Run. The Begining
I wrote this for the 2011 Charlie Ficathon (charlieficathon ). It's the first fic to have Lace and Lash, my Nightglow dragons, as main characters. I love them almost as much as I love Charlie; they may have their own fic before too long, if I can learn to think like a dragon.
My faithful beta tailoredshirt said she thought this piece is one of the best things I've written. I'm tremendously flattered because she's seen both the gems and the garbage I produce, and if she says it's good she has a strong basis for comparison.
This is much longer piece than I usually do for fests, 15k words, so it's broken into two parts to satisfy LJ's arcane rules. Here's the first seven thousand words, more or less.
From an unsigned manuscript attributed to Charlie Weasley, n.d., c. 1999)
Warrant of Arrest and Detention
To each and all of the enforcement officers of the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot of Great Britain, under the authority of the Ministry of Magic:
An Auror (name withheld) of has stated on oath that he has reason to believe that a warrant should be issued by a judicial authority of the Wizengamot for the arrest of Charles Weasley (hereinafter called the defendant) who is accused of a indictable offences against the laws and usages of the Wizengamot. The evidence for this warrant is placed under the seal of the Wizengamot and shall be produced at the defendant's hearing before the above bodies.
All enforcement officers of the Ministry of Magic and Wizengamot are hereby commanded to arrest the defendant as soon as possible after the issue of this warrant and to bring him as quickly as is practicable to an authorized Ministry Detention Centre for incarceration and interrogation.
I think I threw the warrant at the wall, or maybe at Vaclav. It hit Vaclav in the chest and fell at his feet. He didn't pick it up.
"You are safe enough for the moment," Vaclav said in his infuriatingly calm tone. He's an old hand at this: he'd cut his teeth on the infighting of the wizards around Grindlewald, then taken service as a spy for a couple of muggle governments, apparently for fun. "The warrant is only for Great Britain. Their reach has not extended this far. Not yet."
I dropped heavily into the wooden chair facing Vaclav's desk. "War crimes. Secret evidence is only used for treason and war crimes trials. But dammit, I didn't do anything!"
"Really?" Vaclav reached across his desk for cigarettes and a bottle and handed them both to me. I tossed the cigs back onto the desk but I needed the drink. "You killed dragons on the reserves without permission, which is poaching. You killed dragons not on the reserves, also poaching. You sold the body parts of the dragons you killed to the highest bidders, who were almost always Voldemort's servants. You stole dragon eggs and sold them, even eggs containing viable hatchlings. One of these eggs was used by a teacher at Hogwarts to discredit Harry Potter through his friendship with the school's gamekeeper. When that dragon proved to be female you stole four of her eggs and then killed her. Her heartstrings were used to make wands, her scales and the shells of her eggs were used to make shields...."
I cut him off. "Shut up. I don't even know how much of that is true."
"Lying to yourself will get you killed as quickly as jumping off the Turk's Fall."
"All right!" I took another drink. "I don't like thinking about it, is all."
"Very helpful." His tone was scornful, disgusted.
"Should I leave?" I asked uncertainly. I'd never been a war criminal. I suppose I'd learn how, just as I'd learned to be a spy and a poacher. Vaclav had probably been a war criminal before anyway; he could help.
"No. If it becomes necessary for you to leave I'll send you to the Ural reserve. They will expect you to run west. Russia is not what they would expect, and I can protect you there."
"You'd throw me out to save your skin?" All right, it stung.
"Of course." When he smiled you could see the decades of nicotine stains on his teeth. "Just because you wouldn't do it does not mean I won't."
"Right." I put the bottle on the desk and started to stand before Vaclav shoved me back into my chair.
"Charlie, listen now. Work now. You are in exile but you cannot grieve yet. There will be time for grieving later, after your survival is assured. Those English sent that warrant to Romania for a reason. It could be a warning, a lure or a foolish impulse, and we cannot move until we know more." He shook me hard enough to slam my head against the back of the chair and wake me up; for the first time since I'd seen the warrant I was actually present in the moment, where I should have been all along. "And considering that you possess evidence to convict me and many others," he continued more softly, "you mustn't set foot outside this reserve. The people who sent the warrant here may not even be English. They may be waiting outside the gates."
I hadn't thought of that. Good news on top of good news. I could think of half a dozen people who might want me silenced. I had no more on them than they had on me, so I couldn't sell them without hurting myself, but their minds didn't see it that way. I was a threat-I had to go. I didn't know if they still executed people in England: the Dementor's kiss had been a horrible deterrent, but being killed, no matter how, was bad enough. And now I considered it, I'd shop the lot-criminals, Death Eaters, Order members-to stay alive.
"Good, you're thinking now." Vaclav's familiar sarcastic smile twisted his mouth. There was something else in his eyes, something that made me a little uncomfortable. "If it is the English, who will they send? A member of your family, perhaps."
"They won't send Ron. I don't know who they'll send, but he's out of it."
"Any of the others?"
"I doubt it. Ron's the only Auror."
"So Ron, or a friend of yours who has access to the information. Who would that be?"
I shook my head. "No idea. I haven't even spoken to my family since the end of the war, and all my friends are here. Vaclav..." I didn't want to ask, but I had to. "What about Lace?"
"What of her? She is far better equipped to survive than you are."
"I know that. But she's also a lot more important than I am, especially now that Lash is gone. So you can't let anyone hurt her, especially if I'm not here. You've got to protect her." His expression that said very clearly he thought I was a soft-hearted idiot. No doubt that's so, but I wasn't going to let go of this. "Swear it."
"I will protect her as you would. On my mother's heart." He meant it, for all his derision. I could see it in his eyes.
I laughed so I wouldn't cry. "I don't think you had a mother. And even if you did, I don't think she had a heart."
"I don't think she had one either." Vaclav grinned, then suddenly reached out and hugged me, kissing me on both cheeks. "But if I had a son he could not be dearer to me than you are. Now get to your work and let me do mine."
I'd been living here-on the reserve with Vaclav-for almost ten years. That was the first time he'd even suggested I was anything more than a pain in the ass, even though he must have known he'd been a surrogate father to the homesick eighteen year old I'd been when I'd arrived here. He'd kept my secrets and looked after me better than either my old friends or my family had; he'd even put Rhys in my way to coax me out of near-suicidal depression after my disastrous breakup. He'd been a lot more help than my own father, the dotty collector of muggle appliances with high ideals and six other children to protect. After I closed the door of my cabin I leaned on it for a second, literally and figuratively catching my breath. "I love you too, you old bastard," I said aloud.
I swear he heard me. But I pretended not to notice and began methodically writing lists of friends and enemies.
(from a classified a report written for Albus Dumbledore by Remus Lupin, n.d., c. 1990-91)
Most worrying to me is the changing character of opposition in southeastern Europe. The last body to have even nominal control of the wizards and magical creatures of the area was the Ottoman Empire, so it's been effectively three hundred years since there has been any enforcement. We've known for many years that Voldemort has actively recruited vampires and werewolves there, with little more success than the Order has had: they're quite determined to maintain their independence, from each other as well as from outside influences.
Recently it seems that there has been a change in the character of their opposition to us. They are still adamantly opposed to becoming involved in the struggle with Voldemort, but they're becoming willing to form alliances among themselves. I haven't been there in a long time, and the most of the werewolves I knew there have died. However, I was able to catch up with some old acquaintances and hear disturbing news.
The vampire families have been winnowed to around half their 1970 strength, mostly due to internecine fighting and some feuds. Likewise the werewolves have been reduced, but much more recently. Humans have been hunting them. More distressingly, it seems that wizards are working in conjunction with muggles to organize the hunts, and that the hunters have a source of reliable information about the locations and movements of the werewolves. They always hunt immediately after the full moon and the kills are quick and clean, almost always shootings. One of the jarring points is that sometimes silver bullets are used, but other times they aren't. The killings are quite selective and have strongly benefited a few packmasters, who have already formed a loose alliance.
