(no subject)
Title: A Good Idea at the Time
Pairing: Fraser/Percy Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Renfield Turnbull (yes, you did read that right)
Author: Llassah
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 173. Fraser/Percy Weasley (Harry Potter) -theirloveissobythebook
Word count: 4000
Author Notes:
'It seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, every single idea that seems ‘good’ at the time is only good because I’m a) delusional, b) drunk, or c) both. In the morning, when I taste ashes and yesterday’s whiskey in my mouth, and my eyes feel like I’ve just had a facefull of sand, the idea I had is a complete pile of shit. And then, I vow never to drink again, and to get myself banned from the tattoo parlour, or, hell, to have ‘do not tattoo, even if I offer lots of money’ tattooed somewhere about my person, and the resolution lasts for, ooh, about a week?'
Draco Malfoy has a fantastically bad idea that, well, with the help of our favourite Mounties, turns out to be rather good.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, every single idea that seems ‘good’ at the time is only good because I’m a) delusional, b) drunk, or c) both. In the morning, when I taste ashes and yesterday’s whiskey in my mouth, and my eyes feel like I’ve just had a facefull of sand, the idea I had is a complete pile of shit. And then, I vow never to drink again, and to get myself banned from the tattoo parlour, or, hell, to have ‘do not tattoo, even if I offer lots of money’ tattooed somewhere about my person, and the resolution lasts for, ooh, about a week?
This idea seemed to be sheer genius halfway through the bottle. “I know,” I announced to my empty living room, “I’ll move to America, start a new life. Get some fucking sunshine, for a change.” And so with that decision made I performed a sloppy warding spell on my flat, left a scrawled note, put a toothbrush in my jeans pocket, and apparated to America, land of the free and muffins that are really cupcakes, whatever the yanks say.
Well, I got to the Land of the Free, and now I’m enjoying the sunshine, the freshly squeezed orange juice, the girls with the shiny teeth and big-
No, fuck it. I’m not. I’m not going to be writing any shit-eating wish you were here postcards, because do you know where I ended up, having apparated across the Atlantic? In a cupboard. Yes, it seemed like a fan-fucking-tastic idea at the time, but the crick in my neck and the blankets scraping against my stubble tell me that it really wasn’t. And in situation like these, there is only one thing to do: pass out.
Gnarf. Shnargle. Gramf-
Oww fuck, why did I have to be leaning against the bloody door when it opened? Now my toothbrush is digging into my stomach, and I’m kissing a blanket that smells about as musty as Grandma Black used to when I was a kid.
“You fell out of my closet.”
I try to say something sarcastic, but it’s eaten up by wool, so I settle for grunting, until someone surprisingly strong turns me over and manoeuvres me so I’m leant against the wall. Brown boots. Puffy trousers. The things these Muggles think up-
Oh shit, a Muggle. Well, obliviation is the answer to most problems, but I don’t think I’m sober enough to focus yet, so I content myself with glaring at his knees.
“Who are you?”
Well, I’m going to wipe his memory anyway, so what the hell.
“My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am a wizard who got really ratarsed and thought that apparating to America was the answer to all his problems. See, I was really bored in Britain, and ok, so I have enough money to last me a good few lifetimes, but I am unemployable, because I used to be a Death Eater- Death Eaters are a group of murdering elitist wizards, who wanted to destroy non magical people and create a new race of pure blooded people, and my father-
Fuck it, I wanted to join, because I hated Muggles, and whether or not it was because I was taught to, I did, and I was a complete shit for the first seventeen years of my life. I wasn’t really cut out for being pure evil- I’m too much of a coward to take a life, and black is a really unflattering colour for me, so I switched sides, and the side I switched to won, and I’ve spent the past two years drunk and trying to forget about the whole business. Oh, and when I’m drunk, I cry to Celine Dion songs, I really don’t know what all the fuss with Charles Dickens is about, I wet the bed up until I was ten, and my penis bends slightly to the left, about two thirds of the way up.”
I stop, pause for breath, and try and raise my head to see his face. I get to about chest level, before the pain kicks in.
“So your father would be Lucius Malfoy?”
Bugger.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“My name is Benton Fraser, and I am a liason officer between the Magical and Muggle worlds. One of my duties is to acquaint myself with the events of both worlds, in my capacity as-”
“A mountie. And here was me thinking the trousers were a fashion statement.”
I let my head loll back down.
“So I’ve just poured out my life story to someone who is going to remember every single sodding word of it?”
“Your grasp of the situation is admirable, considering your fragile state. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Tea? Bloody Canadians. You’d think they were British, with their fucking tea.
“Yes, please. But I don’t think I can stand up.”
He picks me up under my shoulders and holds me there until I’m steady enough to stay upright. “If you would step this way, then,” he says, gesturing to the open door.
As I make slow progress down the corridor, he walks next to me, in thoughtful silence. Just as we are about to go into the kitchen, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Very few men have a completely straight penis, Mr. Malfoy. A tilt is completely natural, nothing to worry about.”
Oh good. That’s one thing to cross off the list of worrying problems.
