Happy H/D Holidays Fireelemental79
Author: kestrelsparhawk
Recipient: Fireelemental79
Title: In Which Harry Potter Discovers a River In Egypt (1/3)
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, implied Millicent/OC
Summary: A missing roommate, a mysteriously familiar male prostitute, murdered Muggles, and an angry boss are all making life difficult for Auror Harry Potter. And that’s before he discovers that the reason he’s avoided having girlfriends for three years is not only because he doesn’t like publicity.
Rating: NC-18
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Political Correction, vampires, (temporarily) anonymous sex, tasteless underwear, Lesbian Attachment Parenting (AP)
Word Count: 23,000+
Author's Notes: Hope you like this, Fire - I’ve never actually written about vampires or cross dressing. The characters decided to write their own plot, so it’s a bit “rocky” in more than one way. They also decided to be crack. Thanks to my incredibly patient betas, and another friend for Russian assistance, all of whom I’ll name at the end of the “anonymous” period. Thanks also to the hp_britglish for wonderful last minute geographic assistance. Lines of the song Mill is singing while… er… unwell is “Wish You Were Here,” in a spectacularly screwed up version.
A River In Egypt
Harry straightened his tie, wondering why it suddenly felt so tight. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Gawain Robards glared at him with even more contempt than Harry was accustomed to seeing when the chief Auror looked at him. “Did you or did you not know your . . . roommate associated with vampires, prostitutes, and Muggles, Potter?” He turned “roommate” into an evil word. Harry was already used to “Potter” sounding like an unpleasant taste in Robards’ mouth.
“And I’m asking why you want to know.” Whoops, Harry thought, there goes everything Mill taught me about staying polite when confronted with an asshole.
“It’s pretty damned obvious, don’t you think? Even for someone like you, who needed special dispensation to join the Aurors.” Robards stood up and moved aggressively into Harry’s personal space. “If you knew - and don’t bother to deny it, you couldn’t possibly have failed to know - then you were living with someone who is supposed to stay clearly on the side of Light. You’re not above the law, Potter - you’re an Auror, just in case you haven’t noticed.”
“It was none of my business, sir.”
Robards flushed bright red. “What do you mean, none of your business?”
“I mean, my job is to investigate Dark wizards. Not to report on my roommate’s proclivities. She did nothing against the law.” He thought what Mill would say: Very Slytherin answer, Harry. Maybe you can be taught.
Where the fuck was she, anyway? It had been three days, and he didn’t know what to say to Lila anymore.
“Bulstrode is a fellow Auror, Potter, not just some stray roommate.”
“How would I know you didn’t know, anyway? I had no reason to check.”
Robards fulminated for a minute. “You are one bloody inch from being sacked, Potter.”
Ask me if I care. But Harry did care. The Hero of the Voldemort wars, dismissed from the Aurors? The Prophet was already going through one of its periodic “Harry Potter is mental” phases, this one cobbled together from rumours about why he broke up with Ginny and his hanging out with lesbians in leather bars. This would feed the rumours, and then he’d never get a girlfriend. Not that he felt like risking it anyway, these days. He’d sworn off sex during his entire Auror training just to keep the Prophet off his back. Well, sworn off except for the occasional drunken miscalculation, anyway.
Robards continued to ream him out for several minutes, then calmed down sufficiently to give Harry a punishment assignment - one of those excruciating ones that offered days of looking for clues which would almost certainly come to nothing. Not learning anything would probably be acceptable, because the problem wasn’t much to worry about anyway. Robards seemed to think the greatest advantage to assigning Harry was that it would educate him on one of Mill’s “proclivities.”
“If you screw this one up, Potter, you really will be out the door. I’ve got Scrimgeour’s word on it.”
Harry knew Scrimgeour loathed him, from the days Harry had refused to be a front for the Ministry. Nonetheless, after the War Scrimgeour had waived the usual requirements to get him in as an Auror, and Harry had been grateful, if surprised. It was hard to fulfil the Auror qualifications when he’d been hunting the Dark Lord for much of his seventh year. It was only after he started hanging out with Mill Bullstrode that he learned Scrimgeour viewed Harry being an Auror as a good public relations investment for his administration.
Unfortunately, the Chosen One had already performed his primary function. If he’d been a horse, Harry thought morosely, he would have been put out to stud at that point; he’d be the perfect age for it in human years. In fact, no doubt it was the admiring fans’ presumption that heroes should breed which led to the public pressure to get engaged . . . to Ginny, of course. And what a disaster that was. Hermione and Ron notwithstanding, school romances which continued after school tended either to peter out or end in big drama, in his experience. His own had been no exception.
He mumbled something obedient and apologetic to Robards and left to prepare for punishment duty.
][o][o][o][o][
Harry’d met Mill officially when they were both in Aurors training. He’d been her partner for a lot of duels, because they turned out to be pretty well matched. He vaguely remembered her from Hogwarts - an unattractive first year who had grown into a distinctly ugly young woman. She’d been quite good at fighting. His most vivid memory of her was the day in fifth year she grabbed Hermione when Umbridge was trapping the DA. The second most vivid was when she’d put Hermione into a headlock in second year.
At Hogwarts, Millicent had straggly brown hair and a perpetual pout. She was built pretty much like the Dursleys’ house in a solid square, from jaw to feet. She looked terrible in school robes. Now, she was still solid, but had clearly worked hard at passing the physicals, and her body was mostly muscle, not fat. When they did hand to hand practice, she could beat any of the trainees, and usually did. She wore a wide leather bracelet on her left wrist, and when he’d asked her one day, just needling, if it was to hide her dark mark, she replied, “Potter, it is a dark mark. The Dark Lord had his own, tackier kind.” Her hair was short now, blond and brown stripes, and he’d never actually noticed before how lovely her eyes were, or how pronounced her bones. She’d grown comfortable with her body, and he thought she was pretty hot, in an androgynous way - kind of like Freddie Mercury, only more masculine and with less hair. She came to work on a Harley, which pleasantly reminded him of Sirius, although when he asked her if she’d charmed it to fly, she snorted. “I’m a purist, Potter. Harleys have their own magic. Anyway, I’m in a Muggle bike group.”
The day training finished, she had dragged him along with several others to get pissed with her in a wizarding club. In training, Harry had stuck to his own kind pretty much, uncomfortably aware how much favouritism he’d been shown to get in, and trusting Gryffindors at least to give him a chance, even if they were from a different year. There were two other Gryffindors in the group, so he just went on breaks with them unless Mill had been working with him just before - she wouldn’t let him leave then. “Come on, Potter, you need to make friends outside your comfort zone. School’s over - we’re not in houses anymore.” But the two Gryffs had a party to go to, old school friends from Divinations Club, and he wasn’t invited. Harry tried not to feel left out - after all, he’d also have to be with a group of people who thought arguing about the relative merits of chicken entrails and tea leaves for reading the future was fun.
Ron and Hermione and he had of course made plans to celebrate, but Ron had made it to the regionals in the Ministry of Magic’s National Wizarding Chess Tournament and the contest was the next day. He needed to sleep and not drink.
So Harry went with the loud crowd he didn’t know well, and got thoroughly, completely, totally pissed - enough to actually attempt to engage in conversation with Mill. He called her Millie, not Bulstrode, for the first time, and she pushed him so hard he landed on his arse.
“It’s Mill, Potter, if you’re going to use my name at all.”
“You don’t like Millie? What about Millicent?” He heard the words slur and was dimly pleased they had all managed to make it out of his mouth.
“Potter, have you ever met anyone hip, cool, together, suave, whatever word you want to use, with the name Millicent?”
Harry pondered this. Eventually, he noticed she hadn’t been around for a while while he was pondering, and he pulled himself up by strangers’ robes and staggered around till he found her dancing with a woman wearing robes and a Slytherin tie. There was nothing underneath the robes but a bustier and boxers, and the tie was around her blonde hair. The robes were unfastened.
“You could be the first,” he said, trying to look Mill in the eye and looking at a breast instead. He cocked his head and tried to focus; he hadn’t remembered Mill being quite that tall.
“The first what? Potter, you’re falling down drunk.”
“The first really fabulous, brilliant, together, hip, cool, suave . . . and that other stuff . . . Millicent.”
“Potter, we talked about that 45 minutes ago.”
“I had to think.” For some reason, he was staring at a waistband now. He put a hand out to hold himself up on a chair back, and found himself braced on the seat instead. Oh well, it was solid.
He heard her groan. “Potter, call me Mill or call me Bulstrode, either’s fine. No Millie, no Millicent. And I think you better sit down.”
“Wannagohomewimme?” He put a tentative hand on her waist, since it was handy. She really was hot. At least, snarky. Snarky was hot, wasn’t it? And leather always was. He was a pushover for leather.
She gave a sharp bark that sounded like the Millicent Bulstrode who’d used to annoy him for being taller than Malfoy and sitting in front of him when he wanted to glare at the blond prick. “Potter, sweetie, what have I ever said that would make you think I was straight?”
Harry pondered this, though not for long. “Would that stop you from going home with me?”
“That, or the fact that even if I were completely enthralled by you, I’m absolutely positive you would not be able to perform tonight. Why don’t you hit on some nice boy who could nail you while you’re drunk?”
Harry blinked in horror. “I’m not . . . . I’m not . . . I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Gryffs don’t do one-offs?”
“Gay. I’m not GAY.” Somehow the word was coming out loud. Really, really loud. Now he thought about it, Mill was dancing with a woman. There were a lot of men dancing together in the club, as well. What kind of bar was this, other than one which served really, really strong drinks so that some innocent Living Boy who’d only had four could be this incapacitated? He tried to ask that question but got stuck on “incapacitated.”
“Mill. I’ll call you Mill,” he offered hopefully.
He saw her look at the woman in the bustier and sigh heavily, then look at him. “Potter, don’t you have any survival instincts at all? There are people out to kill you. Lots of people. They didn’t like what you did to the Dark Lord.”
Harry squinted till he could see her eyes to look into them. “Do you want to kill me?”
“Not usually.”
“Can I go home with you, then?”
And Mill took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, hauled him over her shoulder as they’d been trained to do to rescue wounded, and said, “The things I do for my brother Aurors.”
Harry didn’t remember much about the rest of the evening, except that it involved an unpleasant amount of time kneeling by the toilet. He woke the next morning rather sleepy but otherwise undamaged, and naked except for his boxers. His memory was so spotty that for a horrified instant, he thought he had come home with someone and shagged. He staggered into the bathroom and found a brand new toothbrush in a package, a small can of tooth powder, a clean face flannel and towel, a bar of soap, and a neatly-written note that said, “Your wand’s in the kitchen. You weren’t in shape to use it, but kept trying.”
Harry groaned, used the cleaning supplies provided, washed his face, and shambled into the kitchen. Mill, looking cheerful in a black dressing gown with red piping, was stirring porridge on the stove. She indicated the table. “Coffee?”
“Oh, god, please.”
“Who are you?”