I think-or maybe it's better to say that I fear-the magical beings of the region are organizing. The emerging leadership seem to be wizards, identities and aims unknown. I have no evidence except the dramatic reductions in the populations, and no idea what the leadership might want or who they could be. My guesses would be simply guesses: yours, I'm sure, are better than mine.
The other oddity is a dramatic increase in the dragon population. Adult dragons are establishing territories across Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary. The dragon reserve there is only about fifty years old, but the people to whom I spoke say that the new dragons don't have much-if anything-to do with it. There is one exception, a Czech wizard who has been in south eastern Romania for several decades. His claims have to be carefully weighed, as he appears to be only about half sane, but he's on the spot and knows a lot about the region. He claims there is a wizard at the reserve who is summoning the dragons.
I can't imagine who would summon dragons or why, nor can I imagine how it could be done. But it worries me, and I find the idea of a wizard who can control dragons frankly terrifying. You might contact Charlie Weasley: he's on the reserve and a member of the Order as well as an expert on dragons. He may be able to identify the wizard, if indeed there is one.
(Scrawled furiously across the bottom in dark red ink)
Who leads this third force? Ask, or I will.
Dublin, Ireland, summer 2003
Seamus didn't like to cruise. Especially not muggle bars-they were dirtier, raunchier and sleazier than wizarding bars. More dangerous, too, since the war was over. Now that the Snatchers of one sort were less of a threat, the other sort seemed more common. But work was work, and Seamus was working, blending in as just another rough boy looking for trade. He carried his wand in a specially-made pocket sewn into the seam of his jeans and kept on battered leather fingerless gloves despite the warm weather. They had steel plates over the knuckles and in the heel of the hand.
Otherwise, he wasn't wearing much. Skin-tight jeans to show off his ass, skin-tight t-shirt to show off his abs, biker boots with leather-covered steel toe caps-they didn't look like shit-kickers until one hit you, and by then it didn't matter. He'd spelled on black eyeliner because he knew it made a good show against his long spiky-ratty blond hair and fair skin. The clubs' bouncers knew him; they nodded their greetings and kept their distance. There was wanna-be trouble here, boys who thought they were tough; and then there were the live ones in crowd, the really tough trade. And then there were blokes like Seamus, who were professionals.
Seamus exchanged greetings with the bartender, who jerked his thumb at a table in a corner near the bar. He surveyed the room under his lashes, getting a feel for the evening. It was pretty typical of the places Fergus ran. Club on the ground floor, full of adults minding their own business: gays hooking up with gays, straights with straights, other with other. People selling and buying all kinds of things-muggle and magical-no questions asked and no coming around wanting your money back. This was the emporium, where you could get whatever you wanted and maybe find a friend to share it with, down here where the music was too loud and the bright lights made for deep shadows. The knocking shop upstairs, now, was staffed by pretty young things of various sorts, and open to customers only-this wasn't a hotel up here. But if you found what you fancied in the knocking shop's parlour it would take you to a room where you paid for your pleasure, and then shuffle you down the back steps before you realized just how much money you'd spent. And then there was the basement, strictly employees only and no repeat warnings. Fergus handled all sorts of things through the basements of his clubs, working his way toward the big money that was had smuggling through the harbour. Seamus didn't ask about that. Since he wasn't an Auror any longer, asking wasn't his business. He was just Fergus' cousin, the ex-Auror and ex-war hero, now considered by all to be batty as a bagful of badgers and dangerous in with it. Nobody was quite sure what his role in the organization was, least of all him. It was better not to ask.
Tonight he was a bagman. The barman sent over an Islay malt and a pint of bitter, delivered by a stunningly lovely girl wearing a corset, suspenders, stockings and boots...mostly boots. "I'm Delphine," she said huskily as she set the drinks on his table and leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest and licking his ear before biting his neck. Hidden by the tray, she dropped the envelope into his lap and nuzzled him before backing off. He let his hand run down her back and the curve of her ass as she walked away. He preferred men, but that didn't mean he couldn't look at the goods on offer across the street.
He picked up his pint and surveyed the room, planning his evening. After dropped the bag, he would start by getting drunk, and then being fucked blind by any bloke willing to do him. He'd repeat those two until he was tired or bored, and then he'd start a fight. He'd wake up in jail or in an alley, battered and bleeding and sore-arsed, ready to for the same again next week. It was a shitty way to live, but he lived that way because he was a shitty excuse for a man. Other men had friends and families, goals they wanted to reach, work that moved them toward their goals. They fell in love, got married, had kids, hopes, dreams, ambitions-they had discovered things in life past drinking, fighting and fucking. Seamus was certain he'd known what those things were once himself, some time back before the war, but they were gone now.
He shrugged off the thought as a waste of time and downed two pints musing on where to start his hypothetical evening-Fergus hated the help playing up his clubs, and none of his bar staff would let Seamus get drunk after he'd done something that Fergus was still narked about. He tried to recall what...and bloody near choked on his third pint. Ron was at the back of the room, sliding away from a handsy dance partner. He was halfway across the floor before he realized this wasn't Ron: the man was shorter, bulkier, his red hair both longer and darker red. There was real muscle under his denims, muscle built by hard work, not by playing in the gym. Surprised by his movement, the redhead took a half-step back to include Seamus in his field of vision, glanced at him, then snapped his gaze back to the irritating dance partner, who was plenty pissed and closing fast. Red slid sideways, putting Seamus between himself and the angry dancer.
Slick little move, that, Seamus noted, and it was fine with him. "Sod off, you," he growled t the dance partner. The man had three stone on Seamus at least, but Seamus projected so much insane incipient violence that the bloke took one good look at his face and decided to go visit someone else.
The redhead definitely was not Ron Weasley. He looked a tough thirty, his eyes were more green than blue, and-the clincher-his weathered skin had no trace of freckles. He watched Seamus chase the dancer off with friendly interest, smiling his thanks. He had a great smile, open and sunny. The Auror in Seamus' head automatically catalogued that his upper left canine was missing. "I don't often get rescuers," the redhead grinned. "But I can't think of what else you might be doing, running up on me like that."
Seamus shook his head. "You didn't need rescuing. I thought you were someone else." Ah, fuck tact anyway.
But Red laughed, a warm laugh that got under Seamus' skin and warmed him too. "So, then." The man's English carried a trace of a foreign accent, probably an Englishman who had spent time abroad. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing? This bloke owe you money?" Seamus suddenly had to watch that smile, hear that laugh for a bit longer. It was just what he needed to blow his black mood away.
"Come sit with me," Seamus offered impulsively. "Let me get you another drink. I'm sure that one is potioned by now."
"Potioned?" the redhead chuckled. "Now there's a word from another world. But I never turn down a drink." He pushed his hair back with both hands (there was a wand pocket inside his sleeve, the Auror noted) and grinned again. "Lead on."
A word from another world, and a wand in his sleeve: a smooth way of telling Seamus that he was a wizard and knew Seamus was one as well. They sat down at Shay's table (the money was still there, and Shay caught a glare from the barman for leaving it) and waved over the waitress to get fresh drinks. His companion ordered four shots of vodka, raised one politely to Seamus, and tossed three down without even stopping to breathe. He sipped the forth, leaning against the wall and watching Shay lazily.
"I can't decide if you're the man I'm looking for or not," the redhead commented.
"Is that a payback for saying I thought you were someone else?" Seamus glanced at the other man through his lashes, merry and flirtatious. Red had a great smile, and he watched Seamus flirt as if he liked what he saw.
Red leaned over and put his elbow on the table, close enough for Seamus to whisper in his ear. "I think you are the man I'm looking for. We may be able to do business," he murmured. "Is there a place we can go to talk privately?"
