, saying that he needed to take this break by himself. A nice gesture on her part, but he felt it misguided. Holidays are generally better with company.

For company’s sake alone, he found that the most enjoyable part of the holiday thus far was the time he had spent at the bar with Hermione Granger. Who would have thought the overachieving bookworm would prove such pleasant company? She was as smart as ever, but she had become more playful. Astoria had been clever, but when he had said something that could be termed controversial, she would always become tight-lipped and incommunicable. Hermione instead challenged his remarks, and seemed to enjoy issuing the challenges. It made for an interesting change.

His opinion on her aesthetic qualities had not changed. She was very pretty, while definitely not being beautiful. Astoria was beautiful, and she knew it. Draco was sick of beautiful; of high-class, always clean, highly-polished, safe beauty. To him, the more aesthetically pleasing person was the one who presented themself naturally; or if not naturally, then at least in a way that looked as though they wouldn’t rapidly disintegrate were their looks not constantly maintained. He had stopped using hair gel for that reason.

Hermione was that type of aesthetically pleasing. She wore little make-up, her teeth were slightly crooked, her clothes well-cut but not designer, and her hair, well, that was its own story. He liked how long it was, and how flyaway and curly it presented itself. It intrigued him how it could look glossy and well looked-after, yet still slightly dry and frayed. How can hair be glossy and dry? It fascinated him to the point where he wanted to run his hand through it, discover its secret...

“Your sandwich.”

Draco jumped nearly a foot into the air.

“Th-thank you,” he said shakily.

“You OK?” A different waitress; a young woman of possibly Indian or Sri Lankan origin, was looking down at him now.

“Perfectly acceptable, thank you,” Draco replied. “You startled me a little, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less startling next time.” She winked at him and left for the kitchen.

It was incredible, how flirty the Australians were. Draco kind of liked it, if he was perfectly honest with himself. It wasn’t professional behaviour, but maybe that was okay. Maybe Australians have the right idea, not being so professional all the time. It seemed to make for a much more pleasant, and, he had to admit, more egalitarian society.

Flirting with Hermione had been nice as well. She’d been unsure about it at first, he could tell, but she loosened up fairly quickly. She hadn’t liked his touching her cheek very much, but maybe she wouldn’t mind the next time...

Wait. What was he doing? This wasn’t right. He was meeting up with and flirting with the wife of one of his worst enemies at school. Granted, King Weasel wasn’t an enemy any more, and it was hardly the Dark Ages; flirting wasn’t a big deal. The big deal was that he kept thinking about it. He kept thinking about her. Her crooked teeth, visible when she smiled, her hair, the slight curves on her body that were as natural as they were gorgeous, her intellect... and of course, there was the other night when thoughts of her had brought him incredible pleasure. He could only imagine how much greater it would be with the real thing...

No. Draco took a long sip of coffee. It burnt his tongue; a suitable punishment. He was not going to think about this. Yes, she was smart, and pretty. Yes, he hadn’t had sex in a very long time. But no. She was someone who until four days ago he had barely known. He was a Malfoy; he would never make love to somebody after having only known them for four days. And even if he would, she was married.

So no. He was definitely, definitely not going to indulge himself in even thinking of the possibility that that might happen.

Ever.

</div>

Part 2

Mod: Posted as two parts to fit.

Look At What Well-Meant Did for the community [PG-13] -- HP/DM, SS/DM

2009-11-15T08:35:21Z

Title: Look At What Well-Meant Did
Author: musamihi
Recipient: community
Rating: PG-13
Ship: Harry/Draco, Snape/Draco
Warnings: Mild AU, a bit angsty, and some off-stage non-graphic violence perpetrated by everyone’s favorite megalomaniacal, soulless reptile.
Summary: Snape meant well - but he never meant for this to happen.
Notes: Trio-era, slight AU, slash, and angst. I took “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” for my prompt, and I had a lot of fun playing around with it!
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters or their messed-up little world.

A solitary, shimmering fairy had drifted away from its fellows, and now floated with an aimless sort of melancholy along the dim corridor. It sank lower and lower in the air the further it drifted from the haze of warm light and high spirits spilling from around the corner at the end of the hall; Snape batted it ruthlessly out of the way and stalked back into the party, his shoulders hunched as though he were steeling himself against a gust of the December cold. Harry counted to forty, pulled off his cloak, and followed.

It wasn't hard to find Luna again, reflective as she was. She had gathered a small crowd around her, with expressions ranging from polite surprise to unmasked incredulity. Harry stood on its outskirts for a minute, feigning attention. His mind was racing.

Whatever Malfoy was up to, Snape had obviously thought it was serious - serious enough to put up with more insolence than he had thought possible, serious enough to sound truly alarmed. There was no question anymore (not that there had been, for him, not for months) that Malfoy was acting in Voldemort's service. The words echoed ominously in his mind: It's my job - I've got a plan. A plan for what? His plan had already landed one student in St. Mungo's, and he'd sounded dead set on trying again. How many more - ?

"- Don't you think so, Harry?"

Luna's voice carried across the tight circle of people directly to him, slightly higher in pitch than usual. He made himself focus on her face. She looked rather passionate, as she often did when making her case in the teeth of overwhelming fact.

"Yeah," he answered hesitantly, aware that he was more than likely attaching himself to some unthinkably far-fetched theory. He was glad she had drawn him out of his thoughts, though. Time was of the essence. He ignored the offended scoff issuing from the man that stood beside her, and forged onward before he could be overspoken. "I'm thinking of heading out, actually - feeling a bit - ill," he decided, pulling a face that shouldn't have been able to convince anyone. But Luna nodded wisely, fixing him with a mildly reproachful look.

"I imagine it was the costmary in the canapé," she said. "It's widely known to be troublesome for people with dark hair."

"Right." Thank you, Luna. He gave a quick, offhand smile to the other people gathered about. "Later, then." And he made his way to the door, praying he would not be caught up by someone he couldn't reasonably refuse. He felt a surge of relief when he saw Snape, looking sour and a touch distracted and very effectively cornered by an even further-gone Slughorn. He left mostly unnoticed, and hurried down the hall.

He knew he should go to see Dumbledore at once - wanted to very much. He would know what to make of it all, would know what to do - but he was away, gone off somewhere Harry hadn't the first clue how to reach him, for he didn't know how long.

And you know what he'll make of it, Harry thought to himself, stopping for a moment under the great vault that joined the corridors, before making a resolved left turn. He'll tell you Snape has to offer to help him, to gain his confidence, to thwart his plan - whatever it is. He won't tell you why, of course, but he'll make it clear that he's dead certain. And that will be the end of it. It frustrated him just to think of it, and for the first time he felt almost pleased that Dumbledore was unavailable. Indeed, what choice did he have now? With no one to turn to, he would simply have to take matters into his own hands. He couldn't wait for him to return, not when the delay might risk another Katie. And what Dumbledore wouldn't, or couldn't, tell him, perhaps he could discover on his own - from the source.

He had to confront Snape - of course he did. Before it was too late. His steps quickened in time with his pulse. The thought of questioning him directly gave him a rush of confidence that seemed to clarify everything momentarily. This was no time for cryptic assurances, for hoping that one's trust was not misplaced. When someone had almost died, when Voldemort was gathering his strength as sure as anything, when Malfoy was operating on his orders within these very walls, he needed direct answers. How could he be satisfied with any less?

He threw the cloak over himself again and went down into the dungeons, to stand with his back pressed flat against the cold stone wall just to the side of the thick wooden door that opened into Snape’s office. He would be here soon, surely. Harry didn’t see Snape as the sort to stick around at a party a moment longer than was necessary.

Twenty long, uncomfortable minutes later, he heard footsteps. Snape turned the corner, his wand drawn, and muttered a guttural sort of spell; the door creaked open enough to admit him, and then slid back into place impossibly quietly. Harry immediately dragged off his cloak and darted a few paces down the hall to wrap it around a short statue (once he had established that it was going to stay put). He rushed back and hammered his fist insistently against the door, sending low, dull thumping sounds echoing down the hallway.

There was a pause. Then the door was thrown open, and Snape stood looking out at him, his face shadowed by the low light radiating from a torch hidden behind him on the wall. From what Harry could see of his expression, he looked irritated, rather tired, and not a bit surprised. He promptly thrust out his hand.

“Give it to me, Potter.”

Harry looked blankly up at him. “Sir?”

He saw Snape’s lip curl. His outstretched hand twitched. “Your cloak, boy.”

“Sorry?” He pressed his mouth into a hard, thin line. There were times he regretted his inability to act, but occasionally it did produce satisfying results.

“Not even you’re that thick,” Snape growled. “You’ve been ranging about the halls at liberty after hours for far too long. I don’t know why you should be worthy of such indulgence –“

“Search me,” he said brightly as Snape grabbed his shoulder to turn him around. He held his arms out to his sides. With a snarl, Snape turned on his heel and retreated into his office, leaving the door standing open. Harry followed him inside, and nudged the door shut with his foot. He watched as he moved behind his desk to gather up a pile of scrolls, looking sullen.

“I don’t have all night, Potter.”

Harry stood stiffly between the two plain wooden chairs that faced his desk. “I need to speak with Professor Dumbledore –“

“I don’t know where he is, and if you –“

“- But seeing as he’s away, I thought I’d better come to you, instead.”

Something in Snape’s demeanor made a grudging change. He stopped, straightened, and condescended to give him his full attention, though the withering look he gave him made clear how little he desired to do so. “Speak, then.”

“Draco Malfoy is up to something – for Voldemort,” he said flatly, his voice climbing as he saw the beginnings of a protest in Snape’s thinning lips and tightening jaw. “And you’re offering to help him. And I want to know why.”

Snape glared down at him. After a moment he deposited the scrolls abruptly on a chair and leaned over the desk towards him, pressing his fingertips against the surface. “If the Headmaster were here,” he said softly, “He would warn you against eavesdropping, and tell you to mind your own business –“

“It is my own business, thanks –“

“And furthermore,” he continued, with a sharp shake of his head that seemed to deny the very possibility of interruption, “If I ever find that bloody cloak of yours I will take it apart, thread by thread, and feed it to you.”

Harry quickly pulled his mind away from the now-invisible statue just down the corridor. Keeping eye contact with Snape always made him more unsettled than he liked, but he would be damned if he’d spend the meeting looking down at his shoes. He pressed on. “He practically spelled out Voldemort’s name, and you all but begged to help him.” He didn’t feel he had to ask the question, again. The accusation was enough.

Snape looked set to brush him once more, but clearly the opportunity to call Harry’s intelligence into question yet again was too sweet an opportunity to forego. “As I’m sure even you could guess for yourself – were you inclined to try – offering him my assistance is the best way to gain his confidence. I can’t very well stop him if I don’t know what he means to do.”

“And that’s why you made an Unbreakable Vow, is it? To gain his confidence?” he asked boldly, staring up into his face all the more defiantly in hopes that it would not become immediately clear that he hadn’t the faintest idea what that meant. “To stop him?”

“You are not my only obligation,” Snape said softly, his eyes narrowing as they often did when he regarded Harry just a little too closely, no doubt searching for that resemblance that brought such unmitigated loathing to his face. He seemed to find it without too much trouble. “I have other students. Your safety is not my sole concern, and if you were not so persistently self-absorbed, so intransigently stupid, you might realize that you are not the only one in peril. There are other people risking life and limb –“

Harry had to laugh. “Malfoy –“

“And you might,” he snarled, bringing his palm down sharply on the desk, “Realize that someone may be worth protecting despite the fact that you don’t particularly care for them. Believe me, I know how perfectly wretched it can be. But it’s true all the same.”

“So you’re offering to help him just because you’re a decent bloke.” The urge to laugh was diminishing. Not because it wasn’t a patently ridiculous suggestion – Snape was either using Malfoy for information or trying to steal his glory, that he was sure of – but because it really wasn’t very funny, in the end. And then, being called a callous git by Snape, of all people, was enough to start to make him angry.

“Believe it or not, Potter, some people can see past their own noses.”

“Can’t be easy for you.” How dare he accuse him of being self-interested?