The voice was small and high. Harry looked around and realised that there was a small person staring up at him: someone perhaps three years old, with a halo of fluffy gold hair, and dark eyes like Millicent’s . . . oops, Mill’s.
“I’m Harry. Who are you?”
“I’m Lilac. The 17th princess Lilac of Tir Na Nog.” She curtsied to him. Harry was in no condition to return the bow.
“Get dressed, Lila. Your porridge will be ready in a few.”
Harry tried to connect this pretty, delicate looking child to Mill, and came up wanting. “She’s er . . . a friend of yours?”
“Potter, you really ask the most tactless questions I’ve ever heard, drunk or sober. She’s my daughter Lilac Bullstrode. Got a problem with that?”
“Sorry,” Harry said. “Of course not.”
Lilac came running back, dressed in Muggle overalls and a t-shirt with a brown fedora on her head. “Look, mummy, I’m a detective!”
“I thought you were a princess today.”
“I don’t like crowns as much as hats.”
“Porridge, Harry?”
It was calm, and domestic, and friendly. Mill never said a word about the drunken pass he’d made at her the night before. They had coffee, and porridge with brown sugar and milk, and then tea. The caffeine returned him to something like human. When Lilac found out that Harry was the Harry Potter, she wasn’t embarrassingly impressed, but she had lots of questions about his scar, his adventures, and whether his wand (which Mill took down from the top of the fridge and returned to him) was the same one that killed the Bad Lord. She wanted to know if he would teach her the curse he’d used and lend her his wand. Harry was horrified. He had not been around children much except in his official capacity, kissing babies after the war. They looked such fragile, innocent creatures he was always afraid he would damage one. Lilac looked that way, but she was tougher than she looked. He wondered if other children might be too, or if it was a result of being Mill’s daughter.
Lilac turned out to be older than he thought. She was almost five - so much for being able to guess a child’s age. Harry surreptitiously counted that out on his fingers and concluded Mill had gotten pregnant near the end of seventh year, which explained why she came into the Aurors a bit later than average.
After that, he ended up over at Mill’s flat a lot. It was a two-bed first floor flat in the wizarding district, not far from Old Compton Street, ostensibly Muggle territory but actually a site where gay Muggles and wizards mingled. Mill felt at home there. She had explained that she didn’t “do” men, except once, the last time she got drunk and stupid. The incident had produced Lila, so that was all right.
In many ways, Mill seemed what Harry thought a mother should be like; unflappable, with a good sense of humour, firm on a few things and adjustable for most. She was that way with Harry too. She didn’t fuss over him, but she fed him when she fed Lila, helped him with his homework (he was trying to take his NEWTS for his own self respect) introduced him to her favourite bars, and taught him the names of drinks she thought he should stick to. He thought if Hermione had become a leather-bar dyke with bike, she might have been a lot like Mill.
Most important, he wasn’t as edgy and prone to losing his temper around them. Of course, part of the reason for that was Lilac - Harry thought if he really lost it, he would scare her. But it was also that they seemed to like him - not with the protectiveness that Ron and Hermione had necessarily developed over the years, but simply like him. He was not accustomed to being liked by anyone who had not seen him grow up.
It was amazing how soothing it was to spend time with a family that had none of the inevitable drama of the Weasleys. He loved them, but somehow after an evening with that chaotic household, Harry just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. It didn’t help that it was always just a little awkward after he broke up with Ginny, although everyone tried hard not to let that make a difference - except for Ginny, who did mind and made that clear, until Ron took her aside and pointed out that being nasty was not likely to make Harry feel sorry he’d broken up with her.
“And anyway,” Ron had said (Hermione imitating him, because she’d eavesdropped on the conversation in the Weasley kitchen) “you two are so wrong for each other. You want someone who puts you first. He’s an Auror, and a public person, and fighting Dark magic is always going to come ahead of you. That’s what Harry is - and if you haven’t figured that out by now, you really didn’t understand Harry anyway.”
Finally, one day after Harry and Mill had been working as Aurors a month or so - in different areas, much to Harry’s disappointment - Mill said, “I need a roommate.”
Harry knew she’d broken up with her long-time partner, a former Hufflepuff, a couple of months previously. “Well, start cruising.”
“Not that kind of roommate. I need someone I can leave Lila with sometimes, who isn’t a drama queen, and can share the grocery bills. He wouldn’t have to pay any rent.”
“He?”
“Cuts down on drama. Want to move in?”
Harry did.
][o][o][o][o][
Mill -
Well, my owl has always managed to track down people for me, even during the war, so I’m taking Guenever out of honourable retirement and sending her after you. That night at Poison is going to make me swear off taking your word on the good pubs and clubs for ever, curse you. I swear I saw a wallaby and a rat running for cover when your friends showed.
What kind of Animagus is a wallaby? I had to look it up in Persiflage, and I’m still squinting from the translation spell. As to the rat, the only rat Animagus I ever knew was a ridiculous little deathmuncher who is living out the rest of his unnatural life with an even more unnatural smile pasted on his face by an Imperiused Dementor. Not that I had to see it. The pleasures of Moscow were manifold, and avoiding Divine Retribution in the form of Potter was definitely not one of the least of the pleasures. Perhaps the rat was just a rat - Poison is that sort of place.
What I didn’t see was you, then or later. Where did you go? I distinctly saw some robes similar to the old Death Eaters - I thought they weren’t around any more. Then came the unpleasant invasion of more Aurors than one could shake a stick at. I shook my wand at them and Disapparated.
--D
][o][o][o][o][
Mill, for Merlin’s sake, where are you? I know you’re not home - I’ve been loitering around your building to check when it might be least be safe to try the wards on your flat. I was punished for this by being forced to watch the person you have coyly called Uncle Harry in your owls - did you think I wouldn’t SUSPECT? No doubt half the next generation is currently being named Harry or Harriet, poor things, but Lila must have been at least BORN when that trend started. You wouldn’t leave a four year old with a two year old, would you? Didn’t think so. Especially, Merlin help us, one named “Harry.”
I was forced to watch the Boy Who Ruined Hogwarts for Me and his redheaded crony each holding one of Lila’s hands - she was not shown to best advantage in such homely company, I assure you. Potter’s taste has apparently not improved since Hogwarts, though now it seems to run to discount store denim trousers and no-doubt-donated-to-needy-twits stained and raggedy shirts. To make up for 14 school terms of incredibly large clothing, this shirt left about 3 inches of arm at the end. I do hope he knows enough to dress adequately for his job. I will say one thing for his fashion sense: it must be very useful in undercover assignments. No one would ever think he was an Auror. Or a wizard. Or employed.
Lila looked healthy - I know you’ll ask that, though it would serve you right if I lied and said she looked a wreck. But healthy is as positive as I can go. The two idiots were pulling her arms up and swinging her, with no thought that it might dislocate her arms which EVERYONE knows, and she was laughing. So she is certainly in danger without you - not to mention someone, I presume Potter, had dressed her in yellow robes and blue trousers like Potter’s own, with the result that she looked like nothing so much as a daffodil in a blue vase. Completely unsuitable for a child of her lineage, or for that matter, any child remotely human.
I’ve concluded that I’m going to have to disguise myself sufficiently to fool Potter and get him to talk to me. He may have some information which will help me find you. Trust him to be completely unconcerned about you himself. I saw him ambling about among some of the Ladies of the Evening yesterday, dressed adequately enough (i.e., no large holes in his shirt) that I presume he was on undercover work or had finally figured out the only way he was going to find a non-redheaded and non-freckled girlfriend was to dress up and pay her. (I know, I know, you don’t like the term LadyoftheEvening, but if you don’t like it, write back and tell me. While you’re at it, could you just MENTION, as an ASIDE, what the fuck you’re up to?)
If Potter wants a prostitute, he’ll get a prostitute. I won’t actually have to touch him and get Chosen cooties; just make him think I’m going to. I think your Hogwarts theory about where his interests would lie, if he ever got over himself, might be correct. On the street with the Weasel, he kept his eyes busy - and not with the pretty girls. Too bad I was being one of them. So it’s unlikely he was actually wanting to date a Lady of the Evening himself . . .
--D
PS: Lila was also wearing a cap with a visor, which said Puddlemere United. It matched neither her hair, her robes, nor her trousers. Nor is it her name.
][o][o][o][o][
Harry saw the rentboy before the other saw him. He’d noticed them before, of course, hanging out not far from Mill’s flat, just a street beyond the wizarding district most of them couldn’t see. He suspected that a few could, but probably didn’t come to the district much. Wizards who wanted to participate in the sex trade went to the Muggle areas, mostly. He’d heard there were some discreet signals for wizards with magical kinks, mostly consisting of coloured socks with certain patterns, which the Squib rentboys and prostitutes who took up the trade recognised.
“Sex workers!” he reminded himself. Mill would have killed him for using “prostitute” -- or “rentboy,” for that matter. She was emphatic that there was nothing inherently wrong with being a sex worker, just the conditions of employment. She also emphasized that for many, the work was compulsory, not just economically involuntary. Mill could be as much as a pain as Hermione some days. She and Hermione were finally beginning to enjoy talking to each other. It had taken them long enough -- they’d been enemies since second year.
He missed Mill - and Hermione. At least he knew where Hermione was. India, doing some extended research on eastern magical strategies. No wonder Ron had been visiting him so much lately. He could have gone - but they all three knew he was needed in the emergency preparedness unit of the Ministry. Besides, when Hermione was in research mode, Harry and Ron had learned long ago just to leave her alone till she was done.
Harry forced his mind back to his unattractive assignment. Well, the assignment was unattractive - he supposed this bloke was attractive, really, in an over-the-top sexy way, though of course not to him. He was kind of shocking. He had on black silk trousers with rawhide laces crossed and wrapped all the way up to his groin, showing off every inch of leg and bits. The trousers rode low, and peeking out above them were some lacy, frilly, girly knickers with little bows. His top was tight fitting, the hem ripped off so that it couldn’t quite reach his belly. There were strategic rips in various places that made it seem some desperate lover had tried to get it off him and almost succeeded. The neck of the shirt flapped open a bit, showing rather a thin neck and a collarbone that looked . . . well, lickable, Harry supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. He was barefoot, which was a pretty good trick in London any time of year, and he had ice-blond hair that looked natural. Harry had last seen hair that colour on that bastard Malfoy. He looked sharply at the stranger’s face to make sure he didn’t see Malfoy’s pointy features. To his relief, it was snub-nosed and blue eyed - two things Malfoy definitely had never been. His mouth, though, seemed to know how to smirk.
Harry felt a twitch in his groin and mentally slapped himself. He knew it was just the tricks of the trade, but he was usually immune, even to the women. It must be the lacy pants - and the fact he hadn’t had sex in years. Or it might be relevant to the assignment. There was word that something called Karma was a love potion to make you irresistibly attractive to others, and the sex workers were using it to attract business. Harry was supposed to find out if it was another fake - most likely - or an actual potion, in which case he’d have to find out who was selling it. He was beginning to suspect that it might actually be real, and this rentboy was using.