Seamus, who had been sipping his pint and covertly eyeing the muscular body next to him, wasn't particularly interested in doing business-unless it was a euphemism for one particular kind of transaction. But, as Americans say, business is business and action is action. If he wasn't going to get the action he wanted from the redhead, he might as well do business. Red leaned back against the wall.
Seamus gave him a top to toe survey, as suited a man who had presumably just been propositioned, and smiled. "Not shy, are you?"
"Not when I like what I see." It seemed Red was having trouble separating business from action as well. The heat in his eyes could start a fire.
"Give me a minute, then." Seamus stood and walked to the bar, bag in hand. He leaned over the bar, tossed the bag to the bartender, then gestured for the redhead to follow him downstairs. Past stacks of whiskey crates and boxes of spare parts stacked against the grey-white granite of southern Ireland. Kegs of beer, some in steel, some in wood, stood along the walls step-wise, so the barrels on the top could be brought down when they were needed. It was a large room filled with shadows, bare electric bulbs creating strange etiolated shapes on the packing boxes.
Seamus was headed toward the very back of the room, a shadowy corner he'd created for his own hide away. But as they walked they came to clear spot in the crates under a barren bulb, and the redhead put his hand on Seamus' shoulder. Seamus turned around to find himself a scant six inches from his companion, looking up into blue-green eyes. They stood like that, not quite touching, Seamus shocked by the contact and his body's reaction to the green-blue stare. Red was sending mixed signals all over the place.
"Is this good enough?" Red asked.
Seamus decided to let him lead. "Sure. You want to tell me what we're doing?"
"Kinda depends, I guess," his companion replied with one of those warming smiles. "I'm looking for a bloke called Finnigan who has some connections in shipping. I've got a large cargo that needs to get to Canada. I'll be travelling with it."
"Well, you found your man-or at least one of his agents. It's my cousin Fergus who runs most of the port. I'm Seamus Finnigan. We work together, but I handle most of the wizarding transports. If your cargo is magical, I'm the man you need to see. I can move anything, but you play by my rules and pay cash up front. You got a name you go by? Is your cargo in Dublin?"
Red shrugged. "I'm Charlie. And no, the cargo isn't here, but it can be if I have 24 hours notice."
"You're going to have to let me look the cargo over. That's the first rule, and if you can't do that we can't work together. The other is that magical cargo travels by ship. Airplane crashes tend to draw muggle attention, and muggle attention can draw the Gardai's attention."
"Gardai is what you call your Aurors?" When Seamus nodded, Charlie said, "I'll accept both your rules as long as you tell no one-not even your cousin-what we're moving. I want a permanent binding oath, under my control."
Seamus quashed his instinctive refusal and considered. Most binding oaths weren't quite as binding as they should be when the subject was-or had been-a magically altered creature like an Auror. He could probably slip the binding. He'd done it before.
He gave it one more minute for verisimilitude, watching Charlie watch him. Charlie was tanned, the kind of year round tan that came from work outside in all weathers, and thick, coarse auburn hair that reached his shoulder blades. It was clean, just as he was, but uneven, as if he cut it himself. "All right, I'll take your oath. Get your cargo here and we can check it tomorrow night."
Charlie smiled, that warm smile of his. "That's fine, then. What about tonight?"
"What about it?" Seamus said. Charlie's eyes were hot, leaving little trails of prickles of heat wherever they glanced, and Seamus decided he was about to get propositioned.
"If you're free, and have the inclination, I'd like to spend some time with you."
Well now, Seamus thought, business and action. It was unprofessional as all hell, mixing business with pleasure, but Seamus wasn't hung up on professionalism. He liked Charlie's looks, and Charlie was clearly taken with him-just this side of pushy, with that wicked hot come-on stare. He checked the other man over...and saw the tattoo. Snaking out from his companion's blue chambray sleeve was a tattooed dragon's tail done in greens and shades of metallic copper-coloured ink. Charlie wore a copper Jerusalem cross on a leather thong around his neck, and just beneath that was as a fine pale ink line that vanished behind the buttons of his shirt.
Seamus didn't know if he hated Voldemort more or less than he hated the Auror's office for what their damned war had done to his mind. He only had to see a face once to remember it, only needed to glimpse a scene to find the element that was out of place. He wasn't intimidated easily and he'd be damned before he'd let you know if he was. Those things had won him a reputation for reckless, unstoppable courage in the DA. He was the DA's fire-spirit, the one who always acted out regardless of the price. It was that courage and his acting talent that had seen him doing undercover work for the English Ministry. His disgust at the criminal, corrupt organization he risked his life for had shown him out of the Ministry, working for his cousin at twenty-three. At least the criminals in Fergus' organization were honest about what they were.
His Auror training wouldn't leave him: he still couldn't see a tattoo without running it through his mental file of distinguishing marks. He didn't know this particular tattoo, but he recognized the artist straight away. He was a Brummie called Skink with fists like hams and the skill and patience to do multiple-colour single needle shading in a tattoo. Skink's work was hard to get, mostly because Skink was a seriously dangerous lunatic. He listed football hooligan as his profession on his tax forms and seemed to view prison as his second home, beating the shit out of random strangers when he wanted to be arrested. He lived in a studio in the basement of an old factory, spelling metals into terrifyingly beautiful sculpture. Though he had no discernable source of income, Skink didn't practice his art for money. He never sold his sculpture and he tattooed only people he liked.
Skink and Charlie Weasley were mates at Hogwarts until Skink was expelled in fourth year. Skink learned his trade while Charlie finished school and they hung about together afterward until Charlie left for Romania. They got together often after that, whenever Charlie was in England. Rumour held that Charlie's skin was Skink's master canvas, done over years of exquisite patience and pain. If this Charlie was the same man-and the tattoo made Seamus nearly certain that he was-Shay wanted to get his clothes off. For more than the usual reasons. But he'd see to the safety of his own skin first.
He stepped back, putting the necessary space between them. "Charlie Weasley, right?"
"Yeah." It was a tired sigh of an admission.
Seamus shook his head in startled admiration. "You're either brave or crazy to come here with a bounty on your head. Nobody's that fond of the English Ministry around here, but their money spends just fine."
"No," Charlie laughed wearily. "I'm not especially brave or crazy." He sighed and tilted his chin up to look at the ceiling, as if there were an answer there. "Or maybe I am. Does it matter?" He took a couple of steps forward, eyes back on Seamus, just a little uncertain. "I'm sick of being alone, and there's something about you that goes right through me. I just want to play for a while. With you, for preference. But the choice is yours."
Seamus looked him over. He liked the muscular body he saw, and the trails of tattoos vanishing beneath his clothes begged to be followed. He caught himself watching Charlie licking his lips nervously. His common sense and training shouted that spending time around Charlie Weasley would be stupid, since he was a war criminal with a hefty price on him and his life expectancy was likely measured in hours.
But when he looked into Charlie's eyes and saw the fever of want, daring and exhilaration the heat in them burned all his second thoughts away. He kept his eyes on Charlie's, aroused by the shared stare, feeling his own breathing shortening and loving the growing excitement as he watched the other man kneel in front of him. Seamus looked at the staircase and said a brief prayer that none of the kegs would need changing... Seamus could feel the heat of Charlie's body, smell his skin under the aromas of cigarette smoke and beer. He ached to be touched, but Charlie's eyes held his and Charlie's hands barely grazed him until his fingers began opening the fly of Shay's denims.
Seamus had left off his pants (short on laundry) and he was sure he could feel the teeth of the zipper making imprints in his swelling prick. He forgot to be nervous about discovery when Charlie licked him slowly, tonguing back the foreskin and stroking the head before finally pulling Shay's whole member in, using his tongue to work the head against the back of his throat. He played with Seamus, massaging his cock and balls, humming, squeezing, licking and tugging, slowly pulling him nearer and nearer to release until Seamus was hanging on by his fingernails, refusing orgasm so the pleasure he felt right now wouldn't end. Then Charlie sucked him in, sweet hot suction, his throat tightening around Seamus' length. The soundless humming vibration became more than Shay could bear. Seamus thrust hard into the hot mouth and came, knees giving way, hips jerking, held upright by Charlie's strong hands.