Tea, aspirin and toast. Just what the doctor ordered. I look at the man sat across from me. Damn but he’s beautiful, but not in a feminine way. Reminds me a bit of Potter, weirdly. They both have this calmness and charisma that means everyone loves them and wants to be near them, but they’re completely unaware of it. Potter is anyway, with his messy hair, bright eyes, long, narrow hands, and lanky frame that makes him look as if his limbs are attached with strings, despite all the arsekissing that most people seem to do with him.
He catches me looking, but doesn’t seem all that perturbed by it. Instead, he starts talking, in a sincere, deep voice, like he’s telling a story.
“We received regular reports of the situation in Britain. Your name was mentioned on a number of occasions. If you wish to talk about-”
“No. Thank you. I’ve embarrassed myself enough today.”
“But your heroism-”
I sit on my hands, to stop myself hexing him. “No.”
I owe him no other explanation. How much does he actually know, anyway? I find myself attempting Legilimency on him, but am met with an expanse of snow. I blink, wrap both of my hands around my cup of tea to warm them, and try once more. Snow again, the sky a beautiful shade of blue, a dreamcatcher spinning-
“Are you all right?”
His face is close, concerned. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”
He sits back down, and I am about to try again, when I have a sudden suspicion.
“Either you’re obsessed with the Antarctic, or you’ve had occlumency lessons.”
He smiles slightly, bashfully. “Lessons. Being privy to a good deal of sensitive information, it was necessary to learn it.”
“You’re good,” I say, still feeling cold.
“I had an…exacting teacher. He was necessarily harsh with me.”
Necessarily harsh. Sounds familiar.
“Snape?” I ask, smiling at the minute wince he gives at his mention. Snape. Last I heard, the bastard had bought himself an island off the northern tip of Scotland, and was making an absolute mint selling impotency potions. Not to cure, mind you, but to cause. Apparently, there’s quite a market for it among spurned women. He’s also writing his memoirs, which he informed me in one of his rare owls would be completely truthful, very unflattering, and probably banned within hours of its publication. I wish him well.
Still, Snape’s a damn good teacher, so I won’t be able to find out anything about him, and I hate people having an advantage over me.
“Tell me something about yourself. Something nobody else knows.”
“I assure you, I will keep the confidences you shared-”
“Please?”
I try the Malfoy Appealing Look for all I’m worth, and after a few seconds, he relents.
“I miss snow. I am homesick constantly. I had piano lessons from the age of three, and when I was eleven, someone from the Royal Conservatory of Music of Toronto came to Inuvik to hear me play. And when he did, I played the audition piece badly deliberately, because I didn’t want to do anything other than become a member of the RCMP, and follow in my father’s footsteps. And now, sometimes, I wonder if my life would have been any less lonely if I had taken that path.”
His eyes are distant and lost, and I pity him for it- no, I empathise with him.
“Might-have-beens suck,” I say softly, taking one of his hands in both of mine. He gives a choked, breathy sort of laugh. Sometimes, they’re a crutch, too, a way of avoiding looking at the future. I must have lived out my life a thousand times, in a thousand ways since my arrest after that last, bloody battle. “I mean, I’m hardly the poster boy for clean living in the present-”
“Clearly,” he says, sarcastically. Snippy as Snape, but we’ve only just met; there is none of the contempt of familiarity here.
“Are you like this with everyone?” I ask, amused more than angry. He shifts in his chair.
“No. I am not usually so impolite to people. You seem to…bypass my natural reserve. I apologise if I am too forward with you, but-”
“It’s honest. And I am not often polite. Politeness and kindness are two separate things, and I’ll take kindness before etiquette, if it’s all the same to you.”
He nods, eyes thoughtful. “I had never really considered it that way.”
Well, of course you didn’t. You are polite, and kind, and each one comes as naturally as breathing to you. And you probably have a hero complex and an inability to trust too, just like Potter. You poor sod.
I look up. He’s watching me, and has been for a while. “I am obliged to inform someone of your arrival here, so that the necessary paperwork can be completed for your return. Is there anyone you wish me to ask?”
Obliged. Ok, yes, he’s obliged to. In the cold light of day, hotfooting it up to-
“What city is this?”
“Chicago.”
- Chicago isn’t as simple as I would like. Who to contact? Someone in the Ministry, probably. God, I hate those tossers.
“One of the Weasleys, please. One of them should still be working in the Ministry of Magic, in London.”
They’re more likely to be sympathetic. I mean, I did get Bill out of Azkaban for them, and I can’t really think of anyone else who even likes me at the Ministry. Well, I have no respect for them, so it’s only fair I suppose. He leaves the room to use the telephone, and I use a few cleaning charms to make myself feel human.
I hate it when things are out of my hands. Waiting for the verdict, after the trial, I bit my nails until they bled, paced up and down until Snape threatened to break both my legs and tie me into a human pretzel, and got so bored I tried to proposition him again. For the third time. He refused, of course- bastard has a duty stick shoved sideways up his arse- but I was expecting it. The refusal speech lasted about ten minutes, which was ten minutes spent not worrying. This time, I pace up and down until the door opens again and Fraser comes in, with one of the Weasleys in tow.
