Sveinity

Fic: Eventually

sveinity — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 05:50:05 GMT

Title: Eventually
Recipient: nuclearsugars
Author: sveinity
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Draco/Albus
Age Disparity: ( 18/44 )
Summary: Albus gets in a little over his head.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work
Warning(s): Sexual situations, infidelity, some explicit language, wall!sex, first time
Word Count: 3,439
Author's Notes:Thank you SO much, Ellie, for betaing and the support. It really helped me out and kept me going, even if I did venture way off track.

Albus Severus cannot believe what he is witnessing. He must still be sleeping because, surely, this can be nothing more than a good dream. Astoria Malfoy would never be saying what she is otherwise. There is no way she could want a divorce. Not from Draco Malfoy. Especially not because she fears his supposed heterosexuality is false. It’s just not possible.

Albus leans farther into the doorway, rubbing at his tired eyes with the back of his hand. Astoria continues to talk quietly into the fireplace, voice slightly muffled and hard to hear. Al knows that he shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this, but he can’t help himself. He only wanted to use the loo, but as he walked down the hallway he’d noticed a light. And the door was open, inviting, asking for Albus to peak his head inside. Now Al can’t bring himself to leave. He is too engrossed in Astoria’s conversation. So engrossed, in fact, that he doesn’t notice when his body leans farther and farther forward until he loses his balance. Al lands on the floor with an obvious thump. Salazar would be proud.

“I’m sorry,” Al says sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

He quickly stands up and hurries away, not wanting to stick around long enough to find out what Astoria would do. When he reaches the loo, Al realizes he no longer has to go. He just stands with his back against the door, lost and contemplative, until the mirror tuts at him and the sink automatically fills with water. Mumbling a quiet thank you, Al splashes his face with the chilly water.

His mind is still reeling, but not as much as before. Draco Malfoy, gay. The reality of what that could mean overwhelms him. It awakes the lust Albus always tried so hard to smother. Looking up at his reflection, Al studies his body with a critical eye. He usually considers himself more on the plain side. There’s nothing very special about the way he looks, except for maybe his eyes. They’re startlingly green, even greener than his father’s. But right now Albus thinks he is beautiful, glowing with possibility.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Albus is very good at getting what he wants; maybe not right away, but eventually. He is patient, waits for the right opportunity. It isn’t difficult to corner Draco alone. Malfoy Manor is large enough to hide an entire herd of hippogriffs. As soon as Scorpius is lost in a book, Albus excuses himself. There would be plenty of time to spend with his best friend later.

Finding Draco inside the secluded left-wing loo – wet, naked, and aroused – is just luck. Steam thickens the air, quickly matting Al’s hair to his forehead. He ignores it in favor of the sight before him. Draco is standing beneath a torrent of cascading water, reminiscent of a waterfall. Leave it to the Malfoys to have extravagant baths. But it’s not the décor that’s got Albus standing in awe. Draco’s entire body is straining for release, moaning for it. Albus stifles a moan of his own. Quickly, before Draco has the chance to notice his presence, Al strips down to his pants. Then he walks towards the bath, stepping as quietly as possible, considering his bare feet on the tile.

“Do you mind?” Albus asks innocently, sliding into the almost too hot water, “I really need a wash.”

The expression on Draco’s face is comical. Albus would be laughing if he wasn’t so busy admiring the older man’s physique. Though Draco is in his forties, his body is still in great shape. His shoulders are broad and proud, his mostly hairless chest tapering to a slim waist and prominent hipbones. Albus can’t help but let his eyes wander to Draco’s erection. It’s thick and purple-pink, longer than Albus’ own. Pre-come has gathered at the head, discernable from the water droplets by its murky color. Draco’s erection bobs forgotten underneath the onslaught of the spray. Albus has the sudden desire to kneel and lick it, to drag his tongue along the pulsing vein all the way to the head. The intensity of the thought startles him and Albus flushes pink, the blush spreading down his neck to his chest.

Seduction was turning out to be harder than he thought it would be. Especially since Draco looks like that underneath his robes. Albus can’t help but feel insignificant in comparison.

“Potter!” Draco exclaims, finally regaining enough composure to speak, “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

“Washing,” Albus answers with a weak grin, “Obviously.”

Then, before Draco can protest further, Albus dunks under the water. It’s a relief to have a momentary reprieve; to stop, think, and scrub away his embarrassment. Being shy wasn’t going to get him anywhere and definitely not with Draco.

Coy, Albus thinks, be coy.

When he breaches the surface, Draco is no longer beneath the waterfall. In fact, Albus can’t see Draco at all. He’s gone. Albus sighs shakily, body drooping in both disappointment and mortification. What was he even thinking? Lesson learned; no more chasing after lust. Wiping water from his face, Al turns to leave the bath. He doesn’t make it far. Draco is directly behind him, not even a foot away. Albus startles at the sight. He loses his balance, tipping forward unsteadily. Draco catches him, strong hands holding Albus’ waist. And though Albus is now resting against Draco’s chest, the older man does not let him go.

“You play a dangerous game, Potter,” Draco says, tilting Albus’ face upward.

“I’m not-” Albus tries to deny, but the words are swallowed by Draco’s mouth descending over his.

Albus gasps into the kiss, eyes squeezing tight. He almost can’t believe this is happening. Draco takes advantage of Albus’ open lips to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue inside. Albus never wants him to stop. His hands reach out desperately to grasp at Draco’s biceps, which flex beneath his fingers. ¬¬He pulls Draco’s body flush against his own, their skin wet and slippery and flushed with desire.

By the time they part, Albus’ heart is pounding erratically in his chest. His entire body feels alive with want, with the need for Draco to possess him in every way. He knows Draco wants it, too. Al can feel the older man’s erection pressing into his stomach beneath the water. It makes him giddy, and the fact that this – what they’re doing right now – is forbidden only makes it that much more delicious.

“Tease,” Draco growls when Albus rises up on tippy-toes to rub his own erection against Draco’s.

The friction sends jolts of pleasure coursing through Al’s body. It puddles low in his stomach, a burning white heat demanding satisfaction. Albus arches into it, thrusting his pelvis forward and grinding. Draco’s hands are such a contrast to their carnal desperation as they ghost gently down Al’s chest to his waist. Then he is pushed back and up onto the edge of the bath, Draco sliding to his knees in front of him. Albus’ breath hitches at the sight.

The water dripping onto his naked thighs is the only warning Al gets before Draco is sliding his legs apart. Their eyes meet momentarily, but there is no sudden understanding shared between them. Only lust. Albus shouldn’t feel so disappointed. What was he expecting? A love confession? How unrealistic.

“Oh,” Al breathes shakily, leaning back on his elbows to give Draco’s lips better access to his body.

The tiles are cold but easily forgettable. Mild discomfort is insignificant when one’s childhood crush is currently nibbling his way up one’s thigh. Albus’ eyes squeeze shut, chest rising rapidly up and down, up and down. He can feel his muscles jumping, skittish beneath the unfamiliar contact, and gooseflesh rising on his arms.

“I can feel your pulse,” Draco says, lips brushing along the junction where thigh meets pelvis, “So erratic.”

Draco’s breath seeps into Albus’ pants warming the soaked fabric. They do nothing to preserve his modesty. In all actuality Al’s appearance is only enhanced by them as they stretch tight and transparent over his twitching erection in an obscene fashion. Albus can’t remember why he even kept them on. He can’t remember much of anything with Draco nuzzling his nose against his balls. The contact jars him, but not as much as Draco’s mouth opening wide and clamping over the base of Al’s erection through his pants. His hips jut forward with abandon, begging for more. Draco’s hands scrape up the inside of Albus’ legs to the dip where his prominent pelvic bones meet thigh, holding him down. Only then does Draco slowly move his mouth. It’s torture. Al has never felt so good - yet so frustrated - in his entire life.

Draco’s lips travel the entire length of Albus’ erection at snail pace. When he finally reaches the head, his mouth widens further to encompass its width. Then Draco is sucking, eliciting a startled whimper-scream from Al as he orgasms. The suddenness of it leaves him reeling.

“That was fast,” Draco muses, pulling back and wiping his mouth.

The words are like a punch to the gut. Albus’ body still feels lethargic and he hasn’t managed to catch his breath yet, either, but his afterglow abruptly vanishes. He forces himself to calm down, just calm the fuck down, before he does something he’ll regret. Like cry. Or scream. Or run away like even more of a freak.

“I guess I’d better go,” Albus says when he’s able, running a shaky hand through his hair, “before Scorpius wonders where I am. You know how he gets.”

Standing up isn’t easy. His crotch is still pretty much in Draco’s face and moving was only going to draw more attention to it. Biting the insides of his cheeks, Al decides it’s probably just easiest to slide both his legs over sideways and get up that way. So he does, and Draco watches him dry off, get dressed, and leave in silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Albus stayed an entire week at Malfoy Manor. He and Scorpius busied themselves with all sorts of meaningless activities. Scorpius favored reading, ever the stereotypical Ravenclaw. Albus preferred to harass the peacocks and not think of Draco. He wasn’t very successful at either. Malfoy peacocks were damn near impossible to bother. The world could be ending and they would never notice, and as for not thinking of Draco…. It would have been a lot easier not to think of him if he wasn’t around every corner Albus turned. The man was constantly underfoot. Even Scorpius began to notice the increase in his father’s presence, but not how often Draco stared at his best friend. Albus sure did. Those sharp grey eyes made him squirm and blush like the virgin he is.

Eventually Al’s time at Malfoy Manor came to an end. He returned home for one final night to spend with his own family before he left the country. Al’s portkey activated bright and early in the morning, which meant that he was in no mood to deal with a sniveling mother, an anxious little sister, his patronizing older brother, and especially not his affable father. Albus doesn’t do well with emotion. He can’t express it well, let alone interpret it accurately most of the time. Scorpius jokes that he’s emotionally stunted, but there’s always an underlying tone supposing it’s not all a joke. Which is weird, because Al’s family is the most emotional family he’s ever seen, but that’s just how it is: all emotion, all the time.

Albus understands he is a bit of a black sheep. It’s always been that way, known but never acknowledged until Al was sorted into Slytherin. That was a major blow to everyone but Al himself and his father. Apparently going to Peru to train dragons is worse. No one could understand why. Why not with Charlie in Romania, that is. Peru is so far, so foreign, so not here; exactly why Albus decided to go.

The first couple weeks weren’t easy, but Albus hadn’t been expecting otherwise. In fact, he knew his job would be downright challenging, and it was. The Peruvian Vipertooth, though the smallest breed of dragon on Earth, is also the quickest and the most vicious. Any wrong move and you can find yourself burned alive or worse. Al loved them anyway. Watching the colonies move together in the sky was phenomenal. He could never get enough.

In just three months Albus and his team discovered a new genetic strain. These dragons were even smaller, less aggressive, and usually curious enough to accept human contact. Their only downside, unfortunately, was that they produced watery venom, impractical for potion usage. The International Confederation of Wizards easily dismissed their presence, calling a halt to all further research. Only Al remained skeptical. He volunteered to work with the strain long after interest in them had been lost.

In just another three months Albus proved how useful this new strain could be. With sufficient training, these dragons could be used much like how the Muggle police used dogs. The Peruvian Vipertooths would be a real asset to the Aurors. Everyone knows how difficult it is to overtake a dragon. Wanted wizards would never stand a chance against them, not with a dragon hunting them down. And the dragons actually liked the work. They got a kick out of wizards asking them to hunt down other wizards.

Before long Albus was transferred back to England to teach the Aurors how to handle the dragons. If Al had thought leaving was hard, coming home was even harder. It didn’t feel much like home anymore. He was so used to the tropics, to all the fantastic creatures and colours. His flat in London wasn't exactly ideal, either, not after living secluded in the rainforest for so long. The only remotely good thing about it was the library on the uppermost floor. That is, until Albus walked inside and spotted Draco Malfoy reading in one of the cushy armchairs.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Albus blurts eloquently from the doorway.

Draco merely glances over the top of his book with a raised eyebrow. The gesture rubs Al the wrong way. He never managed to forget their little loo incident. Even after all this time his attraction to the older man is as strong as ever. And it pisses him off. Maybe Draco notices because he marks his page in the book.