The same hands tucked him gently back into his jeans and did up the zip, then pulled Shay to the floor in a warm embrace. Seamus' legs didn't want to support him so he simply collapsed, half in and half out of his companion's lap, dizzy in the afterglow, catching his breath. The redhead was watching Seamus with a trace of a smile, pleased with himself. Seamus couldn't help laughing at his expression.
"You smug bastard," Seamus said.
"Oh, tell me you'd throw me out of bed." The smile became a smirk.
"No, I can't tell you that. Here, come over here." Seamus led them to a shelter among the boxes that concealed a door. "Least they can't see us from the stair here."
"Can't say I was paying attention," Charlie replied, leaning against the closed door to slide to the floor, then tugging Seamus to sit beside him.
"I'm supposed to be carrying takings for Fergus tonight," Seamus protested half-heartedly.
Charlie fished in a shirt pocket and came up with a cigarette, lit it without his wand, and watched the smoke drift silently. "Fuck that," he said quietly, leaning over to kiss Seamus. "Let's run away together." They both forgot about the cigarette and half lay on the cool stone of the floor, kissing with slow intent. They might have been in their own world, except when there was a scraping noise on the stairs they both grew tense; separating quietly so each was sitting up and had his hands free. Seamus had his wand in his hand. Charlie's left hand was clenched around something that lay beneath his left forearm.
"Where the hell did Seamus go?" the barman demanded.
"Not my day to keep track, now is it? He's fucked off on his own somewhere," grunted a second voice. "You want to help here or what?"
"Fucked off with that bloke he picked up," the barman muttered. "Mother Mary, what the hell is in here? It's full of fucking rocks!"
"Shut it," advised the second man. "If it says it's whiskey, it's whiskey. Why do you put up that bleeding fairy?"
"Boss' cousin, innit he?" The voices faded up the stairs and the door slammed. Charlie cracked up laughing and Seamus smacked the back of his head.
"Shut it, you," he told Charlie.
"Nepotism is all in the family," Charlie said sombrely, then burst into laughter again.
"You're cracked, you know it?" Seamus whacked him again, this time on the shoulder. "And shut up."
"I'm just cracked enough to let in the light," Charlie replied, giggling, then muttered, "I sound just fucking like Vaclav," and started to laugh again. This time Seamus heard the hysterical edge, the sound of laughter contaminated by intolerable strain, and instead of trying to shut him up he wrapped an arm around Charlie to pull the redhead's face against his own shoulder to muffle the sound and let him wear himself out.
"You all right now?" Seamus asked.
Charlie wiped his eyes and smothered a chuckle. "I think I'm in love."
"And isn't that nice for you?" Seamus replied, even managing to get his Mam's tone of disinterested sarcasm in to the line. He pulled himself up and held out a hand to Charlie.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Charlie asked, looking up from where he sat. The light from the bare bulb left striped shadows on his face that made his expression hard to read. "Ah well, it's probably clever of you. Bill says I fall in love irresponsibly anyway. If this place is so high traffic, do you have somewhere we can go?"
Seamus took the extended hand and walked out into the main storage room. "Depends. To talk, to fuck, or to hide?"
"Two out of three," Charlie said. "Maybe all of them, if you still like me."
Seamus stopped and faced Charlie from about ten feet away. He remembered the effect Charlie's stare had had on him, so he tried the same trick, imagining the body under the chambray work shirt and battered denims. Charlie's puzzlement quickly changed to flushed skin and short, panting breaths before Charlie turned his head away and closed his eyes. "Seamus," he said unsteadily, "if you keep looking at me like that I'm going to bend you over one of these boxes right now."
"Sorry," returned Seamus, not at all sorry and not bothering to pretend he was. "I just wanted you to know I still like you."
Charlie gave him a predatory smile. "Come over here and say that."
Seamus took a step closer, intending to move in and then back off, but Charlie was a lot faster than Seamus expected. He caught Seamus' arm, turned them both and pushed, pinning Shay to the wall with his body. The Auror in Shay's head noted Charlie's speed and guessed that he'd had hand to hand combat training somewhere, but Seamus wasn't paying attention. It seemed Charlie wanted revenge for Seamus' teasing stare and was letting his hands wander across Shay's chest, stroking his nipples though the thin shirt and then pinching them between his fingernails. Seamus gasped, then groaned softly as Charlie rolled one nipple between his fingers. Charlie looked at him quizzically.
"I thought we were supposed to be quiet," he whispered, before pressing his lips to Seamus' and going back to his play, hands and lips roaming everywhere Seamus would allow. Seamus wasn't inclined to resist much: he was almost ready to go again. He muffled the sounds he couldn't stop against Charlie's shoulder and just enjoyed the touch of a partner who didn't want him to do anything but enjoy.
When Charlie started undoing Shay's jeans again, Seamus finally pulled away. Sensing that he was serious, Charlie stepped back, flatteringly reluctant.
"I'm supposed to be on the clock," Seamus said firmly. "I've got a drop to make." He paused, murmured Tempus and scowled at the result. "And I'm late. Will you wait here? Two minutes, tops, while I grab the take, ten to drop it off and then I'm yours for the evening."
"Oh, all right." Charlie pretended to be cross. "I'll go with you. Maybe I'll even get another chance at getting you out of your clothes."
"That might take a while. I want a good look at you," Seamus leered. He kissed Charlie quickly and hustled for the stairs.
The passage was unlit and much older than the building above it, and it was still dry despite the constantly shifting course of the river. Above ground the evening was cooling quickly and the pub crawls of the university students were still taking place mostly on two feet. They walked a while, not talking, until Seamus paused beside a clearly expensive block of flats. "This is my stop."
Charlie looked up the street. "I'll meet you at the newsie, then." He pointed with his chin to a newsagents' shop half a block away. Seamus nodded and took himself off, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling he had, wondering why he suddenly didn't want to let Charlie out of his sight and not liking the answer any more than he liked the question. He hoped Charlie really would wait for him.
"Ya late, Seamus." The bodyguard was a former Irish Auror the size of a bull. Len was a good man, but he had an eye for weakness and a willingness to exploit it that made him dangerous in a fight. He and Seamus had gone a few rounds when Seamus first signed on and Len had reluctantly agreed that Shay might not be worthless after all, even if he had been trained in England. Seamus had never mentioned he hadn't pulled some of his nastier tricks. "Ye ain't supposed pattin' fannies on company time."
Seamus had no idea if Len didn't know he was gay or simply didn't care-Len treated him as he treated all Fergus' help. "Fuck off, Len."
"And a good night to you too, princess."
Into Fergus' living room, the place expensively furnished, immaculate, and with a new blonde replacing the brunette on the sofa. She gave Seamus a cat's glance, unreadable, and then dismissed him from her notice. Fergus better be careful with this one, Seamus thought. "You're late," Fergus said.
"I thought about buggering off to Majorca but the takings are too small."
"Yah, Ted told Tommy you'd buggered off with some redheaded bloke."
Seamus shot a glance at the blonde. "We all have our weaknesses," he remarked. "This bloke's a client if his cargo passes the look-see."
"Good stuff?" The blonde must be a muggle, or Fergus would have been more direct. At Seamus' nod, Fergus said, "Charge high. Lots of Gardai around the port these days."
"Trying ta find their asses, I'm sure."
Fergus snorted. "Well. Bugger off out of here. Some of us got social lives."
"Right," Seamus leered. "Cheers."
"Cheers, mate."