The boy - young man, Harry noted, just a year or so younger than himself, surely - noticed Harry watching him and slid over. He had a liquid stride that said “Look at me, I’m the sexiest thing around,” and Harry had to admit the stride was telling the truth. He started to wonder if the mysterious potion he was searching for worked second-hand - a few did, and these feelings he was having simply weren’t natural. That would also explain how they could get it to work. After all, persuading your customer to drink something wouldn’t always be that easy.
The bloke smiled at him. “Hello, there. Like what you see?”
As a pickup line, it was businesslike. Harry pretended to be examining the young man, while considering. Pretending to be a customer might be a good strategy. He’d have an excuse to talk to the other and ask questions.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” he said coolly. “What’s your name?”
That earned him a smouldering look. “You can call me Darwin.”
Well, that answered the question if he were perchance from the wizarding community. You couldn’t get a more Muggle name than Darwin.
“So, your place?” he asked uncomfortably.
Darwin sauntered closer and slid a warm hand around Harry’s leather-covered arm. “The alley would be faster.”
Harry tried not to make a face. “I don’t want fast.”
“It’ll cost more.”
“I don’t care.”
The hand on his arm was doing weird things to his body. It was becoming more and more certain that this Muggle was using a wizarding potion to affect him. Well, he’d thrown off Imperio before; this shouldn’t be as hard. So to speak.
Darwin led him to a surprisingly attractive apartment - shabby, but immaculate, and bare enough that it didn’t look impoverished, just ascetic. The furniture was old - very old, the newest piece over a century, and although they were probably rescues from wherever, they made the place feel oddly elegant.
When they got in, Darwin led him into the living room and stood staring at him a minute.
“Ummm . . . what am I supposed to do?” Harry asked.
That led to a smirk which looked eerily like Malfoy’s. Harry’s stomach lurched. Definitely a potion. Nothing reminding him of Malfoy could possibly be sexy.
“New to this, are you?”
“Yeah . . . what of it?”
“Virgins are extra.”
“I’m not a virgin! I’ve just never . . . I’ve never been with a man.”
Darwin, oddly, seemed to relax a little at that. “So what do you want?”
“Well . . . just to talk, really.”
Darwin looked at him incredulously. “To talk? You want me to talk . . . oh, talk dirty, is that it? What should I call you, by the way?”
Harry thought quickly, his mind gone blank from the offer. “Neville . . . Neville Weasley.” He remembered the confusion when he’d been Neville Longbottom for the Knight Bus. He was much sneakier now.
“Memorable name,” Darwin said, sounding as if he really thought so. In fact, he looked as if he were trying not to laugh. Harry was glad he hadn’t used “Longbottom.”
Darwin sat on the couch and crossed his legs, pulling his heels up to his crotch. That made it abundantly clear that the lacy panties weren’t at all constricting, and definitely could be seen through. Harry tried not to look. “Okay, sit down, Neville. I’ll make it easy to start.”
Harry sat gingerly down at the other end of the couch. Darwin looked at him unreadably, then smoothly rose to his knees and crawled over, putting his mouth close to Harry’s neck. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said, in a low voice that was like a hand on Harry’s cock. “Green’s my favourite colour. And that mouth . . . looks flexible. There are a lot of things I’d like to do with a mouth like that. Can you imagine some of them?”
Harry knew he was blushing. He shook his head, wondering at what point he should bring up his questions. This talking wasn’t going in the right direction.
Darwin sniffed at Harry’s throat and then, thoughtfully, tasted it. “Your pulse is faster,” he observed, still in that sultry voice. “I can’t believe I’m getting to you. I haven’t even started talking dirty.”
It was that damned potion, whatever it was. Darwin would definitely be worth interrogating . . . if Harry could ever find the words to ask something.
Darwin’s hand was on his inner thigh. “Mmmmm, muscles. I’d like those muscles holding me down. Keeping me from squirming as you licked your way up from my navel to my jaw. And then you’d lick all the way down again . . . but you wouldn’t stop at my navel.”
Harry trembled
“You’d keep licking downward, oh so slowly, your thighs still pinning me, your hands on my chest, pushing me down, the palms covering my nipples. They’d grow hard from that, you know; hard from your hands. And as you got below my waist, other parts would be getting hard too.” His voice was getting rougher as he spoke.
Harry shifted restlessly.
Darwin slipped a hand inside Harry’s jacket, then beneath his chambray shirt, then beneath the white knit shirt he wore . . . “My god, why all the clothes?” he asked, in a more ordinary voice, but then returned to the sultry one. “Scared someone’s going to get too close? Have to keep yourself closed off from the world?” His fingers were sliding through the fabric, deftly removing Harry’s defences, layer by layer.
He paused after the third one, staring at Harry’s torso. Harry, so hard he was hurting, shifted again at the gaze. It looked . . . hungry. He’d never thought his body was special. Ginny didn’t seem to think so, and she’d had more to compare it to. But . . . .
Suddenly, he was flat on his back with a smooth body above him. Darwin grabbed his jaw in both hands and pulled his face up into a kiss. A kiss? That wasn’t just talk. Harry opened his mouth to protest, and a tongue slid inside and started lubricating his tonsils. His cock definitely approved of this, and without meaning to, Harry arched his back and pushed himself against Darwin, lurching straight into Darwin’s groin.
Oh . . . my . . . god that was good. He reflexively wrapped his legs around the other’s, gripping them just as Darwin had described. And the other moaned. Harry was not used to making someone moan, except for a short time during the war, and that was from his hexes. Darwin had unzipped his trousers at some point, and Harry pulled them down hastily as he attempted to undo his own. In a few seconds, he felt damp silk, and through it a wet cock rubbing against his own. Harry had not been able to find clean pants quickly that morning and had opted for none over being late. The thought of those lacy knickers the only barrier between Darwin’s cock and his own bits made him whine. Once he started whining, he couldn’t seem to stop. He found himself pushing up and down against Darwin’s leg, gasping at each change in pressure.
Darwin grabbed his hand. “Puh . . . puh . . . .puhleeze,” he gasped. “You’re not some kind of annoying little lapdog, and I’m not a visitor you can hump. Give me a second.”
Harry, his brain completely gone southward, did not understand Darwin’s point. He allowed himself to be pushed away, frustrated. But Darwin wasn’t planning to frustrate, it seemed. He slid out of his pants quickly and then paused to stare at Harry, looking up at him from the couch.
“I want you,” he said, and there was no deliberate sexiness in his voice at all. If anything, it sounded surprised and bewildered, though hungry. “I want you badly. Can I fuck you? Do you want to fuck me?”
“Yes!” Harry wanted it all, and now. Definitely, now. Darwin laughed a little, and sat up. He looked thoughtful for one instant, and then grabbed Harry and pulled him face down onto the floor.
On a significantly larger and therefore more convenient surface, Darwin seemed to have decided to take control. He stretched himself across Harry’s body, face near Harry’s arse. He shoved a hand between Harry’s legs, and pushed up. Harry felt a long finger under his balls, a thumb against his arsehole, and a couple of others dancing wherever. His whines took on an intensity as he felt his balls tighten.
Darwin’s hand left him for a short period of time, and he felt a digit swipe across his already-wet cock. Then it was back, the thumb slick now, and then . . . then it was inside him, a moment of incredibly intense pleasure edged with pain. He felt it push up, hard, and then he was coming; shouting and coming, unable to stop either the sound or the involuntary pumping of his hips into Darwin’s experienced hand.
He was shocked how little time he’d taken. He’d never felt so out of control. It almost terrified him. He tried to twist away from the fingers which seemed to understand his crotch so well. Unfortunately, part of his body liked them there and wanted to stay close by. Harry ended up making a series of little panting noises and then relaxed, breathing hard, letting Darwin’s hand stroke him, carefully light on his hyper sensitive parts.
“So you like that?”
He jerked reflexively. He’d been far away, recovering from that orgasm, and the other’s presence had been . . . well, not forgotten, but naturalised. He felt lovely, this bloke did. All was good. Now he had to come back to the world and run things again.
He sighed, and nodded. Hard to lie about something like that, with an eyewitness asking.
There was perhaps a minute more of rest. Darwin’s hand was stroking his belly, oddly gentle; Harry wouldn’t have expected something that felt almost affectionate from someone just selling his sexual skills. Then Darwin said, in that sultry voice again, “Would you like to suck me off?”
Harry would like. He was surprised how much he wanted to. He’d never even thought of doing such a thing -- but why not? Harry slid down Darwin’s body, over a silky belly, till there was a hard length on his lips and a soft, velvety ball against his cheek. He licked reflexively, bringing out a shudder in Darwin. Then he set to work learning what balls felt and tasted like. He thought that he must always have wondered, because they seemed familiar in his mouth, as though they belonged there. He liked the little noises Darwin was making, too. He experimented with mouth variations, and was rewarded with a flow of noises that sounded as if Darwin were trying to sing an atonal modern song while someone was whipping him. Harry snickered, and let his mouth return to what Darwin had requested.
Ginny had agreed to try this with him, a couple of times, and though she hadn’t liked it, Harry had. Even with only a couple of experiences, he knew what would feel good and what didn’t. He held Darwin’s hips down with his hands and set to work enthusiastically. He couldn’t imagine why Ginny hadn’t liked it. There was nothing more wonderful he’d ever done, than hold someone’s prick in his mouth and have them totally at his whim. He could get a rhythm going, and their whimpers and moans would stabilise; he could surprise with a hard suck or a light brush of teeth, and get a roar or curses. The cock felt wonderful in his mouth, like smooth leather over a hard core -- like a bobby’s nightstick, and wasn’t that a turn on, all by itself. There wasn’t any strong taste to it; if he had been going to describe the texture and flavour, he’d have picked “egg white.” But best of all were Darwin’s moans, begging him for more, harder, faster, slower, gently, no hard! And legs that had crossed over Harry’s back to offer him the best access, trembling as Darwin apparently completely surrendered to sensation . . . to Harry.
Harry rewarded the surrender by wetting a finger and sliding it into Darwin as he continued to suck. Darwin began bucking, and once he started, he couldn’t stop till Harry tasted semen, thick in his throat, and heard screaming that didn’t let up for longer than Harry would have thought possible. Darwin just lay there, panting, for awhile after that. Then he raised his head and stared at Harry. “Finish it.”
“I’m not sure what there is to finish,” Harry said doubtfully. “You seem to have finished already.”
‘God, no, P . . . puhleeze fuck me, please.”
Harry admitted to himself that somewhere in the process of getting Darwin off, he’d pretty much got himself interested all over again. “I don’t know how.”
“Use your imagination, dammit. Or at least your instincts. Fuck me.”