“I am enjoying the library.” He says it as if it is the most ordinary thing in the world for him to be in a Muggle establishment of any kind. Albus scoffs openly at the notion. “You don’t believe me?” Draco asks, rising from his chair. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, Potter.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Draco has the library door slamming shut. Albus quickly turns to try the knob, but it won’t open. He’s trapped. Al feels his stomach knot in dread, breath coming a little faster than before. When Draco’s hands reach out and circle around his waist, Albus can’t help the little whimper that escapes his lips. He knows he should be struggling, that he should be doing something, anything, to get away. But he’s not. He can’t. His own body has betrayed him.

Albus tries to speak, to ask if Draco is stark raving mad. The words don’t want to come. Then it’s too late, he’s lost his chance, because Draco is turning his face and pressing their lips together. The kiss is not gentle, nor timid. Draco’s mouth is demanding over his, deepening the kiss with more hunger than finesse. Then Albus isn’t sure who is kissing who anymore.

Draco breaks away without warning, pushing Albus against the door. They’re both panting for breath, but only Albus is reeling. He feels slightly dizzy from lack of air, and maybe a little bit giddy that Draco still wants him even after what happened last time.

“Unfortunately for you, I own this building,” Draco purrs, hand cupping Al’s erection through his trousers. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of one another now that you’re back in London. Our last encounter was cut a little… short.”

Albus’ head tilts back against Draco’s shoulder as he groans, hips thrusting into Draco’s hand with a mind of their own. He wants to resist, but can’t. When Draco strips off his clothes, Albus lets him. He was never very good at resisting temptation, anyway.

Al turns in Draco’s arms and begins to tug at the older man’s shirt. “I won’t be the only one starkers,” Albus says, “I want to see you, too.”

Draco nods and complies. After Draco is naked, Al decides memories are nothing in comparison to reality. He runs his hands reverently down Draco’s chest to his prominent, semi-hard erection. It juts from Draco’s body at an angle, and when Albus fists it fully, hardens in his hand.

“You’ll take me, won’t you?” Al asks in what he hopes is an alluring tone of voice.

It seems to work, if the way Draco pins him back to the door in a heated kiss is anything to go by. Al moans his approval, tangling Draco’s tongue with his own. He doesn’t even notice Draco lifting him off the floor until their erections are directly touching. Albus wraps his legs around Draco’s waist to keep them that way.

“Hold still,” Draco says after pulling his mouth away.

He mutters a spell Albus has never heard before, but it’s easy enough to figure out once he feels Draco’s fingers, slick with lubricant. He runs a nail along Al’s perineum, thumbs at his puckered hole, until oil glistens and runs down Al’s thighs.

“Do it,” Albus begs and Draco does.

He enters Albus with one finger at a time, carefully stretching his entrance to accommodate something much larger. Al welcomes the new sensations, peppering kisses across Draco’s face and neck while holding on tight. It’s not easy to remain upright against the door when his whole body feels like its melting.

Draco finally removes his fingers from Albus, who whimpers at the loss. He says the lubrication spell again, coating his erection with care. Albus shakes in anticipation. He wishes Draco would stop being so sensible. When Draco carefully aligns his erection to Al’s entrance, Al can’t take it anymore. His hands clutch possessively at Draco’s arse, knuckles white, and pulls the older man inside of his body.

Draco muffles Albus’ scream with his mouth, lips trying to distract him from the pain. When that doesn’t work, when Albus’ body is still shaking hard enough for the door to rattle, Draco begins to pull out.

“No!” Al chokes on a sob, tears spilling down his cheeks, “Don’t.”

Draco doesn’t understand. It’s not just that pain that’s making him so emotional. Albus has never felt so connected to anybody before in his life, and not just because of the penetration. To Albus, this is so much more than sexual gratification. He loves Draco.

“Keep going. Please.”

Draco’s face relaxes as he re-enters Albus. Albus never wants him to stop. Pleasure slowly begins to return to his body, his wilting erection regaining life. When Draco brushes that spot deep within him, Albus gasps and arches his back. Nothing’s ever touched his prostate before. Draco notes the change in his young lover immediately and his thrusts begin to pick up speed. Albus tries to match Draco’s pace. He moans and whimpers, nearly screaming when Draco slams roughly into him again and again and again.

The sound of slick flesh hitting flesh echoes throughout the library. Al absently wonders if the banging door will draw anybody’s attention, but then Draco is tugging on his erection and he just doesn’t care anymore. The pleasure mounts quickly, pooling low and hot in his stomach. It only takes one particularly hard tug and thrust for Albus to tense and shout, shooting his seed up their chests. Not much longer Draco is moaning his own release, coming deep inside Al’s body.

Albus sighs when Draco’s penis slips from his body. The older man kisses him gently, nothing more than a chaste brushing of lips. His elegant hands cup Al’s face and their eyes connect, bright green on blue.

“You weren’t supposed to leave,” Draco says. Albus doesn’t know if he’s referring to their encounter in the bathroom or his job in Peru. “Don’t you dare do it again.”

Al shakes his head no. There would be no leaving now. Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

Fic: The Fickle Friend

sveinity — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 03:46:47 GMT

Title:The Fickle Friend
Recipient: hollycomb
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Gilderoy Lockhart
Summary: Twenty-four hours is nothing in comparison to forever.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work
Warning(s): Angst, cross-gen, age disparity, semi-explicit sex, EWE
Word Count: 5,689
Author's Notes: Written for hp_rarities . I never in a million years imagined I would be writing this pairing. It was a lot of work, but I got it done. Thank you SO much Ellie for betaing and holding my hand the entire way. I never could have pulled it off without you!

Harry Potter wakes with a start, chest raising rapidly up and down and ribs twinging with every breath. His entire body feels bruised, battered, and that horrible pounding needs to stop. Blinking blearily, Harry realizes that he is alone. It’s his head that’s throbbing, but he can’t seem to remember why.

“Bloody hell,” Harry mouths breathily.

His voice refuses to work properly. He vaguely recalls something crushing his esophagus. Harry squirms restlessly just thinking about it and instantly regrets the movement. Pain shoots through his veins like crucio. It blackens his vision and Harry passes out with a hoarse, startled shout.

The next time Harry wakes he does so with a groan. Everything hurts, just not as bad as before. His body is full of sharp little pains prickling beneath his skin. Even his eyelids are sore and Harry struggles to open them, but then he wishes he hadn’t. He is at St. Mungo’s – and his room is full of reporters.

“Mr. Potter,” one young reporter exclaims as soon as Harry’s eyes open fully, “Preston Glover of the Daily Prophet—”

Every one in the room begins talking at once, and the whole room buzzes with activity. Cameras flash and whir. Harry feels helpless and blind and angry. He can remember what happened now… all of it.

Three years have passed since the war. Tom Riddle may be gone, but his sympathizers remain; even now their numbers seem endless. Harry became an Auror like he’d always dreamed of being - and it turned out to be something wholly unexpected. Harry hates being an Auror as much as he is good at it. But he refuses to quit because Harry Potter is not a quitter. Seeing all the reporters, he regrets not quitting now.

Two trainees are dead and too many injured. The whole raid was one big set up and no one ever suspected. Harry never suspected. He should have known, should have been able to put all the details together, he thinks, then this never would have happened. If only- but if onlys never get you anywhere. The raid was a gross tragedy and Harry won’t have the press making a spectacle of it.

“Get out,” Harry rasps, but no one hears him over the din of competing questions and clicking cameras.

Harry spares a moment to consider how all these reporters made it through security before struggling to sit up. He pushes the sheets off and away and spots his wand on the bedside table. Magic tickles up his arm as soon as his fingers make contact. It is a reassuring weight in his hand. Harry swishes it violently, summoning a glass of water. His mouth is dry and tastes like old blood. Maybe with some water he’ll be able to speak louder.

Harry gets more water than he bargained for.

The wave appears with a resounding whoosh, drenching all the reporters, their cameras, and the entire room except for Harry. He remains completely dry. It’s as if an invisible bubble is protecting him from the onslaught and the water splits to avoid him. The reporters splutter and screech unhappily. Preston Glover chokes on his mouthful; maybe that will teach him to keep his mouth shut, but Harry is too beside himself to be amused.

`

A week later and Harry is still at St. Mungo’s. The water incident was only the beginning. Every spell he casts goes awry. The mediwizards are calling it a mild case of magical synesthesia. Harry doesn’t think there is anything mild about it. But at least he is alive. Three other Aurors died from their injuries, and another lay crippled for life from prolonged exposure to the cruciatus.

It makes Harry sick with guilt. He’s faced death, met death, and left death. Sometimes he wishes that it could have been more permanent. Now he’s just stuck with a life he doesn’t know how to live and people he can’t deal with. Everything has gone to shite. Harry hasn’t been able to go anywhere since the Battle of Hogwarts without being mobbed by owls or crowded by strangers. It is even worse now that he’s stuck in St. Mungo’s. His every move is observed, studied, and dissected, from his pissing in the morning to his screaming in the night. Mourning is supposed to be done in private, but Harry has no more private left to mourn in.

That’s all the excuse Harry needs to vacate his hospital room and go in search of some privacy. The Janus Thickey ward is the farthest ward away and seems like as good a place to hide as any. When the nurses aren’t looking Harry sneaks inside. He pulls back the curtains of the last bed he sees – and finds it occupied. There is a man propped up by pillows, staring avidly down at a pile of unopened letters, face set in a deep concentration. It takes him a second to notice Harry.

“Hullo,” the man says kindly, “Would you like to read a letter?” He picks one up and shakes it back-and-forth enticingly.

“Pardon?” Harry asks, astonished.

“I’m lonely,” the man answers honestly, “No one’s been by to see me all day except the nurses and they don’t stay long.”

Harry stares openly. It takes him a moment to notice the man’s messy blond hair mixed with all the grey, his strong jaw, and forget-me-not blue eyes. Without the pompous attitude and gaudy clothing, Harry hadn’t recognized him. But he does now. Gilderoy Lockhart, reduced to a waif of his younger self. His hospital gown hangs limply off his too-thin body, emphasizing the older man’s exhausted face. None of his rosy complexion remains; his cheeks are slightly sunken and telling bruises have formed beneath his eyes. Lockhart looks oddly humble. Harry laughs outright at the thought until Lockhart begins laughing with him. Harry stops abruptly. An awkward silence descends between them.

“Please?” Lockhart says, “You don’t have to stay long.”

Harry doesn’t feel like he can refuse. He nods his head reluctantly and sits down at the end of the bed. The pile of letters separates them like a chasm. It’s almost like detention in second year all over again, only worse. Lockhart hands him a letter cheerfully. Harry takes it with a frown and notes that the wax seal has already been broken. He thinks nothing of it at first, but the parchment he removes from the envelope is discolored and creased. Old. There is no date on the envelope. Harry quickly skims the letter – observing the words Dearest Gilderoy, love, and babies repeated over and over in various different arrangements – and still no date is to be found. Irritation bubbles in Harry’s stomach. Leave it to Gilderoy Lockhart to reread old fan mail.

“Well, go on,” Lockhart urges enthusiastically, “What does it say?”

Harry glowers at Lockhart knowingly before saying banally, “Matilda Sharp would like to have your lovechild.”

“Oh. That’s embarrassing. Next!”

Harry grabs another letter at random. It’s thick and squishy. There is only a ring of residue where a wax seal once resided. When Harry opens the envelope he is not sure what exactly it is he is seeing. A piece of satin is wrapped lovingly around the letter. He pokes at it curiously before removing it from the envelope. Then he drops it as if he’s been burned. Shivers of disgust travel up his arm. It’s a g-string, a vile, disgusting lilac g-string with lace for arse-floss. Lockhart chuckles good naturedly and picks up the fallen letter.

“Gilderoy,” He reads dramatically, “I long for your touch, your body against mine. I will give myself to you happily. Just name a time and place. I swear I’ll be there no matter what! These panties are for you. Signed Geoffrey G. How thoughtful.”

Harry shakes his head in revulsion. He can’t believe that people do things like this. Where do they even get the nerve? And for Lockhart to actually enjoy this type of attention… but Lockhart clearly isn’t. The letter crumples beneath the strength of his graceful fingers. Lockhart’s lips are pulled down in a frown, eyes lacking the sparkle that had been present mere moments ago.