“I’ve had enough of your insolence for one –“

“No!” Harry shoved abruptly at the chair that stood in front of him, and its arms jolted weakly against the desk. “I’m tired of having to take everyone’s word that you’re in it for the best – tell me what he’s trying to do, and I’ll handle it. It’s more my concern than it is yours. If he actually needs help, if he’s really in danger, it’s probably because the evil fucks he has for parents have shoved him into it, and I can help him better than you can.” It was hard not to remember that Sirius had called him Lucius Malfoy’s lapdog, hard not to think of the mountain of evidence that placed him squarely in Voldemort’s camp. He was no help to anyone, if any of that was true.

Snape was silent for a moment, his expression frozen. Then he turned away, and began collecting things apparently at random from the shelves that stood behind his desk. “Of course – it has to be you. You are very much like your father.” It was the same disgusted tone as always, but the emphasis was off, somehow, as though he were simply reminding himself.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “He did have a habit of saving stupid slimy bastards who didn’t deserve it. Of course,” he continued, glancing down at the desk where the Pensieve had sat between them last year, ignoring the dangerous look that was bubbling up on Snape’s face as he whirled around to face him again, “So did my mother, apparently, and I don’t think –“

His words caught in his throat when he felt Snape’s cold, bony fingers seizing him up by his robes and his collar. He didn’t know how he had gotten beside him so fast – he might have jumped over the desk – but an instant later Harry was tumbling out onto the floor in the hallway, one of his arms stinging as though someone had tried to wrench it out of its socket. The door slammed. He sat up and righted his glasses, stunned enough that he simply looked into the darkness for a few moments.

- - -

This mattress had sagged in the middle since the first night he’d slept on it, when he was eleven years old. These days it creaked in its frame under his weight; his feet planted themselves firmly on the floor when he sat on it, rather than swinging loose above the thin runner of carpet. There was a streetlamp glaring in at the window, casting long shadows behind all the beaten furniture that was cluttered in his bedroom. His trunk sat squarely in the center, unopened. He’d been back on Privet Drive a full day now, but couldn’t bring himself to begin to unpack.

They’d told him that he didn’t have a choice. He would be here until his birthday. The months stretching out ahead of him seemed ridiculously long – how could it be worth it? Why should he have to suffer through a full summer of being cut off from everything that was happening, when it was more important than ever that he do something? Exactly what he would do was a question he’d been asking himself since the night Dumbledore had died - it hasn’t even been a week - and though he had great faith in the Order and even more in Hermione, the not-knowing sometimes made him go cold with fear.

Tonight he simply felt numb, like the day had come to a stop too abruptly for him to try to sleep. He couldn’t even convince himself to get up to shut the curtains, though the light made him squint when he turned his head toward it. He heard a gust of wind, once, and thought of opening the sash; it was unseasonably hot. But he heard no more after that, and gave the opportunity up for lost. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, dropped it on the floor, and lay back to stare at the ceiling. There was a rustling noise from the front yard, followed by a couple snapping twigs. They washed over him. He had expected to be intensely keyed up all summer, acutely tuned to every hint of danger … instead, he felt deeply and miserably useless.

But then he heard an unmistakably human gasp from beneath his window, and was at the sill within a few seconds, wand at the ready and to hell with the rules. What were they going to do – expel him? He looked out, and saw nothing – then struggled with the lock for a moment and pushed it open to stick his head out.

There, standing waist-deep in the thick hedge of hydrangea that grew close along the side of the house, was Draco Malfoy, looking around himself as though he wasn’t certain how he’d got there. Their eyes had barely met before Harry slammed the window shut again, threw the door to his room open with a bang, and raced down the stairs to the front door. He didn’t care who he woke up. By the time he was standing on the front stoop, Malfoy had extricated himself from the bushes, and was standing with his shoulders hunched and his wand at his side, the very picture of discomfort. He looked exposed and strange, standing on the grass in the dim grey glow coming from the street. He began to raise his hands.

”Expelliarmus.” Harry didn’t trust him, not in the least – and it was sharply satisfying to see him stumble backward onto the brick path leading away from the drive, his wand clattering off under the car. When he saw Harry advancing on him he began to scramble backwards. The words coming out of his mouth were jumbled and unimportant. Harry leaned down to grab at the front of his shirt, and jerked his body up away from the ground.

“Wait - !” Draco had seized onto his wrists with surprising strength, and was pulling himself upright. When he had found his feet he shoved himself out of arm’s reach, and wrapped his arms around himself protectively. He looked lost. “Wait - I’m not here to –“

“What the hell are you doing here?” He had closed the distance between them again, and the tip of his wand hovered just below Malfoy’s chin. “Never mind – shut up. Get inside.” If Voldemort couldn’t hurt him there, he had no fear at all that Malfoy could do so – and it was better than standing out here with him. It might have been some ploy to draw him out into the open.

But Malfoy turned and nearly ran to the front door, apparently happy enough to see them both back in the safety of the Dursleys’ foyer. He only stopped when his hand was on the knob, and tried to turn. “My wand –“ But Harry was right behind him, and not about to stop. He pushed the door open and shoved him inside. “You won’t need it.” He would fetch it later, he thought – or perhaps not. The only thing he cared about at the moment was getting him to talk. He kicked the door shut behind him and cornered Malfoy, who tripped back against the little table that sat in the hallway, rocking its vase. Malfoy flinched and looked away when Harry stuck his wand in his face again. Even in the dark Harry could see his eyes were a little red, and swollen; he was disheveled, and might not have bathed for days. He was still wearing his school uniform, though his tie seemed to have gone missing.

“What do you want?” he demanded again, feeling a wave of bitter fury when he remembered the spark of compassion he’d felt for this, when all along he had been scheming towards Dumbledore’s death. And Snape had known the entire time, of course, and Harry, like a true idiot, had let him talk him into feeling almost sorry for him.

“You have to help me,” Malfoy said, his voice strained. “You have to hide –“

“I really don’t think I do –“

“What the hell is going on down here?” Harry heard his uncle trundling down the stairs, but didn’t turn to face him. He heard him stop on the landing with a vehement curse. “How dare you – bringing more of your freakish friends into my –“

“He’s not my friend!” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s shirt again and pushed him towards the stairs, marching behind him. “I’d get back to bed, if I were you. He’s a murderer –“

“I didn’t kill him!” Malfoy turned to him with a twisted look on his face. Aunt Petunia, who had appeared on the stairs behind her husband, recoiled with a gasp when Harry gave him another shove. He caught himself on the banister. “I didn’t, I couldn’t –“

”Up!” He dragged him up to the top of the stairs and thrust him into his bedroom, whirling around on the threshold to shout at his uncle, who had followed them. He jabbed his wand toward him. “Don’t even think about coming in here!” He slammed the door as the man’s face was shifting from livid to decidedly alarmed.

Malfoy had fallen into his desk chair. He was gripping the sides of it so tightly that his fingers were bone white, and he shook as he stared at the floor. He winced when Harry flipped on the light. It was easy to see, now, that he’d been crying, and recently. Good. He regarded him silently, letting his anger flow through him as his aunt and uncle spoke excitedly to one another in the hall. They didn’t seem to be coming to hammer on his door, however, and he tuned them out a moment later. Harry stormed across the room to stand over him. He wanted to hurt him, he realized – would have loved nothing more than to hit him, to see his blood spill out into his hands. But … it was impossible, when Malfoy seemed to shrink down into himself every time Harry so much as moved. He was cowering as far back in the chair as he could push himself now, unable even to look at him. It was pathetic, and it sapped him of the physical urge to strike out at the other boy completely.

“Well?” he snapped. He shoved his wand into his pocket, resentfully.

“You have to hide me,” Malfoy repeated, sounding oddly flat, and hoarse. He looked as though he’d swallowed something sour when he added, “Please. – Just hide me.”

Harry scoffed. “If you think the first thing I’m going to do isn’t turn you right over to the Order, you’re fucking insane.”

“From Him,” Draco broke in, in a hissed whisper. He looked up at Harry for a moment, before turning his eyes hurriedly back to the edge of the rug, where they unfocused again. “I don’t care how, just – you can’t let Him find me.” Another grimace. “Please.”

“Why should you want to hide from Voldemort? You’ve just made his year, I imagine –“

“Because I couldn’t do it!” he cried, raising his eyes to stare out the window, looking a little crazed. “Because he wanted me to, and I didn’t – I couldn’t do it – and I know he’ll ask again, and keep making me do things that I can’t do, and then he’ll kill me, or he’ll kill my family.” He shook his head. “I can’t -”

“He hasn’t killed you yet.” It was hard to think Malfoy could possibly act this well – but, no. Harry had been fooled before; he shouldn’t let himself be taken in again. He knew that what Malfoy was saying was probably true, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t some scheme underlying it all. Last time he’d made the mistake of pitying him, it had ended – well, it had ended like this. “It’s been days. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

Malfoy went so pale so quickly that Harry was almost sure he would be sick – he took a step back, watching him. But his hands only shook harder, and his mouth clamped tightly shut – and that was all. Harry knew that what he’d said was true. Malfoy had gone off with Snape and Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people – if Voldemort had wanted to kill him, he’d have been given his chance. “Where have you been?” he asked, looking anew at Malfoy’s wrinkled clothes, his untidy hair and markedly haggard face. “What’s happened to you?”

Malfoy was silent for a while; Harry was about to ask him again, and louder, when he blurted out: “He tortured me.”

Harry wished it could have made him feel good, but it only made him nauseous. He swallowed against the uneasy feeling in his stomach, and folded his arms over his chest. A surge of phantom pain beat out from his spine to the tips of his fingers, and was gone. “When?”

“He let me go about an hour ago,” Malfoy replied, now quite detached, though his body was still trembling tensely.

“And sent you here,” Harry said, feeling extraordinarily tired all of a sudden. Even if he believed Malfoy – which he supposed he did, though it gave him no satisfaction at all – it was far too much of a stretch to think that he’d simply come up with the idea of running here all on his own. Surely he’d have tried taking refuge with anyone else, first.

“No.” Malfoy shook his head, desperation creeping into his face. “No – he didn’t, I swear. He thinks I’ve gone home to my – to my mother –“ He broke off and raised his hand to his hair, suddenly, smoothing it down as though something had disturbed it.

“Then who sent you?” Malfoy’s face froze in hesitation, confirming Harry’s suspicions for him. “If you lie to me, you can go try your luck on the street.”

“Professor Snape,” he admitted, straightening in the chair when Harry turned to the window with a curse. “He told me it would be better for me if I came to you – he knows He’ll only keep using me, he saw what He did to me.”

Harry leaned out the window again, his arms crossed over the sill. If Snape had sent him here, he had certainly had a reason. He would be up to something. What it was, Harry couldn’t decide; he was safe here, and Snape undoubtedly knew that. He must also have known that there was no way Harry was going to be coaxed out of his safehouse by Draco Malfoy, no matter what happened. He would have guessed that Harry would send him immediately off with one of the Order, to hide him or hold him as they saw fit. It made him anxious and more than a little angry to know he must be playing into Snape’s plans, but he didn’t see what else he could do. The other option was to turn Malfoy away entirely, and that …

He couldn’t do that, he knew. Voldemort had used him. That had been clear up on the Tower, and it was even moreso now. As Snape himself had pointed out to him – just because Harry hated him didn’t mean he deserved that. You were lying through your teeth when you said it, but that doesn’t make it wrong.

He turned on his heel to see Malfoy in precisely the same position, clinging to the chair as if it might throw him off at any second. Harry went into his trunk for quill and parchment, and scrawled off a note in silence. The Order would send someone more than capable of dealing with Malfoy, he was sure, and the sooner they did it, the better. He sent Hedwig off with the letter, and shut the window again.

… And now what? He didn’t want Malfoy in his bedroom, that was for sure. He also didn’t like the thought of him sitting around unsupervised, no matter what state he was in. And as much as he wanted to be able to enjoy seeing him this miserable, he found that he just couldn’t. “Are you thirsty?” he asked, after what felt like an hour. Malfoy looked up at him, surprised, and nodded. “Downstairs, then.” Harry waited for Malfoy to leave the room, then followed close behind as he went into the hall; he directed him to the kitchen when he wavered at the bottom of the stairs, and never took his eyes off him as he took a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap. He pointed him to the sofa when they went into the parlor, and took a seat himself in one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the room.