It was so imperious, Harry got harder. This almost endless erection reminded him of sixth year, when nothing he did seemed to stop it for more than a few minutes. “I’ll show you,” he thought, confusedly blurring between the rentboy Darwin and the infinitely more infuriating 6th-year Draco Malfoy, whom he’d somehow managed to follow despite his damned insatiable cock and the helpful Ginny. He’d gotten so frustrated by hunting Draco that confused images of him, snarking at Harry, trapping him, duelling him, sneaking around on him, actually appeared during his trysts with his girlfriend - and a number of times when he was wanking. And this Darwin had the same smirk . . .
He shoved Darwin down, hard, rolled him onto his stomach, and threw himself on top of him.
“You asked for it, you got it,” Harry snarled. He hadn’t done this before, but how different could it be? He poked at a dry, unyielding entrance, and felt a bit more doubtful.
Darwin bucked, but not from pleasure. “Stop!” he growled. “I’m not a girl.”
Harry thought that would have gone without saying, so he moaned, the nearest to begging he could do. Deep in lust, he forced himself backward, though his hips kept bucking forward. He was too frustrated to be coherent. Fortunately, Darwin did not appear to have that problem. He sat up and dived into a bedside drawer.
“This,” he hissed, and whether he was angry or desperate was impossible to tell, “is lube. If you put your cock somewhere there’s no natural lube, use it. Always. Or you’re going to hurt someone big time. In this case, me.”
Harry reached for the lube, panting. Darwin held it out of his reach, and held up his other hand.
“Now this is a condom. I trust you’ve used them before? This is one of those activities that could give you hepatitis C or HIV, Neville. Not to mention all sorts of minor infections.”
No, Harry had never used one of those before, though the Muggle-borns in his dorm had played with them around him. He’d been too shy to ask them how. With Ginny, there had been spells, and Ginny took care of them. He took the little package from Darwin and peered at it. Seamus and Dean had blown them up like balloons, so he knew they should fit; he wasn’t that big.
Darwin glared at him, then snatched it out of his hands and ripped it open. He froze for an instant, taking deep breaths, then reached for Harry’s cock. He paused just before he touched it, and looked at Harry’s face, which Harry suspected looked guilty and ashamed. That “you should always be perfect” thing again.
Darwin’s own face showed concern, and a bit of sheepishness. “Look - don’t worry about it. It just hurt a bit, and I reacted.”
Harry nodded, still uncomfortable until Darwin’s long fingers slid around his shaft. Then he just closed his eyes and groaned. Darwin rolled the condom down as if he’d done that a million times - well, in his profession, he likely had. The condom felt a little strange; Harry’s cock was not quite as interested now, between the unusual feeling and Darwin’s temper. Then Darwin was stroking on lube, and his erection appeared to decide that being dressed for this was just fine. Juuuuuuust . . . fiiiiiiiine . . .
Darwin looked at Harry’s face again, then fell on his back and put his legs up. He pulled Harry down to him. “Fuck me,” he said, and Harry’s lust was back on high.
He slid in. It was a bit more difficult than he was used to with Ginny, but that was . . . oh, that was more than made up for by the squeezing feeling. Every nerve end on his cock was being pushed at once, and he hadn’t even moved. Experimentally, he lifted his hips and pushed deeper. The pleasure became unbearable. The only relief he could find was to do it again. And again. Harry felt himself slide up and down the passage, clutching Darwin’s muscled hips for balance. Darwin wrapped his legs around Harry’s back, heels against Harry’s arse so tightly there’d be bruises. He bit Harry’s shoulder. Harry grunted, and thrust harder.
Darwin’s cock was pressed between them, rolling against their bellies each time Harry thrust. It felt better than anything he could remember. This was a cock. He was fucking another man. There was something in him that had always felt apart from Ginny, even in the deepest passion, when they were in love and new to each other. He’d assumed that it was just his separation from the rest of the world. But there was no separation here; everything felt exactly as it should be, just what he wanted, though he hadn’t known. Harry was wrapped around a man, a man’s arse was wrapped around his cock, and-oh Merlin, he was . . . he was coming. No, this time he was coming apart.
It was even more amazing than the last time. He clutched Darwin’s shoulders, terrified of his body’s abandonment to pleasure. He’d never been out of control like this. He whimpered, almost panicked, felt warm wetness on his belly, and heard Darwin shout. He rode it out for what seemed minutes . . . no, years, then fell limply onto Darwin’s chest.
Harry moaned, trying to apologise but unable to form words. He lay there, gasping and whimpering, too overwhelmed to move.
Then, Harry felt himself rolled over to his side, pulled tight to Darwin’s chest. There was a reassuring hand spread across the back of his head, supporting it. “All right, p-p-pretty. For your first time, you did nicely.” Harry moved his head to rest on the other’s chest, noticed a nipple near his nose and licked it, then closed his eyes and let Darwin be in charge. It was remarkable how liberating that felt. Harry’d been the one in charge of almost everything once Dumbledore was dead.
Darwin adjusted one more time, and Harry was lying mostly next to him now, his head comfortably resting on Darwin’s chest, an arm sprawled across, and a sense of rightness and peace coming over him. So, Mill, do you ever get tired of being right? he thought. A closet case indeed. He’d gone without sex with women for almost three years now, and hadn’t missed it much. It had gotten him off, but never felt quite . . . well, he’d always wondered what the big deal was. But this . . . He needed more of this soon . . . tomorrow, at the latest. A bloke. Definitely a bloke. Darwin smelled of familiar things: arousal, maleness, semen. There was also something else elusively familiar; he couldn’t quite place it, but for some reason it reminded him of his youth. He let it wash over him and stopped thinking.
Darwin was stroking his shoulder, almost tenderly. Harry kissed a nipple again absentmindedly, resisted the urge to start licking and sucking in order to determine if Darwin were truly played out, and settled into sleep. Just before he drowsed off, one question emerged.
How am I going to interrogate him after this?
][o][o][o][o][
In the middle of the night, Harry woke to sounds he hadn’t heard since the war - cracks of apparition, several of them. He reacted on instinct alone. He called his wand to him (it had to disentangle from his jacket sleeve, where he kept it) and cast Protego on the bed as he opened his eyes.
Three red flashes arched away from them. He felt the mattress sink, and then Darwin had leaped up and towards the door. The robed figures aimed at him, and Harry accioed every wand in the room. He hadn’t tried that before, and got smacked in the face by two wands as he ducked two others. The interlopers, who were thrown off balance when their wands headed for Harry, staggered.
Darwin dived back toward Harry, and reached for a wand. Harry wasn’t about to let any Muggle touch one. He snarled “Stupefy,” and let Darwin’s body flop onto the bed. He leaped up, the feeling of magic electric around him as adrenalin kicked in, and sent a series of nasty Auror curses at them.
They seemed to be protected from those. Harry swore and grabbed Darwin. He wished he’d been a bit better prepared - what the attackers knew might be useful, if he could manage to get in a position to question them. But discretion being the better part of valour, he Apparated instead, using the Auror side-along grip.
He landed in his own room, and dropped a still frozen Darwin to the floor. Both of them were still naked. Damn it - he liked his jacket. Nor would Mill ever let him forget it if he lost it and she found out how. He cast a Finite Incantatem on the supine Muggle as he walked to the wooden cupboard for clothes.
After earlier this night, he had a pretty good idea of Darwin’s body size. Legs a bit longer, torso slightly shorter, a trifle more solid than himself. Harry didn’t have any especially large clothes -- Mill had long ago forced him to toss everything he’d worn at Hogwarts except his ties and his dress robes, and the last jumper Mrs. Weasley had made for him. So he went for his longest jeans, the ones a trifle worn at the hems because he stepped on them occasionally, and a blue jumper Ginny had made for him one Christmas. She was a much more tasteful knitter than her mother, but he’d never liked it because of the too-high neck. Darwin’s neck was longer than his, and it should be more comfortable for him.
Harry had no lacy underwear to give Darwin, and it was amazing how much that bothered him. It just didn’t seem right to see Darwin in men’s pants. But even if he’d the nerve to steal a pair of Millicent’s knickers, they would be much too big for him. She wasn’t exactly the lace type anyway. Harry secretly suspected her of owning and wearing leather knickers and bra. Or boxers, and no bra. Whatever.
Harry located a sixpack of Y-fronts Mrs. Weasley had bought him for Christmas a couple of years ago. He didn’t wear them, but it would have been wrong to throw them out --- giving someone pants was such a motherly thing. He wondered what she’d have said if he’d told her he’d rather wear nothing.
Even after Harry removed the Stupefy, Darwin hadn’t moved. Harry went over to check him. His blue eyes were wide open, lit with shocked surprise. Well, he was a Muggle. Harry turned his back to Darwin and hastily transfigured the Y-fronts into something a bit sexier. They were now lilac, trimmed with grey lace and a grey silk ribbon bow, with a little pink heart right over Darwin’s arsehole. Their basic structure was still Y-front, however. McGonagall hadn’t really spent much class time on transfiguring male and female clothes into each other.
Then he helped Darwin to sit up, and handed him the knickers cum Y-fronts and the other clothes he’d gathered. Darwin looked at the Y-fronts and burst out laughing.
“Special order?” he asked, and Harry blushed.
][o][o][o][o][
Dear Mill, wherever you are:
I begin to doubt you’re getting my owls. I came to that conclusion at an unpleasantly rushed pace, after I was attacked in my bed by three of the wizards you mentioned to me. I was fast asleep after a rigorous hour or so, but my partner-for-the-evening fortunately was a wizard, and had good enough reflexes to shield us both and then get us out of there.
Where the FUCK are you? Lila needs her mum, and no, I have no plans WHATEVER to sleep in the same bed with her - I always thought that was kind of a pervy habit of yours. (But then, with your Muggle mom, I suppose it was to be expected you’d yield to a Muggle child raising fad.) However, she isn’t screaming or starving to death, mostly owing to the care of the overgrown freckle Potter has sitting with her. After our sudden transport, he dressed and went to talk to his weaselly friend, and now that poor nearly-pure blood child is living in what I have no doubt is a rat hole with Quidditch posters pasted to every wall. Still, I think she’ll be safer there than with Wonder Boy.
I realise that I’ve revealed to you who was in my bed, and you may be a bit disappointed in me. It’s a long story - would you believe I needed the cash? Thought not. I can’t wait until the Chosen Git remembers he’s supposed to pay for the pleasure of my company. I’m betting I can get him incoherent in less than a minute.
--D
P.S. - Did you know “Uncle Harry” is gay as a maypole? Neither did he. Possibly, nor does he yet. I’d flee screaming, not being fond of denial myself, but he has a certain look on his face and I have a hope that you are the snitch he’s looking for. He’s always been good at getting what he wants.
P.P.S. -- I do NOT want to end up reading fairy stories to a little girl for the rest of the best part of my life. Nor do I want The Boy Who Lives to Annoy Me taking charge of her upbringing, and turning her into a Gryffindor - or worse, a Hufflepuff. Does this disappearing have anything to do with the vampire you were dating? I told you she was trouble.
P.P.P.S.: He likes me in knickers. He tried to transfigure a pair for me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He was pants at it (pun intended) and they are tri-coloured and look like boys’ pants with lace sewn on and a heart in . . . well, I suppose I must call it “the right place.”