“I’ll read another one, shall I?” Harry mutters quietly.

The next one is not much better. Harry doesn’t want to read it as soon as he sees the chosen words emphasized in red ink. The expectant look that Lockhart directs at Harry pushes him to do it anyway.

“Mr. Lockhart,
Boggart Books has been as patient and understanding of your medical condition as feasibly possible. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that either you finish your book, Dancing with Dragons, or you are finished. In accordance with the contract you signed all due fees will be taken from your Gringotts Wizarding Bank vault with interest.
-Publisher in Chief
Jerry Netherfield”

Lockhart mumbles something indistinguishable about books underneath his breath and remains otherwise silent as he hands Harry the next letter. The wax seal crumbles at Harry’s touch and dirties the bed with sickly yellow flecks. Harry briefly wonders how much longer he’s going to subject himself to this - because surely being back in his hospital room is better than this - before he takes the letter out of the envelope with a sigh:

“You are the biggest arse I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. Your books are as empty as you are. Your head is so inflated I’m surprised you haven’t popped yet. But don’t worry. Your time will come.”

Harry puts the letter back into its envelope. Why would Lockhart want to reread something like that? At least it’s not possible to preserve howlers. How many hate letters has Lockhart received? Most people always seem to adore Lockhart and it never came out that he was a fake. But Harry knows better than anyone what it’s like for supposed fans to turn against you. Harry remembers Lockhart once telling him that fame is a fickle friend.

“That’s probably enough for now, don’t you think?” Harry says, looking across the bed at Lockhart.

The man nods his head and straightens the pile of letters without a word. Harry watches him awkwardly. This Lockhart is so different than the one Harry remembers. It’s been seven years. Harry feels slightly ashamed of himself for never wondering what happened to his old teacher after they left the Chamber of Secrets. And why was Lockhart still at St. Mungo’s anyway? Harry opens his mouth to ask when Lockhart’s stomach emits a rather loud growl. Lockhart presses a hand over it and grins weakly.

“Guess you’re hungry,” Harry murmurs instead.

“I guess I am,” Lockhart answers, sliding slowly off the bed and pulling on a pair of fraying slippers.

Harry doesn’t know why he follows Lockhart out of the Janus Thickey ward. It defeats the purpose of hiding from people. Lockhart seems just as surprised, but his eyes warm considerably. He pulls a map of St. Mungo’s from his pocket with a crooked grin and marches them dramatically down the hall. They make an odd pair and more than one nurse stops to look at them funny. Harry doesn’t even question Lockhart about his map or what it might mean. He just doesn’t care anymore.

“Here we are!” Lockhart says with a flourish, pushing open the doors to the cafeteria with more enthusiasm than is really necessary.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, “Here we are. I’ll find us a table.”

Harry walks away before Lockhart can answer. His body is beginning to hurt again, throat muscles twitching unhappily from all the talking. Harry’s mediwizard said it would probably be a few weeks before Harry is back to par. There is a free table situated in the corner of the cafeteria and Harry hurries towards it before anyone else can snag it. He really needn’t worry since the cafeteria is so empty, but it makes him feel better anyway. Harry sits on one of the cushy chairs and taps his fingers on the copper table top. Rings stain the surface and distort Harry’s reflection. He makes faces at himself because he’s got nothing better to do.

“Harry Potter!” Hermione says from two tables away, “where have you been? Everyone’s been looking for you, you know.”

She’s frowning and dressed in her formal business robes. She must have come to visit on her lunch break. Hermione sits across from him and runs her hands through her tangled hair.

“You can’t just disappear without a word. Everyone’s been so worried.”

“If everyone would just start minding their own bloody business I wouldn’t have to. God, Hermione, it’s been awful here. I just want to go home.” Harry’s not the least bit sorry but he does feel guilty for making her worry.

“They haven’t figured out how to fix you yet. Magical synethesia is touchy. One wrong move and you could lose your magic forever.”

“Would that really be so horrible?” Harry asks, “I was a muggle half my life.”

“You most certainly were not a muggle!” Hermione exclaims, “You used magic, you just didn’t know it. How can you say that, Harry? What’s gotten into you?”

“I dunno. I feel like I’m on exhibition all the time and I hate it. I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate myself. I’m just so bloody tired, Hermione. I really am.”

A tray is placed between Harry and Hermione and they both startle. Lockhart smiles amicably at both of them.

“Hullo,” he says, “I’ve brought kidney pie and pumpkin juice, but only enough for two. Will you be joining us?”

Hermione stares at Lockhart with her mouth slightly open. Harry imagines that this is what his face must have looked like when he first saw Lockhart again, minus the blush blossoming on her cheeks. She recovers quickly and indicates for the older man to sit down.

“That’s quite alright,” Hermione says, “I’ve already eaten. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Lockhart.”

“Yes, um, yes,” Lockhart shoves a spoonful of kidney pie into his mouth so he doesn’t have to say anything more.

Harry ignores him and looks back at Hermione, “Can we talk about this later?”

She nods reluctantly.

`

Harry ends up spending the rest of the afternoon with Lockhart. They play Exploding Snap, which Lockhart is surprisingly good at, and Gobstones, which he is not. Harry finds himself truly relaxing for the first time in a long, long while. He still thinks it strange to be in the company of one of his least favorite professors. But this Lockhart is like a completely different person. It’s easy for Harry to forget that he’s not.

The sun is beginning to set in the sky when the nurses find Harry. He is facing the window and the busy streets below, but his eyes are on Lockhart. The man is sprawled on his bed, sleeping soundly. The nurses say they’d like to run more tests. Harry doesn’t even try to argue. He stands to go with them quietly, but pauses to write his room number on a scrap piece of parchment. Maybe Lockhart will find him later.

The tests are more exhausting mentally than physically. While Harry’s body aches, his heart hurts more. He feels magically retarded. Every spell he cast goes horribly wrong. Even something as simple as lumos caused every candle in St. Mungo’s to be extinguished. Talk about mayhem.

The mediwizards turn him loose after a couple hours. The hallways are emptying now that visiting hours are almost over, but people still stare at Harry as he walks past. He is conflicted when he finally reaches his room. The brief relief he felt dies a bitter death. His room is not empty. Ron and Hermione are seated on a couch they must have transfigured from the armchair. Little Teddy is curled in Hermione’s lap, listening to the two grown-ups talk. They don’t see him. Harry could still walk away and they would never know. But Harry would know, and the guilt would eat at him and he’s got enough guilt already to tide over a whole congregation of giants.

As soon as Harry walks inside Teddy wiggles away from Hermione and jumps into Harry’s waiting arms. He holds the four-year-old tight against his chest. Teddy’s soft hair tickles the underside of Harry’s chin like its bright blue color tickles Harry’s heart.

“Blue today, huh?” Harry murmurs in Teddy’s ear, eliciting a boyish giggle.

“Yup!” Teddy chirps, hair bleeding momentarily violet before receding back, “Isn’t it neat, Uncle Harry?”

“Very neat.”

Harry sits on his bed with Teddy still hanging from him like a monkey. It’s clear that Ron and Hermione have something to say. Or maybe just Hermione, Ron looks too awkward to say anything.

“You said we could talk later,” Hermione reminds him, “I thought we could do that now. Teddy wanted to visit.”

“We offered to take him so Andromeda could have some time off, but if you’d rather he weren’t in the room for this I could take him for some, er, I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M or something,” Ron says, shooting a quick glance at Teddy to see if he understood.

“No,” Harry shakes his head, “He can stay. I don’t mind. You won’t be any trouble at all, will you, Teddy?”

Teddy squeals loudly when Harry attacks him with tickling fingers. Between gasping breaths he promises that he’ll be good, but he wants ice cream anyway. Ron grins sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders. Most kids Teddy’s age don’t know how to spell. Hermione waits for Ron and Teddy to leave before she moves to sit next to Harry on the bed.

“Let’s talk about you, Harry. What’s going on?” She prompts with a gentle nudge of her elbow into Harry’s ribs, “I thought you liked your job. You and Ron are partners.”

“I don’t mind working with Ron. It’s the rest of the job that I can’t do anymore. I’m sick of it. I’m done. I just want to be left alone, but whatever I want never seems to matter.” Harry sighs and leans forward, resting his head in his hands.

“We just want to be here for you, Harry.” Hermione runs a soothing hand over Harry’s back, trying to work out some of his tension. “We’re trying.”

“I know you are. Really. It’s everybody else that I can’t stand.”

“Hello,” Lockhart interrupts from the doorway, “Are we having a party?” He indicates all the get-well-soon cards, chocolates, and flowers stacked on Harry’s bedside table, “Sorry I haven’t gotten you something. Am I late? I only just woke up.”

Lockhart’s hair is in clear disarray to show for it, too, not to mention that his clothes are all rumpled. The old Lockhart never would have gone out in public like this. Harry laughs at the sight, but it’s different than when he laughed at Lockhart earlier that day.

“There’s no party. You don’t need to get me anything.”

“I could, though, if you wanted,” Lockhart says.

Harry just shakes his head and beckons the man to take a seat on the now empty couch. Lockhart hurries inside like he’s afraid the offer will be rescinded. Then he sits. Gazing straight at Harry, Lockhart hardly blinks at all. Harry finds it slightly disturbing so he tears his own eyes away to Hermione. She raises her eyebrows in question. Harry simply shakes his head.

“You really needn’t worry about me, Hermione. I’m doing enough of that for the both of us,” Harry pauses to run a hand through his hair, messing it up further when his fingers tangle in the strands, “As soon as I’m out of Mungo’s I’m going to have a talk with Kingsley and resign from the Aurors. Then I’m probably going away for a while.”

Hermione opens her mouth to interrupt. Harry holds up a hand to stop her before she can.

“Let me finish. I don’t expect to be gone long. Maybe just a couple of weeks to get my life back on track. I really need this, Hermione. If I don’t go I think I’ll explode.”

Because he can’t bear to see Hermione’s expression Harry stands from the bed. The sun has fully set beyond the window. The city lights shine like a beacon outside. Harry jumps when a hand settles on his arm. He connects it back to Lockhart. The older man is still looking at Harry, but his expression has changed. His forget-me-not blue eyes are wide and watery. Harry fears they’re going to spill over, that Lockhart is going to have tears streaming down his face, but the man blinks quickly instead. He must have stared too long. There is no reason for Lockhart to cry, after all.

The moment is interrupted by Teddy and Ron’s return. Harry scoops Teddy back up and wipes the chocolate away from the boy’s mouth with his sleeve. Ron is gobsmacked to see Lockhart again. While Hermione talks with their old professor, Ron mentions offhand that maybe he gave the man permanent brain damage by hitting him over the head with that rock back in the Chamber. Harry shrugs good-naturedly.

Before long Ron and Hermione pack up, promising to come by again soon. Teddy is pleased that he’s managed to stay out past his bedtime. After they are gone, the room is uncomfortably silent. Lockhart is staring at the clock.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks.

Lockhart shakes his head no. Furrowing his brows, Harry sits beside him on the couch. Instantly whatever distance remained between them disappears as Lockhart slides over next to him. Their thighs touch gently and warmth blossoms between them.

“I don’t want you to forget me after I forget you.” Lockhart whispers, but the words are spoken so softly that Harry doesn’t hear them clearly.

Silence descends between them, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable now. Only the sound of the clock ticking fills the room. It’s somehow ominous. When the big hand strikes eleven, Lockhart’s hands begin to shake. Harry grabs them between his own.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, standing so that he might be able to look at Lockhart better.

“I hate being alone,” Lockhart confesses, standing as well, “Don’t make me leave.”

Harry promises that he won’t. Lockhart’s fingers tighten briefly around Harry’s and the pressure is almost unbearable. Then Lockhart is leaning forward, tilting his head, kissing him. Harry can’t help but kiss back. The lips against his own are soft and warm, the breath filling his mouth pleasantly moist. Lust inhibits Harry’s ability to think and he happily gives in to just feeling. He hasn’t been touched like this in a very long time, possibly not ever. Lockhart is holding Harry as if Harry could slip through his fingers and disappear at any moment. Lockhart is holding him like he is something to be cherished. And it feels unbelievably good. Too good to stop and think about what he’s doing and with whom.