Seamus grabbed his leather coat out of the closet as he left, making sure his wand and knife were still securely in place, carefully not considering why he might need them.
My faithful beta tailoredshirt said she thought this piece is one of the best things I've written. I'm tremendously flattered because she's seen both the gems and the garbage I produce, and if she says it's good she has a strong basis for comparison.
This is much longer piece than I usually do for fests, 15k words, so it's broken into two parts to satisfy LJ's arcane rules. Here's the first seven thousand words, more or less.
From an unsigned manuscript attributed to Charlie Weasley, n.d., c. 1999)
Warrant of Arrest and Detention
To each and all of the enforcement officers of the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot of Great Britain, under the authority of the Ministry of Magic:
An Auror (name withheld) of has stated on oath that he has reason to believe that a warrant should be issued by a judicial authority of the Wizengamot for the arrest of Charles Weasley (hereinafter called the defendant) who is accused of a indictable offences against the laws and usages of the Wizengamot. The evidence for this warrant is placed under the seal of the Wizengamot and shall be produced at the defendant's hearing before the above bodies.
All enforcement officers of the Ministry of Magic and Wizengamot are hereby commanded to arrest the defendant as soon as possible after the issue of this warrant and to bring him as quickly as is practicable to an authorized Ministry Detention Centre for incarceration and interrogation.
I think I threw the warrant at the wall, or maybe at Vaclav. It hit Vaclav in the chest and fell at his feet. He didn't pick it up.
"You are safe enough for the moment," Vaclav said in his infuriatingly calm tone. He's an old hand at this: he'd cut his teeth on the infighting of the wizards around Grindlewald, then taken service as a spy for a couple of muggle governments, apparently for fun. "The warrant is only for Great Britain. Their reach has not extended this far. Not yet."
I dropped heavily into the wooden chair facing Vaclav's desk. "War crimes. Secret evidence is only used for treason and war crimes trials. But dammit, I didn't do anything!"
"Really?" Vaclav reached across his desk for cigarettes and a bottle and handed them both to me. I tossed the cigs back onto the desk but I needed the drink. "You killed dragons on the reserves without permission, which is poaching. You killed dragons not on the reserves, also poaching. You sold the body parts of the dragons you killed to the highest bidders, who were almost always Voldemort's servants. You stole dragon eggs and sold them, even eggs containing viable hatchlings. One of these eggs was used by a teacher at Hogwarts to discredit Harry Potter through his friendship with the school's gamekeeper. When that dragon proved to be female you stole four of her eggs and then killed her. Her heartstrings were used to make wands, her scales and the shells of her eggs were used to make shields...."
I cut him off. "Shut up. I don't even know how much of that is true."
"Lying to yourself will get you killed as quickly as jumping off the Turk's Fall."
"All right!" I took another drink. "I don't like thinking about it, is all."
"Very helpful." His tone was scornful, disgusted.
"Should I leave?" I asked uncertainly. I'd never been a war criminal. I suppose I'd learn how, just as I'd learned to be a spy and a poacher. Vaclav had probably been a war criminal before anyway; he could help.
"No. If it becomes necessary for you to leave I'll send you to the Ural reserve. They will expect you to run west. Russia is not what they would expect, and I can protect you there."
"You'd throw me out to save your skin?" All right, it stung.
"Of course." When he smiled you could see the decades of nicotine stains on his teeth. "Just because you wouldn't do it does not mean I won't."
"Right." I put the bottle on the desk and started to stand before Vaclav shoved me back into my chair.
"Charlie, listen now. Work now. You are in exile but you cannot grieve yet. There will be time for grieving later, after your survival is assured. Those English sent that warrant to Romania for a reason. It could be a warning, a lure or a foolish impulse, and we cannot move until we know more." He shook me hard enough to slam my head against the back of the chair and wake me up; for the first time since I'd seen the warrant I was actually present in the moment, where I should have been all along. "And considering that you possess evidence to convict me and many others," he continued more softly, "you mustn't set foot outside this reserve. The people who sent the warrant here may not even be English. They may be waiting outside the gates."
I hadn't thought of that. Good news on top of good news. I could think of half a dozen people who might want me silenced. I had no more on them than they had on me, so I couldn't sell them without hurting myself, but their minds didn't see it that way. I was a threat-I had to go. I didn't know if they still executed people in England: the Dementor's kiss had been a horrible deterrent, but being killed, no matter how, was bad enough. And now I considered it, I'd shop the lot-criminals, Death Eaters, Order members-to stay alive.
"Good, you're thinking now." Vaclav's familiar sarcastic smile twisted his mouth. There was something else in his eyes, something that made me a little uncomfortable. "If it is the English, who will they send? A member of your family, perhaps."
"They won't send Ron. I don't know who they'll send, but he's out of it."
"Any of the others?"
"I doubt it. Ron's the only Auror."
"So Ron, or a friend of yours who has access to the information. Who would that be?"
I shook my head. "No idea. I haven't even spoken to my family since the end of the war, and all my friends are here. Vaclav..." I didn't want to ask, but I had to. "What about Lace?"
"What of her? She is far better equipped to survive than you are."
"I know that. But she's also a lot more important than I am, especially now that Lash is gone. So you can't let anyone hurt her, especially if I'm not here. You've got to protect her." His expression that said very clearly he thought I was a soft-hearted idiot. No doubt that's so, but I wasn't going to let go of this. "Swear it."
"I will protect her as you would. On my mother's heart." He meant it, for all his derision. I could see it in his eyes.
I laughed so I wouldn't cry. "I don't think you had a mother. And even if you did, I don't think she had a heart."
"I don't think she had one either." Vaclav grinned, then suddenly reached out and hugged me, kissing me on both cheeks. "But if I had a son he could not be dearer to me than you are. Now get to your work and let me do mine."
I'd been living here-on the reserve with Vaclav-for almost ten years. That was the first time he'd even suggested I was anything more than a pain in the ass, even though he must have known he'd been a surrogate father to the homesick eighteen year old I'd been when I'd arrived here. He'd kept my secrets and looked after me better than either my old friends or my family had; he'd even put Rhys in my way to coax me out of near-suicidal depression after my disastrous breakup. He'd been a lot more help than my own father, the dotty collector of muggle appliances with high ideals and six other children to protect. After I closed the door of my cabin I leaned on it for a second, literally and figuratively catching my breath. "I love you too, you old bastard," I said aloud.
I swear he heard me. But I pretended not to notice and began methodically writing lists of friends and enemies.
(from a classified a report written for Albus Dumbledore by Remus Lupin, n.d., c. 1990-91)
Most worrying to me is the changing character of opposition in southeastern Europe. The last body to have even nominal control of the wizards and magical creatures of the area was the Ottoman Empire, so it's been effectively three hundred years since there has been any enforcement. We've known for many years that Voldemort has actively recruited vampires and werewolves there, with little more success than the Order has had: they're quite determined to maintain their independence, from each other as well as from outside influences.
Recently it seems that there has been a change in the character of their opposition to us. They are still adamantly opposed to becoming involved in the struggle with Voldemort, but they're becoming willing to form alliances among themselves. I haven't been there in a long time, and the most of the werewolves I knew there have died. However, I was able to catch up with some old acquaintances and hear disturbing news.
The vampire families have been winnowed to around half their 1970 strength, mostly due to internecine fighting and some feuds. Likewise the werewolves have been reduced, but much more recently. Humans have been hunting them. More distressingly, it seems that wizards are working in conjunction with muggles to organize the hunts, and that the hunters have a source of reliable information about the locations and movements of the werewolves. They always hunt immediately after the full moon and the kills are quick and clean, almost always shootings. One of the jarring points is that sometimes silver bullets are used, but other times they aren't. The killings are quite selective and have strongly benefited a few packmasters, who have already formed a loose alliance.