Part 2
Recipient: Fireelemental79
Title: In Which Harry Potter Discovers a River In Egypt (1/3)
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, implied Millicent/OC
Summary: A missing roommate, a mysteriously familiar male prostitute, murdered Muggles, and an angry boss are all making life difficult for Auror Harry Potter. And that’s before he discovers that the reason he’s avoided having girlfriends for three years is not only because he doesn’t like publicity.
Rating: NC-18
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Political Correction, vampires, (temporarily) anonymous sex, tasteless underwear, Lesbian Attachment Parenting (AP)
Word Count: 23,000+
Author's Notes: Hope you like this, Fire - I’ve never actually written about vampires or cross dressing. The characters decided to write their own plot, so it’s a bit “rocky” in more than one way. They also decided to be crack. Thanks to my incredibly patient betas, and another friend for Russian assistance, all of whom I’ll name at the end of the “anonymous” period. Thanks also to the hp_britglish for wonderful last minute geographic assistance. Lines of the song Mill is singing while… er… unwell is “Wish You Were Here,” in a spectacularly screwed up version.
A River In Egypt
Harry straightened his tie, wondering why it suddenly felt so tight. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Gawain Robards glared at him with even more contempt than Harry was accustomed to seeing when the chief Auror looked at him. “Did you or did you not know your . . . roommate associated with vampires, prostitutes, and Muggles, Potter?” He turned “roommate” into an evil word. Harry was already used to “Potter” sounding like an unpleasant taste in Robards’ mouth.
“And I’m asking why you want to know.” Whoops, Harry thought, there goes everything Mill taught me about staying polite when confronted with an asshole.
“It’s pretty damned obvious, don’t you think? Even for someone like you, who needed special dispensation to join the Aurors.” Robards stood up and moved aggressively into Harry’s personal space. “If you knew - and don’t bother to deny it, you couldn’t possibly have failed to know - then you were living with someone who is supposed to stay clearly on the side of Light. You’re not above the law, Potter - you’re an Auror, just in case you haven’t noticed.”
“It was none of my business, sir.”
Robards flushed bright red. “What do you mean, none of your business?”
“I mean, my job is to investigate Dark wizards. Not to report on my roommate’s proclivities. She did nothing against the law.” He thought what Mill would say: Very Slytherin answer, Harry. Maybe you can be taught.
Where the fuck was she, anyway? It had been three days, and he didn’t know what to say to Lila anymore.
“Bulstrode is a fellow Auror, Potter, not just some stray roommate.”
“How would I know you didn’t know, anyway? I had no reason to check.”
Robards fulminated for a minute. “You are one bloody inch from being sacked, Potter.”
Ask me if I care. But Harry did care. The Hero of the Voldemort wars, dismissed from the Aurors? The Prophet was already going through one of its periodic “Harry Potter is mental” phases, this one cobbled together from rumours about why he broke up with Ginny and his hanging out with lesbians in leather bars. This would feed the rumours, and then he’d never get a girlfriend. Not that he felt like risking it anyway, these days. He’d sworn off sex during his entire Auror training just to keep the Prophet off his back. Well, sworn off except for the occasional drunken miscalculation, anyway.
Robards continued to ream him out for several minutes, then calmed down sufficiently to give Harry a punishment assignment - one of those excruciating ones that offered days of looking for clues which would almost certainly come to nothing. Not learning anything would probably be acceptable, because the problem wasn’t much to worry about anyway. Robards seemed to think the greatest advantage to assigning Harry was that it would educate him on one of Mill’s “proclivities.”
“If you screw this one up, Potter, you really will be out the door. I’ve got Scrimgeour’s word on it.”
Harry knew Scrimgeour loathed him, from the days Harry had refused to be a front for the Ministry. Nonetheless, after the War Scrimgeour had waived the usual requirements to get him in as an Auror, and Harry had been grateful, if surprised. It was hard to fulfil the Auror qualifications when he’d been hunting the Dark Lord for much of his seventh year. It was only after he started hanging out with Mill Bullstrode that he learned Scrimgeour viewed Harry being an Auror as a good public relations investment for his administration.
Unfortunately, the Chosen One had already performed his primary function. If he’d been a horse, Harry thought morosely, he would have been put out to stud at that point; he’d be the perfect age for it in human years. In fact, no doubt it was the admiring fans’ presumption that heroes should breed which led to the public pressure to get engaged . . . to Ginny, of course. And what a disaster that was. Hermione and Ron notwithstanding, school romances which continued after school tended either to peter out or end in big drama, in his experience. His own had been no exception.
He mumbled something obedient and apologetic to Robards and left to prepare for punishment duty.
][o][o][o][o][
Harry’d met Mill officially when they were both in Aurors training. He’d been her partner for a lot of duels, because they turned out to be pretty well matched. He vaguely remembered her from Hogwarts - an unattractive first year who had grown into a distinctly ugly young woman. She’d been quite good at fighting. His most vivid memory of her was the day in fifth year she grabbed Hermione when Umbridge was trapping the DA. The second most vivid was when she’d put Hermione into a headlock in second year.
At Hogwarts, Millicent had straggly brown hair and a perpetual pout. She was built pretty much like the Dursleys’ house in a solid square, from jaw to feet. She looked terrible in school robes. Now, she was still solid, but had clearly worked hard at passing the physicals, and her body was mostly muscle, not fat. When they did hand to hand practice, she could beat any of the trainees, and usually did. She wore a wide leather bracelet on her left wrist, and when he’d asked her one day, just needling, if it was to hide her dark mark, she replied, “Potter, it is a dark mark. The Dark Lord had his own, tackier kind.” Her hair was short now, blond and brown stripes, and he’d never actually noticed before how lovely her eyes were, or how pronounced her bones. She’d grown comfortable with her body, and he thought she was pretty hot, in an androgynous way - kind of like Freddie Mercury, only more masculine and with less hair. She came to work on a Harley, which pleasantly reminded him of Sirius, although when he asked her if she’d charmed it to fly, she snorted. “I’m a purist, Potter. Harleys have their own magic. Anyway, I’m in a Muggle bike group.”
The day training finished, she had dragged him along with several others to get pissed with her in a wizarding club. In training, Harry had stuck to his own kind pretty much, uncomfortably aware how much favouritism he’d been shown to get in, and trusting Gryffindors at least to give him a chance, even if they were from a different year. There were two other Gryffindors in the group, so he just went on breaks with them unless Mill had been working with him just before - she wouldn’t let him leave then. “Come on, Potter, you need to make friends outside your comfort zone. School’s over - we’re not in houses anymore.” But the two Gryffs had a party to go to, old school friends from Divinations Club, and he wasn’t invited. Harry tried not to feel left out - after all, he’d also have to be with a group of people who thought arguing about the relative merits of chicken entrails and tea leaves for reading the future was fun.
Ron and Hermione and he had of course made plans to celebrate, but Ron had made it to the regionals in the Ministry of Magic’s National Wizarding Chess Tournament and the contest was the next day. He needed to sleep and not drink.
So Harry went with the loud crowd he didn’t know well, and got thoroughly, completely, totally pissed - enough to actually attempt to engage in conversation with Mill. He called her Millie, not Bulstrode, for the first time, and she pushed him so hard he landed on his arse.
“It’s Mill, Potter, if you’re going to use my name at all.”
“You don’t like Millie? What about Millicent?” He heard the words slur and was dimly pleased they had all managed to make it out of his mouth.
“Potter, have you ever met anyone hip, cool, together, suave, whatever word you want to use, with the name Millicent?”
Harry pondered this. Eventually, he noticed she hadn’t been around for a while while he was pondering, and he pulled himself up by strangers’ robes and staggered around till he found her dancing with a woman wearing robes and a Slytherin tie. There was nothing underneath the robes but a bustier and boxers, and the tie was around her blonde hair. The robes were unfastened.
“You could be the first,” he said, trying to look Mill in the eye and looking at a breast instead. He cocked his head and tried to focus; he hadn’t remembered Mill being quite that tall.
“The first what? Potter, you’re falling down drunk.”
“The first really fabulous, brilliant, together, hip, cool, suave . . . and that other stuff . . . Millicent.”
“Potter, we talked about that 45 minutes ago.”
“I had to think.” For some reason, he was staring at a waistband now. He put a hand out to hold himself up on a chair back, and found himself braced on the seat instead. Oh well, it was solid.
He heard her groan. “Potter, call me Mill or call me Bulstrode, either’s fine. No Millie, no Millicent. And I think you better sit down.”
“Wannagohomewimme?” He put a tentative hand on her waist, since it was handy. She really was hot. At least, snarky. Snarky was hot, wasn’t it? And leather always was. He was a pushover for leather.
She gave a sharp bark that sounded like the Millicent Bulstrode who’d used to annoy him for being taller than Malfoy and sitting in front of him when he wanted to glare at the blond prick. “Potter, sweetie, what have I ever said that would make you think I was straight?”
Harry pondered this, though not for long. “Would that stop you from going home with me?”
“That, or the fact that even if I were completely enthralled by you, I’m absolutely positive you would not be able to perform tonight. Why don’t you hit on some nice boy who could nail you while you’re drunk?”
Harry blinked in horror. “I’m not . . . . I’m not . . . I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Gryffs don’t do one-offs?”
“Gay. I’m not GAY.” Somehow the word was coming out loud. Really, really loud. Now he thought about it, Mill was dancing with a woman. There were a lot of men dancing together in the club, as well. What kind of bar was this, other than one which served really, really strong drinks so that some innocent Living Boy who’d only had four could be this incapacitated? He tried to ask that question but got stuck on “incapacitated.”
“Mill. I’ll call you Mill,” he offered hopefully.
He saw her look at the woman in the bustier and sigh heavily, then look at him. “Potter, don’t you have any survival instincts at all? There are people out to kill you. Lots of people. They didn’t like what you did to the Dark Lord.”
Harry squinted till he could see her eyes to look into them. “Do you want to kill me?”
“Not usually.”
“Can I go home with you, then?”
And Mill took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, hauled him over her shoulder as they’d been trained to do to rescue wounded, and said, “The things I do for my brother Aurors.”
Harry didn’t remember much about the rest of the evening, except that it involved an unpleasant amount of time kneeling by the toilet. He woke the next morning rather sleepy but otherwise undamaged, and naked except for his boxers. His memory was so spotty that for a horrified instant, he thought he had come home with someone and shagged. He staggered into the bathroom and found a brand new toothbrush in a package, a small can of tooth powder, a clean face flannel and towel, a bar of soap, and a neatly-written note that said, “Your wand’s in the kitchen. You weren’t in shape to use it, but kept trying.”
Harry groaned, used the cleaning supplies provided, washed his face, and shambled into the kitchen. Mill, looking cheerful in a black dressing gown with red piping, was stirring porridge on the stove. She indicated the table. “Coffee?”
“Oh, god, please.”
“Who are you?”