Malfoy set the water glass on the side table, and sat with his hands folded between his knees. He seemed more comfortable in the darkness – his posture was more relaxed, though he still shook visibly. They sat quietly long enough for Harry to start wondering how long it would take for someone to come and take him off his hands.

“We’re safe here – aren’t we?” Malfoy asked, nearly in a whisper. “From Him? There’s something about – this place.”

You’re not, Harry wanted to say. There’s nothing keeping him from you, here. And I wouldn’t waste my time standing in his way. He nodded, instead. When Malfoy reached for his water, Harry stood up and left the room. He unbolted the front door and went out into the drive, crouching down beside the car to look for Malfoy’s wand. He found it as soon as his eyes adjusted to the blackness, and he picked it up. He wouldn’t be the one to choose whether or not to give it back, he decided – he would give it to whoever they sent to escort Malfoy, and they would have the pleasure.

He cut across the lawn on his way back to the door, turning away from the path to feel the grass under his feet – anything for a little cool. When he returned to the parlor, he found Malfoy face down on the sofa, his arms curled tightly underneath him, fast asleep. His empty glass was sitting on the floor.

- - -

Shortly before dawn, Draco heard shouting. He hadn’t been sleeping very soundly - in fact never had during the week that he’d been here, driven nearly to distraction by the constant back and forth of the sea on the rocks – and so he was more or less alert within moments, sitting upright against the headboard, debating whether or not to leave his room and see what the fuss was about. He was curious, especially as it sounded as though something bad had happened. His mind always raced to the worst possible conclusion in such situations, these days, and the panic started to set in as he wondered if he would have to move again, and find a new hiding place now that the Dark Lord’s people had breached or destroyed another one.

But he knew he wouldn’t be a welcome addition to the discussion, no matter what had happened or who had come. Months of living among members of the Order and their confidants, none of whom considered him particularly dangerous, but none of whom trusted him enough to let him wait out the war anywhere but directly under their noses, had taught him to keep to himself. He had always taken for granted that he just didn’t care what other people thought of him, but in fact, it seemed, that was not the case. The bare tolerance with which he was treated made him extremely uncomfortable, sometimes dangerously close to ashamed. Even when it wasn’t mixed with contempt, it made him want to hide all over again.

Delacour was one of the kinder ones he’d stayed with. He tried to forget, as often as possible, that there was a Weasley here, as well. It wasn’t hard – he hardly ever saw him. Still, Draco spent the vast majority of time in the bedroom they’d given him, eating alone, reading whatever papers they had finished with. Every now and again over the past months, someone had come to ask him questions. He hardly ever knew useful answers, however, and their visits were becoming less frequent. He had started keeping a journal to pass the time, but he was pretty sure it was full of rubbish. He didn’t know what to write. Nothing he thought about seemed like anything he would ever want to remember. Sometimes he amused himself by thinking of what it would be like when he was finally able to see his parents again, but that tended to push his imagination in the wrong direction, more often than not, and he had to make himself stop. He hadn’t been able to send word to them.

He swung his legs out of bed when some of the voices drifted up to him clearly enough to be distinguishable – he was sure of Granger’s, and fairly certain the boy with her was Ron Weasley. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but his stomach gave a lurch. Weasley was supposed to be deathly ill at home, and she had been missing all year, as far as he knew, and presumed to be with –

He stood to go to the window, and jerked back away from it almost as soon as he had arrived. There, at the back of the garden, was Potter, going at the ground with a spade like he’d gone quite mad. He drew the curtain, slid back under the covers again, and decided it would be best to pretend to be asleep for as long as possible. His heart was racing.

The last time he had seen him, he’d been half out of his mind; he hardly remembered it at all. That night was a blurred muddle of images, disarranged in time. He was waiting, rigid with fear, for Him to summon him, as Snape had said He would; he was on the floor, clawing madly at the carpet and screaming for his mother, in more pain than he had ever felt, ever dreamed of feeling; he was back in the dingy little safehouse Snape had kept him in for he didn’t know how many days; he was on a sofa in a strange house, watching Potter’s bare shoulders tensing angrily as he spoke to him.

He supposed Snape had probably been right – it was better for him now, having gone to Potter and given himself up to the Order, than it ever could have been if he had returned home like he had been supposed to. He still didn’t know why Snape had helped him, though it meant betraying his master, and no one he had asked had been able to shed any light on the matter. It had made them all even more suspicious of him than they might otherwise have been, but he had kept telling them the truth, and eventually they had accepted that if there was some plan afoot, Draco wasn’t privy to it. His journal was full of half-coherent musings about why Snape would bother to help him at all – was it because they had liked each other, before? It was possible, but Draco knew no one would betray Voldemort simply because they liked someone. Did he hope to gain something from it? The only people who would pay for his safety were his parents, who were in no position to do anyone any favors these days, he was sure.

He thought often of Snape, who ever since that night he had pictured pacing, as animated as he had ever seen him, along the length of the dim bedroom of the safehouse, his pale face flashing every few moments back to where Draco lay curled on one side of the bed, sobbing though his throat was hopelessly dry. Minutes later he had sent him off to Potter, with a wretched look on his face that Draco hadn’t had the time or the presence of mind to interpret. All these months later, he had come no closer to deciding why he’d done it. What was it that could compel someone to break faith with a man who held his life in his hands?

The night gave way to twilight, and still no one had come to speak to him or to tell him to move, though he heard more and more voices as the hour wore on. Some were familiar, some were not. His heart leapt into his throat every time he heard his name, and he began to think he was hearing things – it came up far more often than it should have. It occurred to him that they might have been talking about his parents, and he went to shut himself into the little bathroom attached to his bedroom, feeling ill. The day wore on. He watched some of them coming and going from his window, suffered through long periods of utter silence when he didn’t know whether he had been left alone, and felt completely idiotic sitting stock-still every time he heard voices in the hall. He had no appetite at all until the sun was setting again.

It was around that time that the house settled into one of its silent hours. He knew everyone was here, because he had seen them coming through the back door at various points in the afternoon. He could only assume they had finally sorted through enough of whatever had happened that they could now allow themselves to sleep. He was willing to take his chances, now that he’d realized how hungry he was. He could go down to the kitchen, find some bread, at least, and hope there was no one around. He thought he might be able to cope with Delacour; she’d tell him what had happened, if nothing else. Still, it took him the better part of thirty minutes to work up the nerve to pull on a pair of trousers under his night shirt, open his door, check for footsteps in the hall, and quickly make the turn onto the staircase before any of the other bedroom doors could open.

He nearly collided with Harry, who was standing halfway up the stair, apparently lost in thought.

Draco froze, his hand pressed flat against the wall, arm stretched out across Harry’s path. It earned him a glare, but nothing more. Someone must have told him he would be here. He looked angry, unhappy and exceedingly tired, but not surprised. No doubt the last thing he wanted was to see him standing in the way of his sleep. But Draco had questions, and if this was who he would have to ask them of – so be it. It was better than slinking meekly by, and down to the kitchen. If only he could get his tongue to cooperate –

“What?” Harry snapped at him, taking another step up.

“Where have you come from?” he asked, rushing to say something. “No one’s said anything to me. I want to know what’s happened.”

“Yeah, we’ve had some other things to worry about.” Draco could tell he was trying to be cutting, but his voice was too weak. If he was determined to be contrary, of course, just throwing questions at him wouldn’t do any good.

And there was really only one thing he could offer Harry. “Are you hungry? I’m going to the kitchen.” It wasn’t a surprise when that fell flat. He had never made an honest (well – more or less honest) attempt to get off on the right foot with someone, and firsts never went off quite the right way. Harry pushed past him, shrugging his arm off to one side, and disappeared onto the second floor. Draco, still hungry and hardly in the mood for a true confrontation, decided he had better not waste a trip. The kitchen was blessedly empty. It was the work of no more than a few minutes to pile up a couple plates with the remains of last night’s dinner, sitting warm in a pot on the stove. He took them back up to his own bedroom, where he wasn’t surprised to find Harry. Considering all the other voices he’d heard, they must all have been two or three to a room. Draco very much doubted they’d told Harry he’d have to bunk with Malfoy … but if they thought he was going to offer to take the couch, they were sorely mistaken.

He set the plates down on the table at the foot of the bed. The sheets had tucked themselves neatly back into place since he’d left. He would have liked to dive under them again. It was a wintry sort of room, he thought, though he imagined it was meant to evoke spring – white sheets, white pillows, white curtains, and walls so pale a coral that he’d had to stare at them a minute to decide whether they had any color at all. The furniture, the trim and all the window casements were carved out of the same faded, time-smoothed driftwood that littered the beach down below. Perhaps it was pretty, but it didn’t feel anything like shelter, which was what he’d been craving.

Harry only glanced at him briefly; he seemed to be distracted by something out in the garden. Draco might have been curious, had he not been so caught up in deciding how best to say what he wanted to say. He couldn’t afford to alienate Harry too much, not before he knew what he needed to know. He held a plate out to him, and made himself stop holding his breath. “- Have you seen my parents?”

“Yesterday,” Harry said, his face darkening as he grabbed the food away from him, giving one last look at the garden outside. “- Last night, rather.”

Draco waited, watching him as he bit into his bread. Surely he wouldn’t be this cruel. “Are they alright?” he asked, more angrily than he had meant to. It was hard to be brave and polite all at once.

“Well enough to try to kill us. – So that’s about like normal, then, isn’t it?” Harry wasn’t looking at him.

“Where were they?”

“At your house. Charming place you’ve got, with a dungeon and everything. Not that it did them any good,” he added, raising his face from his plate to glare up at him, a terrible substitute for a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “We got away before Voldemort could get there. He’s probably not very happy with them both at the moment – do you think?”

Draco shoved his fork into his pile of potatoes, his taste for food having abruptly disappeared. His face burned angrily, but his stomach was roiling with dread. “I haven’t seen my mother in over a year,” he said quietly, almost glad to be able to feel furious again. “My father for two. I haven’t known whether they were alive or dead – no one tells me anything, and I’ve had to listen at doors every day and read that stupid rag of a paper just to know the world hasn’t ended. I don’t even know why I’m here –“ he let his fork fall out of his hand and crack down against the edge of his plate – “I don’t know why he ever sent me to you, and I wish he hadn’t. I wish I’d been there last night. Because if I had been, you can be damn sure you wouldn’t have made it out.”

Harry laughed. “Right. Where’s your wand, Malfoy?” He leaned his elbows on the windowsill, his food apparently forgotten. “I wish he hadn’t, either. Then I could have laid you out like I did your father.”

If he’d had his wand, Draco though, he might have cursed him, no matter who it brought down on him. He felt like throwing his plate at him, or making a leap at him with his fork. He could tell it wouldn’t make him feel any better – he’d become particularly adept at sensing futility, recently – but surely anything would have been better than standing here seething, impotent, and terrified.

He could find nothing else to do, however. It seemed to make Harry uncomfortable. Draco saw his weight shift from one foot, and back. He ducked his head, picking at a spot on the windowsill, and muttered: “Unless it was a ploy to keep you locked up, anyway, it looks like he screwed it up pretty spectacularly.”

“People on your side aren’t the only ones who do stupid things for no reason,” Draco snapped, not sure why he should be so annoyed at the implication that Snape had been using him. He wasn’t at all sure of it himself. Thinking about it made him as tired and confused as Harry looked now, if not quite as angry. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from the window and from Harry, and stared at the wall in the fading light. His parents were alive – he would think about that. He would see them again, when this was over. Harry had probably been lying – exaggerating – and even if He did have reason to be upset with them, He hadn’t done anything awful to them yet, not like He’d done to him. At least … he didn’t think so. Draco realized he really didn’t know.

It ate at him for at least a half an hour, until the darkness thickened and the candles sitting on the bedside table lit themselves. He swallowed. “Did they seem – did they say anything about me?”

He heard Harry’s plate clattering, as though something had jolted against it. He didn’t look around. After more than a minute, he had almost given up hope of a reply.