I think-or maybe it's better to say that I fear-the magical beings of the region are organizing. The emerging leadership seem to be wizards, identities and aims unknown. I have no evidence except the dramatic reductions in the populations, and no idea what the leadership might want or who they could be. My guesses would be simply guesses: yours, I'm sure, are better than mine.
The other oddity is a dramatic increase in the dragon population. Adult dragons are establishing territories across Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary. The dragon reserve there is only about fifty years old, but the people to whom I spoke say that the new dragons don't have much-if anything-to do with it. There is one exception, a Czech wizard who has been in south eastern Romania for several decades. His claims have to be carefully weighed, as he appears to be only about half sane, but he's on the spot and knows a lot about the region. He claims there is a wizard at the reserve who is summoning the dragons.
I can't imagine who would summon dragons or why, nor can I imagine how it could be done. But it worries me, and I find the idea of a wizard who can control dragons frankly terrifying. You might contact Charlie Weasley: he's on the reserve and a member of the Order as well as an expert on dragons. He may be able to identify the wizard, if indeed there is one.
(Scrawled furiously across the bottom in dark red ink)
Who leads this third force? Ask, or I will.
Dublin, Ireland, summer 2003
Seamus didn't like to cruise. Especially not muggle bars-they were dirtier, raunchier and sleazier than wizarding bars. More dangerous, too, since the war was over. Now that the Snatchers of one sort were less of a threat, the other sort seemed more common. But work was work, and Seamus was working, blending in as just another rough boy looking for trade. He carried his wand in a specially-made pocket sewn into the seam of his jeans and kept on battered leather fingerless gloves despite the warm weather. They had steel plates over the knuckles and in the heel of the hand.
Otherwise, he wasn't wearing much. Skin-tight jeans to show off his ass, skin-tight t-shirt to show off his abs, biker boots with leather-covered steel toe caps-they didn't look like shit-kickers until one hit you, and by then it didn't matter. He'd spelled on black eyeliner because he knew it made a good show against his long spiky-ratty blond hair and fair skin. The clubs' bouncers knew him; they nodded their greetings and kept their distance. There was wanna-be trouble here, boys who thought they were tough; and then there were the live ones in crowd, the really tough trade. And then there were blokes like Seamus, who were professionals.
Seamus exchanged greetings with the bartender, who jerked his thumb at a table in a corner near the bar. He surveyed the room under his lashes, getting a feel for the evening. It was pretty typical of the places Fergus ran. Club on the ground floor, full of adults minding their own business: gays hooking up with gays, straights with straights, other with other. People selling and buying all kinds of things-muggle and magical-no questions asked and no coming around wanting your money back. This was the emporium, where you could get whatever you wanted and maybe find a friend to share it with, down here where the music was too loud and the bright lights made for deep shadows. The knocking shop upstairs, now, was staffed by pretty young things of various sorts, and open to customers only-this wasn't a hotel up here. But if you found what you fancied in the knocking shop's parlour it would take you to a room where you paid for your pleasure, and then shuffle you down the back steps before you realized just how much money you'd spent. And then there was the basement, strictly employees only and no repeat warnings. Fergus handled all sorts of things through the basements of his clubs, working his way toward the big money that was had smuggling through the harbour. Seamus didn't ask about that. Since he wasn't an Auror any longer, asking wasn't his business. He was just Fergus' cousin, the ex-Auror and ex-war hero, now considered by all to be batty as a bagful of badgers and dangerous in with it. Nobody was quite sure what his role in the organization was, least of all him. It was better not to ask.
Tonight he was a bagman. The barman sent over an Islay malt and a pint of bitter, delivered by a stunningly lovely girl wearing a corset, suspenders, stockings and boots...mostly boots. "I'm Delphine," she said huskily as she set the drinks on his table and leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest and licking his ear before biting his neck. Hidden by the tray, she dropped the envelope into his lap and nuzzled him before backing off. He let his hand run down her back and the curve of her ass as she walked away. He preferred men, but that didn't mean he couldn't look at the goods on offer across the street.
He picked up his pint and surveyed the room, planning his evening. After dropped the bag, he would start by getting drunk, and then being fucked blind by any bloke willing to do him. He'd repeat those two until he was tired or bored, and then he'd start a fight. He'd wake up in jail or in an alley, battered and bleeding and sore-arsed, ready to for the same again next week. It was a shitty way to live, but he lived that way because he was a shitty excuse for a man. Other men had friends and families, goals they wanted to reach, work that moved them toward their goals. They fell in love, got married, had kids, hopes, dreams, ambitions-they had discovered things in life past drinking, fighting and fucking. Seamus was certain he'd known what those things were once himself, some time back before the war, but they were gone now.
He shrugged off the thought as a waste of time and downed two pints musing on where to start his hypothetical evening-Fergus hated the help playing up his clubs, and none of his bar staff would let Seamus get drunk after he'd done something that Fergus was still narked about. He tried to recall what...and bloody near choked on his third pint. Ron was at the back of the room, sliding away from a handsy dance partner. He was halfway across the floor before he realized this wasn't Ron: the man was shorter, bulkier, his red hair both longer and darker red. There was real muscle under his denims, muscle built by hard work, not by playing in the gym. Surprised by his movement, the redhead took a half-step back to include Seamus in his field of vision, glanced at him, then snapped his gaze back to the irritating dance partner, who was plenty pissed and closing fast. Red slid sideways, putting Seamus between himself and the angry dancer.
Slick little move, that, Seamus noted, and it was fine with him. "Sod off, you," he growled t the dance partner. The man had three stone on Seamus at least, but Seamus projected so much insane incipient violence that the bloke took one good look at his face and decided to go visit someone else.
The redhead definitely was not Ron Weasley. He looked a tough thirty, his eyes were more green than blue, and-the clincher-his weathered skin had no trace of freckles. He watched Seamus chase the dancer off with friendly interest, smiling his thanks. He had a great smile, open and sunny. The Auror in Seamus' head automatically catalogued that his upper left canine was missing. "I don't often get rescuers," the redhead grinned. "But I can't think of what else you might be doing, running up on me like that."
Seamus shook his head. "You didn't need rescuing. I thought you were someone else." Ah, fuck tact anyway.
But Red laughed, a warm laugh that got under Seamus' skin and warmed him too. "So, then." The man's English carried a trace of a foreign accent, probably an Englishman who had spent time abroad. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing? This bloke owe you money?" Seamus suddenly had to watch that smile, hear that laugh for a bit longer. It was just what he needed to blow his black mood away.
"Come sit with me," Seamus offered impulsively. "Let me get you another drink. I'm sure that one is potioned by now."
"Potioned?" the redhead chuckled. "Now there's a word from another world. But I never turn down a drink." He pushed his hair back with both hands (there was a wand pocket inside his sleeve, the Auror noted) and grinned again. "Lead on."
A word from another world, and a wand in his sleeve: a smooth way of telling Seamus that he was a wizard and knew Seamus was one as well. They sat down at Shay's table (the money was still there, and Shay caught a glare from the barman for leaving it) and waved over the waitress to get fresh drinks. His companion ordered four shots of vodka, raised one politely to Seamus, and tossed three down without even stopping to breathe. He sipped the forth, leaning against the wall and watching Shay lazily.
"I can't decide if you're the man I'm looking for or not," the redhead commented.
"Is that a payback for saying I thought you were someone else?" Seamus glanced at the other man through his lashes, merry and flirtatious. Red had a great smile, and he watched Seamus flirt as if he liked what he saw.
Red leaned over and put his elbow on the table, close enough for Seamus to whisper in his ear. "I think you are the man I'm looking for. We may be able to do business," he murmured. "Is there a place we can go to talk privately?"