This attraction may have come out of seemingly nowhere, but Harry is done caring. As Lockhart holds Harry tight, Harry cradles the man’s face, tangling his fingers in the man’s graying hair. Their lips are mashing together in almost desperation. Harry isn’t certain who is kissing who anymore. Lockhart groans into his mouth, stepping forward when there is really no room left between them at this point. The man’s thigh ends up slipping between Harry’s own, bringing their awakening erections into direct contact. A startled sigh escapes Harry’s lips and he thrusts forward involuntarily.

Lockhart was the one to start the kiss and he is also the one to break away first. He rests his face in the crevice under Harry’s jaw. His panting breaths ghost against Harry’s skin and he shifts his weight uncomfortably as if he’s being teased. Then Lockhart is peppering him with sweet feather kisses, pushing Harry back slowly until they fall upon the bed. Harry laughs when they are engulfed in a cradle of blankets and pillows. Lockhart, too, smiles fragilely, but it doesn’t last. Harry kisses the man’s solemn expression away. He doesn’t want to see it.

Harry’s legs lift and wrap securely around Lockhart’s waist, drawing the older man down even further. He gyrates his hips until they are gasping, wanting, needing. Harry wishes that they were naked, but stopping to take their clothes off isn’t a possibility he is willing to consider. A shiver of pleasure reverberates between them, gooseflesh rising.

“Gilderoy,” Harry whispers as they continue to rock together on the bed. The name comes out silted and awkward. Harry can already feel that liquid heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. But Harry doesn’t want release to come so soon, “S-stop – Uhn! – Wait.”

Lockhart does, face a mixture of concern for Harry and frustration for himself. Harry leans forward, placing a quick peck to his nose. He asks Lockhart to switch places with him. So Lockhart does. He rolls them on the bed until Harry is the one on top. Cold washes over Harry and he misses Lockhart’s engulfing embrace. Then Lockhart is pulling Harry urgently against him, hands pushing underneath Harry’s shirt as their lips reconnect. Their touching becomes frantic and clumsy. They are rushing towards something and Harry senses that it’s not just release.

An anxious hum rumbles low in Lockhart’s chest as Harry shimmies down his body. He tugs on the man’s pants, conscious of the erection straining behind them. It is revealed in increments, thick and purpling, precome glistening on the tip. Pulling Lockhart’s pants the rest of the way off, Harry looks up for permission to touch. When he is met with no rebuke Harry does so without hesitation. He strokes up and down the thick length in silent exploration, cups the man’s sack in his hands to gauge the weight. Lockhart emits appreciative noises, squirming beneath Harry’s ministrations.

Harry continues to stroke Lockhart with one hand while he frees his own erection with the other. Lockhart’s eyes are tightly shut. He does not see Harry’s mouth now poised above his sex, does not expect it to be engulfed. The man jerks beneath the onslaught, hips pushing his erection as far into Harry’s mouth as possible. Lockhart’s hands move from fisting the sheets to clutching at Harry’s head. The touch is slightly frantic and Lockhart is breathing erratically. His eyes shoot open to stare at something above Harry’s head. Then he falls limp as the clock strikes midnight. Harry is momentarily startled, but the erection inside his mouth is still hard. Harry sucks at it experimentally, eliciting a whimper. He sucks at it harder and Lockhart comes, hips arching off the bed and ejaculate shooting down his throat. Harry swallows it down greedily, suckling the length until it goes flaccid. It only takes a few more hard pulls for Harry to tip himself over the edge into climax.

Chest heaving, Harry tugs both their pants back on before situating himself on the bed beside Lockhart. He curls himself against Lockhart’s side, wrapping one arm lazily around the man’s chest. Lockhart remains silent. Just as Harry begins to drift into sleep, the words are voiced barely above a whisper.

“Do you care for me?”

Harry doesn’t, but he can’t say no. One strange, astonishing day does not generate affection, especially for someone he once disliked greatly. He remains silent.

“Do I love you?”

There is something in Lockhart’s tone that compels Harry to sit up slightly. He looks down at Lockhart’s face. There is no set expression, but tears are leaking silently from his eyes.

“I don’t remember.”

Harry feels like he’s been punched in the gut. What is that supposed to mean? He opens his mouth to ask, but the words stick in his throat.

“I can’t remember anything.”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

The person that wakes Harry is not Lockhart, but a nurse. Harry is not surprised, but somehow disappointed. She tells Harry that they’ve finally managed to brew an antidote. The vial she hands him is small and the liquid inside is lilac. Harry’s chest pangs guiltily at the sight. He takes his potion without any further prompting, feeling slightly anticlimactic. Before the nurse can leave, he asks after Lockhart.

“You should wait at least another hour before you go to see him, dear. He hasn’t been informed of who he is, yet.” She tells him.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks slowly.

“You don’t know?” She pauses in the doorway to look back at Harry over her shoulder, “He obliviated himself and the spell never stopped working.”
Harry’s head spins. The nurse leaves but her words echo in Harry’s ears. Obliviated… never stopped working. How could that be? She must be mistaken. Lockhart doesn’t act like a man with no memory. But- He hasn’t been informed who he is, yet. Fuck. Lockhart’s map of St. Mungo’s, the letters, his sudden change in personality… the words whispered before they fell asleep together; all of it makes sense now.

How could Harry be so oblivious? It’s just like the ministry raid he failed to realize was a trap. The pieces were there, but the puzzle wasn’t put together correctly. In this case, not put together at all. But what will this mistake cost?

Swearing, Harry jumps out of bed and dresses quickly. It’s already nearing afternoon. He’s got to find Lockhart, explain what happened. As Harry darts through the halls, a small, bitter part of him wonders why he’s even bothering. Lockhart will just forget about him tomorrow. Harry ignores that part, though. It’s today that counts. It’s today that Harry’s caused Lockhart pain. Harry couldn’t imagine losing his memory during sex; where one minute you’re completely lost in the pleasure, and the next the pleasure is still there, but you’re completely overwhelmed because you have no idea what is going on. No wonder Lockhart was so confused.

Harry rounds the final corner and stops. The Janus Thickey ward is just ahead, but
his feet don’t want to move. They’re planted firmly on the tile, spread shoulder-width apart, grounding him as he peers into the ward. Lockhart is sitting on his bed, propped up by a mass of pillows. There is a mediwizard hovering over his shoulder. Harry can’t hear what they’re saying, and he isn’t sure he would want to know, anyway. Lockhart’s face is twisted and miserable.

Time ticks along. Nurses and patients come in and out of the ward, walk up and down the halls. Harry only has eyes for Lockhart. He waits impatiently for the mediwizard to leave the older man’s side so that Harry can take his place. Each minute past is a minute lost. Twenty four hours is nothing in comparison to forever.

Finally, finally, the mediwizard leaves, but still Harry’s feet refuse to move. Harry wills them, begs them, threatens to chop them both off. His toes flex, curl, and his knees bend at the joint. Harry moves. Lockhart spots him as soon as Harry enters the ward. His blue eyes are red-rimmed and the bruising beneath them is even darker today than it was yesterday. Harry's steps falter at the sight. Only Lockhart’s encouraging smile keeps him going.

“Hullo,” the man says once Harry is close enough.

After last night, is that all Lockhart can say? No who are you, do I know you, get the fuck away? Harry is amazingly under whelmed.

“Hi,” Harry answers back, stopping just short of Lockhart.

He can’t bring himself to look at Lockhart directly this close in person. The guilt churns angrily in Harry’s stomach. He fidgets, notices the familiar pile of white envelopes stacked in the middle of Lockhart’s bed. Harry stares at them in disdain. The letters resting so innocently need not be read again. Lockhart notices him looking.

“Would you like to read them with me?” Lockhart asks, voice lacking the enthusiasm that was present the day before

“No,” Harry mutters, summoning two blank pieces of parchment, quills, and ink, “I’ve got a better idea.”

The display of such common magic brightens Lockhart’s disposition. The man grins from ear to ear.

“Amazing!” Lockhart laughs in awe, “Magic.”

Harry snatches the materials from the air ands sits on the bed. He hands one set to Lockhart and keeps the other for himself. When Lockhart looks at him inquisitorially, Harry shrugs. He doesn’t care what Lockhart does.

The quill is a familiar weight in Harry’s hand and he scratches it against the parchment experimentally. Then he dips the nub in ink and writes. At first Harry only wanted to explain about the previous day’s events and… and the sex. But his quill keeps moving, doesn’t want to stop. Suddenly Harry has so much he wants to say. He writes about the disastrous ministry raid, his failure as both an Auror and a man.

Remember, Harry concludes, no matter how bad off you think you are, some one else always has it worse. –Harry Potter.

Rolling the parchment, Harry peeks at Lockhart’s. The man is doodling quietly, sketching small geographic shapes. They seemed innocuous five minutes ago. But what once was a winding cylinder now has bulging eyes, vaguely resembling a snake. The triangle in the upper right hand corner has sprouted wings and a long, fanning tail. And if Harry’s not mistaken the stick figure drawn dead-center is himself, wielding a rough sword.

“Are you finished?” Lockhart asks, setting aside his picture.

Harry nods, “Don’t mix this one with the others. Tell the nurses to keep it somewhere special.”
He seals his parchment with a spell and hands it to Lockhart. Their fingers brush together. Harry watches Lockhart’s pale cheeks flush pink, spreading warmth like the gooseflesh spreading up his own arm. Before he can think any better of it, Harry leans forward and brushes his lips against Lockhart’s. The kiss is chaste, barely a kiss at all. It leaves Harry wanting for more, but he pulls away instead.

“You’re leaving,” Lockhart says once his forget-me-not blue eyes reopen.

“I’ll be back soon,” Harry promises, rising from the bed, “Wait for me.”

Lockhart may not remember tomorrow, but Harry will.

Fic: Marauders' Maps

sveinity — Thu, 07 May 2009 16:16:23 GMT

Title: Marauders' Maps
Author: sveinity
Word Count: 643
Rating: pg
Warning: Age disparity, fluff
Summary: They work surprisingly well together for a Potter and a Malfoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Or Scorpius. Damn.

Marauders’ Maps

The war dulled with time, or so Harry Potter has been told. It lingers still in his mind. Faces of the dead remain imprinted behind his eyelids, the roar of battle a constant echo in his ears whenever there is a quiet moment. The war haunts him, tears his conscience apart. It cost him a lot then, but costs him more now; his wife, his children, his job. For a while he doesn’t know how to move on, doesn’t have the faintest idea of what to do.

But Harry Potter is not a quitter.

He starts over, opens his own business. In no time at all Marauders’ Maps is thriving in its little corner of Diagon Alley, attracting so many witches and wizards wanting their own maps for this or for that that Harry cannot handle them all on his own. He is beside himself with work. There is no time to think of the war. While this is what Harry wanted, he hates the stress. It’s streaking his messy hair gray.

“You seem awfully busy, sir,” A young man says as he leans against the counter.

Harry eyes him up and down. The man is dressed in the latest fashion of posh robes, his curly blond hair framing high cheek bones and a pointy chin. Harry notes the lively flush staining the pale, pale skin and the glimmer of whit sparkling in the man’s inviting eyes.

“You look like you’re in need of some help.”

So Harry acquires himself an apprentice.

They work surprisingly well together for a Potter and a Malfoy. Maybe it’s the age difference. It keeps them on their toes, and not metaphorically for Scorpius. He dances around the store like he owns the place. Harry is constantly battling the young man for control over the radio. Harry likes it quiet, likes to just relax at the counter and listen to Quidditch commentary. And every time he thinks that he’s won this round, Scorpius manages to switch the dialing and turn up the volume. Soon the music will be blaring, like that one song written especially for the Weird Sisters’ reunion. Scorpius is really fond of that one.

“That’s a nasty case of the hiccups, sir,” Scorpius tells Harry as soon as the young man returns to the store with an armful of parchment. He deposits them on the counter with a quiet thwump. The stocks have been running dangerously low as of late.