“They said …” Harry’s voice was as thick as if he had just woken up. “I heard them say that if they were the ones who found me, he’d have to give you back. He’s lying to them, I guess.”

Draco laid back, covering his face with his hands. And now what must they think? He wondered how far away they were. He began counting the miles between every rocky shore he could think of, north south and west, and his home in the hills. The calculations fell apart when Harry’s voice broke in. “It’s dark – I’m tired. Go to bed.”

“This is my bed,” Draco said, his words coming out muffled from beneath his palms. “I’ve been here a week.”

“Oh. – Everything else is full.”

And you’re not really stupid enough to be asking me to volunteer, are you? Draco sat up, grabbed one of the pillows, and lay down again with his head at the foot of the bed. That was as much of a concession as he was going to make, and if Harry didn’t care to take it, he could find himself a spot on the floor. A couple minutes later there was a dip in the mattress. Draco opened his eyes, and saw Harry’s feet (in particularly muddy socks). Then he heard him snoring, and, a few short moments after that, nothing at all.

When he woke up, the moon was high and unnaturally bright, perfectly positioned to shine directly into his eyes. For a second he thought that was what had woken him – and then Harry’s knee bumped against his stomach again. Draco had to lift his head to avoid being kicked in the nose. He grabbed the wayward ankle with an exasperated sound, and shoved it away towards its own side of the bed. It came back with a vengeance, and he groaned as he held his arm up across his face to shield himself. “Potter …”

Harry sat up instantly, his feet retreating from Draco’s line of sight. Draco rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows, glaring blearily at him. His glasses were crooked and his hair looked absurd – but his expression made him shift uncomfortably in the divot he’d made in the blankets. Harry was looking directly at him, perfectly alert, with nothing good in his eyes. “What?”

“I was just – dreaming. Sorry,” he said, looking away, clearly embarrassed by the admission. When he looked back at him, it was with a mix of pity and regret that made Draco want to grab his pillow and find another room. Harry sat up straighter, drawing his knees up against his chest, though his hands remained at his sides, picking at the pillowcase. “Why do you think he tortured you?” he asked.

Funny dreams you have. Draco turned his eyes to the window. “To scare my mother – to hurt my father. I know that.” And now he was doing the same thing, lying here without even trying to slip them some news of him. And they kept on doing His bidding, in the vain hope that they were helping him.

“I don’t think … I think he doesn’t really understand how that works.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry wrap his arms around his knees. “He doesn’t understand why people hurt when he goes after their families. He’s like – a little boy, with a weapon – he can use it, but it’s as likely to kill him as anyone else. Because he doesn’t – he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see what’s working on the inside of it.”

Draco looked blankly at him. He couldn’t really say he understood what Harry was getting at, either, but he didn’t feel like contradicting him. He shrugged, and shoved himself laboriously up to sitting. “He seems to understand it well enough to make it work.”

Harry began to look too closely at him again, too strangely – this time he appeared to be struggling with something, his teeth sinking gently into his lower lip. He pushed a hand through his hair and rubbed at the scar on his forehead, looking anxious. “He – I can see what he does, sometimes. Feel it, at least. He’s with your dad again – now. He’s hurting him.”

Draco’s jaw clamped tightly shut. His heart began to pound in his chest, and his breath caught up not long after. Try as he might to stop them, the pictures started flashing in front of him, images his imagination had been brewing up for months upon months. He could see it as clearly as if it were happening right in front of him – he could even feel it a little, in time with his pulse and the blood thumping in his ears. It gave him a tight feeling in the pit of his stomach and made his fingers and his toes ache sharply. His brow furrowed, and he turned, as though to leave; but where could he go? What could he possibly do? What am I supposed to do? He turned his back to Harry, once again feeling too keenly vulnerable. He leaned down to rest his elbows on his knees, shoving his hands into his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Harry was saying behind him, without moving. “I thought – you wanted to know. You shouldn’t be in the dark, I mean – it isn’t fair if I …” Either he trailed off, or Draco ceased to be able to listen. The only thing he heard was the ocean, like always, in and out and off and on. He sniffed sharply, squeezing his eyes closed. Harry’s arms closed around his middle, tugging him awkwardly back towards the center of the bed like a very hesitant anchor. “Just – lie down, go back to sleep. – I’m sorry.”

Draco didn’t lie down. He slouched backwards, letting his weight rest against Harry’s ribs, his knee jutting painfully into his hip until his leg slid finally to the side and Draco was pressed up against his trunk. It was more than he had felt of anyone in a very, very long time. One of Harry’s hands slid up into his hair, and something tugged at his memory; he felt safe, almost tranquil, and tasted … licorice? It passed as soon as it had come over him, and left him feeling as drained as on the night Snape had taken him from Voldemort and sent him away.

Harry pulled at him again. Draco slipped away from him to lie back, trying to sink as deeply as possible into the bedding. He turned onto his side as Harry dropped down beside him; he felt him tense in surprise when he slipped his arm around his chest and pulled close to him, making a fist in the fabric at the back of his shirt. He waited, counting the heartbeats - one, two, three - and then Harry’s body was loosening next to his, his hand was sliding through his hair again, and his lips brushed against his brow, just beside his temple.

- - -

There wasn’t much time. Harry was so tired – the incredible weight of months of hiding, of miserably thin sleep and constant dread had collapsed onto him in the past twenty-four hours, and he was struggling to stay upright. He knew it wouldn’t be long until he simply had to stop, and then, one way or another, it would be over. There was still so much he was uncertain about. It was impossible to imagine the sun rising on this day – and yet it would, the same way it had come up on every other morning after every other night that had ended too soon. Here in the familiar blackness of the halls of Hogwarts, on a deserted stair that might have been utterly shrouded by the dark if not for a few low, flickering torches, it was a little easier to pretend that the night wasn’t slipping inexorably away with every step he took. There wasn’t much time, but he hoped he wouldn’t need much, anyway.

He’d left Professor McGonagall and the others with the Carrows in Ravenclaw tower. Something, as she’d said, would have to be done about Professor Snape. She had protested, but he had been out the door and under the cloak before she could stop him. He would do it, whatever it was. And then he would find the diadem, and then - and then, he didn’t know. Something would happen. Time would progress. That was comforting, in a way. Things would move forward, with or without him. Without me, he thought wistfully, without me -

There he was, moving silently along the hallway, almost invisible, black against black. Harry thought of Draco – white against white, skin and sheets. The thought of the cottage, safe, small and so very far away, made him feel like he was floating – like he could almost fall asleep on his feet. He wanted to be there, so badly. The weeks he had spent there before plunging himself into this had been some of the most wonderful he could remember, even with the storm gathering around them all. But not even that house would be truly out of harm’s way until he had finished his work here, and though thinking of Draco - safe - was a pleasant waking dream, that was all it was. There was no safety, no protection, without another day of unthinkable toil.

Snape had stopped walking, he realized. He was looking just to the side of where Harry stood, his wand at the ready, beneath his father’s cloak. His face was unreadable, even now that he had stopped just beside the nearest torch and his skin shone bone-white.

“I can hear you,” he breathed. He didn’t sound frightened, but he didn’t sound excited, either. After all this time, Harry still couldn’t imagine what was behind those impenetrably black eyes. He thought he knew – no, he did know – what side the man was on, where his true loyalties lay. But …

But he saved you, even though he had no reason to, and that’s true no matter whose man he is. And I’m grateful.

Confusion threatened to overtake him. He could not, could not feel gratitude, not now, not for Snape. Harry knew well enough that there were shades of grey, of course. Good and evil were more or less useless words, empty sets that demanded too much or condemned too strongly. He himself had just tortured someone; he himself had spent long, tormented nights feeling far, far too close to Voldemort, sleepless with the knowledge that the thoughts and feelings the locket had stirred up in him were, in the beginning, his own. The roots of darkness were in everyone – but everyone had to make their own choices, as he had, to keep them safely buried, latent. People weren’t good or evil, but they could live one way or the other, if they tried. Snape had made his choice, and Harry didn’t feel sorry for him, though he knew he would have to die for it.

But he had also done something kind, for no selfish purpose Harry could discern. He had saved a boy who’d needed saving, when it would have been nothing to leave him where he was and let him drown in his own choices. He had delivered Draco to whatever safety he now enjoyed. It was frightening somehow, to think that there was never one last choice, one final decision to do right or to do wrong – it was a lifetime of trying, over and over again, every second of every day, to pick the right path. It meant there would be little detours, maybe insignificant, that could take one, however briefly, away from one’s chosen road. Snape had saved Draco very much like Harry had tortured Amycus Carrow. It was nothing more than a few steps in one direction, easy to erase with another sharp turn somewhere else along the way, but as indisputably marked as trodden snow.

Harry pulled the cloak off in the middle of the hall. Snape’s eyes snapped over to him, and the tip of his wand moved an inch to the side, but that was all. Harry’s fingers tightened in the folds of his cloak. “Thank you,” he said.

Snape’s brow furrowed very slightly.

He took a step closer; he could have reached out and touched him, now. “You helped him – Draco. He’s safe,” he added, in case whatever generosity had prompted Snape to save him still existed, and he still cared to know. “I’m going to make sure of that.”

He saw Snape’s hand tighten slightly around his wand, and his mouth seemed to harden. “Potter –“

“No.” Harry seized his wrist with his left hand, and pulled himself close to him, so close he could feel his wand pressing against Snape’s chest. He knew he should curse him. He should at least stun him, tie him up and deliver him to McGonagall to watch over with the other Death Eater scum upstairs – or maybe more. What was one more little detour? He deserved to die, Harry knew he did. He could do it now.

But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t know what he felt. He looked at Snape, and felt – hatred, fear, sadness, gratitude, relief, and over everything, fatigue. He looked at him and saw his parents’ graves, the eerily fluttering veil that had claimed his godfather, and the cracked white stone of Dumbledore’s tomb. He saw his face at the front of a classroom, from years and years ago, and felt an almost sickening nostalgia. He saw Draco with his knees drawn up to his chest beside his rickety desk in Privet Drive, his face wet and pale and miserable. He saw Draco looking out the window at Shell Cottage, slouching and tired, but calm. And he wanted to be with him, so badly … He lacked the will to hide it, though he knew Snape could read him with no trouble at all, and probably was doing so. – Well, let him see what he was being thanked for. If he could take some honest pleasure in a good deed before the end, he should.

Harry lurched forward on his toes and pressed his mouth to Snape’s. He felt Snape’s arm sinking under his sudden weight as he leaned heavily on him, just for a moment. He thought he felt him trembling under his lips, but he didn’t know. Snape’s hand closed around his shoulder – was it pushing him away, or pulling him closer? He felt something coming back from him; Snape’s mouth twitched once, sharply, as though it wanted to open. Harry stood back on his heels again, pulling away. His lips were wet, and felt cool. He wanted Snape to be opaque, solid, as empty and mysterious as ever. He knew if he saw anything to pity or admire, he would waver, and he couldn’t afford to do that now. Everyone had chosen their sides. Snape would be hard and unwavering and wrong, and he would make it all right, once and for all.

But the man he saw now was nearly unrecognizable. There was bitterness plain and open on his face. His eyes were locked on Harry’s, almost grudgingly, as though they simply couldn’t help but stay there – and they were full of miserable longing, and regret, and as much hate as Harry had ever seen. His fingers were buried in Harry’s shirt, desperately tight.

Suddenly there were footsteps on the stairway behind him, and Snape’s eyes broke away from his to try to pierce the blackness there. He jerked his hand away from Harry’s shoulder, and pushed him to the side without looking at him again. “Get out of here,” he muttered, and Harry drew the cloak over himself again, almost without thinking. He retreated under the stairs, shaken and confused. Hearing McGonagall greet Snape only calmed him a little; he walked quietly out to stand beside them, and thought he saw Snape’s hand shaking. If it had been, it stopped within half a second, and it was as though they’d never met at all.

Honour thy Father for the community [NC-17] -- DM/AG, DM/SM, DM/LM, SM/RW, SM/ASP...