Seamus, who had been sipping his pint and covertly eyeing the muscular body next to him, wasn't particularly interested in doing business-unless it was a euphemism for one particular kind of transaction. But, as Americans say, business is business and action is action. If he wasn't going to get the action he wanted from the redhead, he might as well do business. Red leaned back against the wall.
Seamus gave him a top to toe survey, as suited a man who had presumably just been propositioned, and smiled. "Not shy, are you?"
"Not when I like what I see." It seemed Red was having trouble separating business from action as well. The heat in his eyes could start a fire.
"Give me a minute, then." Seamus stood and walked to the bar, bag in hand. He leaned over the bar, tossed the bag to the bartender, then gestured for the redhead to follow him downstairs. Past stacks of whiskey crates and boxes of spare parts stacked against the grey-white granite of southern Ireland. Kegs of beer, some in steel, some in wood, stood along the walls step-wise, so the barrels on the top could be brought down when they were needed. It was a large room filled with shadows, bare electric bulbs creating strange etiolated shapes on the packing boxes.
Seamus was headed toward the very back of the room, a shadowy corner he'd created for his own hide away. But as they walked they came to clear spot in the crates under a barren bulb, and the redhead put his hand on Seamus' shoulder. Seamus turned around to find himself a scant six inches from his companion, looking up into blue-green eyes. They stood like that, not quite touching, Seamus shocked by the contact and his body's reaction to the green-blue stare. Red was sending mixed signals all over the place.
"Is this good enough?" Red asked.
Seamus decided to let him lead. "Sure. You want to tell me what we're doing?"
"Kinda depends, I guess," his companion replied with one of those warming smiles. "I'm looking for a bloke called Finnigan who has some connections in shipping. I've got a large cargo that needs to get to Canada. I'll be travelling with it."
"Well, you found your man-or at least one of his agents. It's my cousin Fergus who runs most of the port. I'm Seamus Finnigan. We work together, but I handle most of the wizarding transports. If your cargo is magical, I'm the man you need to see. I can move anything, but you play by my rules and pay cash up front. You got a name you go by? Is your cargo in Dublin?"
Red shrugged. "I'm Charlie. And no, the cargo isn't here, but it can be if I have 24 hours notice."
"You're going to have to let me look the cargo over. That's the first rule, and if you can't do that we can't work together. The other is that magical cargo travels by ship. Airplane crashes tend to draw muggle attention, and muggle attention can draw the Gardai's attention."
"Gardai is what you call your Aurors?" When Seamus nodded, Charlie said, "I'll accept both your rules as long as you tell no one-not even your cousin-what we're moving. I want a permanent binding oath, under my control."
Seamus quashed his instinctive refusal and considered. Most binding oaths weren't quite as binding as they should be when the subject was-or had been-a magically altered creature like an Auror. He could probably slip the binding. He'd done it before.
He gave it one more minute for verisimilitude, watching Charlie watch him. Charlie was tanned, the kind of year round tan that came from work outside in all weathers, and thick, coarse auburn hair that reached his shoulder blades. It was clean, just as he was, but uneven, as if he cut it himself. "All right, I'll take your oath. Get your cargo here and we can check it tomorrow night."
Charlie smiled, that warm smile of his. "That's fine, then. What about tonight?"
"What about it?" Seamus said. Charlie's eyes were hot, leaving little trails of prickles of heat wherever they glanced, and Seamus decided he was about to get propositioned.
"If you're free, and have the inclination, I'd like to spend some time with you."
Well now, Seamus thought, business and action. It was unprofessional as all hell, mixing business with pleasure, but Seamus wasn't hung up on professionalism. He liked Charlie's looks, and Charlie was clearly taken with him-just this side of pushy, with that wicked hot come-on stare. He checked the other man over...and saw the tattoo. Snaking out from his companion's blue chambray sleeve was a tattooed dragon's tail done in greens and shades of metallic copper-coloured ink. Charlie wore a copper Jerusalem cross on a leather thong around his neck, and just beneath that was as a fine pale ink line that vanished behind the buttons of his shirt.
Seamus didn't know if he hated Voldemort more or less than he hated the Auror's office for what their damned war had done to his mind. He only had to see a face once to remember it, only needed to glimpse a scene to find the element that was out of place. He wasn't intimidated easily and he'd be damned before he'd let you know if he was. Those things had won him a reputation for reckless, unstoppable courage in the DA. He was the DA's fire-spirit, the one who always acted out regardless of the price. It was that courage and his acting talent that had seen him doing undercover work for the English Ministry. His disgust at the criminal, corrupt organization he risked his life for had shown him out of the Ministry, working for his cousin at twenty-three. At least the criminals in Fergus' organization were honest about what they were.
His Auror training wouldn't leave him: he still couldn't see a tattoo without running it through his mental file of distinguishing marks. He didn't know this particular tattoo, but he recognized the artist straight away. He was a Brummie called Skink with fists like hams and the skill and patience to do multiple-colour single needle shading in a tattoo. Skink's work was hard to get, mostly because Skink was a seriously dangerous lunatic. He listed football hooligan as his profession on his tax forms and seemed to view prison as his second home, beating the shit out of random strangers when he wanted to be arrested. He lived in a studio in the basement of an old factory, spelling metals into terrifyingly beautiful sculpture. Though he had no discernable source of income, Skink didn't practice his art for money. He never sold his sculpture and he tattooed only people he liked.
Skink and Charlie Weasley were mates at Hogwarts until Skink was expelled in fourth year. Skink learned his trade while Charlie finished school and they hung about together afterward until Charlie left for Romania. They got together often after that, whenever Charlie was in England. Rumour held that Charlie's skin was Skink's master canvas, done over years of exquisite patience and pain. If this Charlie was the same man-and the tattoo made Seamus nearly certain that he was-Shay wanted to get his clothes off. For more than the usual reasons. But he'd see to the safety of his own skin first.
He stepped back, putting the necessary space between them. "Charlie Weasley, right?"
"Yeah." It was a tired sigh of an admission.
Seamus shook his head in startled admiration. "You're either brave or crazy to come here with a bounty on your head. Nobody's that fond of the English Ministry around here, but their money spends just fine."
"No," Charlie laughed wearily. "I'm not especially brave or crazy." He sighed and tilted his chin up to look at the ceiling, as if there were an answer there. "Or maybe I am. Does it matter?" He took a couple of steps forward, eyes back on Seamus, just a little uncertain. "I'm sick of being alone, and there's something about you that goes right through me. I just want to play for a while. With you, for preference. But the choice is yours."
Seamus looked him over. He liked the muscular body he saw, and the trails of tattoos vanishing beneath his clothes begged to be followed. He caught himself watching Charlie licking his lips nervously. His common sense and training shouted that spending time around Charlie Weasley would be stupid, since he was a war criminal with a hefty price on him and his life expectancy was likely measured in hours.
But when he looked into Charlie's eyes and saw the fever of want, daring and exhilaration the heat in them burned all his second thoughts away. He kept his eyes on Charlie's, aroused by the shared stare, feeling his own breathing shortening and loving the growing excitement as he watched the other man kneel in front of him. Seamus looked at the staircase and said a brief prayer that none of the kegs would need changing... Seamus could feel the heat of Charlie's body, smell his skin under the aromas of cigarette smoke and beer. He ached to be touched, but Charlie's eyes held his and Charlie's hands barely grazed him until his fingers began opening the fly of Shay's denims.
Seamus had left off his pants (short on laundry) and he was sure he could feel the teeth of the zipper making imprints in his swelling prick. He forgot to be nervous about discovery when Charlie licked him slowly, tonguing back the foreskin and stroking the head before finally pulling Shay's whole member in, using his tongue to work the head against the back of his throat. He played with Seamus, massaging his cock and balls, humming, squeezing, licking and tugging, slowly pulling him nearer and nearer to release until Seamus was hanging on by his fingernails, refusing orgasm so the pleasure he felt right now wouldn't end. Then Charlie sucked him in, sweet hot suction, his throat tightening around Seamus' length. The soundless humming vibration became more than Shay could bear. Seamus thrust hard into the hot mouth and came, knees giving way, hips jerking, held upright by Charlie's strong hands.