Harry nods impartially, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Kingsley ordered a map of the ministry a couple of days ago, and while Harry hates giving priority to one customer over another, he feels that he owes it to the old man to get this map done as soon as possible. It’s almost completed, halfway through the final stage. Huffing in frustration, Harry puts his wand down. The hiccups wracking his body are making the careful precision necessary impossible.

“I can get rid of them for you, sir,” Scorpius mentions off handedly, “Want to give it a go?”

“No, Scorpius. I’ve already tried everything. I even levitated myself upside down to drink a glass of water,” Harry mumbles, pushing away the ministry map in distaste, “It didn’t work. Obviously.”

“I’m sure you tried, sir, but my methods have never failed me. Honest.”

And without so much as another word, Scorpius rises on his tip-toes and stretches over the counter, catching Harry’s mouth with his. Scorpius’ lips are soft and chapped and moving determinedly against Harry’s own. Harry is rooted to the spot, unprepared for the wave of lust and want and need that crashes over him. When Scorpius finally pulls back, Harry doesn’t know what to say. But Scorpius solves that problem, too.

“It’s a good thing you’ve got me lounging around. Who else is going to take care of your sorry arse?”

And that was that.

Fic: Call it Affinity Part II

sveinity — Thu, 07 May 2009 16:04:33 GMT

Title: Call it Affinity
Word Count: 6,975 total
Warnings: Angst, Confusion, AU, Underage
Rating: Pg here, nc-17 in the next part
Summary:One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere – and how could Ron have ever forgotten?
A/N: This was written for the Harry & Ron Fuh-Q-Fest over at harry_and_ron community.

Call it Affinity

Part II

There is a poignant pause before Potter lets out a shaky laugh, “Very funny, Mate.”

But it’s Ron’s face that reveals he’s not joking. Ron really doesn’t know who this boy is. Why should he? They’d only just met, hadn’t they?

Hermione lets out a strangled hiccup before crumbling in her chair. Potter is sitting frozen in his. Flitting emotions race across his face and Ron can’t help but be enraptured by them. He likes how expressive Potter is. And then his face settles and Ron doesn’t know if he likes it anymore. Betrayal smolders in Potter’s eyes. Ron’s insides twist at the sight.

The hospital wing suddenly drops temperature very quickly, ice crackling across the windows. Next to his bed the potion vials shatter, green and grey liquids frozen into miniature cylinders. Ron shivers and gasps and his body arches. The air is sharp with the cold, cutting down his throat, tearing his lungs. Ron can hardly breathe. He is left gaping and suffocating and not knowing what to do, all in the space of five seconds.

“Stop it, Harry!” Hermione shrieks, jumping up from her chair, “Look what you’ve done!”

And just as suddenly as it came, the cold seeps away. Only it hasn’t vanished completely. It’s gone inside of Potter, Harry, because instead of smoldering, now his eyes are just hollow. Ron coughs weakly, not feeling relieved at all. Wetness dribbles from his nose. Red splotches appear on his hospital gown as it drips from his chin. Funny that this shouldn’t hurt when what Ron can’t see hurts most of all. Maybe he’s just delusional.

“I’m sorry,” Potter sighs, “let me help.”

Potter summons a rag and spells it wet. While he dabs at Ron’s face, he explains that he met with Madam Pomfrey before coming to visit. She said that it’s best for direct magic not to be cast on him, in case it worsens his delicate position. Ron scoffs, but swallows his complaints. Being taken care of like this is a pleasant change. Ron likes this sudden gentle Potter. It’s almost like the blood is being caressed away. Potter’s fingers dance across his face in time with the lullaby he is now humming faintly. Ron is lulled to sleep long before the bleeding stops.

Ron wakes to somebody asleep next to him. The mattress is too small; they’re both lying half off, half tangled together. Ron flounders for a plausible explanation. Even after he struggles to sit, Ron doesn’t recognize the boy beside him right away. He knows that maybe, possibly, the messy black hair and jagged scar should produce a name. Ron is disappointed when nothing comes. He takes defeat in stride, curling against the boy’s warmth to covet what little time Ron surely has left of him.

His bed partner only awakens once Ron succumbs to a shivering fit. The green, green eyes startle him just as much as the strong arms offering support. Relief floods through his veins, washing away the discomfort. Ron melts into the boy’s embrace. Surely mental recognition pales in comparison to this. While Ron’s body is dying, his soul is not. No memories are needed for a connection as deep rooted as theirs. Ron could lie like this forever if forever was an option.

“Should I get Pomfrey?” The boy asks, levitating Ron’s potion tray onto the bed with them.

Ron shakes his head. What more could she do for him, anyway? Let her tend to the other patients. They need her most.

“Can you tell me your name?”

The boy stiffens. Ron is hyper aware because they’re lounging back to front and suddenly it’s not so comfortable anymore. A minute drags by, imaginary fingers grasping at nothing. Then another. Ron clears his throat, winces, coughs.

“I’m Ron,” He says carefully, “But you probably already know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” The boy answers, “Yes, I do.”

And that makes Ron unbearably sad. He wants to remember this boy. He really, really wants to. Ron hopes his memory won’t be impaired forever. Dying without knowing, Ron can’t even entertain the thought.

“Let me know you now,” Ron begs, body twisting awkwardly in the tight embrace.

The expression on the boy’s face is strained. He reaches around Ron to grab a potion off the tray while he thinks. Ron’s lips part obediently once the vial is held to his mouth, and he drinks it down in two consecutive gulps. Ron’s almost used to the taste. It’s not long before his stomach settles and the shivers stop, but the boy’s still not said a word. Ron wishes that he wasn’t such a big decision.

“Am I not worth it?” Ron asks when he can’t bare the silence any longer.

“No,” The boy says, “That’s not it at all. I’d leave you alone if I could, but I can’t. You’re dying, Ron, and you don’t even bloody remember me.”

Ron frowns, hands clutching at the boy’s jumper. He rests his head on the boy’s chest, ear above heart, and just listens to it beat. The soft ba-dum, ba-dum soothes him right down to his toes.

“I recognize you,” Ron murmurs.

“Of course you do, I was here this afternoon.”

“You were?” Ron doesn’t remember. It seems he’s getting worse.

“This is why I don’t want to tell you who I am. What if you forget again?”

“I won’t,” Ron promises, though he can’t be certain, “Please tell me your name.”

“It’s Harry,” He says, and Ron feels like he’s known all along.

Not ten minutes later Ron is transferred to St. Mungo’s for all of three days. The mediwizards, just as Madam Pomfrey, are unable to diagnose him. The gloomy atmosphere smothers Ron. Barred from visitors, he forgets how to fight. Ron surrenders to sleep and pain and flits in and out of reality. His dreams are hazy, fuzzed images of four-poster beds, slimy tunnels, and a giant black grim. It’s Harry that rescues him, barging into his room to floo them back to Hogwarts. Ron guesses that they’ll be in a lot of trouble once they’re found out, but he doesn’t care. He can finally breathe again.

Ron follows Harry through the castle, not surprised when they stop in front of the Room of Requirement. Inside is everything Ron could ever need to keep comfortable. Waiting for death is ominous, but Harry says he won’t leave his side again. And Harry keeps his word. He skips classes, summons Dobby for meals, and shares the bed with him when night falls. All day he’s nursed Ron, and now Harry is exhausted. Ron lets him sleep.

Shadows flicker all around from the fireplace. The heat curls around Ron’s body until Ron can stand it no more. He scrambles out of his clothes until he’s bare and the heat only has naked skin to lick. A whimper rises from his throat. Ron doesn’t feel right. He’s still so hot. It’s pooling in his abdomen, searing through his veins. Ron rolls towards Harry, lying oblivious beside him. There’s something wrong and Harry can fix it. Ron needs Harry to fix it.

Ron’s mouth opens, but words fail him. He reaches out, fingers ghosting over Harry’s mouth, cheeks, nose. He traces the jagged scar, mumbling soundless nonsense. Then there is an explosion of magic and Ron is surrounded by a whirlwind of memories. He siphons through them, searching for the source. Ron ignores the cupboard with its spiders, ignores all of it, even his own face. He knows what he’s come for. It pulses before him, alive and whole. Ron basks in its power until he is pulled forward against his will, until there is nothing left between him and the magical core.

Ron shouts and writhes, but he can’t escape. His mind is pleasantly empty, but somehow Ron just knows that he shouldn’t be liking this. It’s wrong and sick and what the fuck is he doing to Harry?

Make me stop. Make me stop. Make me stop.

But Ron can’t. He’s not in control. Then he is, then he can, and everything melts away. Ron is collapsed on top of Harry, sweat binding them together. Relief crashes over him like a wave once he feels Harry’s chest rising and falling, warm breath puffing in his face. Ron casts a quick scourgify before picking himself up so Harry can move. But Harry’s not moving. He’s just lying there, consumed by sleep or something else like it even after Ron gives him a shake. And just as suddenly as the relief came, so too does the dread. It pools in Ron’s stomach like acid.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whisper-shouts, “Wake up, Harry.”

There’s no response. Ron is beyond grief, unable to cry or scream or run for help. All he can do is stare and shake and hope to Merlin that Harry is okay, even when Ron knows that he’s not. What he’s done is unforgivable. Even now the memories are all seeping slowly back a week too late. How could Ron let that monster in? He should have been strong. Instead he was weak, instead he may have cost Harry his life.

“Enervate,” Ron says hoarsely.

Though he doesn’t really expect the spell to work, Ron puts all the power he can into it anyway. He feels the magic well inside him. It pulses like it never has before, but Ron doesn’t take the time to notice. His wand vibrates with the amount of magic passing through it. The spell punches against Harry’s chest, enveloping him in life-light. It seeps beneath his skin until Harry’s veins are glowing with it, steadily moving to pool in his center. Ron doesn’t care that he’s glowing, too. His wand slips through his fingers to land on the bed. The magic is still as strong as ever. Ron falls forward from the drain, landing chest to chest and neck to neck. Harry gasps beneath him when the glowing meets and stops, eyes wide with wonder.

If anyone said Ron would be lovesick a week ago, let alone pining after his best mate, Ron probably would have laughed in their face; but, he wasn’t laughing now. Ron doesn’t know how or when or why his affection for Harry evolved into something wholly more complex. Both the attraction and the want seemingly came out of nowhere. Now Ron is so euphorically happy that he forgets himself. He holds Harry’s tight, fingers tangling in his messy hair. Then their lips are mashing together in a desperate kiss and Ron isn’t certain who is kissing who. Harry groans into Ron’s mouth, thrusting up beneath him to bring their bodies closer. A startled sigh escapes his lips when their erections meet. Ron moves a hand to Harry’s shoulder, fingernails grazing the visible skin around his neck line. Ron can feel his heat through the cotton night shirt, but Ron wants it off anyway. The room is still so hot. So hot that Ron feels on fire as they kiss and kiss and kiss – Perfect.

Harry brakes away first, panting. He rests his face in the crevice under Ron’s jaw. There he peppers sweet feather kisses, hair tickling Ron’s face. His legs wrap securely around Ron’s waist, drawing him down even further. Ron doesn’t mind. He gyrates his hips until a sharp gasp is elicited from Harry. His back arches up off the mattress, toes curling.

Ron runs his hands down Harry’s sides. He wishes their clothes were gone, but doesn’t have enough will to stop and fix that problem just yet. Ron firmly grabs hold of Harry’s arse, lifting him forcibly to rest groin to groin. A shiver of pleasure reverberates between them, gooseflesh rising.

“Ron,” Harry whispers huskily, head thrown back in abandon as they continue to rock together.

Ron can already feel that liquid heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. He doesn’t want it to end. Release shouldn’t come so soon. He wants them to be like this forever, just the two of them together, finally living off in their own Somewhere.

“S-stop” Ron says, “Harry – Uhn! – Wait.”

Harry stops, face scrunched in a mixture of frustration and concern. Ron brushes a sweaty lock of hair from Harry’s face with careful fingers. He’s done nothing wrong.

“Let’s do this right.”

So they do. Their clothes are torn off and flung carelessly away. Finally, finally, they are both gloriously naked and exposed, aroused and slightly embarrassed. Everything national, everything expected. It was all Ron could ever ask for, except…

“Harry,” Ron whispers into his ear, nibbling on the outer shell, “I want to be inside you now.”