2009-11-15T08:30:35Z

Title: Honour thy Father
Author: hereticalvision
Recipient: community
Ship: Draco/Astoria, Draco/Scorpius plus Draco/Lucius, Scorpius/Rose, Scorpius/Al, Scorpius/Teddy, Scorpius/practically everyone
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Scorpius always wanted to please his father – but his mother kept getting in the way
Warnings: Dear other readers – this piece includes incest, infidelity, crossgen, dark themes, and other delicious nasty. If that's not your thing, no hard feelings. If it is, welcome!
Author's Notes: Beta by S, super-speedy superstar!

Scorpius Malfoy is a beautiful boy.

The first person who ever told him so was his Grandmother, when he was six years old. She’d bent down, the front of her robe gaping, to touch his face and look at him for so long that it made him really uncomfortable. And then she’d said, “Beautiful face – just like his father,” and Mother had looked at Grandfather and Father with a strange expression on her face and said, “Yes.”

At the breakfast table, Father reads the Daily Prophet while Mother fusses with the tea spoon in her saucer. Scorpius stays perfectly still, watching Mother’s eyes flicker over Father as he folds up the paper, evidently finished, and turns his attention to his son.

“Have you decided, then, what you will do when you finish school next year, Scorpius?”

“Yes, Father,” Scorpius says. “I think that you were right, and the time has come for a Malfoy voice to return to the Wizengamot.”

Father beams. “Excellent news, Scorpius.”

Mother’s lip quavers. “I thought you wanted to do something with Care of Magical Creatures, Scorpius.”

Scorpius waves his hand dismissively. “A childish notion.” From the expression on Father’s face, Scorpius knows he has done the right thing despite all his mother’s attempts to interfere. “I think it’s important to look to the future of the family.”

Father has never looked so proud. Scorpius looks from Father, glowing, to Mother, tears blurring her eyes, and thinks, Take that.

When Scorpius was nine, he’d gotten into his mother’s dressing room. He’d played with her make-up and he’d pulled on something of hers that was filmy and silky and reached to his knees. And then he'd taken her black eyeliner pencil and drawn Father's mark on his arm.

When Mother had caught him, he’d smiled, all innocence, and said, “Look, Mummy, now I’m pretty like you!”

Her face had absolutely drained of all of its colour and she had screamed, “Take that off!”

Scorpius remembered his face crumpling. “But Mummy!”

With a trembling hand she raised her wand. “Scourigify!” she bellowed, and he felt the mark like Father's come away, the make up on his face peel off. “Accio lingerie!” The silk flew off his body and into her waiting hand. And then, worst off all, she grabbed him hard around the upper arm and shook him, his beautiful mother who had never raised her voice or a hand to him in his life.

“Don’t you ever, ever do this again!” she hissed into his face before pushing him away, sending him flying clear across the room.

Scorpius’ lip had trembled and he ran from the room in only his underwear, near tears, and ran smack into his father in the hallway.

“Scorpius,” his father had said, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“I made Mummy angry,” he’d said, still shaken.

His father’s face had darkened. “I’ll speak to her.”

Scorpius was never sure if it was the Dark Mark, dressing in her underwear or whatever it was his father said to her, but he is certain that on that day his mother stopped loving him. And ever since, she’s been trying to take his father away, too.

A knock on his bedroom door; Mother enters and closes the door behind herself quietly.

“Politics, Scorpius?” she says softly.

Scorpius looks at her mildly. “Yes, Mother.”

Mother twists her fingers around each other, agitated. “Scorpius, you don’t have to do everything your Father wants.”

“No, Mother,” says Scorpius.

“You always wanted to go to Romania and work with the dragons.”

Oh, Mother would want him to pursue that childish dream, which had almost resulted in Grandfather having a heart attack. In any case, that dream died along with his relationship with Rose. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, Mother.”

Mother’s mouth twists into some hateful shape as she realises her ploy isn’t going to work. “Scorpius, why don’t you do something you want?”

“It is what I want, Mother,” Scorpius insists.

“And Rose Weasley?”

Scorpius freezes. “That was a childish infatuation that has long since passed.”

Mother’s mouth twists further. Her eyes mist – she doesn’t usually cry until much later in these little chats, Scorpius notes.

“Oh, my son,” she whispers.

Scorpius clears his throat. “Was there anything else, Mother?”

Mother shakes her head. “No, Scorpius.” She leaves and Scorpius turns away from the door.

When Scorpius was twelve he kissed a girl for the first time and he didn’t like it much. But she giggled and simpered and followed him around madly, doing anything he asked of her. Back then it had been potions homework and fetching things. Later it would be anal sex and threesomes and they’d still do whatever he asked and he was bored absolutely rigid.

Rose Weasley was the one exception. The one girl who made him work for what he wanted and so perhaps it was entirely predictable that he would fall for her.

Father’s reaction when he found out would also have been predictable had Scorpius heard as much about his hatred of Weasley and his wife as he had about the Potter clan.
“I absolutely forbid it!” he’d snapped.

Scorpius had felt the blood drain from his face. “But Father, she…”

“Of all the families!” Father had flushed in fury. “No, you cannot be serious, not about that girl!”

Mother had been delighted of course at the chance to drive a wedge between Scorpius and his Father. “Draco,” she’d said, “Scorpius needs to make his own choices about these things.”

“This is not up for debate!” Father raved. “Anyone – anyone else! But not that family.”

“It could be a useful connection to the Potters-“

How Scorpius hated her for bringing that up.

“No,” he’d said immediately, seeing that this was not a conversation that could end well. “No, Father’s right. It was never intended to be a permanent thing.” And that was a downright lie – Rose fascinated him more than anyone ever had. But he would do anything for his Father.

Anything.

After Mother leaves, Scorpius spends some time at his mirror, perfecting his hair, checking his nose hair and eyebrows to ensure that everything is neat and perfect. He runs just a hint of cologne on his skin, and he leaves his room for his Father’s study.

Father often sits there when it gets late and Mother is off in the other wing reading or writing letters to her family, whom Scorpius barely knows despite them being indisputably his family too. Father enjoys a Firewhiskey and some time to clear his thoughts. Scorpius never disturbs him there, but he will tonight.

Tonight he has finally become everything his father hoped for and so, he hopes, it will be enough.

On the day Grandfather had been arrested for the third time – or was it the fourth? – Scorpius had been sixteen and, fortunately, home for the holidays. Father had been in his study for the evening; Scorpius hadn’t seen him since the owls arrived that morning and he left the breakfast table, white-faced. Mother had spent the day trying to make Scorpius talk about school and rying to find out if there was a girl replacing Rose. Scorpius refrained from even allowing himself to think that there would never be a girl to replace Rose, and declined to tell his mother that he had slept with all three of Rose’s Potter cousins to ensure that his resolve could never weaken.

Scorpius went to Father instead, still white-lipped and drunk now, too.

“Well, my boy,” he said on seeing Scorpius. “Your Grandfather is going to be executed this time for certain.” Father was so drunk he was sloppy, and Father never became sloppy. “One too many damned Death Eater reunions.”

Scorpius had never had an especially close relationship with Grandfather Lucius – Mother’s doing, always trying to keep him from making Father happy. But he imagined losing Father and his blood chilled.

“Oh, Father – is there nothing to be done?”

Father laughed, a humourless sound. “No bribe high enough this time.” He took another drink. “Not even if we sell the manor.”

“Is there anything I can do, Father?”

Father laughed again and grabbed Scorpius’ face with one hand. “Beautiful boy you are. Maybe you could seduce the judge.”

Something was broken inside Father and Scorpius recoiled from the words even as part of him thought, Maybe I could, at that.

Father laughed again. “I was never so beautiful.”

“You are beautiful, Father,” came the words, unbidden.

Father eyed his face suspiciously and said, “Never to the right people.”

And Scorpius had known then, known as Father turned away that the flare in his eyes was desire and a shudder had run through him. He was still too young then to be sensible of the honour done to him, too young to even stay in the room. And Father had been back to normal the day after as though it had never happened, but a change had come over Scorpius and he knew now why Mother had become his enemy – they both needed the same thing from the one person who mattered.

“Father,” Scorpius breathes into the study.

“Scorpius!” Father says brightly. “Sit down! Join me in a toast; you’re a man now and about to do great things for the Malfoy name.”

Scorpius sits down and Father hands him a glass of Firewhiskey; his own. He snaps his fingers and a House elf drops a new glass in his hand.

“To the Malfoys!” Father said.

“Malfoys,” Scorpius echoes and drains his glass. The pleasant burn in his belly is soothing.

Father smiles. “Everything your Grandfather hoped for.”

Scorpius catches his father’s eye. “I will do well, Father.”

Father nods. “Always such a good boy.”

“I want to please you, Father. Make you proud.”

Father smiles again. “I am, Scorpius. So very proud.”

“Good.” Scorpius puts down his glass and slides from the chair to the floor.

“Scorpius?” Father frowns.

Scorpius is barely breathing and his eyes are on his father's as he begins to crawl across the floor.

When Scorpius was eleven, his mother sent him a letter telling him he could stay at Hogwarts with his friends over Christmas if he liked; Scorpius wrote to his father to ask if that meant they didn't want to see him.

When he was twelve, Father bought him a broom. Mother said he didn't have to try out for the school team, he didn't have to be a Seeker, he didn't have to follow his father's footsteps. Father said, "I'm proud of you," for the first time on the day Scorpius caught his first snitch.

"What are you doing, Scorpius?" Father is saying, a strange note in his voice.

Scorpius slides his hands up his father's legs. "I'm ready, Father."

Father shakes his head. "I don't… I don't understand."

Scorpius slides his body up against his father's and gently presses his lips to the corner of his father's mouth.

Scorpius had been obsessed with girls for a long time but after that flare of awareness between him and his father, he began to seriously contemplate going back to either Al or James for further practice in the arts of pleasing men. But that was ridiculous; what he needed was a tutor, someone older and experienced. Teddy Lupin was the perfect candidate – everyone knew he’d been sleeping with Charlie Weasley. Everyone in on the Weasley family gossip tree, that is.

It was rather unfortunate that they had been found out and Professor Lupin had been dismissed, but by then it was the end of the school year anyway and Scorpius honestly didn't think he needed another year's instruction.

Father is strangely frozen for a moment and then he says, "Scorpius…" and the tone is so lost Scorpius aches for him.

"Shhh," Scorpius says. "Shhh. I'll take care of you. I promise." He punctuates the words with kisses to Father's face, his neck, trailing his fingernails down Father's chest.
Father seems to wake up suddenly. "No, Scorpius. No, this isn't right…"

"It's perfectly right," Scorpius breathes, pressing his face to his father's throat. "What could be more right than family?" Scorpius presses down with a hint of teeth on Father's pulse point and feels him shudder before he pushes at Scorpius' shoulders.

"Not like this."

Scorpius is just a little stronger than Father seems to think; the push isn't enough to dislodge him. He rears up instead, catches Father's face in his hands and quiets him with little kisses.

"Didn't you always want me to yourself?" Scorpius says. He can see Father's struggle, he can see him losing and as his father surrenders, Scorpius sighs in relief and lowers his head.

Professor Lupin taught him the technique, but he double checked it on Al Potter just to make sure. And sure enough, Al had writhed and moaned and screeched with considerably more enthusiasm than he had shown previously, tugging at Scorpius' hair fit to pull it from his head, even though last time Scorpius had meant it and this time he was essentially just taking mental notes.

Scorpius opens his father's trousers, keeping his voice soft, murmuring encouragement in every breath. Father's body is straining – he is almost passive as Scorpius touches his lower stomach, his thighs, curls his nails into the flesh. Scorpius has wanted this for so long that he finds himself trembling with the power of it and delights in the way they look together – a perfect mirror of angles and pale skin. Father groans deep in his throat when Scorpius undoes his trousers and gently lowers his mouth to his father's cock.

"No, Scorpius," Father gulps and that's all right because he isn't actually doing a thing to stop this. Scorpius is licking gently, tasting experimentally, trying not to spook his father, feeling almost the way he did when he was allowed to deflower Rose Weasley. But this is better because this is what he's wanted all his life, even if he had imagined Father taking charge immediately.

Scorpius is wearing robes, nothing beneath, so when he slides them off Father gasps to see both how he had planned this and of course his beautiful skin. His beautiful angles, which reduced every Potter, every Weasley, every everyone to absolute rabid desire, but Father is still just sitting there, with an expression in his eyes Scorpius can't read.