The voice was small and high. Harry looked around and realised that there was a small person staring up at him: someone perhaps three years old, with a halo of fluffy gold hair, and dark eyes like Millicent’s . . . oops, Mill’s.
“I’m Harry. Who are you?”
“I’m Lilac. The 17th princess Lilac of Tir Na Nog.” She curtsied to him. Harry was in no condition to return the bow.
“Get dressed, Lila. Your porridge will be ready in a few.”
Harry tried to connect this pretty, delicate looking child to Mill, and came up wanting. “She’s er . . . a friend of yours?”
“Potter, you really ask the most tactless questions I’ve ever heard, drunk or sober. She’s my daughter Lilac Bullstrode. Got a problem with that?”
“Sorry,” Harry said. “Of course not.”
Lilac came running back, dressed in Muggle overalls and a t-shirt with a brown fedora on her head. “Look, mummy, I’m a detective!”
“I thought you were a princess today.”
“I don’t like crowns as much as hats.”
“Porridge, Harry?”
It was calm, and domestic, and friendly. Mill never said a word about the drunken pass he’d made at her the night before. They had coffee, and porridge with brown sugar and milk, and then tea. The caffeine returned him to something like human. When Lilac found out that Harry was the Harry Potter, she wasn’t embarrassingly impressed, but she had lots of questions about his scar, his adventures, and whether his wand (which Mill took down from the top of the fridge and returned to him) was the same one that killed the Bad Lord. She wanted to know if he would teach her the curse he’d used and lend her his wand. Harry was horrified. He had not been around children much except in his official capacity, kissing babies after the war. They looked such fragile, innocent creatures he was always afraid he would damage one. Lilac looked that way, but she was tougher than she looked. He wondered if other children might be too, or if it was a result of being Mill’s daughter.
Lilac turned out to be older than he thought. She was almost five - so much for being able to guess a child’s age. Harry surreptitiously counted that out on his fingers and concluded Mill had gotten pregnant near the end of seventh year, which explained why she came into the Aurors a bit later than average.
After that, he ended up over at Mill’s flat a lot. It was a two-bed first floor flat in the wizarding district, not far from Old Compton Street, ostensibly Muggle territory but actually a site where gay Muggles and wizards mingled. Mill felt at home there. She had explained that she didn’t “do” men, except once, the last time she got drunk and stupid. The incident had produced Lila, so that was all right.
In many ways, Mill seemed what Harry thought a mother should be like; unflappable, with a good sense of humour, firm on a few things and adjustable for most. She was that way with Harry too. She didn’t fuss over him, but she fed him when she fed Lila, helped him with his homework (he was trying to take his NEWTS for his own self respect) introduced him to her favourite bars, and taught him the names of drinks she thought he should stick to. He thought if Hermione had become a leather-bar dyke with bike, she might have been a lot like Mill.
Most important, he wasn’t as edgy and prone to losing his temper around them. Of course, part of the reason for that was Lilac - Harry thought if he really lost it, he would scare her. But it was also that they seemed to like him - not with the protectiveness that Ron and Hermione had necessarily developed over the years, but simply like him. He was not accustomed to being liked by anyone who had not seen him grow up.
It was amazing how soothing it was to spend time with a family that had none of the inevitable drama of the Weasleys. He loved them, but somehow after an evening with that chaotic household, Harry just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. It didn’t help that it was always just a little awkward after he broke up with Ginny, although everyone tried hard not to let that make a difference - except for Ginny, who did mind and made that clear, until Ron took her aside and pointed out that being nasty was not likely to make Harry feel sorry he’d broken up with her.
“And anyway,” Ron had said (Hermione imitating him, because she’d eavesdropped on the conversation in the Weasley kitchen) “you two are so wrong for each other. You want someone who puts you first. He’s an Auror, and a public person, and fighting Dark magic is always going to come ahead of you. That’s what Harry is - and if you haven’t figured that out by now, you really didn’t understand Harry anyway.”
Finally, one day after Harry and Mill had been working as Aurors a month or so - in different areas, much to Harry’s disappointment - Mill said, “I need a roommate.”
Harry knew she’d broken up with her long-time partner, a former Hufflepuff, a couple of months previously. “Well, start cruising.”
“Not that kind of roommate. I need someone I can leave Lila with sometimes, who isn’t a drama queen, and can share the grocery bills. He wouldn’t have to pay any rent.”
“He?”
“Cuts down on drama. Want to move in?”
Harry did.
][o][o][o][o][
Mill -
Well, my owl has always managed to track down people for me, even during the war, so I’m taking Guenever out of honourable retirement and sending her after you. That night at Poison is going to make me swear off taking your word on the good pubs and clubs for ever, curse you. I swear I saw a wallaby and a rat running for cover when your friends showed.
What kind of Animagus is a wallaby? I had to look it up in Persiflage, and I’m still squinting from the translation spell. As to the rat, the only rat Animagus I ever knew was a ridiculous little deathmuncher who is living out the rest of his unnatural life with an even more unnatural smile pasted on his face by an Imperiused Dementor. Not that I had to see it. The pleasures of Moscow were manifold, and avoiding Divine Retribution in the form of Potter was definitely not one of the least of the pleasures. Perhaps the rat was just a rat - Poison is that sort of place.
What I didn’t see was you, then or later. Where did you go? I distinctly saw some robes similar to the old Death Eaters - I thought they weren’t around any more. Then came the unpleasant invasion of more Aurors than one could shake a stick at. I shook my wand at them and Disapparated.
--D
][o][o][o][o][
Mill, for Merlin’s sake, where are you? I know you’re not home - I’ve been loitering around your building to check when it might be least be safe to try the wards on your flat. I was punished for this by being forced to watch the person you have coyly called Uncle Harry in your owls - did you think I wouldn’t SUSPECT? No doubt half the next generation is currently being named Harry or Harriet, poor things, but Lila must have been at least BORN when that trend started. You wouldn’t leave a four year old with a two year old, would you? Didn’t think so. Especially, Merlin help us, one named “Harry.”
I was forced to watch the Boy Who Ruined Hogwarts for Me and his redheaded crony each holding one of Lila’s hands - she was not shown to best advantage in such homely company, I assure you. Potter’s taste has apparently not improved since Hogwarts, though now it seems to run to discount store denim trousers and no-doubt-donated-to-needy-twits stained and raggedy shirts. To make up for 14 school terms of incredibly large clothing, this shirt left about 3 inches of arm at the end. I do hope he knows enough to dress adequately for his job. I will say one thing for his fashion sense: it must be very useful in undercover assignments. No one would ever think he was an Auror. Or a wizard. Or employed.
Lila looked healthy - I know you’ll ask that, though it would serve you right if I lied and said she looked a wreck. But healthy is as positive as I can go. The two idiots were pulling her arms up and swinging her, with no thought that it might dislocate her arms which EVERYONE knows, and she was laughing. So she is certainly in danger without you - not to mention someone, I presume Potter, had dressed her in yellow robes and blue trousers like Potter’s own, with the result that she looked like nothing so much as a daffodil in a blue vase. Completely unsuitable for a child of her lineage, or for that matter, any child remotely human.
I’ve concluded that I’m going to have to disguise myself sufficiently to fool Potter and get him to talk to me. He may have some information which will help me find you. Trust him to be completely unconcerned about you himself. I saw him ambling about among some of the Ladies of the Evening yesterday, dressed adequately enough (i.e., no large holes in his shirt) that I presume he was on undercover work or had finally figured out the only way he was going to find a non-redheaded and non-freckled girlfriend was to dress up and pay her. (I know, I know, you don’t like the term LadyoftheEvening, but if you don’t like it, write back and tell me. While you’re at it, could you just MENTION, as an ASIDE, what the fuck you’re up to?)
If Potter wants a prostitute, he’ll get a prostitute. I won’t actually have to touch him and get Chosen cooties; just make him think I’m going to. I think your Hogwarts theory about where his interests would lie, if he ever got over himself, might be correct. On the street with the Weasel, he kept his eyes busy - and not with the pretty girls. Too bad I was being one of them. So it’s unlikely he was actually wanting to date a Lady of the Evening himself . . .
--D
PS: Lila was also wearing a cap with a visor, which said Puddlemere United. It matched neither her hair, her robes, nor her trousers. Nor is it her name.
][o][o][o][o][
Harry saw the rentboy before the other saw him. He’d noticed them before, of course, hanging out not far from Mill’s flat, just a street beyond the wizarding district most of them couldn’t see. He suspected that a few could, but probably didn’t come to the district much. Wizards who wanted to participate in the sex trade went to the Muggle areas, mostly. He’d heard there were some discreet signals for wizards with magical kinks, mostly consisting of coloured socks with certain patterns, which the Squib rentboys and prostitutes who took up the trade recognised.
“Sex workers!” he reminded himself. Mill would have killed him for using “prostitute” -- or “rentboy,” for that matter. She was emphatic that there was nothing inherently wrong with being a sex worker, just the conditions of employment. She also emphasized that for many, the work was compulsory, not just economically involuntary. Mill could be as much as a pain as Hermione some days. She and Hermione were finally beginning to enjoy talking to each other. It had taken them long enough -- they’d been enemies since second year.
He missed Mill - and Hermione. At least he knew where Hermione was. India, doing some extended research on eastern magical strategies. No wonder Ron had been visiting him so much lately. He could have gone - but they all three knew he was needed in the emergency preparedness unit of the Ministry. Besides, when Hermione was in research mode, Harry and Ron had learned long ago just to leave her alone till she was done.
Harry forced his mind back to his unattractive assignment. Well, the assignment was unattractive - he supposed this bloke was attractive, really, in an over-the-top sexy way, though of course not to him. He was kind of shocking. He had on black silk trousers with rawhide laces crossed and wrapped all the way up to his groin, showing off every inch of leg and bits. The trousers rode low, and peeking out above them were some lacy, frilly, girly knickers with little bows. His top was tight fitting, the hem ripped off so that it couldn’t quite reach his belly. There were strategic rips in various places that made it seem some desperate lover had tried to get it off him and almost succeeded. The neck of the shirt flapped open a bit, showing rather a thin neck and a collarbone that looked . . . well, lickable, Harry supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. He was barefoot, which was a pretty good trick in London any time of year, and he had ice-blond hair that looked natural. Harry had last seen hair that colour on that bastard Malfoy. He looked sharply at the stranger’s face to make sure he didn’t see Malfoy’s pointy features. To his relief, it was snub-nosed and blue eyed - two things Malfoy definitely had never been. His mouth, though, seemed to know how to smirk.
Harry felt a twitch in his groin and mentally slapped himself. He knew it was just the tricks of the trade, but he was usually immune, even to the women. It must be the lacy pants - and the fact he hadn’t had sex in years. Or it might be relevant to the assignment. There was word that something called Karma was a love potion to make you irresistibly attractive to others, and the sex workers were using it to attract business. Harry was supposed to find out if it was another fake - most likely - or an actual potion, in which case he’d have to find out who was selling it. He was beginning to suspect that it might actually be real, and this rentboy was using.