The same hands tucked him gently back into his jeans and did up the zip, then pulled Shay to the floor in a warm embrace. Seamus' legs didn't want to support him so he simply collapsed, half in and half out of his companion's lap, dizzy in the afterglow, catching his breath. The redhead was watching Seamus with a trace of a smile, pleased with himself. Seamus couldn't help laughing at his expression.
"You smug bastard," Seamus said.
"Oh, tell me you'd throw me out of bed." The smile became a smirk.
"No, I can't tell you that. Here, come over here." Seamus led them to a shelter among the boxes that concealed a door. "Least they can't see us from the stair here."
"Can't say I was paying attention," Charlie replied, leaning against the closed door to slide to the floor, then tugging Seamus to sit beside him.
"I'm supposed to be carrying takings for Fergus tonight," Seamus protested half-heartedly.
Charlie fished in a shirt pocket and came up with a cigarette, lit it without his wand, and watched the smoke drift silently. "Fuck that," he said quietly, leaning over to kiss Seamus. "Let's run away together." They both forgot about the cigarette and half lay on the cool stone of the floor, kissing with slow intent. They might have been in their own world, except when there was a scraping noise on the stairs they both grew tense; separating quietly so each was sitting up and had his hands free. Seamus had his wand in his hand. Charlie's left hand was clenched around something that lay beneath his left forearm.
"Where the hell did Seamus go?" the barman demanded.
"Not my day to keep track, now is it? He's fucked off on his own somewhere," grunted a second voice. "You want to help here or what?"
"Fucked off with that bloke he picked up," the barman muttered. "Mother Mary, what the hell is in here? It's full of fucking rocks!"
"Shut it," advised the second man. "If it says it's whiskey, it's whiskey. Why do you put up that bleeding fairy?"
"Boss' cousin, innit he?" The voices faded up the stairs and the door slammed. Charlie cracked up laughing and Seamus smacked the back of his head.
"Shut it, you," he told Charlie.
"Nepotism is all in the family," Charlie said sombrely, then burst into laughter again.
"You're cracked, you know it?" Seamus whacked him again, this time on the shoulder. "And shut up."
"I'm just cracked enough to let in the light," Charlie replied, giggling, then muttered, "I sound just fucking like Vaclav," and started to laugh again. This time Seamus heard the hysterical edge, the sound of laughter contaminated by intolerable strain, and instead of trying to shut him up he wrapped an arm around Charlie to pull the redhead's face against his own shoulder to muffle the sound and let him wear himself out.
"You all right now?" Seamus asked.
Charlie wiped his eyes and smothered a chuckle. "I think I'm in love."
"And isn't that nice for you?" Seamus replied, even managing to get his Mam's tone of disinterested sarcasm in to the line. He pulled himself up and held out a hand to Charlie.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Charlie asked, looking up from where he sat. The light from the bare bulb left striped shadows on his face that made his expression hard to read. "Ah well, it's probably clever of you. Bill says I fall in love irresponsibly anyway. If this place is so high traffic, do you have somewhere we can go?"
Seamus took the extended hand and walked out into the main storage room. "Depends. To talk, to fuck, or to hide?"
"Two out of three," Charlie said. "Maybe all of them, if you still like me."
Seamus stopped and faced Charlie from about ten feet away. He remembered the effect Charlie's stare had had on him, so he tried the same trick, imagining the body under the chambray work shirt and battered denims. Charlie's puzzlement quickly changed to flushed skin and short, panting breaths before Charlie turned his head away and closed his eyes. "Seamus," he said unsteadily, "if you keep looking at me like that I'm going to bend you over one of these boxes right now."
"Sorry," returned Seamus, not at all sorry and not bothering to pretend he was. "I just wanted you to know I still like you."
Charlie gave him a predatory smile. "Come over here and say that."
Seamus took a step closer, intending to move in and then back off, but Charlie was a lot faster than Seamus expected. He caught Seamus' arm, turned them both and pushed, pinning Shay to the wall with his body. The Auror in Shay's head noted Charlie's speed and guessed that he'd had hand to hand combat training somewhere, but Seamus wasn't paying attention. It seemed Charlie wanted revenge for Seamus' teasing stare and was letting his hands wander across Shay's chest, stroking his nipples though the thin shirt and then pinching them between his fingernails. Seamus gasped, then groaned softly as Charlie rolled one nipple between his fingers. Charlie looked at him quizzically.
"I thought we were supposed to be quiet," he whispered, before pressing his lips to Seamus' and going back to his play, hands and lips roaming everywhere Seamus would allow. Seamus wasn't inclined to resist much: he was almost ready to go again. He muffled the sounds he couldn't stop against Charlie's shoulder and just enjoyed the touch of a partner who didn't want him to do anything but enjoy.
When Charlie started undoing Shay's jeans again, Seamus finally pulled away. Sensing that he was serious, Charlie stepped back, flatteringly reluctant.
"I'm supposed to be on the clock," Seamus said firmly. "I've got a drop to make." He paused, murmured Tempus and scowled at the result. "And I'm late. Will you wait here? Two minutes, tops, while I grab the take, ten to drop it off and then I'm yours for the evening."
"Oh, all right." Charlie pretended to be cross. "I'll go with you. Maybe I'll even get another chance at getting you out of your clothes."
"That might take a while. I want a good look at you," Seamus leered. He kissed Charlie quickly and hustled for the stairs.
The passage was unlit and much older than the building above it, and it was still dry despite the constantly shifting course of the river. Above ground the evening was cooling quickly and the pub crawls of the university students were still taking place mostly on two feet. They walked a while, not talking, until Seamus paused beside a clearly expensive block of flats. "This is my stop."
Charlie looked up the street. "I'll meet you at the newsie, then." He pointed with his chin to a newsagents' shop half a block away. Seamus nodded and took himself off, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling he had, wondering why he suddenly didn't want to let Charlie out of his sight and not liking the answer any more than he liked the question. He hoped Charlie really would wait for him.
"Ya late, Seamus." The bodyguard was a former Irish Auror the size of a bull. Len was a good man, but he had an eye for weakness and a willingness to exploit it that made him dangerous in a fight. He and Seamus had gone a few rounds when Seamus first signed on and Len had reluctantly agreed that Shay might not be worthless after all, even if he had been trained in England. Seamus had never mentioned he hadn't pulled some of his nastier tricks. "Ye ain't supposed pattin' fannies on company time."
Seamus had no idea if Len didn't know he was gay or simply didn't care-Len treated him as he treated all Fergus' help. "Fuck off, Len."
"And a good night to you too, princess."
Into Fergus' living room, the place expensively furnished, immaculate, and with a new blonde replacing the brunette on the sofa. She gave Seamus a cat's glance, unreadable, and then dismissed him from her notice. Fergus better be careful with this one, Seamus thought. "You're late," Fergus said.
"I thought about buggering off to Majorca but the takings are too small."
"Yah, Ted told Tommy you'd buggered off with some redheaded bloke."
Seamus shot a glance at the blonde. "We all have our weaknesses," he remarked. "This bloke's a client if his cargo passes the look-see."
"Good stuff?" The blonde must be a muggle, or Fergus would have been more direct. At Seamus' nod, Fergus said, "Charge high. Lots of Gardai around the port these days."
"Trying ta find their asses, I'm sure."
Fergus snorted. "Well. Bugger off out of here. Some of us got social lives."
"Right," Seamus leered. "Cheers."
"Cheers, mate."
Seamus grabbed his leather coat out of the closet as he left, making sure his wand and knife were still securely in place, carefully not considering why he might need them.