Scorpius decides that just isn't good enough and he captures Father's cock in his fist, wrapping his lips around the tip, his fingers around the base. In one fluid motion he pushes downward and his lips meet his fingers and Father groans as his cock is suddenly engulfed in the heat. Scorpius pulls back, does it again, and Father groans again and when Scorpius raises his eyes Father has given in, and pulls Scorpius off him, not to stop him but to kiss him properly, to ravage his mouth with passion and punctuate with butterfly kisses until Scorpius is near to weeping with the beauty of it.

He is already straddling his father; he is already naked. It doesn't take much for Scorpius to slide his fingers behind him and stretch himself, biting his lip as Father watches him with (at last!) more passion than confusion, his eyes darkening. His hands slip around Scorpius' waist, to his back, his fingers dig into his son's buttocks. Scorpius lets Father touch him, exulting in it, stretching himself further and further as Father touches his flesh and nips at his mouth.

"Father," Scorpius sighs, and Draco stiffens but Scorpius is already pulling away the material of Draco's trousers, already reaching to guide his Father into him. Scorpius is already sinking down onto his father's cock and whimpers as he is filled; Draco's head falls back and a hiss emerges from his mouth.

And at that moment, their perfect moment together, there is a voice.

"Draco!" It’s Mother.

Scorpius flashes a smile of triumph at her, but Father is pushing him away, scrabbling to stand, acting as though there's something shameful in this, the greatest act of Scorpius' life. Father forces himself upright and tugs at his clothes; Scorpius ends on the floor in a pile of limbs.

"Astoria-" Father begins, but what can he possibly say?

"You ruin everything," Scorpius hisses at his mother.

But Mother is trembling violently. "I knew… I knew…"

Draco manages to pull his trousers up; Scorpius merely glares from the floor. "Mother."

"Astoria, I never intended to-"

"Our son, Draco? Couldn't it have been anyone else?"

"Astoria-"

"Just like Lucius," Mother whispers, and Father closes his eyes as though what he's seeing is burning his retinas.

Grandfather Lucius was killed while Scorpius was at school. Now that Scorpius understood some things better, he knew now what Lucius must have been like as a younger man. That was the night he let Professor Lupin bugger him. He'd been shaking with excitement – they both had, and Scorpius had been reduced to a begging, pleading mess as Teddy's tongue had found his core and tasted and writhed and prepared him. Scorpius had laid face-down on the desk in his teacher's office, naked and prepared, while Teddy stood behind him fully clothed as he licked him, trousers only half-pushed down as he pulled Scorpius to him and slid his cock inside. And Scorpius had imagined Grandfather Lucius when he had been this age, like the portrait in Father's study. He'd imagined the power and the control and he had begged and begged and begged to come, unable to stand it another moment.

Mother rounds on him; "Why, Scorpius? I tried so hard to get you to see you didn't have to give into him, why wouldn't you take your chance and go?"
Scorpius curls his lip. "I want this," he says as though he can't believe it isn't obvious. "I always have."

Father looks a little ill himself when he says, "Astoria, it really isn't-"

Mother is sobbing; when Father reaches out to her she screams, "I knew, I knew, I knew your father fucked you and I knew you were going to do this and I can't, I can't…"

Scorpius has never felt sorry for his mother; not for years, anyway. But now he does. He rises and puts his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "You don't have to be left out."

Mother raises her face to his in disbelief and when Scorpius tries to kiss her she flinches away, nearly screaming and runs from the room.

Scorpius had always intended to grow into his beauty and now it seems he has at last. His father wants him, even if he has run off to follow Mother rather than staying to complete their first adventure together. He told Scorpius tersely, "Stay here and for Merlin's sake dress yourself." Alone in Father's study, Scorpius slips into the inner sanctum, where the portrait of Grandfather hangs.

"Ah, Scorpius," Grandfather says. "Good to see you."

Scorpius tilts his head to one side; Grandfather looks at him for another moment, only slowly registering that he is naked, and despite everything, still aroused.

"What on earth?" says Lucius.

"I'm beautiful," Scorpius says quietly.

"You are," Lucius agrees.

Scorpius raises his head. "Tell me about you and Father?"

If he can't have Father, and maybe he can't, maybe this was his only chance, then would it be so wrong to have this? And if it isn't, if Father comes back, perhaps this will be the way to convince him of what he should do.

"Turn around," says Lucius.

He has never desired anything as much as he desires to take his place in the Malfoy line – and that's because of Father and he doesn't understand why Father won't reward him.

"Add another finger," says Lucius.

"What would you do to me if you were real?" Scorpius gasps as he slides his fingers in and out of himself, looking over his shoulder at his Grandfather. "What did you do to Father?"

"I showed him the sophistication it takes years of being a Malfoy to achieve," Lucius says and his voice is the sexiest thing Scorpius has ever heard, sexier even than Father's. He places his other hand on his cock and begins to stroke in time with the rhythm of Grandfather's words. "I showed him exactly how to caress someone's hand and have them desire him, I would run my fingers down his spine just so and he would beg me, I would run my hands over his cock and I showed him just how to bring himself off in the best way to drip down another's person's face, I would…"

But Scorpius is groaning and cum splatters the desk.

Father has been gone for more than an hour now and Scorpius is tired. Maybe Mother will win. Maybe Scorpius has underestimated her. Maybe Father will not touch him again.

Finally Scorpius becomes too nervous to stay in one place for any longer and he leaves the study. The Manor is still as it was before, which seems strange to him. He sighs and snaps his fingers for a House elf; Wispy appears immediately.

"Where is Father?" Scorpius demands.

Wispy trembles. "Begging your pardon, Master Scorpius, but the Master and Mistress are in the Purple Suite." The one part of the Manor no one else is ever supposed to enter.

"Thank you," says Scorpius, and runs in that direction.

And as he runs scenarios flash through his mind; disowned, disinherited, sent away, Mother victorious – or perhaps she is the one being dismissed and he is the one who will stay. The brief moment when he thought they could co-exist is gone; it is one or the other now.

At the entrance to the Purple Suite, Scorpius hesitates. What if they are making love and will not let him join them? He is so beautiful, everyone says so – isn't that enough?
He squares his shoulders and steps inside – and nearly stands on his Father's face.

"Father?" he says, confused. Father makes a sound low in his throat and indicates with his eyes a door behind him; he has been petrified. Scorpius is concerned and immediately tries to pick his father up – but he makes such a racket that Scorpius says, "All right, all right, I'll find Mother."

Mother is in the bedroom, hanging from the curtain rail with a cord around her neck and her feet swaying gently from north to south and back again.

"Oh," says Scorpius, and smiles to himself.

Candle in a Dark Place for the community [R] -- JP/LE/SB

2009-11-11T09:02:27Z

Title: Candle in a Dark Place
Author: b00kaddict
Ship: James, Lily, Sirius
Rating: light R
Warnings: mentions of smoking and alcohol, swearing, torture (cruciatus), slightly non-canon timeline
Beta: phoenix_torte—thank you once again for all your help! You’re wonderful.
Note: all characters and the HP universe are the property of J.K. Rowling

It doesn’t fit. Sirius has turned it around in his head a million times and he can’t make it fit.

It’s noisy in the flat. His flat—shared between him and James, although apparently not for long. Right now it’s crowded with the guests—now he knows why James insisted on having them all over—and he can’t breathe, so he ducks out onto the balcony.

Lily’s pretty. More than pretty, with long red hair and longer legs. She fills out her sweater quite nicely—even more so of late, if he’s not mistaken, and he’s never mistaken in these matters. He considers himself something of a connoisseur.

But engagement? Engagement is for grown-ups. Surely it doesn’t apply to them.

He takes another gulp of his firewhisky.

“Sirius?” It’s James. “You all right?”

“Cheers. Never better.” It’s a good excuse for another gulp. Too bad Remus made him give up the cigarettes again.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first. Lily wanted it to be a surprise,” James says.

Ah. So that’s how it’s going to be. “Must do what Lily wants, mustn’t we?”

“Don’t be a bastard.”

Deep breath, Sirius. Don’t bollocks this up. “You love it when I’m a bastard.”

It has the intended effect. James cracks a smile. “Fair enough.”

He has to try. He knows what he’s supposed to say. “So. Evans, eh? You could do worse, I suppose,” Sirius continues. “Frankly, mate, she’s too good for you. Don’t know what she’s thinking.”

“Confundus charm on the ring,” James says. He’s playing along, but his eyes are still too dark. It’s his Head Boy look—the way he looks when he’s going to insist that Sirius do something that’s no fun at all.

“Ah. That’s the secret.” Unexpectedly, all too soon, he’s found the bottom of his glass.

“Look, Lily’s tired. I’m going to take her home,” James says. “Try not to get too trashed, all right? I want to talk to you when I get back.”

Sirius shrugs. “I’ll see what I can do.” He knows he’s done drinking, regardless. It hasn’t improved his mood any.

James hesitates, then turns to go.

“I’m happy for you,” Sirius says, leaning over the balcony. He’s not sure if James heard him, or if he’s already gone inside.

They’re five stories up. He can see the entrance to Diagon Alley from here. He drops his glass just so he can hear the crash when it shatters on the pavement.

* * *

Lily’s inside, reading a book on the couch. Sirius is on the balcony again. He’s always on the balcony. Fucking lives there, these days, even though it’s early January and bloody cold outside.

After all, James won’t let him smoke in the flat.

Lily’s spending as many nights at their place as not. She’s nearly always there when, as tonight, James is away on a mission.

Sirius flicks his ash over the balcony. It falls slowly, the glow fading out before it hits the ground.

James is working with Peter tonight; James for strength, Peter for stealth. Not a bad team, and Sirius doesn’t worry too much about James when he’s with Peter. Peter has a great instinct for safety, and he knows that protecting his own arse means protecting James’s.

So he’s not worried. He’s not, even though they’re three hours late getting back. Three hours isn’t so bad, really. Not in the grand scheme of things.

At four hours, he’ll worry.

It’s no accident that Lily’s here. She’s Sirius’s responsibility, much as she would tear a strip off both him and James for suggesting it. The first time, it was a quiet request, made well out of Lily’s hearing. By now, it’s just understood—Sirius looks after Lily when James is away.

It’ll be more difficult, he thinks, when James and Lily move into their own place after the wedding. More difficult, but not impossible, not by a long stretch. Surely Lily must know that in marrying James, she’s marrying the rest of them, too? He feels his mouth crease up into a smirk. He has couch-crashing privileges, and he fully intends to use them.

He is, after all, their Best Man.

He jumps when he hears a thud inside the flat. “Fuck!” He’s inside, wand brandished, before he can think.
It’s nothing. Lily’s fallen asleep on the couch; her hand is outstretched and empty, the book is on the floor. He picks it up and jams her bookmark in at random, muttering under his breath. She doesn’t move. Eyes closed, mouth partly open—she has a way of sleeping that makes it look like it’s hard work.

He should wake her up and send her to bed. Even he’s noticed that she’s been under the weather lately—she seems to sleep all the time, and there are still circles under her eyes. She hasn’t looked this tired since NEWTs. James is solicitous and Lily is irritable and it makes them just a bloody picnic to be around.

James would make her go to bed. He’s not James, though, and he thinks sometimes things are better left alone. He Summons a blanket from James’s room (more likely to be clean) and tucks it over her, then drapes himself across the armchair opposite. He puts one foot on the coffee table just because he can, because no one’s there to stop him.

He casts a Tempus charm and waits.

* * *

“Sirius! Sirius, wake up!”

He jumps. Lily must have been leaning over him, though, because his head crashes into hers. It hurts. “Ow! What the fuck, Evans?” he growls, rubbing his forehead.

She’s doing the same, where she managed to stagger back onto the couch. “They’re not back yet.” She glares.

His head is still throbbing—should have known she’d have a thick skull—but he focuses on the Tempus charm still hovering in the air. Six hours.

Six hours late. He’s officially worried.

So, apparently, is Lily. “I already checked in with Moody. They haven’t heard anything. He wants us to sit tight until morning. Too many out right now, he says. Doesn’t have the resources.”