There is no moments hesitation before Harry leans against Ron, pushing him down on the bed. Something desperate fills their next kiss, something needy. Ron tries to reassure Harry as best he can, cradling him tenderly in his arms.

“Only if you want to,” Ron says when he’s able.

The last thing he wants is for Harry to feel pressured. Sex shouldn’t be something to regret.

“What does that mean?”

“Harry,” Ron admonishes, pressing a sloppy kiss to his lips, “I want you to want me make love to you.”

Harry’s mouth twitches into a smile, a pretty blush tinting his cheeks. Then his hands are mapping every inch of Ron’s body, eyes relit with passion. Wet kisses trail down Ron’s neck, teeth scraping at his collar bone. When Harry’s lips encircle a pert nipple, Ron can’t help but whimper. He never knew that he could ever feel this good, this happy – but Harry’s hands are moving again, farther down. Ron becomes putty, ready and willing for anything Harry wants. When Harry’s calloused fingers wrap around Ron’s weeping erection, a throaty groan rumbles from his chest.

“Lube, lotion, something,” Ron pants, frantically looking around for some sort of lubrication.

A vial of it appears on the bedside table. Ron reaches for it, stretching under Harry as he crawls back up Ron’s chest. Their lips connect, molding together in a tender kiss. Ron melts beneath the onslaught, lubrication forgotten until Harry thrusts down against his groin. He spreads the oil generously over his fingers. Harry leads them down his body to his entrance. Ron runs a nail along Harry’s perineum, thumbs at the puckered hole, until oil glistens and runs down Harry’s thighs. Only once Harry is pushing back against him does Ron enter Harry with a single finger. He studies Harry’s face carefully, taking care that there is no pain.

“More,” Harry commands, shifting his hips for better access.

Ron complies, adding a second finger and scissoring them slowly to fit a third. When Ron finally slips his fingers from Harry, he hisses at the loss. Then Ron presses his erection to Harry’s entrance. Their eyes connect, green on blue. Harry’s hands clutch at Ron’s waist, knuckles white, but there is a look of profound wonder on his face when he impales himself over Ron’s erection. They arch together.

“Keep going,” Harry urges, sliding up Ron’s erection, up Ron’s chest, and then back down.

Their sex is uncoordinated and sloppy, but everything Ron could ever want. He feels so connected to Harry, and not just because of the penetration. This is so much more than sexual gratification. Ron flexes his hips to meet Harry thrust for thrust. It’s in and out, kiss and breathe. Any sense of self control is lost once Ron brushes that spot deep within Harry that makes him writhe and yelp in undeniable pleasure. The pressure mounts quickly, faster than before. Ron’s hands rake up Harry’s back, mindless of the shallow marks he leaves behind. The sound of flesh hitting flesh fills his ears, Harry’s muffled groans sending jolts of electricity to Ron’s groin.

Harry stiffens and screams when he comes, erection caught snugly between their grinding bodies. His seed splatters up their chests. It’s Harry’s muscles clenching around him that tears the orgasm from Ron. With one final, brutal thrust Ron empties himself inside of Harry before collapsing.

“What just happened?” Harry asks breathlessly.

Ron rolls on his side to face him. Harry’s face is still flushed, chest heaving up and down. He laces their fingers together.

“Which part?” Ron grins lazily.

“The one where you went from dying to having sex, and maybe what happened in between.”

“Oh,” Ron says, “That part.”

So Ron tells him, mind and mouth disconnected in the darkness. He explains that because he was weak, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wormed his way inside. Ron was nothing more than a vessel used to attack Harry. The first night it happened, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced Ron to directly attack Harry’s magic. But his plan backfired. Once Ron came in contact with Harry’s magical core, Ron was able to fight back – but he wasn’t able to get him out.

“What I don’t understand,” Ron continues, “Is why he’s finally gone now. What changed?”

Harry smiles and cuddles closer, pulling the blankets over both of them. He doesn’t look concerned at all anymore.

“That’s simple, Ron,” Harry says, “We’ve connected.”

But Ron still doesn’t understand at all.

“I’m talking about fate here – when feelings are so powerful it’s as if some force beyond your control is guiding you to someone who can make you happy beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Harry, you’re still not making any sense,” Ron sighs.

“Call if affinity, Ron. When you attacked me, our souls connected."

A/N: So this was quite the wild ride to write. I thought I would never finish. Between work and life, I had one hell of a time getting it all out. Seriously, nothing like a trip to the ER for inspiration, right? I apologize that it hasn't been betad. I hope it wasn't too hard to understand.

Fic: Call it Affinity Part I

sveinity — Thu, 07 May 2009 15:58:47 GMT

Call it Affinity

Part I

Curfew started over four hours ago. Ron knows because he’s been casting tempus religiously ever few seconds. He’s never felt so time conscious before, of how it drags by sluggishly the more he watches. Ron hates it. After the first thirty minutes his pajamas began to itch and itch and itch until he finally tore everything off. After the second hour Ron couldn’t stay still. His bed became too small, the dormitory too dark and too cold. After the third, his skin crawled with unease; little shivers that made him want to scream. Now Ron’s stomach is churning, chest aching fiercely under an invisible weight.

Ron stares through the bed curtains to the empty four-poster next to his. Harry hasn’t come back yet. He’d gone off to Merlin only knows sometime during the night and hasn’t been seen since. Both the Map and invisibility cloak were whisked away with him. Harry could be anywhere. Ron whishes he was anywhere, too, and not just left behind forgotten.

Kicking back the bedcovers with a sigh of impatience, Ron rolls onto the floor. He tugs on yesterday’s robe hanging half out of his trunk. The top holds it snuggly in place. Using more strength than necessary, Ron’s lucky that the robe doesn’t snag and tear as it flies loose. Somebody snorts. He whirls around to stare at the door hopefully. Nothing. Ron keeps staring anyway.

“Oh, dear,” His mirror says, “I do apologize.”

“Piss off, will you?” Ron hisses in return, pausing as his voice cracks.

The mirror is graciously silent. Ron faces it reluctantly. He looks gaunt standing in the shadows in nothing more than a pair of underwear, skin crawling with gooseflesh. His vision shifts to the reflection of Harry’s bed, an unsteady hand reaching out to touch it in the mirror. Ron’s face pales, the image fogging under his breath. Bewildered by the hot tears that spill down his cheeks, Ron stumbles backwards. He trips over his book bag, clumsily catching himself on his bed post. His knees buckle.

Merlin, what’s wrong with me?

Ron’s hands are clutched around his robe, the Gryffindor red glowing like blood under the moonlight ghosting in from the windows. He hugs it to his chest and stands. The cold stone underfoot curls his toes. Ron walks to the door and out to the base of the girl’s dormitory, his forgotten robe held limply in his hand. The darkness within this passageway is absolute. Ron is overwhelmed with its presence. Every blink brings a flash of light then darkness, life then darkness. It is as if a grate is opening and closing before his eyes, revealing the possibility of affection – if not love – before steadfastly sliding shut. Ron is scarred with the image.

“Hermione!” Ron yells desperately, scrubbing leftover tears from his face, “’Mione, wake up!”

Lavender appears at the top of the stairs. She is swallowed by a pink dressing gown. Strands of hair stick out every which way from underneath a nightcap. Her face is set in a deep scowl, lips pursed so thin they’re barely visible.

“What the hell, Ron?” Lavender whines, “You’ve probably woken the whole bloody castle!”

“Just-” Ron’s breath hitches, his robe trailing through his fingers to the floor, “Get Hermione,” He bows his head, feeling the ache in his chest rupture.

“Shove over, Lavender,” Hermione orders, fully dressed and making her way down to him, “I’m here, Ron. What’s the matter?”

She stands before him quickly, tilting his face to meet hers. Hermione frowns. Ron can’t seem to breathe anymore. His chest heaves up and down, eyes squeezed firmly shut. Blood rushes in his ears, drowning out the sound of Hermione anxiously calling his name. Then he is falling, falling, floating high in the air with mobilicorpus engulfing him in an invisible bubble of invisible cushions that cradle his body gently.

With a jolt of bright light Ron is revived, lying on a hospital bed. He blinks and blinks again, eyes slowly adjusting to the staggering whiteness around him. The Hospital Wing, he’d know it anywhere even without Madam Pomfery hovering over him with her wand in his face. Ron always comes here frequently to visit when Harry…

Ron groans in pain, curling into a ball under the crisp sheets.

“His tears are purple,” Hermione supplies helpfully next to him, “I’ve read about the significance of colors before, so I know it’s important.”

“Purple, you say?” Madam Pomfrey asks, clucking her tongue in disapproval before she bustles around the infirmary to collect three potions on a tray, “That’s certainly unusual.”

“Yes, I know. Purple means sacrifice, so to have it as a symptom of an illness can’t be good, only I don’t actually know how.” Hermione sits on the edge of Ron’s bed, taking his hand in hers and looking frazzled, “Can you help him?”

Madam Pomfrey sets the tray of potions on the bedside table next to Ron before facing them again, “I will need to run some tests before I can be certain. While I do that, Mr. Weasley, please answer some questions."

Ron nods listlessly. It is all he can do to stay awake, but at least he knows now that something is definitely wrong with him. Merlin, he should have caught on sooner. Ron might have, too, if he hadn’t been so caught up in worrying about… someone.

“Where is the pain?” Madam Pomfrey asks, catching his wince.

Ron touches the concave of his stomach, his chest, the place above his heart; he points to his eyes and his lips, wiggles his fingers in the air. He knows he’s probably not being very helpful, but he’s just so tired.

Madam Pomfrey stares at him for a moment before she waves her wand in front of him, golden light streaming out in ropes to wrap around him from head to toe, “Anything else unusual?”

The light tingles around his body and Ron shivers. The pain in his chest has become more acute, heart pounding an erratic rhythm against his ribcage that Ron cannot follow. Then the spell fades and the golden ropes dissipate.

“Dunno,” Ron mumbles gruffly, “I wasn’t able to sleep earlier and… my skin was really sensitive?” Hermione smiles encouragingly at him, squeezing his hand, “I started feeling anxious. I almost sicked up a few times. And… I can’t stop crying. I- I feel like I want to sleep and never wake up.”

“Go on,” Madam Pomfrey urges, taking his hand to rub pixie dust on his wrist. Nothing happens, which Ron can tell is a bad thing because Madam Pomfrey shifts her posture in agitation. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“I feel… I feel like I need something, but I couldn’t tell you what if I wanted to.”

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey says, looking perplexed, “Why do you feel so anxious?”

She waves her wand again, a small swish and jab that emits a soft blue mist from the tip. The spell shimmers around him. While Ron feels exactly like he did two seconds ago, he can’t seem to speak at all.

Why do I feel anxious?

“He was probably waiting for Harry,” Hermione answers instead, “He wasn’t in the dorm when I found Ron. We needed him and he wasn’t there.”

Madam Pomfrey stops her spells and hands Ron his potions off of the tray, "I'm afraid I can’t be certain of what is currently ailing you. I'll need to conduct further research and consult the Headmaster about your condition before I’ll be able to provide you with anything concrete."

"You must have some idea!" Hermione says, "Can't you tell us anything?"

"As far as I can gather, Mr. Weasley is suffering from his magical core. As for his medical symptoms, I do not know what they mean or even if his feeling of affection are relevant to them at all."

“But you can treat me?” Ron mumbles, voice hoarse from discomfort, as he stares at his potions.

“Afraid not, Dear. I can only give you medicine to ease the pain. I cannot provide a cure for something I do not know.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Hermione cries, looking back and forth from Madam Pomfrey to Ron, “If it’s his magical core, than you must be able to do something. What if he loses his magic?”

Madam Pomfrey shakes her head, sighing quietly, “Because magical cores are so sensitive, that is exactly why I am being so cautious.”

“How did this even happen anyway, Ron?” Hermione looks about as upset as Ron feels, but less nauseous. Her cheeks are flushed in consternation, eyes bright with unshed tears; Ron whishes that he had the energy to comfort her so that she’d stop worrying. They’d figure something out, they always did. They’d pull through this. It’s not like he was dying, or anything.