Which one? Not as heavy covering of freckles as Charlie, not as…offensively ginger as Ron, not as cool as Bill, so must be-
“Percy Weasley,” I say neutrally. Oh dear. I had to get the one who followed the bloody rules.
“Draco Malfoy.” He says with an expression of resignation on his face. He just can’t reconcile himself with his attraction to me. “We haven’t heard from you in months.”
“Oh, I’ve been around,” I say airily. “I sent the Order an Owl occasionally, letting you know what I was doing.”
“You sent along pieces of parchment with stick figures drawn on them.”
“They were symbolic.”
They were rather cool, if I say so myself. There was one for eating, one for sleeping, one for drinking, and one for getting laid. All very detailed.
“They were obscene!”
Bloody prude. “They were adventurous, Mister Missionary twice a week with the lights out!”
Ooh, he’s blushing. And I got the Weasley frown, which makes him look constipated. Gods I love rattling his cage. I really can’t help it, we’re natural enemies. Law of the jungle.
“I think this discussion might be better conducted in a more private place,” Fraser interrupts smoothly. Weasley nods, once, and follows Fraser out of the room. I bite my lip to keep myself from saying anything else. I like Fraser, strangely, and don’t really want the glamour to rub off me yet. Glamour. Ha. I fell out of his cupboard drunk.
His office is tiny. I take the seat nearest to the door, and prepare myself for boredom. Merlin, both of them are so completely anal over forms! Block capitals in black ink, in triplicate. I bet they have wet dreams over memo pads, they’re so absolfuckinglutely by the book. I stare up at the ceiling, answering questions when they ask me, and let the whole mess float over my head. When it comes to the ‘reason for visit’ section, though, I can’t think straight.
“A holiday, a sabbatical or permanent residence?” Weasley asks me, tone carefully patient. I pick one at random.
“Sabbatical. Yeah, I want to stay here for a year.”
His eyebrows fly up, and I feel the overwhelming urge to make him eat dirt.
“Listen, you smug bastard, I. Want. To. Stay. For. A. Year. In. America. Chances are, I won’t have little old witches spitting at me in the street here, or have to endure jokes about megalomania being hereditary. Half the American wizards don’t have a fucking clue of what happened in Britain, and that isn’t going to change any time soon, so I’d like to be employable, and to be able to go somewhere in the magical world without mothers shielding their brats from me. I fucking hate Britain! I absolutely hate it!”
Well, there goes the old aristocratic reserve. Malfoys never cry, eh, father? It’s funny, I hadn’t realised how bad I was finding things in Britain until now. I suppose I just existed from day to day, ignoring the isolated incidents of prejudice I had encountered, but I’m crying for real now, face buried in hands, while the Weasel sits, frozen, and Fraser puts a hand on the back of my neck, rubs with his thumb and doesn’t even try to say anything comforting.
“A sabbatical, then, Draco?”
“Yes please,” I say through a noseful of snot. Fraser hands me this great big handkerchief.
“Blow,” he instructs, and I do, without any insinuating comments.
The forms are completed and Weasley taps them with his wand, sending them to the appropriate offices. They exchange a smile across the desk, and wow, whether Weasley’s a complete prude or not, he really has that ‘I’m really shy but you’ll never know if you don’t try it’ look down pat. Fraser for his part flushes slightly, and his hand goes halfway up to his eyebrow, before he busies himself with shuffling papers. I don’t laugh. I want to, but I don’t. I just sit here, watching the Weasel remember that yes, he actually does have a sex drive. I suppose Granger would find it terribly cute, now that she’s getting all hormonal; the last letter I received from her was written on pale pink paper, announcing her pregnancy. I sent her a condolence card. She sent a howler back. These human interactions, they’re all about give and take. Heh heh heh…
They’re both looking at me. The Weasel looks terrified. I touch my face, feeling for boils, but there’s nothing too out of the ordinary, just stubble. “Have I turned green?” I ask, annoyed.
Weasley gulps. “You were…smiling. You’ve been looking extraordinarily malevolent for the past five minutes. It’s rather unnerving. What were you thinking about?”
I contemplate saying ‘babies’, which brings the smile back in full force. “Oh, nothing in particular. Normal things, like trees and grass and leaves. You know how it is.”
Fraser nods with complete understanding. Weasley opens his mouth to speak a few times, but gives up.
“Well, don’t mind me, just go on with your conversation,” I prompt as the seconds of silence bleed into minutes. They shake themselves, as if coming round, and continue.
“So the Inuit have a far more practical approach to keeping magic secret. As the environment is so hostile, they pool every resource that they have, including magic-”
Oh Merlin. Weasley’s hooked, leaning forward, eyes intent, and he has his Thinking Face on, the one he used to pull during strategy meetings, or when he was discussing magical theory with Granger. He must miss having someone to theorise with; a mind like his leaves most wizards eating his intellectual dust, and although I can keep up with him, I, well, I’m not as disciplined as he is. Fraser, though, well, they’ll stay talking for weeks. I slip out of the room. Neither notices me leave.