It’s his job to protect her. But he knows what she’s going to say before she says it, and he knows he’ll agree.
“I’m going,” Lily says. There’s something bright and fierce in her eyes. It’s easy to see why James loves her. “I just want to know if I need to deal with you first.”

“You know where they went?”

She nods. It’s confidential information, but James has never been good with confidential. He’s not surprised that Lily would know details of the mission.

“Better with two than one, then, don’t you think?”

“Agreed.” She offers him a hand up. He takes it.

* * *

They’re in, of course, a graveyard. What is it with Voldemort and fucking graveyards? This one’s old and overgrown and damned creepy. Sirius shivers—and it’s not just because of the chill.

“What do you think?” he whispers.

She’s staring at the church in the distance. It’s pretty enough, with the stained glass lit softly from inside. Muggle stained glass doesn’t move, though, so Sirius had lost interest in it within seconds. “I think it’s strange to have that many lights on in a Muggle church at night,” she says.

Sirius shrugs. “You’d know better than I.” Black family religious observations, such as they were, often took place at night. He’d long ago accepted that he shouldn’t use his family as a benchmark for these things—or for anything, really.

“Let’s go.”

They cast Disillusionment charms and he follows her, wondering exactly when she got to be the one in charge. He suspects that it was when she whacked him in the head. He has a brief flash of what married life will be like for James and decides that he might almost feel sorry for the git if he didn’t seem so damned happy all the time.

They pass under a willow tree. Something whispery and soft brushes against his skin. “Gah. Spiders.”
“Shh!” She glares at him over her shoulder.

He hears a shriek of laughter from above as the freezing charm takes him.

“Spiders! Spiders! Creeping where they shouldn’t be!” Unable to move anything but his eyeballs, he looks up into the tree, into the lovely but undeniably insane face of his cousin, Bellatrix.

Bugger, he thinks, and falls.

* * *

He wakes up lying on something hard and cold, his head pillowed on warmth and softness. Everything that doesn’t ache, burns. There’s a harsh, rasping sound and a feeling of something grating his left ear raw. It takes him a moment to recognize Lily’s scent and to understand that she’s running her thumb over his ear.
“Don’t,” he groans. It hurts to speak. “Stop.”

Her hand stills. “Sirius?” She’s above and behind him. The pieces slowly click together and he realizes that he’s lying with his head in her lap.

He tries to sit up, but sharp pain shoots through him, leaving his muscles shaking.
“Don’t move yet,” she says.

Thanks for the warning. He tries to form words again. “What?”

“You don’t remember? Cruciatus,” she says. Her voice is tight. “Mostly from your cousin, I believe.”
Bella. The graveyard. “James?” he tries.

“Not here. I don’t—I don’t know where they are.” Something wet and hot splashes onto his face. She wipes it away. Her touch grates. Everything is oversensitive, as though his skin has been flayed away. It’ll fade, he knows. Bella must have really outdone herself, for his nerves to be this raw.

He drifts until she rubs at his ear again. It’s not so bad this time. He wonders if it’s a habit she has, wonders if, with James—no. He doesn’t wonder about any of that. Never has, never does, never will.

“Sorry,” she says, stopping.

“S’okay,” he says. “Better now.” It’s a lot of words all at once. He takes a breath. “Like it.” Cleary they’ve unhinged his mind as well as his body.

“Oh.” He feels her hand hesitate before it starts to move again, her thumb running over his ear, her fingers tangling in his hair. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the sensation as his body fades back to normal.

Later, when he can stand up, he takes stock of their situation. They’re in a dungeon of some kind—which, unless his understanding of Muggle traditions is hazier than he thought, means they’re probably not in the church any longer. There’s no bed, no furniture at all, just a hole in one corner. Lovely.

Their wands, naturally, have been taken from them. There’s no window, just stone walls and the iron bars that are de rigueur in these places. No manacles, which is something of a relief, though not much—it’s not so terribly hard to conjure these things when needed. “Well, it’s not fancy, but it’s home,” he says.

Lily sniffs and wipes at her face with the back of her hand, turning away. She’s clearly embarrassed to be caught crying, so he pretends he didn’t see, just continues to survey their cell. “Are you all right?” he asks, keeping his tone casual. “Did they hurt you?”

“Not badly,” she says. “Not after they figured out—”

She stopped too quickly. “Figured out what?”

She starts to laugh, then, and it’s not a healthy sort of laugh. It reminds him a little of Bella, actually, which is unnerving.

“Lily?”

“You are slow on the uptake, aren’t you? I felt sure you’d have figured it out by now.” She’s still laughing, but she’s crying at the same time, and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and her nose on the robes.

He takes a step back. It’s not that he thinks insanity is catching, but he’s found it to his benefit not to stand close to crazy people. Bellatrix is a good example, actually. “Calm down,” he tries, raising his hands as though she had him at wand point. “It’s all right, whatever it is. We’ll sort it out.”

“You can’t ‘sort it out’, you daft bugger, I’m pregnant.” She’s laughing and crying in earnest now, and it’s messy and bloody frightening, and he can’t help staring at her abdomen and imagining Little Jamie in there, ready to pop out at any moment. “You needn’t look so scared, I’m not so far along as all that. Just shy of three months,” she says.

Three months. So… November. His eyes drift to her left hand, but the ring isn’t there. No surprise, really, that it was taken. The Death Eaters have no class. Thugs, the lot of them.

“Pregnant?” He sounds like he has about three brain cells left.

She nods. “It’s due at the end of July.” She sniffs again.

“A baby.”

“Well yes, that’s generally the outcome,” she snaps. On the plus side, she seems to have decided that she needs to be the one to hold it together, since manifestly he is unable to do so.

“Huh. I’ll be damned.” Something in his brain switches back on and he rushes into action. “Can I get you anything? What do you need? Should you sit down?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Sirius, I’m pregnant, not sick. Besides, we’re in a dungeon, had you forgotten?”
He had. Just for a second.

“How—how did they know?” She still looks normal enough to him. She lacks that waddling pumpkin look that he’s come to associate with, say, Molly Weasley over the years.

She rolls her eyes. “The question isn’t how did they know, Sirius, it’s why do they care? They’ll kill women. They’ll kill children. What does it matter to them if I’m pregnant?”

He’s a Black. His mind supplies an answer to that readily enough, but it’s not a pleasant one. Childbirth is a powerful thing, pregnancy equally so. There are spells, rituals, all of them Dark. It’s actually a wonder dear old Bella hasn’t been ordered to get herself knocked up for the cause… though he supposes her particular brand of insane enthusiasm is too valuable to lose. None of the rituals end well for the mother in question. “No idea,” he says.

She narrows her eyes, but if there’s one thing Sirius excels at, it’s lying. “So what do we do now?” she asks.
He glances around their cell again, but no avenue of escape presents itself. “We wait,” he says. “We pay attention. We survive.”

She shudders. He puts an arm around her shoulder and lowers them both to sit against the wall. She curls into him; it’s cold in the cell, and he’s happy to lend her what warmth he can. He’s just debating the merits of changing into Padfoot when she laughs.

“What?” He can’t see anything funny about their situation.

“I have to pee,” she says. “Fifteen times a day, I swear. And they say it’ll only get worse.”

“Too much information, Evans.” He eyes the small hole in the corner of the cell with distaste.

* * *

At night, she shivers. “Lily? Are you all right?”

“Cold.” Her teeth chatter.

“Come here, then. Don’t be stupid.” It’s just body heat. That’s all it is. And she’s his best friend’s fiancée.
So as she lies down beside him and rests her head on his shoulder, he’s not noticing the way her curves press against him. He’s not noticing how good she smells, or the way they fit together, because none of that has any bearing on their current situation.

“Does that help?” He shifts away. There are… circumstances, which he would prefer she didn’t notice. Because if she did, she’d likely knee him in the groin.

“Mm-hmm,” she says. He closes a hand around hers, checking. Her skin feels as cold as the stones they’re lying on.

“I’ll do you one better,” he says. “Give me a moment. Not allergic to dogs, are you?”

She sits up as he rolls away. Changing into Padfoot is as easy as breathing, now, although he generally doesn’t do it in front of an audience. He doesn’t know, but he suspects that there are some stages in between man and dog that are rather odd looking. He’s seen the others change, after all; James with antlers is not a sight easily forgotten.

Ah, well. Best make it fast.

She laughs, but it’s a delighted sound. He wags his tail. She scratches him behind the ears, and it’s brilliant.

He licks her face. James would kick his arse for it, but Lily doesn’t know how much Sirius is left when he changes, and who can resist a dog kiss?

She curls up around him and sighs happily. Padfoot is several degrees warmer than Sirius, and there’s all that warm, soft fur to boot. No need to worry about… circumstances, either. It’s a good arrangement all around.

“I think I prefer you like this,” she says, but she’s rubbing his ear between her fingers, so he really doesn’t mind.

* * *

Days pass. Another questioning session leaves him weak and trembling again. Lily holds him until he can sit up and then, by mutual agreement, they don’t speak of it.

He knows nothing of value to the Death Eaters, nothing they don’t already know; the trick is to start off saying that, so that they don’t believe him. Of course, the instant they bring in a Legilimens, his game’s up, but he’s relatively certain they won’t do that anytime soon. He’s a low priority—a member of the Order mostly by association, stumbling near greatness because of who his friends are. He’s never been happier to be unimportant.

Besides, he suspects that Bella’s having too much fun with him to want to see it end anytime soon.
He worries about Lily. He doesn’t think the cold is good for her. She sleeps a lot, even more than before, and sometimes she feels hot to the touch. She has a cough that he doesn’t like the sound of. She won’t say anything about it, though. Stubborn.

Just now, she’s gone into herself. She does that sometimes—goes so far inside that she’s barely there. It unnerves him, so he generally does what he can to disrupt it.

“So,” he says conversationally. “No white wedding then, Evans?”

Her eyes slowly find him. “What?”

“The wedding. Muggle custom, I hear. Do I have it wrong? This is a… rifle wedding, isn’t that the term? So no white dress. What colour do you wear?”

“Rifle wedding?” She blinks, frowning. “Shotgun? Is that what you mean? Because I’m pregnant?”

“Isn’t that the way it works?”

“You bastard! James loves me.” She’s Lily again, snapping fire and ready to twist his head off. It’s an improvement, he thinks.

He shrugs. “Well, obviously. I was just asking about the dress.”

“You—” She stops and presses a hand to her abdomen.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I—I thought I felt something.”

The baby? “Is it all right?” Please Godric, don’t let anything be going wrong. He’s exactly the wrong person to help her if something’s going wrong. He has a passing familiarity with the equipment, but it’s hardly from a professional perspective. “Lily?”

She looks up, smiling, and she’s so beautiful that his throat catches. “It moved. I think… it felt like bubbles. Tiny bubbles.”

He can’t help staring.

She slides a hand under her shirt, pressing it against her abdomen. He can see now that it’s not as flat as he’d thought—there’s a bump, the slightest promise of changes to come. She closes her eyes, and it’s as if she’s trying to touch the baby through her own pale skin.

He swallows. “Bubbles, eh? You’re sure it wasn’t gas?”

“Sirius? Could you do me a favour? Just for a moment, could you pretend you’re not here?”

* * *

It’s late. They’re leaning together against the wall, in their accustomed place. Why always this wall, Sirius wonders, and not one of the others? It’s not like the view is any different.

She turns to face him and tucks her chin over his shoulder; he’s seen her do the same with James, so he wraps his arms around her the way James does. Maybe she’s pretending. Would it be such a bad thing, really? Whatever keeps them sane, right?

“We’re going to die here, aren’t we?” she says.

Yes. “Why would you say that?”

“I can’t think why they haven’t killed us already.” She loops her arms around his waist.

He turns his head slightly, presses against her hair. They’ve been here for nearly a week, and he suspects that neither of them smells as fresh as they once did. It doesn’t bother him. He spends much of his time as a dog, for Godric’s sake.

“I expect it’s due to my charm,” he says.

She swats at him.

“Well it’s certainly not due to yours,” he continues.

She laughs, and then she’s quiet, resting against him. “Could you turn into Padfoot? Please?”