“Dunno,” Ron mumbles, downing the potions that Madam Pomfrey gives him. They taste vile, and though he can breathe easier, his heart still flutters painfully in his chest, “I was just waiting. I hate being left behind. Next thing I know I’m here.”

Ron can almost see the light bulb that flashes on above Hermione’s head as her face brightens with awareness. Then it shatters, eyes filling with pity. She sighs something that sounds vaguely like oh, Ron, but Ron can’t really tell because he’s quickly succumbing to sleep.

Ron doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but his body is stiff and the pain in his chest has returned with a vengeance. He spots three more potions lined up on the bedside table and drinks them greedily. Instant relief and Ron lets out a long, shuddering breath as he gingerly gets out of bed. His bladder is protesting. Cold air kisses his skin and Ron shivers, scratching absently at his bare stomach. He shuffles into the lavatory. After relieving himself, Ron is met with his reflection again. Ron regrets it. His eyes are dull and bloodshot, ringed by dark circles that contrast severely against his ashen face. Even his freckles look a shade paler.

There’s a knock on the door. Ron ignores it. He doesn’t much feel like speaking to anyone at the moment. The knock comes again, three insistent raps that have his ears ringing. Ron turns and swings the door open, glowering before he’s even turned the knob.

“What?” Ron snaps, voice dying in his throat.

It’s a boy. He’s standing there sweaty and puffing for air. His robe is streaked with slime, glasses askew on his nose. Ron tingles at the sight of him.

“Are you okay?” He asks, brandishing an old piece of parchment frantically between them, “I saw that you were in the infirmary and I’ve only just gotten back and what’s wrong with you?”

The boy’s eyes have gone wide, finally absorbing Ron’s lackluster appearance. Ron feels more self conscious then he probably should. So he pushes past him, flinching when the boy grabs his wrist. It’s on fire under his fingers.

“You’re hurting me,” Ron lies between clenched teeth, “Let go.”

The boy does. He follows Ron back to his sickbed. He eyes it as if he’d like to sit down, but thinks better of it. The boy takes the chair under the window, pulling back the drapes to reveal autumn sunshine. It’s bright and cheery and Ron doesn’t feel like smiling at all. His chest hurts, he can’t breathe, his mind is nothing more than a jumble of fleeting happenstance. He sits on the bed with a whoosh of dizziness, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The boy is beside him in seconds.

“I’m fine,” Ron says, trying to be reassuring when it’s all he can do not to throw up.

The boy doesn’t believe him. Ron can tell by the way his jaw clenches; by the way Ron is given the look. The same one that says I’m The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-Your-Life-Miserable. He calls for Madam Pomfrey. She comes bustling around the divider curtain, wand at the ready.

“Out, Potter, out,” She demands at once, “You’re making him miserable.”

Potter’s protests prove unsuccessful as Madam Pomfrey spells him clean. Then she is yanking Potter away and pushing him out of the infirmary without so much as a good day. Ron doesn’t know if he groaning in relief or misery. His heart is protesting like it’s been pricked a thousand times all over by his mum’s sewing needles.

Madam Pomfrey pours more potions down Ron’s throat until his tongue is numb with the taste of them. She tucks him back into bed and he sleeps. He dreams of chess and quidditch. It is so bizarre that when the dream shifts, Ron hardly notices. One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere – and how could Ron have ever forgotten? There’s Scrawny Harry wearing overlarge clothes and clunky glasses, asking how to get to the Hogwarts Express. Vulnerable Harry with his nightmares and visions, scar angry and red on his forehead. Determined Harry saving him from the merpeople – what I’d miss most.

Ron wakes with a jolt, tangled in the linen. Sweat soaks his hair along with the lone tear trailing down his face. Ron stares blankly at the candle glowing above his bed, trying to burn away the images of a boy still playing through his mind. It doesn’t work, not even when Ron squeezes his eyes shut tight. Ron still sees him everywhere. A self deprecating sigh pushes past his chapped lips. Ron thinks that this is what is must feel like to fight off a pack of mountain trolls and come out the worse for it.

Ron wishes he was as smart as Hermione, then maybe he’d be able to figure out this mess he’d gotten himself stuck in. Ron is overwhelmed with the reality of it. He peels away the sheets and gets out of bed. While he grabs for his wand on the bedside table, he knocks over the potions provided by Madam Pomfrey with a shaky hand. The vials don’t break, but the potions ooze out into the tray. Ron watches them puddle together, their orange and green and white colorations swirling together lazily. He vaguely wonders if Madam Pomfrey will be more upset when she finds out that he’s gone or that he’s not taken his potions. Ron doesn’t let it stop him as he tears his eyes away from the mess he’s made, nor does he acknowledge the cold as he steps around his divider curtain and out of the infirmary.

Ron is met with the soft snoring of sleeping portraits, but the halls are otherwise silent as he moves through them. It’s possible that Filch, or Snape, or both could still be out and about, but Ron doubts it. He only happens upon Sir Nicholas. The ghost is floating through a wall in mindless sleep. Ron skirts around him and stumbles the rest of the way to the Entrance Hall. It feels weird to be there all alone without anyone beside him, but Ron tries not to let it bother him. He pushes the door open. The night is rainy and wet, a chilly breeze slapping his face when he steps outside. Ron is soaked in seconds, hair plastering to his neck and face. His boxers rub uncomfortably against his thighs. They become so waterlogged that when they slip off his waist, Ron lets them fall to the ground.

Naked and unconsciously shivering, Ron trudges to the lake. Grass snags at his feet, mud splattering up his legs. Ron ignores it. He clambers over the rocks to the shore, where he stares resolutely at the wide expanse of water before him. It shines black and smooth under the light of a gibbous moon; occasional ripples shatter the Lake’s calm façade. Fish jump to catch insects and grindylows jump to catch fish. It probably would have been amusing if Ron was actually watching. He is too busy seeing something else.

The mind’s eye is remarkably strange when it wants to be. Who would have ever thought that Ron would daydream about cupboards with friendly spiders and frying eggs on a stovetop? Ron has never used a stovetop in his life! But it isn’t much of a daydream, because it quickly fuzzes and shifts into something else. A dark room, with cold stone and plush rugs; beds and trunks lined the circular walls that were dotted with windows overlooking nothing but darkness. The beds are occupied, but Ron can’t make out faces, doesn’t even care to. He is moving closer to one four poster in particular, but with each step he takes his vision blurs more and more until Ron can barely see anything at all. Ron reaches out, fingers ghosting over someone’s mouth, cheeks, nose. He rests his hand on their forehead.

Ron jolts back into awareness, blinking away whatever it is he was seeing furiously until it’s just him and the grass and the grindylows. He’s gasping and floundering in the surf that laps against his heaving chest. The sun is beginning to rise and peek, illuminating the sky with vivid yellows and pinks. Ron finds this strange, but can’t seem to remember why. Something brushes against his feet underwater, tickling the pads of his toes. Ron kicks it away. His body is numb with cold, joints aching while he pulls himself away and out of the Lake.

The rain has stopped, but the dawn is still as chilly as before. Grime and muck clings to his body and Ron tries to brush it off with indifferent distaste. It smears. His paleness is masked by lumpy brownish black, small rocks scraping down his arms and legs and chest with every sloppy swipe of his hands. Ron hardly notices. Sunken ankle deep in earth, Ron squelches his way free. Birds chirp sweetly from surrounding trees as he staggers across the school grounds. He follows their songs mindlessly. Time means nothing anymore. Images of a four poster bed haunt him. Ron holds his right hand high in the air, cupping his palm against the glowing sun. It’s not just the sun’s warmth that he feels. Ron swears that he feels something else, too.

A wet cough forces its way up Ron’s esophagus. It sears as it rises, bringing with it the metallic taste of blood. Pain reawakens in his chest. This time its rage is more potent and it spreads throughout Ron’s body. He claws frantically at the source, trying to tear through his own flesh to get the terrible hurt out. It’s his screams that bring people running. By the time Professor Sprout and her class of fourth years reach him, Ron has gone silent and still. The pain has not disappeared, only dulled to an insistent throb.

Professor Sprout immediately forces everyone to back away. She summons Madam Pomfrey with a speedy expecto patronum, a silvery sparrow flying straight from the tip of her want to the high windows of the hospital wing. Ron flounders on the ground. He can’t remember falling. His stomach heaves and puke and blood pool from his mouth. Gasps echo all around him and Ron acknowledges them with a faint groan. He feels like he’s falling apart.

Madam Promfrey finally arrives, Professor Snape right on her heals. Unfamiliar spells are spoken and potions are poured down his throat. Ron can’t keep them down. The world becomes one giant blur.

“Take your students and go, Pomona,” Madam Pomfrey says, not looking from Ron who was still lying on the ground, “They needn’t see this.”

Professor Sprout nods and herds the fourth years away. Once they are out of earshot, Madam Pomfrey speaks again.

“He’s dying, Severus, and I can do nothing to stop it,” Her voice cracks near the end.

In all of her years as Hogwarts’ mediwitch, Poppy Pomfrey has never once lost a student. She frequently prides herself on her expertise. Now all she feels is helpless. Young Ronald Weasley’s body is slowly dying from the inside out, his magical core a swirling chaos of rot. Madam Pomfrey can’t do anything to fix him. All she can do is prolong the inevitable.

“I’ll fetch the Headmaster, shall I?” Professor Snape answers coolly, hiding his surprise by swiftly marching back to the castle.

Madam Pomfrey tuts sadly before busying herself with transporting Ron to the Hospital Wing. At least they had found him. It had been quite the unpleasant surprise to find that Ron had left sometime during the night. He’d been missing ever since.

Headmaster Dumbledore is already present when Madam Pomfrey and Ron arrive. She tucks Ron back into his bed. Sweat beads down his forehead, cheeks flushed a cherry red.

“I’ve contacted his family. They are waiting in my office,” The Headmaster murmurs softly, his eyes void of any twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles.

“What of Miss Granger?” Madam Pomfrey asks, “And has Mr. Potter been found yet?”

Ron instantly feels sick but doesn’t know why. It’s like he’s worried for this Mr. Potter, but that’s ridiculous. Ron doesn’t even know who he is. He should be worrying about himself. An anti-nausea potion is administered to him. Madam Pomfrey makes sure that it stays down for over a minute before she gives him the strongest pain potion that she has. Ron’s eyes instantly roll back into his head and he passes out cold. His breathing is still labored.

Hermione is there when Ron wakes. He tells her that just because he keeps passing out doesn’t mean that he is any less of a man. She smiles and laughs and tears spill from her eyes. Soon she’s sobbing and hugging him gently. Ron pulls her tighter against him; he’s not about to break.

“Am I dying?” Ron asks calmly once Hermione quiets.

“No,” She says fiercely, bushy hair tangled and wild as she shakes her head in denial, “No, no you can’t be!”

Ron can say no more. He lays back on his bed, gingerly pulling the bedcovers up to his chin. He always thought that he would live a long life. Most wizards do. Now Ron doesn’t know what to think. He hopes it is only Madam Pomfrey’s potions that have numbed him to the core.

The hospital curtain is pulled aside. Ron peers around Hermione to see who it is. He almost doesn’t recognize the boy at first. Then Ron remembers that Madam Pomfrey called him Potter earlier. So this was the missing boy.

Just like me. I was missing, too.

“Shite!” Hermione whisper-yells, “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

Ron is surprised that Hermione is swearing. She never swears. And she definitely shouldn’t talk to strangers like that, even if she is angry.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. I lost track of time,” Potter apologizes; Ron doubts that that excuse will appease her.

“Lost track of time where? Ron went missing last night. If you had been here, then maybe we could have used the map. Instead Professor Sprout and her fourth years found him screaming bloody murder! Maybe if you had been here Ron wouldn’t be…” Hermione trailed off quietly, her anger abruptly curbed by her grief.

“Ron’s what?” Potter says, looking back and forth between the two of them, “What’s wrong with you?”

Ron thinks that that is a very personal question for a stranger to be asking. Even if Ron’s whole body is aware of Potter’s presence, why would he want to answer that?

“I’m sorry,” Ron says, “But who are you?