I wander into the kitchen and play with the toaster for a bit. Half an hour later, and the toaster’s sort of spitting sparks, and the knife I stuck in didn’t seem to make too much difference to its health, and I’m very very bored. I’m tempted to go upstairs, but the six foot four in his socks Mountie sitting at his desk doesn’t look like someone I want to tangle with, so I just go into the room next to Fraser’s office, and eavesdrop. They might, after all, be talking about me, and I-
Oh. Oh. Now, far as I know, magical theory does not involve moaning. Well, there’s no one here to tell me off, and I could use some laughs, so I do a quick one way window spell on the whole of the adjoining wall, see if I can catch them, oh, I don’t know, reading the Encyclopaedia of Gay Sex, or a pop-up porn book, or-
Sitting on the desk, giving me a lovely profile view of the Weasel in all his naked glory, propped up on his elbows, all long lean lines and pale milky skin, reddish hair swept back from high forehead, head thrown back exposing a slim throat, one leg propped up on a chair, the other hanging down, and when did he get so shameless? When did he learn to show the livid scars that twist and cord across his hip? (thank you, Aunt Bella) When did he start making such gasping, needy sounds at every touch Fraser gives him?
Every touch. Oh, but he’s cruel. So patient, so gentle, so damn meticulous, and focussed everywhere except Weasley’s cock, which rides high up against his stomach, and Percy isn’t touching himself, just making these mewling pleading noises that go straight to my cock. I unbutton my jeans- I don’t get laid anywhere near as frequently as I would like, and so I’ll get my kicks where I can. Thing is, any wizard who would shag Death Eater spawn also wants me dead, and muggles, well, I have little common ground, and sustaining a glamour over the lash marks and scars (thanks again, Bella) is pretty hard when I’m…occupied elsewhere.
Feet? Why the hell is he paying attention to Percy’s feet? I mean, he could be like Ulric, and-
Well, the less said about that the better, but this is cruel and unnatural torture.
“Do you want me?” he asks, and the husky, sex-muzzed rasp in that voice of his, and my cock gives a little twitch and I close my eyes and just breathe for a moment, pulse thumping in my ears.
“Fuck yes,” Percy breathes, and he swears so prettily, with a mouth so unused to shaping the word, that it makes it twice as sexy, and strangely endearing.
Fraser smiles, slow and sure, uncaps the lubricant, drizzles a little on his fingers, and I had always thought that the Muggle methods of preparation were laborious and a waste of time- trousers, spell, cock- far more efficient, but here, they look…
Loving. Affectionate, an indulgence more than a mechanical function. By the book, yes, but some books are worth reading. One finger in, carefully, and Percy puts his head up to look straight into Fraser’s eyes, and the intensity of contact in that look makes my breath catch, and Fraser’s hand seems a far safer place to focus on. Two fingers, and Percy’s open now, taking with sweet generosity. I feel almost guilty at watching this, but I’ll take my pleasure where I can, and as he draws his fingers out, puts on a condom and enters with a slow sure steady slide, my hand begins to move on my cock in time with his rhythm, watching the beautiful picture they make, all quivering muscles, Fraser’s thighs quivering at the effort of holding back, nuzzling blindly at the hollow where throat meets shoulder, a tangle of limbs and sighs and moans, close to coming and-
“Excuse me, this room is not open to-”
Talk about biscuit tins. I undo the spell quickly, spin around, trying to look innocent, wondering how long he’s been standing here, and pretty much kicking myself for forgetting about the other Mountie, and how much did he see?
Flushed cheeks, accelerated breathing, eyes focussed anywhere but me and my currently undone jeans, and I think an obliviate spell’s in order.
I meet his eyes, prepare to pick out the memories that need removing, to get at least the shape of his thoughts, so-
Well, well, well, officer. What have we here? Interesting. Very interesting.
I smile, slowly, lean back against the wall, hook my thumbs in my waistband so my fingers are centimetres from my denim-framed cock, and meet his eyes, all insolence. Well, it nearly worked on Snape…
“Am I trespassing, constable?”
Oh, and the images in his mind just keep getting better- me on my knees, sucking him off, spreadeagled on a bed, tied with leather belts and silk scarves, in water, palms splayed against a wall-
Not a snowfield in sight.
“Yes, you are,” he says firmly, dragging his mind back from happy fantasies. See, I’m a wizard. Wish fulfilment I can do.
“And that would be…a disciplinary issue?”
He locks the door faster than you can say ‘be careful with the handcuffs’.
Now he takes the red tunic off, and he’s only wearing a thin longsleeved vest thing underneath; he might as well be topless. Whipcord muscles on his forearms, broad shoulders, he looks strong and sure, as if he could pick me up if he needed to, as if he could wrap his legs around me and keep me anchored, safe. As if he could let me nestle under his chin and stroke my hair. I think I just got verry lucky indeed. He sees me looking, and gives me this wolfish grin, all lust and danger. I can’t help it. I whimper, actually whimper, and his smile grows, then disappears, leaving his face blank, stern.
“Face the wall, put your hands above you head,” he commands softly. I obey swiftly, biting my lip at the approving chuckle I get for this obedience.
A good idea at the time? Fuck that, it was a fantastic idea.
