TERRY: I'm dreaming, dreaming of the day I can control myself . . .
July 22nd, 1997: Post-Sixth Year
Fucking Knockturn Alley. I could blame it all on this street. As if the cobblestones breathed corruption, wafting up to my window, coming in the through the cracks and mingling with the pot smoke and dust on the floorboards.
Miles Bletchley. Slytherin Keeper, just graduated. Better looking than Marcus Flint, less polite than Theodore Nott (although Nott's no walk in the park himself), and just the sort of person who thinks he doesn't have to worry about upsetting a Zabini.
He's a got a point, actually. Blaise can't wreak much vengeance for what Bletchley did without putting himself in a very compromising position, as far as coming out to his family is concerned.
He came up the stairs like he fucking owned the place. All swagger and arrogance and I swear to God I was afraid, really terrified for a moment, when he walked into my room.
Because I know how it works. I'm not stupid. Most of these Slytherin guys aren't particularly queer. It's not the fact that I'm male that attracts them, necessarily. It's the power. The ego trip. The fact that they can make me do this and get away with it and know that I'll never tell. They can be in control for ten minutes, they can overpower a weaker person, they can make themselves feel big and bad and intimidating, and they can get a pretty damn good blow job while they're at it.
Simple as that.
And Bletchley loves the feeling of power more than any of the others, I think. He's going to turn out just like Uncle and the rest of them. A wifebeater, a kidbeater, a real fucking scary bastard. (Sidenote: Speaking of Uncle, he hasn't given me a black eye since he learned about Blaise. I think he's afraid of getting on the wrong side of a Zabini.)
So Bletchley comes in, and I'm reading an owl I got from Blaise: " . . . Will come by later tonight. I feel like it's been so long since last I saw you. School starts in just over a month--Hang in there. I love you. Blaise."
"What have you there, Boot?"
I try to shove it under my pillow. "Nothing. Just a note."
He snatches it, reads it, sneering. "You have Zabini saying he loves you, Boot?"
"You read the letter."
He balls it up and tosses it aside. "Can't see why he thinks you're so wonderful. He knows what you are--Just a little whore barely better than a Mudblood."
"What brings you here, then?" Should be careful. Bletchley's likely to get violent if I make him angry enough.
He smirks. "What do you think?"
I sigh. "A little whore barely better than a Mudblood?"
His smirk becomes a grin. "Perceptive, aren't you? No wonder they put you in Ravenclaw."
"I'm dating Blaise, you know. I can't do anything with you."
Can't. Why can't? Why didn't I say that I won't?
He steps closer and, Christ, he's tall. Broad, too. No debate about which one of us would win in a fight. "See, I know for a fact that you can. And I've got this funny feeling that you will."
Power trip. Don't try to stop them; you're just telling them they're weak if you do.
"What makes you think that?" I mean to sound defiant, but I just sound nervous.
A hand comes around the back of my neck, pulls me to him roughly, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise. I want to cry out, but I won't let myself.
Don't let them see you cry. My only rule.
He forces me to the floor, to my knees, catching myself to keep from falling, splinters in my palms from the floorboards.
Fucking power trips.
He leers at me, nods for me to continue.
Fucking Slytherins.
I undo the button and zipper of his trendy Muggle trousers one-handed, with the weary expertise of someone who's done this one too many times.
Fucking Knockturn Alley.
I lick my lips and see, in the corner of my eye, Blaise's letter crumpled on the floor beside me. God, please let him forget to come over tonight. Not after I've done this.
I mean, the two of us haven't even gotten this far . . .
Just take a deep breath, Terry. Close your eyes. Don't think about Blaise.
Fucking Knockturn Alley. I could blame it all on this street. As if the cobblestones breathed corruption, wafting up to my window, coming in the through the cracks and mingling with the pot smoke and dust on the floorboards.
Miles Bletchley. Slytherin Keeper, just graduated. Better looking than Marcus Flint, less polite than Theodore Nott (although Nott's no walk in the park himself), and just the sort of person who thinks he doesn't have to worry about upsetting a Zabini.
He's a got a point, actually. Blaise can't wreak much vengeance for what Bletchley did without putting himself in a very compromising position, as far as coming out to his family is concerned.
He came up the stairs like he fucking owned the place. All swagger and arrogance and I swear to God I was afraid, really terrified for a moment, when he walked into my room.
Because I know how it works. I'm not stupid. Most of these Slytherin guys aren't particularly queer. It's not the fact that I'm male that attracts them, necessarily. It's the power. The ego trip. The fact that they can make me do this and get away with it and know that I'll never tell. They can be in control for ten minutes, they can overpower a weaker person, they can make themselves feel big and bad and intimidating, and they can get a pretty damn good blow job while they're at it.
Simple as that.
And Bletchley loves the feeling of power more than any of the others, I think. He's going to turn out just like Uncle and the rest of them. A wifebeater, a kidbeater, a real fucking scary bastard. (Sidenote: Speaking of Uncle, he hasn't given me a black eye since he learned about Blaise. I think he's afraid of getting on the wrong side of a Zabini.)
So Bletchley comes in, and I'm reading an owl I got from Blaise: " . . . Will come by later tonight. I feel like it's been so long since last I saw you. School starts in just over a month--Hang in there. I love you. Blaise."
"What have you there, Boot?"
I try to shove it under my pillow. "Nothing. Just a note."
He snatches it, reads it, sneering. "You have Zabini saying he loves you, Boot?"
"You read the letter."
He balls it up and tosses it aside. "Can't see why he thinks you're so wonderful. He knows what you are--Just a little whore barely better than a Mudblood."
"What brings you here, then?" Should be careful. Bletchley's likely to get violent if I make him angry enough.
He smirks. "What do you think?"
I sigh. "A little whore barely better than a Mudblood?"
His smirk becomes a grin. "Perceptive, aren't you? No wonder they put you in Ravenclaw."
"I'm dating Blaise, you know. I can't do anything with you."
Can't. Why can't? Why didn't I say that I won't?
He steps closer and, Christ, he's tall. Broad, too. No debate about which one of us would win in a fight. "See, I know for a fact that you can. And I've got this funny feeling that you will."
Power trip. Don't try to stop them; you're just telling them they're weak if you do.
"What makes you think that?" I mean to sound defiant, but I just sound nervous.
A hand comes around the back of my neck, pulls me to him roughly, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise. I want to cry out, but I won't let myself.
Don't let them see you cry. My only rule.
He forces me to the floor, to my knees, catching myself to keep from falling, splinters in my palms from the floorboards.
Fucking power trips.
He leers at me, nods for me to continue.
Fucking Slytherins.
I undo the button and zipper of his trendy Muggle trousers one-handed, with the weary expertise of someone who's done this one too many times.
Fucking Knockturn Alley.
I lick my lips and see, in the corner of my eye, Blaise's letter crumpled on the floor beside me. God, please let him forget to come over tonight. Not after I've done this.
I mean, the two of us haven't even gotten this far . . .
Just take a deep breath, Terry. Close your eyes. Don't think about Blaise.