FIC & ART: "Give Him the Good News" for tripperfunster
Recipient: Tripperfunster
Author/Artist: camillo1978
Title: Give Him the Good News
Rating: G for the picture, R for the story
Pairings: Albus Dumbledore/Argus Filtch
Word Count: 2500
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *war story; slash*.
Summary: Like many of his generation, there’s a lot more to Argus Filtch than meets the eye. Albus Dumbledore discovers that he isn’t the only man in London with a heavy conscience.
Author's/Artist's Notes: Picture drawn in Photoshop. Profound apologies to Tripperfunster for not drawing comic smut. I couldn’t do it nearly as well as you do! Instead, I’m afraid I got all thoughtful about character history and this was the result.
7th June 1918
Somebody new is working behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron. Albus has just discovered a twelfth use for dragon’s blood and is therefore very eager to get a celebratory drink off him.
‘Double Ogden’s and one for yourself,’ he tells the new barman cheerfully.
‘Thanks,’ replies the barman.
‘It’s been a good day,’ Albus explains.
The barman pours two drinks and gulps his immediately. His left hand is waiting palm upwards for money before his right hand has begun to lower the glass. Albus pays and the barman nods, flipping the Galleon into the little Mokeskin-lined casket that acts as the pub’s combined cash register and safe.
‘Thirsty?’ Albus enquires mildly, sipping his drink and savouring the burn.
The barman shrugs. ‘A bit.’
After downing two fingers of Firewhisky, any normal drinker would be weeping and gasping for air. Albus examines the barman more carefully. He is pale, and thin, and young. A fine network of lines around his eyes and the blank hostility in them whisper a mystery.
‘I’m Albus Dumbledore.’
‘Argus Filtch.’
‘Do you want another drink?’
‘It’s my round.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I do. And I’m working. So no thanks.’
Daniel Dodderidge, the Leaky landlord, pipes up from the other end of the bar. ‘Don’t worry, Argus. It’s pretty quiet tonight. You may as well finish early.’
The barman’s expression unexpectedly swoops towards despair at the news. Albus is instantly fascinated. He catches the man’s eye and leans forward slightly. ‘Get drunk with me,’ he murmurs. ‘I could really do with the company.’
The barman turns away from him and reaches up to grab a full bottle of Ogden’s from the top shelf. ‘Five Galleons each,’ he says firmly, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulling out a fistful of loose change.
Three drinks later, Albus has told Argus all about dragon’s blood, especially the way it heals werewolf scratches better than anything else. ‘So how did you end up here?’ he asks eventually, aware that he has been dominating the conversation and showing off horribly.
‘I’ve been in hospital for a while. One of the Healers heard that Daniel was looking for some help and put in a word for me.’
‘In hospital?’
‘Trouble with my lungs.’
‘Oh?’
As if to contradict his own words, Argus takes another masochistically large gulp of Firewhisky. ‘And my eyes.’
‘Your eyes? That doesn’t sound too good.’
‘It wasn’t. They’re fine now, though. Lungs are a bit fucked but I’m luckier than most.’
‘Luckier?’
Argus stares into his glass and chews his bottom lip. ‘Much luckier,’ he mumbles.
‘Argus-?’
‘Have you ever done something unforgiveable?’ the barman asks suddenly. ‘Something that makes you wake up screaming?’
Albus Dumbledore’s heart shudders. He is very good at not thinking about it during the daytime, but his nightmares catch him out if he gets too comfortable. He looks into the widely unsober eyes of his new acquaintance and nods sadly.
‘I’m a squib.’
This takes him aback. Magic literally saturates his being. He can tickle it with his fingertips and taste it in the air when he closes his eyes. He always thought that proximity to a squib would evince some kind of dismal sensory vacancy, but Argus Filtch doesn’t have that effect on him at all.
‘So?’
‘When I was nine years old, my parents wiped my memory and left me outside a police station. I have no idea who they are, what they look like, or where I lived. I didn’t know I was anything other than an amnesiac Muggle schoolboy. The police searched for months. Nobody came forward.’