Pairing: Fraser/Percy Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Renfield Turnbull (yes, you did read that right)
Author: Llassah
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: 173. Fraser/Percy Weasley (Harry Potter) -theirloveissobythebook
Word count: 4000
Author Notes:
'It seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, every single idea that seems ‘good’ at the time is only good because I’m a) delusional, b) drunk, or c) both. In the morning, when I taste ashes and yesterday’s whiskey in my mouth, and my eyes feel like I’ve just had a facefull of sand, the idea I had is a complete pile of shit. And then, I vow never to drink again, and to get myself banned from the tattoo parlour, or, hell, to have ‘do not tattoo, even if I offer lots of money’ tattooed somewhere about my person, and the resolution lasts for, ooh, about a week?'
Draco Malfoy has a fantastically bad idea that, well, with the help of our favourite Mounties, turns out to be rather good.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, every single idea that seems ‘good’ at the time is only good because I’m a) delusional, b) drunk, or c) both. In the morning, when I taste ashes and yesterday’s whiskey in my mouth, and my eyes feel like I’ve just had a facefull of sand, the idea I had is a complete pile of shit. And then, I vow never to drink again, and to get myself banned from the tattoo parlour, or, hell, to have ‘do not tattoo, even if I offer lots of money’ tattooed somewhere about my person, and the resolution lasts for, ooh, about a week?
This idea seemed to be sheer genius halfway through the bottle. “I know,” I announced to my empty living room, “I’ll move to America, start a new life. Get some fucking sunshine, for a change.” And so with that decision made I performed a sloppy warding spell on my flat, left a scrawled note, put a toothbrush in my jeans pocket, and apparated to America, land of the free and muffins that are really cupcakes, whatever the yanks say.
Well, I got to the Land of the Free, and now I’m enjoying the sunshine, the freshly squeezed orange juice, the girls with the shiny teeth and big-
No, fuck it. I’m not. I’m not going to be writing any shit-eating wish you were here postcards, because do you know where I ended up, having apparated across the Atlantic? In a cupboard. Yes, it seemed like a fan-fucking-tastic idea at the time, but the crick in my neck and the blankets scraping against my stubble tell me that it really wasn’t. And in situation like these, there is only one thing to do: pass out.
Gnarf. Shnargle. Gramf-
Oww fuck, why did I have to be leaning against the bloody door when it opened? Now my toothbrush is digging into my stomach, and I’m kissing a blanket that smells about as musty as Grandma Black used to when I was a kid.
“You fell out of my closet.”
I try to say something sarcastic, but it’s eaten up by wool, so I settle for grunting, until someone surprisingly strong turns me over and manoeuvres me so I’m leant against the wall. Brown boots. Puffy trousers. The things these Muggles think up-
Oh shit, a Muggle. Well, obliviation is the answer to most problems, but I don’t think I’m sober enough to focus yet, so I content myself with glaring at his knees.
“Who are you?”
Well, I’m going to wipe his memory anyway, so what the hell.
“My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am a wizard who got really ratarsed and thought that apparating to America was the answer to all his problems. See, I was really bored in Britain, and ok, so I have enough money to last me a good few lifetimes, but I am unemployable, because I used to be a Death Eater- Death Eaters are a group of murdering elitist wizards, who wanted to destroy non magical people and create a new race of pure blooded people, and my father-
Fuck it, I wanted to join, because I hated Muggles, and whether or not it was because I was taught to, I did, and I was a complete shit for the first seventeen years of my life. I wasn’t really cut out for being pure evil- I’m too much of a coward to take a life, and black is a really unflattering colour for me, so I switched sides, and the side I switched to won, and I’ve spent the past two years drunk and trying to forget about the whole business. Oh, and when I’m drunk, I cry to Celine Dion songs, I really don’t know what all the fuss with Charles Dickens is about, I wet the bed up until I was ten, and my penis bends slightly to the left, about two thirds of the way up.”
I stop, pause for breath, and try and raise my head to see his face. I get to about chest level, before the pain kicks in.
“So your father would be Lucius Malfoy?”
Bugger.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“My name is Benton Fraser, and I am a liason officer between the Magical and Muggle worlds. One of my duties is to acquaint myself with the events of both worlds, in my capacity as-”
“A mountie. And here was me thinking the trousers were a fashion statement.”
I let my head loll back down.
“So I’ve just poured out my life story to someone who is going to remember every single sodding word of it?”
“Your grasp of the situation is admirable, considering your fragile state. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Tea? Bloody Canadians. You’d think they were British, with their fucking tea.
“Yes, please. But I don’t think I can stand up.”
He picks me up under my shoulders and holds me there until I’m steady enough to stay upright. “If you would step this way, then,” he says, gesturing to the open door.
As I make slow progress down the corridor, he walks next to me, in thoughtful silence. Just as we are about to go into the kitchen, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Very few men have a completely straight penis, Mr. Malfoy. A tilt is completely natural, nothing to worry about.”
Oh good. That’s one thing to cross off the list of worrying problems.