Music to Enjoy

sveinity — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 03:35:14 GMT

So....... Along with posting recs for fanfic, I'm probably going to be occasionally posting recs for music I enjoy. Be warned: I listen to many different genres. I'm serious. I love classical and hard, screaming-at-the-top-of-my-lungs, rock. But mostly I listen to alternative. -shrugs- This is mostly for my own benefit. A lot of the time I don't remember artist names or song names and if I don't buy them right away. And music is expensive. (:

Specific Bands:

Jack's Mannequin
The Ting-tings
Radiohead *
Coldplay *
The Verve *
The Accident Experiment *
Counting Crows *
Smashing Pumpkins
Goo Goo Dolls
The Bravery *
Oasis *

Specific Songs:

Dead Confederate - The Rat *
Three Days Grace - I hate everything about you
Your Vegas - In my head
Hed Pe - Renegade
All-American Rejects - Swing, Swing
Hives - Tick Tick Boom *
Pendulum - Propane nightmares
Kottonmouth Kings - When I'm gone
Dashboard Confessional - Hands down
Ben Folds - You don't know me
Sky Hill - Various kitchen utensils *
Running Still - Something is wrong *
Parlour Steps - What the lonely say *

* = I particularly enjoy

Get to know Me

sveinity — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 04:36:44 GMT

Sooooooooooooooooooooo... this post is WAY overdue. Seriously. I've always been more of a lurker on livejournal rather than an avid poster. I mean, I still haven't even figured out the site completely after, what, almost a year? How lame is that? xD

I guess I'm going to try and be more active with actually posting things. I write short stories and fanfiction and roleplay somewhat frequently, but mostly keep everything to myself. Part of my issue is that I don't have any betas. If anybody is interested, I'd probably LOVE YOU FOREVER. In the past (like four years ago or something) I wrote Fruits Basket (Don't laugh) and Prince of Tennis (You're laughing). Now I'm all gung-ho for Harry Potter. In the last couple of years I've probably read so much Harry Potter fanfiction it's ridiculous. Gah. I wonder how many hours I've dedicated to fanfic? I don't want to even think about it!

Me? I'm your average teenage girl. Except not. My mom says I need to act more my age. I guess I should, but it's not easy when I've got to go to school (I'm currently participating in the Running Start program and applying to a 4-year Uni for vet. med.), go to work, attend extracurricular activities, do chores around the house, volunteer, help raise my two younger siblings, and finish hours of homework. Needless to say, I have time management issues. And a lot of the time I do have left, I spend it all by reading! If only I could earn money from fanfic. I'd probably be a millionaire by now.

I'm considering starting up a rec page for myself based on all of my favorite pairings. There's a lot of different fics out there, and a lot of the time I lose some of my favorites just because I forget where they're located. If anybody's interested, I'd really appreciate it if you could send me the link to your own favorite stories or rec pages or communites (I have the hardest time locating communities. I'm, like, communty mentally challenged). I read all sorts of different pairings. My current favorites are: ASS, Harry/Scorpius, and Teddy/James (And Teddy/Albus, I just haven't actually read that many yet). That doesn't mean I still don't love the classics. Drarry was my fist OTP. Snarry introduced me to age gaps and all sorts of different little twits. Harry/Ron is sweet and touching. Harry/Cedric is tragic and very much like a car wreck: you can't help but watch, or in this case, read. I even enjoy the occasional Harry/Sirius or Harry/Lupin. I've even found myself dabbling in the weirder pairings, such as Harry/Lucius or Harry/Fred/George. Mostly it all depends upon the story line. If it sounds interesting, I'll probably read it. Though.... I'm not a huge fan of het in fanfiction. Call me a perv. Whatever. xP

By now you're probably wondering when I'll start rambling and get to the specifics. So I'll put you out of your misery: I live in the US near the Pacific Coast. I'm a fairly social person, but I'm shy so I don't go out of my way to meet new people (which is why I hardly ever post anywhere. I'm working on that ><). My username Sveinity is derived from one of my characters. His name is Svein and happens to be one of the vainest characters I have ever created. And one of the coolest. Thus, I did a little play on works and BAM: sveinity. I have a mother, a stepfather, and a father. I have four half siblings, all of which are younger than me, but I only live with two. I'm a huge-ass nerd and very opinionated about that fact. I read manga and fanfiction, and watch anime and Asian Dramas. There's no possible way I COULDN'T be a nerd. Don't make fun of me. xD I'm also pretty serious about my education. Since I'm in running start, I should be receiving my AA this summer. I'm hoping to become a Veterinarian. Only six or seven more years of school to go. *sweat drop* What else? I can't really think of anything at the moment. If you've got any further questions about me, please please please feel free to drop me a comment.

Road Kill

sveinity — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 20:28:45 GMT

Title: Road Kill
Rating: PG-13 for mild swearing
Work Count: 1,590
Pairing: Unrequited Albus/Scorpius, Scorpius/Lily
Summary: I didn't bring you home for my sister to steal away.
Disclaimer: All harry potter characters do not belong to me.
Author's Note's: This story wrote itself in a very unique style. Please give it a try. It was also written for the ass_carnival a while back. It is unbetad, but I've edited it further myself just recently so there are a few changes from the original.

Road Kill

The smile on your face is calm and flirtatious. Every time your hand brushes hers over the popcorn bowl she giggles and you grin; I feel myself bristle a little more inside. Before we met I never knew how much my chest could hurt. It’s not like I brought you home for her to steal away. You’re mine, so why doesn’t it feel that way anymore?

She has little shame when you visit. I regret you ever came. By the way she simpers on I can almost believe you’re like that muggle Prince Charming or something. I wish she didn’t. The constant prattle about your hair, your voice, your manners is just too much. There are only so many ways to say perfect when I know you’re not.

Cinderella continues to play on the telly. It’s obnoxious and boring and you can’t seem to take your eyes away. She dotes on you, serving treats and cuddling against your side on the couch. It drives me mad. I want to tear you both apart. Instead I curl against my armchair, second rate and maybe third. Instead I scrape my fingers down the suede until I’ve spelled out your name. Instead I smother it with a pillow like I want to smother you.

After you leave for the night I corner her in the kitchen. She smiles like she knows what I want to say. When I open my mouth and nothing comes out, her eyes glitter with triumph.

“Nature versus nurture, Al,” she says, “Get over it.”

Then she shrugs indifferently and saunters down the hall, flipping her long red hair back over her shoulder. I am left spent and speechless, broken by my own blood. When did she punch the air from my lungs? I feel like the road kill you see lining the road, all smushed and unrecognizable. I’m definitely not myself right now. My back slides down the counter, legs buckling. Seems I’ve fallen farther than I ever could have imagined. I don’t know if I can spend my whole life like this, just waiting for you – the old you. Maybe that’s asking the impossible.

So much for sixteen. I’m stuck on the cusp between adolescence and maturity. You’re leaving me behind. If only life was different. Maybe then that could have been me on the couch beside you watching stupid movies, maybe it could have been our hands brushing over the popcorn bowl. Maybe.

Instead it was you and my sister.

Fourteen days have passed since you’ve last come by. I don’t know whether to be thankful or not. We’re all in the dinning room, waiting for mum to finish breakfast. The smell of bacon leaves my stomach growling hunger. I pour myself a glass of milk and guzzle it half down in one gulp. Then I notice the letter on the table. The envelope is bright white, the lettering on the front neat and flowing. It’s from you, but it’s in front of my sister and not me. Her face is glowing when she tells our mum that she’s received more than just the one. My face falls when I realize I haven’t gotten anything. Nothing. None. Food doesn’t sound so appealing anymore.

I excuse myself from the table, but not before I learn that you’re coming over for dinner. I’m angry that you’ve made me hear this second hand. Am I really so insignificant? Don’t I matter to you anymore? We’ve been friends for so long. Years and years. I guess that falls short to a summer romance.

I need to get away. I’m itching to escape from you and your unwanted memories. But all the places I think to go are places I’ve only been with you. What would be the point? So I just step outside, waiting to be able to breathe. I stare up at the sky. It’s blue and pure with fluffy white clouds. I tell myself that it’s the sun making my eyes leak. There’s no way I could be crying. Not over this. Never over you.

The summer breeze leaves me shivering in my pajamas. I swipe at my face and step off our porch, arms crossed over my chest. Before I know it I’m walking down the drive and along the road. I remind myself that there’s a difference between running away and going away. I’m sure I’ll figure it out later. I need some time to think.

Maybe I’m hoping that you’ll miraculously appear. Prince Charming, remember? Maybe I’m hoping that you’ll take me home and promise to never talk to her again. Maybe I’ve just gone a little bit spare.

I hate maybes.

Gravel is stuck between my toes. I stop to dig it out. I should have put on a pair of shoes before I left. Too late now. I move off the road to the grass alongside it, careful not to step on any sticker weeds. I lose track of time the longer I walk and before I know it the sun is high in the sky. It’s probably long past time for me to head back. Except I have no idea where I am. There are endless fields of golden grass around me. A herd of horses neigh pleasant greetings. My smile is brittle as I step to the fence. One of the young colts trots forward, but before he reaches the fence he startles and lopes awkwardly away. Sighing, I start walking back the way I came. If only the rest of my life could be this simple.

I am accosted immediately upon my return. Questions and accusations smother me the moment I step inside the house. I appease them all by saying I’m all right, but I’m really not because you’re standing right there and you’re holding my sister’s hand. She’s snug against your side, face wet with tears and wan with worry. And even though I’ve been missing for hours, been missing all day, you only have eyes for her. I have half a mind to go missing forever. The smarter half decides just to go upstairs.

How can you not see her for what she really is? You’ve known her almost as long as me. She’s just the same as she always was. You even disliked her once. I still remember the countless times we conspired to leave her behind. Now it’s her over me, not us together. Now it’s me hating you.

Long before we ever met I told myself that I would never hide who I am. Yet here I am, holed up in my room. You’ve made me this way. Everything has gone so wrong this summer. It’s unbelievable; undeniably real. We’ve both got our secrets, I know, though yours is rather obvious. I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just told me that you like her. There was no reason to go behind my back. I would have understood eventually. Now I don’t think I ever can.

Mum calls me down for dinner. It’s a quiet affair since nobody has much to say. You’re sitting next to her at the end of the table and I’m stuck next to our older brother. He scrapes all of his peas onto my plate when nobody’s looking. Then he asks for more and does it again. I smack him under the table for it. He doesn’t even flinch.

After dessert I worm my way out of dish duty. I escape back upstairs so I don’t have to face reality anymore. No one looks twice. I rustle through my sock drawer and pull out a packet of cigarettes. I nicked them from a relative at mom and dad’s anniversary party months ago. I’ve only ever smoked two. Now seems as good a time as any to smoke another. My bedroom window is already open and I crawl through it to the roof. The shingles are rough and scrape against my hands, but the pain is good. It means I’m not nearly as numb as I think I am.

I reach the top and rest my back against the chimney. Fishing through my pockets for a light, I realize that I’ve forgotten to bring one. My jaw clenches and I stare furiously up at the sky. I’m too upset for star gazing. I can’t appreciate the vastness. I don’t want to feel small anymore. So I just stare, long and hard enough that my eyes begin to sting with the effort. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself before the tears start spilling. They’re hot against cold skin and salty-bitter against my tongue. I wish I’d just stop crying already. This is getting to be ridiculous. So I scream nonsensical defiance, throwing the packet of cigarettes blindly into the darkness. My satisfaction is short lived. The packet lands with a faint rustle thump, disturbing a bush bellow. I collapse against the chimney, chest heaving up and down. My hands rise up to smother my face, palms against eye sockets and nails against cheeks. I want you out of my head. I want you gone. I want you so fucking much it hurts.

I’m stiff and mute by the time you decide to leave. You lead my sister outside, hands still tangled together when you wave goodbye to our parents. The shadows make you one when you lean down to kiss her. I close my eyes, but that can’t drown out your promises of tomorrow. I wish I warranted one, too. But I’m only second rate, maybe third.

A/N: So... This fic kind of just wrote itself. I was amazed at the over all angst-ness . And you know what's really weird? I don't usually imagine Albus or Scorpius or even Lilly like the way I wrote them here. Crazy.

I hope all the prompts were fairly obvious. As for the songs, I used themes and played off of some of the lyrics. </div>