The boy - young man, Harry noted, just a year or so younger than himself, surely - noticed Harry watching him and slid over. He had a liquid stride that said “Look at me, I’m the sexiest thing around,” and Harry had to admit the stride was telling the truth. He started to wonder if the mysterious potion he was searching for worked second-hand - a few did, and these feelings he was having simply weren’t natural. That would also explain how they could get it to work. After all, persuading your customer to drink something wouldn’t always be that easy.
The bloke smiled at him. “Hello, there. Like what you see?”
As a pickup line, it was businesslike. Harry pretended to be examining the young man, while considering. Pretending to be a customer might be a good strategy. He’d have an excuse to talk to the other and ask questions.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” he said coolly. “What’s your name?”
That earned him a smouldering look. “You can call me Darwin.”
Well, that answered the question if he were perchance from the wizarding community. You couldn’t get a more Muggle name than Darwin.
“So, your place?” he asked uncomfortably.
Darwin sauntered closer and slid a warm hand around Harry’s leather-covered arm. “The alley would be faster.”
Harry tried not to make a face. “I don’t want fast.”
“It’ll cost more.”
“I don’t care.”
The hand on his arm was doing weird things to his body. It was becoming more and more certain that this Muggle was using a wizarding potion to affect him. Well, he’d thrown off Imperio before; this shouldn’t be as hard. So to speak.
Darwin led him to a surprisingly attractive apartment - shabby, but immaculate, and bare enough that it didn’t look impoverished, just ascetic. The furniture was old - very old, the newest piece over a century, and although they were probably rescues from wherever, they made the place feel oddly elegant.
When they got in, Darwin led him into the living room and stood staring at him a minute.
“Ummm . . . what am I supposed to do?” Harry asked.
That led to a smirk which looked eerily like Malfoy’s. Harry’s stomach lurched. Definitely a potion. Nothing reminding him of Malfoy could possibly be sexy.
“New to this, are you?”
“Yeah . . . what of it?”
“Virgins are extra.”
“I’m not a virgin! I’ve just never . . . I’ve never been with a man.”
Darwin, oddly, seemed to relax a little at that. “So what do you want?”
“Well . . . just to talk, really.”
Darwin looked at him incredulously. “To talk? You want me to talk . . . oh, talk dirty, is that it? What should I call you, by the way?”
Harry thought quickly, his mind gone blank from the offer. “Neville . . . Neville Weasley.” He remembered the confusion when he’d been Neville Longbottom for the Knight Bus. He was much sneakier now.
“Memorable name,” Darwin said, sounding as if he really thought so. In fact, he looked as if he were trying not to laugh. Harry was glad he hadn’t used “Longbottom.”
Darwin sat on the couch and crossed his legs, pulling his heels up to his crotch. That made it abundantly clear that the lacy panties weren’t at all constricting, and definitely could be seen through. Harry tried not to look. “Okay, sit down, Neville. I’ll make it easy to start.”
Harry sat gingerly down at the other end of the couch. Darwin looked at him unreadably, then smoothly rose to his knees and crawled over, putting his mouth close to Harry’s neck. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said, in a low voice that was like a hand on Harry’s cock. “Green’s my favourite colour. And that mouth . . . looks flexible. There are a lot of things I’d like to do with a mouth like that. Can you imagine some of them?”
Harry knew he was blushing. He shook his head, wondering at what point he should bring up his questions. This talking wasn’t going in the right direction.
Darwin sniffed at Harry’s throat and then, thoughtfully, tasted it. “Your pulse is faster,” he observed, still in that sultry voice. “I can’t believe I’m getting to you. I haven’t even started talking dirty.”
It was that damned potion, whatever it was. Darwin would definitely be worth interrogating . . . if Harry could ever find the words to ask something.
Darwin’s hand was on his inner thigh. “Mmmmm, muscles. I’d like those muscles holding me down. Keeping me from squirming as you licked your way up from my navel to my jaw. And then you’d lick all the way down again . . . but you wouldn’t stop at my navel.”
Harry trembled
“You’d keep licking downward, oh so slowly, your thighs still pinning me, your hands on my chest, pushing me down, the palms covering my nipples. They’d grow hard from that, you know; hard from your hands. And as you got below my waist, other parts would be getting hard too.” His voice was getting rougher as he spoke.
Harry shifted restlessly.
Darwin slipped a hand inside Harry’s jacket, then beneath his chambray shirt, then beneath the white knit shirt he wore . . . “My god, why all the clothes?” he asked, in a more ordinary voice, but then returned to the sultry one. “Scared someone’s going to get too close? Have to keep yourself closed off from the world?” His fingers were sliding through the fabric, deftly removing Harry’s defences, layer by layer.
He paused after the third one, staring at Harry’s torso. Harry, so hard he was hurting, shifted again at the gaze. It looked . . . hungry. He’d never thought his body was special. Ginny didn’t seem to think so, and she’d had more to compare it to. But . . . .
Suddenly, he was flat on his back with a smooth body above him. Darwin grabbed his jaw in both hands and pulled his face up into a kiss. A kiss? That wasn’t just talk. Harry opened his mouth to protest, and a tongue slid inside and started lubricating his tonsils. His cock definitely approved of this, and without meaning to, Harry arched his back and pushed himself against Darwin, lurching straight into Darwin’s groin.
Oh . . . my . . . god that was good. He reflexively wrapped his legs around the other’s, gripping them just as Darwin had described. And the other moaned. Harry was not used to making someone moan, except for a short time during the war, and that was from his hexes. Darwin had unzipped his trousers at some point, and Harry pulled them down hastily as he attempted to undo his own. In a few seconds, he felt damp silk, and through it a wet cock rubbing against his own. Harry had not been able to find clean pants quickly that morning and had opted for none over being late. The thought of those lacy knickers the only barrier between Darwin’s cock and his own bits made him whine. Once he started whining, he couldn’t seem to stop. He found himself pushing up and down against Darwin’s leg, gasping at each change in pressure.
Darwin grabbed his hand. “Puh . . . puh . . . .puhleeze,” he gasped. “You’re not some kind of annoying little lapdog, and I’m not a visitor you can hump. Give me a second.”
Harry, his brain completely gone southward, did not understand Darwin’s point. He allowed himself to be pushed away, frustrated. But Darwin wasn’t planning to frustrate, it seemed. He slid out of his pants quickly and then paused to stare at Harry, looking up at him from the couch.
“I want you,” he said, and there was no deliberate sexiness in his voice at all. If anything, it sounded surprised and bewildered, though hungry. “I want you badly. Can I fuck you? Do you want to fuck me?”
“Yes!” Harry wanted it all, and now. Definitely, now. Darwin laughed a little, and sat up. He looked thoughtful for one instant, and then grabbed Harry and pulled him face down onto the floor.
On a significantly larger and therefore more convenient surface, Darwin seemed to have decided to take control. He stretched himself across Harry’s body, face near Harry’s arse. He shoved a hand between Harry’s legs, and pushed up. Harry felt a long finger under his balls, a thumb against his arsehole, and a couple of others dancing wherever. His whines took on an intensity as he felt his balls tighten.
Darwin’s hand left him for a short period of time, and he felt a digit swipe across his already-wet cock. Then it was back, the thumb slick now, and then . . . then it was inside him, a moment of incredibly intense pleasure edged with pain. He felt it push up, hard, and then he was coming; shouting and coming, unable to stop either the sound or the involuntary pumping of his hips into Darwin’s experienced hand.
He was shocked how little time he’d taken. He’d never felt so out of control. It almost terrified him. He tried to twist away from the fingers which seemed to understand his crotch so well. Unfortunately, part of his body liked them there and wanted to stay close by. Harry ended up making a series of little panting noises and then relaxed, breathing hard, letting Darwin’s hand stroke him, carefully light on his hyper sensitive parts.
“So you like that?”
He jerked reflexively. He’d been far away, recovering from that orgasm, and the other’s presence had been . . . well, not forgotten, but naturalised. He felt lovely, this bloke did. All was good. Now he had to come back to the world and run things again.
He sighed, and nodded. Hard to lie about something like that, with an eyewitness asking.
There was perhaps a minute more of rest. Darwin’s hand was stroking his belly, oddly gentle; Harry wouldn’t have expected something that felt almost affectionate from someone just selling his sexual skills. Then Darwin said, in that sultry voice again, “Would you like to suck me off?”
Harry would like. He was surprised how much he wanted to. He’d never even thought of doing such a thing -- but why not? Harry slid down Darwin’s body, over a silky belly, till there was a hard length on his lips and a soft, velvety ball against his cheek. He licked reflexively, bringing out a shudder in Darwin. Then he set to work learning what balls felt and tasted like. He thought that he must always have wondered, because they seemed familiar in his mouth, as though they belonged there. He liked the little noises Darwin was making, too. He experimented with mouth variations, and was rewarded with a flow of noises that sounded as if Darwin were trying to sing an atonal modern song while someone was whipping him. Harry snickered, and let his mouth return to what Darwin had requested.
Ginny had agreed to try this with him, a couple of times, and though she hadn’t liked it, Harry had. Even with only a couple of experiences, he knew what would feel good and what didn’t. He held Darwin’s hips down with his hands and set to work enthusiastically. He couldn’t imagine why Ginny hadn’t liked it. There was nothing more wonderful he’d ever done, than hold someone’s prick in his mouth and have them totally at his whim. He could get a rhythm going, and their whimpers and moans would stabilise; he could surprise with a hard suck or a light brush of teeth, and get a roar or curses. The cock felt wonderful in his mouth, like smooth leather over a hard core -- like a bobby’s nightstick, and wasn’t that a turn on, all by itself. There wasn’t any strong taste to it; if he had been going to describe the texture and flavour, he’d have picked “egg white.” But best of all were Darwin’s moans, begging him for more, harder, faster, slower, gently, no hard! And legs that had crossed over Harry’s back to offer him the best access, trembling as Darwin apparently completely surrendered to sensation . . . to Harry.
Harry rewarded the surrender by wetting a finger and sliding it into Darwin as he continued to suck. Darwin began bucking, and once he started, he couldn’t stop till Harry tasted semen, thick in his throat, and heard screaming that didn’t let up for longer than Harry would have thought possible. Darwin just lay there, panting, for awhile after that. Then he raised his head and stared at Harry. “Finish it.”
“I’m not sure what there is to finish,” Harry said doubtfully. “You seem to have finished already.”
‘God, no, P . . . puhleeze fuck me, please.”
Harry admitted to himself that somewhere in the process of getting Darwin off, he’d pretty much got himself interested all over again. “I don’t know how.”
“Use your imagination, dammit. Or at least your instincts. Fuck me.”
It was so imperious, Harry got harder. This almost endless erection reminded him of sixth year, when nothing he did seemed to stop it for more than a few minutes. “I’ll show you,” he thought, confusedly blurring between the rentboy Darwin and the infinitely more infuriating 6th-year Draco Malfoy, whom he’d somehow managed to follow despite his damned insatiable cock and the helpful Ginny. He’d gotten so frustrated by hunting Draco that confused images of him, snarking at Harry, trapping him, duelling him, sneaking around on him, actually appeared during his trysts with his girlfriend - and a number of times when he was wanking. And this Darwin had the same smirk . . .