Tea, aspirin and toast. Just what the doctor ordered. I look at the man sat across from me. Damn but he’s beautiful, but not in a feminine way. Reminds me a bit of Potter, weirdly. They both have this calmness and charisma that means everyone loves them and wants to be near them, but they’re completely unaware of it. Potter is anyway, with his messy hair, bright eyes, long, narrow hands, and lanky frame that makes him look as if his limbs are attached with strings, despite all the arsekissing that most people seem to do with him.
He catches me looking, but doesn’t seem all that perturbed by it. Instead, he starts talking, in a sincere, deep voice, like he’s telling a story.
“We received regular reports of the situation in Britain. Your name was mentioned on a number of occasions. If you wish to talk about-”
“No. Thank you. I’ve embarrassed myself enough today.”
“But your heroism-”
I sit on my hands, to stop myself hexing him. “No.”
I owe him no other explanation. How much does he actually know, anyway? I find myself attempting Legilimency on him, but am met with an expanse of snow. I blink, wrap both of my hands around my cup of tea to warm them, and try once more. Snow again, the sky a beautiful shade of blue, a dreamcatcher spinning-
“Are you all right?”
His face is close, concerned. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”
He sits back down, and I am about to try again, when I have a sudden suspicion.
“Either you’re obsessed with the Antarctic, or you’ve had occlumency lessons.”
He smiles slightly, bashfully. “Lessons. Being privy to a good deal of sensitive information, it was necessary to learn it.”
“You’re good,” I say, still feeling cold.
“I had an…exacting teacher. He was necessarily harsh with me.”
Necessarily harsh. Sounds familiar.
“Snape?” I ask, smiling at the minute wince he gives at his mention. Snape. Last I heard, the bastard had bought himself an island off the northern tip of Scotland, and was making an absolute mint selling impotency potions. Not to cure, mind you, but to cause. Apparently, there’s quite a market for it among spurned women. He’s also writing his memoirs, which he informed me in one of his rare owls would be completely truthful, very unflattering, and probably banned within hours of its publication. I wish him well.
Still, Snape’s a damn good teacher, so I won’t be able to find out anything about him, and I hate people having an advantage over me.
“Tell me something about yourself. Something nobody else knows.”
“I assure you, I will keep the confidences you shared-”
“Please?”
I try the Malfoy Appealing Look for all I’m worth, and after a few seconds, he relents.
“I miss snow. I am homesick constantly. I had piano lessons from the age of three, and when I was eleven, someone from the Royal Conservatory of Music of Toronto came to Inuvik to hear me play. And when he did, I played the audition piece badly deliberately, because I didn’t want to do anything other than become a member of the RCMP, and follow in my father’s footsteps. And now, sometimes, I wonder if my life would have been any less lonely if I had taken that path.”
His eyes are distant and lost, and I pity him for it- no, I empathise with him.
“Might-have-beens suck,” I say softly, taking one of his hands in both of mine. He gives a choked, breathy sort of laugh. Sometimes, they’re a crutch, too, a way of avoiding looking at the future. I must have lived out my life a thousand times, in a thousand ways since my arrest after that last, bloody battle. “I mean, I’m hardly the poster boy for clean living in the present-”
“Clearly,” he says, sarcastically. Snippy as Snape, but we’ve only just met; there is none of the contempt of familiarity here.
“Are you like this with everyone?” I ask, amused more than angry. He shifts in his chair.
“No. I am not usually so impolite to people. You seem to…bypass my natural reserve. I apologise if I am too forward with you, but-”
“It’s honest. And I am not often polite. Politeness and kindness are two separate things, and I’ll take kindness before etiquette, if it’s all the same to you.”
He nods, eyes thoughtful. “I had never really considered it that way.”
Well, of course you didn’t. You are polite, and kind, and each one comes as naturally as breathing to you. And you probably have a hero complex and an inability to trust too, just like Potter. You poor sod.
I look up. He’s watching me, and has been for a while. “I am obliged to inform someone of your arrival here, so that the necessary paperwork can be completed for your return. Is there anyone you wish me to ask?”
Obliged. Ok, yes, he’s obliged to. In the cold light of day, hotfooting it up to-
“What city is this?”
“Chicago.”
- Chicago isn’t as simple as I would like. Who to contact? Someone in the Ministry, probably. God, I hate those tossers.
“One of the Weasleys, please. One of them should still be working in the Ministry of Magic, in London.”
They’re more likely to be sympathetic. I mean, I did get Bill out of Azkaban for them, and I can’t really think of anyone else who even likes me at the Ministry. Well, I have no respect for them, so it’s only fair I suppose. He leaves the room to use the telephone, and I use a few cleaning charms to make myself feel human.
I hate it when things are out of my hands. Waiting for the verdict, after the trial, I bit my nails until they bled, paced up and down until Snape threatened to break both my legs and tie me into a human pretzel, and got so bored I tried to proposition him again. For the third time. He refused, of course- bastard has a duty stick shoved sideways up his arse- but I was expecting it. The refusal speech lasted about ten minutes, which was ten minutes spent not worrying. This time, I pace up and down until the door opens again and Fraser comes in, with one of the Weasleys in tow.