He’s not sure whether to be offended. “Why?”

“There’s something I need to say.”

“Say it to me. You know I can understand you anyhow, right? Even as Padfoot?”

“Please, Sirius.”

He holds her at arms’ length so he can look at her. She’s pale. The bulge in her middle is more visible now, but he suspects that it’s only because she’s lost weight. Her skin seems fragile, almost translucent. Easily bruised. She coughs at night, now, all night, every night, and has the marks under her eyes to prove it.
“All right,” he says, and transforms.

She wraps her arms around him, threading her fingers into his shaggy fur, and presses her head against his. “Thank you,” she says.

He whines.

“You teased me… about a shotgun wedding,” Lily says.

He licks her face in apology.

“No. I know. It’s not that. It’s just… we’re not getting married because of the baby. But sometimes I wonder if we’re getting married because of the war.”

He knows enough not to interrupt.

“I love James, I do. He’s a good person. It’s just… we’re still so young. To be having a baby, to be getting married. I wonder if part of it is just another stupid act of defiance, you know? Proving that we’ll go on as normal, no matter what. Only it’s not as normal, is it? Because we probably would have waited, and… and made sure.”

She’s rubbing his ear absently again. He wonders if she’s really speaking to him, or more to herself.

“Things are different when there’s a war on. They just are. How are you supposed to know?”

Padfoot can’t answer. That’s probably why she wanted him to change.

* * *

That night is a bad one.

Sirius stays in dog form until Lily is asleep; it seems the best way to give her some semblance of privacy. After, though, he needs to be himself. He gets up carefully, not disturbing Lily, and moves to the other side of the cell. He needs to think.

Bellatrix has other ideas.

He shivers when he sees her. She’s never come at night before.

“Aww, ickle preggers is sleeping,” she says. “What? No puppy to cuddle?”

“What do you want, Bella?”

She pouts. “I’m bored.”

“Yes, well, you lot are rather dull.”

“Ah, but I’ve prisoners to play with.” She taps her wand against a metal bar. “I do so love to play.” Tap.
He moves to screen Lily from view. “Take me, then. Leave her alone.”

She smiles. “Such a brave,” tap, “brave,” tap, “Gryffindor. Pity you’re not the one she wants.” She presses the tip of her wand to her lips—kissing it or telling it a secret—then points it at him.

He holds perfectly still, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

“Dissimulo,” she says.

It’s not what he expected. There’s no pain, only a strange sort of tingle all over his body. “What did you do?” His voice sounds wrong. He’s wearing glasses. He gropes for them and pulls them off. They’re round, likes James’s, and the cell is blurry without them so he slides them back on.

She laughs. “I’ve just helped things along. You should thank me.” She points her wand at Lily and makes a circling motion, then turns it on herself and fades from view. He knows her well enough to be certain that she’s still there, watching—just Disillusioned. He wonders how often she’s been there when he wasn’t aware of it.

Lily stirs and wakes. She sits up, presses a hand to her forehead. “Dizzy,” she says. Her voice is thick with sleep.

“Lily. Are you all right? What did she do to you?” He kneels beside her.

She blinks. “James?”

“What?” He looks down at himself. He’s dressed in Gryffindor robes, complete with tie. The Head Boy badge is attached, which is a joke in and of itself. Godric. She didn’t. He feels his face—the shape of the features is wrong. He should be sprouting several days’ worth of stubble, but all he feels is smooth skin. His hair is scruffy, short and messy.

“Lily, it’s me. Sirius.”

She frowns. “I had a dream. Sirius was in it.” The frown dissolves into a dreamy smile. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

She grabs him by the tie and pulls him close. At Hogwarts he saw her do the same to James, once, and found it vaguely arousing—he liked the take-chargedness of the gesture. It’s even better when he’s the one wearing the tie.

There’s no time to think about that, though, before she’s pressing her mouth against his. Her lips are chapped and she tastes like a week without toothpaste, but he really doesn’t care. Merlin, she knows what to do with her tongue.

“Missed you,” she says again, pulling back. “Where have you been?” She runs her hands up his back, then down again, cupping his arse and pressing her hips against his. There’s no way she can miss his… circumstances.

“Lily, don’t.”

“What’s wrong?” He’s backing away, but she follows. She has her hand on him now, and—oh.

“I’m not James,” he says. His jaw is clenched. He hopes Bella’s enjoying her fucking show, because this is sadistic, even for her. When did she develop the discipline for mind games? He thinks he preferred her as the Queen of Cruciatus.

Lily has backed him up against the wall now. She takes his hand and places it on her breast, and it’s every bit as round and full and—he pulls his hand down, but she’s rubbing against him now, and making little noises that—.

“Bella, you bitch. Stop it!” he yells.

She laughs. He can hear it, but he can’t see her. Lily doesn’t seem to notice the laugh, or his protests. It would be easier, maybe, just to go along with it. Easier to—to what? Fuck his best friend’s girl? Take advantage of Lily when she doesn’t even know where she is? Sirius may not be a saint, but he’s not going to sink that low.

He does the only thing he can think of. He transforms into Padfoot, hoping that it will disrupt the glamour or whatever it is that Bella’s done to him.

It works. Lily staggers back, horrified. Bella blinks into sight, her face twisted with rage, wand pointed at him. “Crucio!”

Somewhere after the first curse, he loses the ability to stay in his Animagus form. He’s human, fully himself as he writhes and screams. He feels bad at first, because Lily has never seen him tortured before. Then he doesn’t feel anything at all except the pain.

* * *

It’s a long time before he can move. Lily’s not holding him this time, as he comes back to himself. She’s sitting against the wall, hugging her knees, watching him. Her face is red and tear-stained, but she’s not crying now.

“Is it over?” she asks.

He nods. “I think so.” He wonders if Bella is watching. He doesn’t know what to say. “Lily, I—”

“Don’t,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right.”

She crawls over to him. “Can I touch you now?”

He closes his eyes. Everything aches and burns, but there’s none of that high-pitched singing along his nerves; the raw feeling has subsided. “Could,” he says.

He feels her fingers, tentative at first, stroking his hair away from his face. She grows more certain, combing his hair with her fingers, letting her other hand trail down his neck and linger on his collarbone. “You don’t feel like he does,” she says. “You have more sharp edges.”

There’s no answer he can make.

“Can you sit up?”

He nods, so she helps him.

She pulls him into a hug that’s warm and solid and reassuring; she’s strong for her size, and right now she’s giving her strength to him. He closes his eyes and soaks it in.

She traces the line of his eyebrow, lets her finger follow the planes of his face down to his jawline. He knows he must feel rough under her hand, unshaven and unwashed.

She kisses him. It’s soft and questioning—not like the hungry kiss she forced on him under Bella’s spell, and she pulls back when she’s done.

“Lily—I’m not James,” he says in weak protest.

She looks him full in the face, leaving him no room for doubt. “I know,” she says. “I know who you are.”

She kisses him again and he responds, because it feels good, because she’s Lily, and even filthy with a week’s worth of cell-scum, she’s still beautiful. Because she’s here. He deepens the kiss and she lets him, but just when he’s about to lose himself in it, she pulls away. “We can’t.”

He’s breathing hard. “I know,” he says. They’re quiet for a moment. “Do you want—?” he begins, but trails off, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she says yes. He’s not strong enough yet. “I’m not sure I can change into Padfoot right now,” he admits.

“Don’t,” she says. She presses him down so that they’re both lying on the floor, then curls into him. “Just sleep.”

He’s tired enough to do as she asks.

Sometime through the night, he wakes up to the sound of crying. She has moved away from him; he touches her shoulder.

“She told me,” Lily says. “What they’re going to do with the baby.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he rubs her back.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but to lie would be worse. “Suspected.”

It’s dark; he feels more than sees her nod. “Thank you,” she says. “For not telling me.”

He rubs her back until he is certain that she’s asleep, then he lies in the dark and thinks of the many ways he’d like to kill Bellatrix.

* * *

He hears shouting. He’s so knackered that it takes him a moment to remember where he is, why he’s lying on cold floor with a warm body draped over him. Lily’s breathing softly into his neck, her lips hot against his skin.

“Down here,” he hears, and before he can move or sit up or think of a fucking plan, there are footsteps outside the cell.

“Black.” The gravelly voice can only belong to Moody. “You alive?”

Relief rushes through him. Relief and something else. “No thanks to you lot.” He shakes Lily gently. “I think the cavalry’s here, Evans.”

“Mmm?”

He sits up, bringing her with him, and that’s when he sees James. The look on his friend’s face strips his words away; Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever been speechless as often as he has this week. James looks hurt and hopeful and confused all at the same time, and yet as his gaze turns to Lily, it’s obvious that this is a man deeply, deeply in love.

“Lily. Are you all right?” He doesn’t look at Sirius.

“I’m fine,” she says.

There’s a silence that’s entirely out of place and can’t mean anything good. “Better once you get us out of here,” Sirius suggests.

It takes Moody a couple of spells to get the door open, and then James is in the cell, transfiguring something—Sirius never does figure out what, and perhaps it’s just as well—into a blanket, wrapping Lily in it, and bundling her away. Sirius is left with Moody’s proffered hand. He takes it and allows himself to be helped up.
“Looks like you made out all right for yourself, boy,” Moody says gruffly.

Sirius closes his eyes. “Shut up,” he says. “Just shut up.”

To his surprise, Moody does.

* * *

It’s several days later when they’re allowed to leave St. Mungo’s for the relative normalcy of the apartment. Sirius is, he thinks, glad to be home. Mostly.

He’s heard the story of Bella’s capture and escape, and the series of clues that led the Order members to the cozy little cell he shared with Lily. He doesn’t care about that part so much; the important thing is that they got there.

He cares more about the fact that Lily has subtly arranged things so that they’re never alone together—not once since the day James and Moody broke them out of the cell. He cares about the shadow in James’s eyes when his friend looks at him. There’s doubt there. There was never doubt before.

He wants to tell him that nothing happened, but he’s not sure that’s entirely true. The truth is, it’s complicated, and he can’t claim that nothing’s changed.

He bloody hates change.

Remus has given him a reprieve on the smoking ban, so he’s on the balcony again, enjoying a stick of fresh air. It’s fucking cold, but somehow warmer than the cell.

He pushes away the memory of Lily’s warm body pressed against him.

He’s surprises when the door slides open behind him, but he makes a point of not turning around. After a moment, James joins him, leaning against the railing. “I’ve been an arse,” he says, without preamble.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “And this is news because—?”

“Git. You know what I mean.” James swipes the cigarette from him and Sirius is so caught off guard by the gesture that he lets him. “Seeing you like that, all wrapped around each other—I’m sorry. I wasn’t there; I don’t know what it was like. I shouldn’t have thought the worst.”

“You weren’t there,” Sirius agrees.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” James flicks ash into the night air. Sirius watches it fall.

“Bad enough,” he says. He looks James in the eye. “You want to know if I slept with her? I didn’t.”

“I know,” James says evenly.

Sirius wonders, fleetingly, if James asked Lily. In a way, he hopes so—she would have torn a strip off him. But maybe it’s better if James didn’t ask. Maybe it’s better if he figured it out himself.

Sirius isn’t about to request an explanation.

“You want to know what I think happened?” James asks.

Sirius really doesn’t. He shrugs.

“I think you saved her life,” James says. “We got you out of that cell, but you saved her. Probably every fucking day you were in there.”

“She’s stronger than you think.” It has to be said.

“I know how strong she is,” James says. He drops the cigarette butt to the pavement. “And I know that you saved her. Thanks.”

Sirius stares at the outstretched hand. A handshake? Seriously? He doesn’t think they’ve shaken hands since first year, and probably not even then. “Put that thing away, you prat,” he says, and wraps James in the gruffest man-hug he can manage. James stiffens, then relaxes when Sirius doesn’t give up. “I was doing my job. Best Man, remember?”

“Yeah. I remember,” James says, pulling away. “Of course.”

“Good.” Sirius eyes James. There’s one way to know if things are going to be all right between them. “You owe me a cigarette,” he announces.

“Piss off.” James heads back into the flat.

Things are going to be fine.

-End-