He shoved Darwin down, hard, rolled him onto his stomach, and threw himself on top of him.
“You asked for it, you got it,” Harry snarled. He hadn’t done this before, but how different could it be? He poked at a dry, unyielding entrance, and felt a bit more doubtful.
Darwin bucked, but not from pleasure. “Stop!” he growled. “I’m not a girl.”
Harry thought that would have gone without saying, so he moaned, the nearest to begging he could do. Deep in lust, he forced himself backward, though his hips kept bucking forward. He was too frustrated to be coherent. Fortunately, Darwin did not appear to have that problem. He sat up and dived into a bedside drawer.
“This,” he hissed, and whether he was angry or desperate was impossible to tell, “is lube. If you put your cock somewhere there’s no natural lube, use it. Always. Or you’re going to hurt someone big time. In this case, me.”
Harry reached for the lube, panting. Darwin held it out of his reach, and held up his other hand.
“Now this is a condom. I trust you’ve used them before? This is one of those activities that could give you hepatitis C or HIV, Neville. Not to mention all sorts of minor infections.”
No, Harry had never used one of those before, though the Muggle-borns in his dorm had played with them around him. He’d been too shy to ask them how. With Ginny, there had been spells, and Ginny took care of them. He took the little package from Darwin and peered at it. Seamus and Dean had blown them up like balloons, so he knew they should fit; he wasn’t that big.
Darwin glared at him, then snatched it out of his hands and ripped it open. He froze for an instant, taking deep breaths, then reached for Harry’s cock. He paused just before he touched it, and looked at Harry’s face, which Harry suspected looked guilty and ashamed. That “you should always be perfect” thing again.
Darwin’s own face showed concern, and a bit of sheepishness. “Look - don’t worry about it. It just hurt a bit, and I reacted.”
Harry nodded, still uncomfortable until Darwin’s long fingers slid around his shaft. Then he just closed his eyes and groaned. Darwin rolled the condom down as if he’d done that a million times - well, in his profession, he likely had. The condom felt a little strange; Harry’s cock was not quite as interested now, between the unusual feeling and Darwin’s temper. Then Darwin was stroking on lube, and his erection appeared to decide that being dressed for this was just fine. Juuuuuuust . . . fiiiiiiiine . . .
Darwin looked at Harry’s face again, then fell on his back and put his legs up. He pulled Harry down to him. “Fuck me,” he said, and Harry’s lust was back on high.
He slid in. It was a bit more difficult than he was used to with Ginny, but that was . . . oh, that was more than made up for by the squeezing feeling. Every nerve end on his cock was being pushed at once, and he hadn’t even moved. Experimentally, he lifted his hips and pushed deeper. The pleasure became unbearable. The only relief he could find was to do it again. And again. Harry felt himself slide up and down the passage, clutching Darwin’s muscled hips for balance. Darwin wrapped his legs around Harry’s back, heels against Harry’s arse so tightly there’d be bruises. He bit Harry’s shoulder. Harry grunted, and thrust harder.
Darwin’s cock was pressed between them, rolling against their bellies each time Harry thrust. It felt better than anything he could remember. This was a cock. He was fucking another man. There was something in him that had always felt apart from Ginny, even in the deepest passion, when they were in love and new to each other. He’d assumed that it was just his separation from the rest of the world. But there was no separation here; everything felt exactly as it should be, just what he wanted, though he hadn’t known. Harry was wrapped around a man, a man’s arse was wrapped around his cock, and-oh Merlin, he was . . . he was coming. No, this time he was coming apart.
It was even more amazing than the last time. He clutched Darwin’s shoulders, terrified of his body’s abandonment to pleasure. He’d never been out of control like this. He whimpered, almost panicked, felt warm wetness on his belly, and heard Darwin shout. He rode it out for what seemed minutes . . . no, years, then fell limply onto Darwin’s chest.
Harry moaned, trying to apologise but unable to form words. He lay there, gasping and whimpering, too overwhelmed to move.
Then, Harry felt himself rolled over to his side, pulled tight to Darwin’s chest. There was a reassuring hand spread across the back of his head, supporting it. “All right, p-p-pretty. For your first time, you did nicely.” Harry moved his head to rest on the other’s chest, noticed a nipple near his nose and licked it, then closed his eyes and let Darwin be in charge. It was remarkable how liberating that felt. Harry’d been the one in charge of almost everything once Dumbledore was dead.
Darwin adjusted one more time, and Harry was lying mostly next to him now, his head comfortably resting on Darwin’s chest, an arm sprawled across, and a sense of rightness and peace coming over him. So, Mill, do you ever get tired of being right? he thought. A closet case indeed. He’d gone without sex with women for almost three years now, and hadn’t missed it much. It had gotten him off, but never felt quite . . . well, he’d always wondered what the big deal was. But this . . . He needed more of this soon . . . tomorrow, at the latest. A bloke. Definitely a bloke. Darwin smelled of familiar things: arousal, maleness, semen. There was also something else elusively familiar; he couldn’t quite place it, but for some reason it reminded him of his youth. He let it wash over him and stopped thinking.
Darwin was stroking his shoulder, almost tenderly. Harry kissed a nipple again absentmindedly, resisted the urge to start licking and sucking in order to determine if Darwin were truly played out, and settled into sleep. Just before he drowsed off, one question emerged.
How am I going to interrogate him after this?
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In the middle of the night, Harry woke to sounds he hadn’t heard since the war - cracks of apparition, several of them. He reacted on instinct alone. He called his wand to him (it had to disentangle from his jacket sleeve, where he kept it) and cast Protego on the bed as he opened his eyes.
Three red flashes arched away from them. He felt the mattress sink, and then Darwin had leaped up and towards the door. The robed figures aimed at him, and Harry accioed every wand in the room. He hadn’t tried that before, and got smacked in the face by two wands as he ducked two others. The interlopers, who were thrown off balance when their wands headed for Harry, staggered.
Darwin dived back toward Harry, and reached for a wand. Harry wasn’t about to let any Muggle touch one. He snarled “Stupefy,” and let Darwin’s body flop onto the bed. He leaped up, the feeling of magic electric around him as adrenalin kicked in, and sent a series of nasty Auror curses at them.
They seemed to be protected from those. Harry swore and grabbed Darwin. He wished he’d been a bit better prepared - what the attackers knew might be useful, if he could manage to get in a position to question them. But discretion being the better part of valour, he Apparated instead, using the Auror side-along grip.
He landed in his own room, and dropped a still frozen Darwin to the floor. Both of them were still naked. Damn it - he liked his jacket. Nor would Mill ever let him forget it if he lost it and she found out how. He cast a Finite Incantatem on the supine Muggle as he walked to the wooden cupboard for clothes.
After earlier this night, he had a pretty good idea of Darwin’s body size. Legs a bit longer, torso slightly shorter, a trifle more solid than himself. Harry didn’t have any especially large clothes -- Mill had long ago forced him to toss everything he’d worn at Hogwarts except his ties and his dress robes, and the last jumper Mrs. Weasley had made for him. So he went for his longest jeans, the ones a trifle worn at the hems because he stepped on them occasionally, and a blue jumper Ginny had made for him one Christmas. She was a much more tasteful knitter than her mother, but he’d never liked it because of the too-high neck. Darwin’s neck was longer than his, and it should be more comfortable for him.
Harry had no lacy underwear to give Darwin, and it was amazing how much that bothered him. It just didn’t seem right to see Darwin in men’s pants. But even if he’d the nerve to steal a pair of Millicent’s knickers, they would be much too big for him. She wasn’t exactly the lace type anyway. Harry secretly suspected her of owning and wearing leather knickers and bra. Or boxers, and no bra. Whatever.
Harry located a sixpack of Y-fronts Mrs. Weasley had bought him for Christmas a couple of years ago. He didn’t wear them, but it would have been wrong to throw them out --- giving someone pants was such a motherly thing. He wondered what she’d have said if he’d told her he’d rather wear nothing.
Even after Harry removed the Stupefy, Darwin hadn’t moved. Harry went over to check him. His blue eyes were wide open, lit with shocked surprise. Well, he was a Muggle. Harry turned his back to Darwin and hastily transfigured the Y-fronts into something a bit sexier. They were now lilac, trimmed with grey lace and a grey silk ribbon bow, with a little pink heart right over Darwin’s arsehole. Their basic structure was still Y-front, however. McGonagall hadn’t really spent much class time on transfiguring male and female clothes into each other.
Then he helped Darwin to sit up, and handed him the knickers cum Y-fronts and the other clothes he’d gathered. Darwin looked at the Y-fronts and burst out laughing.
“Special order?” he asked, and Harry blushed.
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Dear Mill, wherever you are:
I begin to doubt you’re getting my owls. I came to that conclusion at an unpleasantly rushed pace, after I was attacked in my bed by three of the wizards you mentioned to me. I was fast asleep after a rigorous hour or so, but my partner-for-the-evening fortunately was a wizard, and had good enough reflexes to shield us both and then get us out of there.
Where the FUCK are you? Lila needs her mum, and no, I have no plans WHATEVER to sleep in the same bed with her - I always thought that was kind of a pervy habit of yours. (But then, with your Muggle mom, I suppose it was to be expected you’d yield to a Muggle child raising fad.) However, she isn’t screaming or starving to death, mostly owing to the care of the overgrown freckle Potter has sitting with her. After our sudden transport, he dressed and went to talk to his weaselly friend, and now that poor nearly-pure blood child is living in what I have no doubt is a rat hole with Quidditch posters pasted to every wall. Still, I think she’ll be safer there than with Wonder Boy.
I realise that I’ve revealed to you who was in my bed, and you may be a bit disappointed in me. It’s a long story - would you believe I needed the cash? Thought not. I can’t wait until the Chosen Git remembers he’s supposed to pay for the pleasure of my company. I’m betting I can get him incoherent in less than a minute.
--D
P.S. - Did you know “Uncle Harry” is gay as a maypole? Neither did he. Possibly, nor does he yet. I’d flee screaming, not being fond of denial myself, but he has a certain look on his face and I have a hope that you are the snitch he’s looking for. He’s always been good at getting what he wants.
P.P.S. -- I do NOT want to end up reading fairy stories to a little girl for the rest of the best part of my life. Nor do I want The Boy Who Lives to Annoy Me taking charge of her upbringing, and turning her into a Gryffindor - or worse, a Hufflepuff. Does this disappearing have anything to do with the vampire you were dating? I told you she was trouble.
P.P.P.S.: He likes me in knickers. He tried to transfigure a pair for me when he thought I wasn’t looking. He was pants at it (pun intended) and they are tri-coloured and look like boys’ pants with lace sewn on and a heart in . . . well, I suppose I must call it “the right place.”
Part 2