Which one? Not as heavy covering of freckles as Charlie, not as…offensively ginger as Ron, not as cool as Bill, so must be-
“Percy Weasley,” I say neutrally. Oh dear. I had to get the one who followed the bloody rules.
“Draco Malfoy.” He says with an expression of resignation on his face. He just can’t reconcile himself with his attraction to me. “We haven’t heard from you in months.”
“Oh, I’ve been around,” I say airily. “I sent the Order an Owl occasionally, letting you know what I was doing.”
“You sent along pieces of parchment with stick figures drawn on them.”
“They were symbolic.”
They were rather cool, if I say so myself. There was one for eating, one for sleeping, one for drinking, and one for getting laid. All very detailed.
“They were obscene!”
Bloody prude. “They were adventurous, Mister Missionary twice a week with the lights out!”
Ooh, he’s blushing. And I got the Weasley frown, which makes him look constipated. Gods I love rattling his cage. I really can’t help it, we’re natural enemies. Law of the jungle.
“I think this discussion might be better conducted in a more private place,” Fraser interrupts smoothly. Weasley nods, once, and follows Fraser out of the room. I bite my lip to keep myself from saying anything else. I like Fraser, strangely, and don’t really want the glamour to rub off me yet. Glamour. Ha. I fell out of his cupboard drunk.
His office is tiny. I take the seat nearest to the door, and prepare myself for boredom. Merlin, both of them are so completely anal over forms! Block capitals in black ink, in triplicate. I bet they have wet dreams over memo pads, they’re so absolfuckinglutely by the book. I stare up at the ceiling, answering questions when they ask me, and let the whole mess float over my head. When it comes to the ‘reason for visit’ section, though, I can’t think straight.
“A holiday, a sabbatical or permanent residence?” Weasley asks me, tone carefully patient. I pick one at random.
“Sabbatical. Yeah, I want to stay here for a year.”
His eyebrows fly up, and I feel the overwhelming urge to make him eat dirt.
“Listen, you smug bastard, I. Want. To. Stay. For. A. Year. In. America. Chances are, I won’t have little old witches spitting at me in the street here, or have to endure jokes about megalomania being hereditary. Half the American wizards don’t have a fucking clue of what happened in Britain, and that isn’t going to change any time soon, so I’d like to be employable, and to be able to go somewhere in the magical world without mothers shielding their brats from me. I fucking hate Britain! I absolutely hate it!”
Well, there goes the old aristocratic reserve. Malfoys never cry, eh, father? It’s funny, I hadn’t realised how bad I was finding things in Britain until now. I suppose I just existed from day to day, ignoring the isolated incidents of prejudice I had encountered, but I’m crying for real now, face buried in hands, while the Weasel sits, frozen, and Fraser puts a hand on the back of my neck, rubs with his thumb and doesn’t even try to say anything comforting.
“A sabbatical, then, Draco?”
“Yes please,” I say through a noseful of snot. Fraser hands me this great big handkerchief.
“Blow,” he instructs, and I do, without any insinuating comments.
The forms are completed and Weasley taps them with his wand, sending them to the appropriate offices. They exchange a smile across the desk, and wow, whether Weasley’s a complete prude or not, he really has that ‘I’m really shy but you’ll never know if you don’t try it’ look down pat. Fraser for his part flushes slightly, and his hand goes halfway up to his eyebrow, before he busies himself with shuffling papers. I don’t laugh. I want to, but I don’t. I just sit here, watching the Weasel remember that yes, he actually does have a sex drive. I suppose Granger would find it terribly cute, now that she’s getting all hormonal; the last letter I received from her was written on pale pink paper, announcing her pregnancy. I sent her a condolence card. She sent a howler back. These human interactions, they’re all about give and take. Heh heh heh…
They’re both looking at me. The Weasel looks terrified. I touch my face, feeling for boils, but there’s nothing too out of the ordinary, just stubble. “Have I turned green?” I ask, annoyed.
Weasley gulps. “You were…smiling. You’ve been looking extraordinarily malevolent for the past five minutes. It’s rather unnerving. What were you thinking about?”
I contemplate saying ‘babies’, which brings the smile back in full force. “Oh, nothing in particular. Normal things, like trees and grass and leaves. You know how it is.”
Fraser nods with complete understanding. Weasley opens his mouth to speak a few times, but gives up.
“Well, don’t mind me, just go on with your conversation,” I prompt as the seconds of silence bleed into minutes. They shake themselves, as if coming round, and continue.
“So the Inuit have a far more practical approach to keeping magic secret. As the environment is so hostile, they pool every resource that they have, including magic-”
Oh Merlin. Weasley’s hooked, leaning forward, eyes intent, and he has his Thinking Face on, the one he used to pull during strategy meetings, or when he was discussing magical theory with Granger. He must miss having someone to theorise with; a mind like his leaves most wizards eating his intellectual dust, and although I can keep up with him, I, well, I’m not as disciplined as he is. Fraser, though, well, they’ll stay talking for weeks. I slip out of the room. Neither notices me leave.
I wander into the kitchen and play with the toaster for a bit. Half an hour later, and the toaster’s sort of spitting sparks, and the knife I stuck in didn’t seem to make too much difference to its health, and I’m very very bored. I’m tempted to go upstairs, but the six foot four in his socks Mountie sitting at his desk doesn’t look like someone I want to tangle with, so I just go into the room next to Fraser’s office, and eavesdrop. They might, after all, be talking about me, and I-
Oh. Oh. Now, far as I know, magical theory does not involve moaning. Well, there’s no one here to tell me off, and I could use some laughs, so I do a quick one way window spell on the whole of the adjoining wall, see if I can catch them, oh, I don’t know, reading the Encyclopaedia of Gay Sex, or a pop-up porn book, or-
Sitting on the desk, giving me a lovely profile view of the Weasel in all his naked glory, propped up on his elbows, all long lean lines and pale milky skin, reddish hair swept back from high forehead, head thrown back exposing a slim throat, one leg propped up on a chair, the other hanging down, and when did he get so shameless? When did he learn to show the livid scars that twist and cord across his hip? (thank you, Aunt Bella) When did he start making such gasping, needy sounds at every touch Fraser gives him?
Every touch. Oh, but he’s cruel. So patient, so gentle, so damn meticulous, and focussed everywhere except Weasley’s cock, which rides high up against his stomach, and Percy isn’t touching himself, just making these mewling pleading noises that go straight to my cock. I unbutton my jeans- I don’t get laid anywhere near as frequently as I would like, and so I’ll get my kicks where I can. Thing is, any wizard who would shag Death Eater spawn also wants me dead, and muggles, well, I have little common ground, and sustaining a glamour over the lash marks and scars (thanks again, Bella) is pretty hard when I’m…occupied elsewhere.
Feet? Why the hell is he paying attention to Percy’s feet? I mean, he could be like Ulric, and-
Well, the less said about that the better, but this is cruel and unnatural torture.
“Do you want me?” he asks, and the husky, sex-muzzed rasp in that voice of his, and my cock gives a little twitch and I close my eyes and just breathe for a moment, pulse thumping in my ears.
“Fuck yes,” Percy breathes, and he swears so prettily, with a mouth so unused to shaping the word, that it makes it twice as sexy, and strangely endearing.
Fraser smiles, slow and sure, uncaps the lubricant, drizzles a little on his fingers, and I had always thought that the Muggle methods of preparation were laborious and a waste of time- trousers, spell, cock- far more efficient, but here, they look…
Loving. Affectionate, an indulgence more than a mechanical function. By the book, yes, but some books are worth reading. One finger in, carefully, and Percy puts his head up to look straight into Fraser’s eyes, and the intensity of contact in that look makes my breath catch, and Fraser’s hand seems a far safer place to focus on. Two fingers, and Percy’s open now, taking with sweet generosity. I feel almost guilty at watching this, but I’ll take my pleasure where I can, and as he draws his fingers out, puts on a condom and enters with a slow sure steady slide, my hand begins to move on my cock in time with his rhythm, watching the beautiful picture they make, all quivering muscles, Fraser’s thighs quivering at the effort of holding back, nuzzling blindly at the hollow where throat meets shoulder, a tangle of limbs and sighs and moans, close to coming and-
“Excuse me, this room is not open to-”
Talk about biscuit tins. I undo the spell quickly, spin around, trying to look innocent, wondering how long he’s been standing here, and pretty much kicking myself for forgetting about the other Mountie, and how much did he see?
Flushed cheeks, accelerated breathing, eyes focussed anywhere but me and my currently undone jeans, and I think an obliviate spell’s in order.
I meet his eyes, prepare to pick out the memories that need removing, to get at least the shape of his thoughts, so-
Well, well, well, officer. What have we here? Interesting. Very interesting.
I smile, slowly, lean back against the wall, hook my thumbs in my waistband so my fingers are centimetres from my denim-framed cock, and meet his eyes, all insolence. Well, it nearly worked on Snape…
“Am I trespassing, constable?”
Oh, and the images in his mind just keep getting better- me on my knees, sucking him off, spreadeagled on a bed, tied with leather belts and silk scarves, in water, palms splayed against a wall-
Not a snowfield in sight.
“Yes, you are,” he says firmly, dragging his mind back from happy fantasies. See, I’m a wizard. Wish fulfilment I can do.
“And that would be…a disciplinary issue?”
He locks the door faster than you can say ‘be careful with the handcuffs’.
Now he takes the red tunic off, and he’s only wearing a thin longsleeved vest thing underneath; he might as well be topless. Whipcord muscles on his forearms, broad shoulders, he looks strong and sure, as if he could pick me up if he needed to, as if he could wrap his legs around me and keep me anchored, safe. As if he could let me nestle under his chin and stroke my hair. I think I just got verry lucky indeed. He sees me looking, and gives me this wolfish grin, all lust and danger. I can’t help it. I whimper, actually whimper, and his smile grows, then disappears, leaving his face blank, stern.
“Face the wall, put your hands above you head,” he commands softly. I obey swiftly, biting my lip at the approving chuckle I get for this obedience.
A good idea at the time? Fuck that, it was a fantastic idea.