Albus is appalled. ‘I can’t believe people still do that!’
Argus shrugs. ‘The orphanage was ... I got a job in the mines when I was sixteen. Sutton Colliery. Much better.’
‘Mines?’
Argus rolls his eyes at the wizardly ignorance. ‘I worked in a coal mine. Long hours, hard work, good money.’
‘Digging for coal?’
‘Yes. And then the war started.’
Despite a concerted effort to stay as far away as possible from world affairs, even Albus knows that Muggle Britain is at war. There are lots of men in uniform hobbling around London, and he hasn’t been able to visit Nicholas Flamel in Paris. The Ministry of Magic have even forbidden the use of international owls in case they are shot down. It is most inconvenient when one has several co-authored papers for Ars Alchemica in preparation.
‘Because it provides fuel, coal mining is a protected occupation,’ Argus explains carefully, pouring himself another drink. ‘But the army started recruiting us for a specific job and I wanted to do my bit.’
Albus’ eyebrows shoot up. ‘You were a soldier?’
The barman stands up suddenly, snaps his heels together and straightens his back. ‘Sergeant Argus Filtch, 186th Tunnelling Company, sah!’
The whole pub freezes. Although it is a quiet night, Albus is painfully aware of at least ten pairs of eyes peering at them curiously. Daniel Dodderidge makes his way across the room towards them with a frown on his face.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asks surprisingly gently.
Argus jerks his chin even higher and bites out a ‘Yes’. He swallows hard. ‘Sorry, Dan. I’m trying to explain to Albus, here.’
‘You don’t need to explain anything,’ Daniel tells him firmly. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘But I do. I bloody do! It’s a year. A year today.’
‘What is?’ Albus asks eagerly. ‘Please go on.’
Argus sits down again. Daniel fixes Albus with a “don’t push it” stare and grudgingly leaves them be.
‘What’s a Tunnelling Company?’ Albus prompts.
‘We were mining the German trenches.’
It is one of the most mystifying sentences that Albus has ever heard. His face obviously reflects perplexity because Argus looks into his eyes and then smiles and shakes his head incredulously. ‘This is going to take a while.’
The bottle of Ogden’s is three-quarters empty and Daniel has locked the door and gone to bed.
‘Ten past three in the morning, right?’
Albus nods.
‘Nineteen mines detonated simultaneously all along the ridge. I reckon there was more than four hundred tons of explosive altogether.’
‘Is that a lot?’
‘Enough to hear it in London! Ten thousand Germans killed in a minute. I worked my heart and soul out for eighteen months in those tunnels. I killed them. I did.’
For once in his life, Albus is lost for words. Argus is visibly shaking.
‘Of course, by the time it went off, I’d been sent back to a reserve trench near Ypres. You get so used to the bombardment that you sleep through most things, but that one certainly woke me up. Three hours later, my dugout was hit by a stray shell. The blast knocked me out and broke my leg. When I came ’round, everyone else was wearing their gas masks.’
‘Gas masks?’
‘Phosgene gas. Mixed in with chlorine. The air goes all heavy and green. You try to breathe and it just catches in your throat. And then everything starts to burn. A chap helped me to put my mask on and got me outside until a field ambulance came. They splinted my leg and took me to a dressing station.’
‘How did you get home?’
‘I don’t really remember much. The pain. And I couldn’t bloody see! There was a train, and a clearing station, and a ship. Nurses with posh accents washing my eyes out. I kept waking up in a panic because I’d stopped breathing in my sleep. As far as I know, you just keep moving until you’re either dead or in Dover.’
Albus is leaning forwards, his hand over his mouth as he listens. ‘My God.’
‘We had to get a train from the port to whichever hospital we were assigned to. I was lying on a stretcher on the platform. These people grabbed my stretcher and started to move me. I thought it was a bit odd because I hadn’t heard the train pull in.’
‘Who was it?’
Argus frowns. He tilts his head and asks worriedly, ‘Have you ever heard of a Knight Bus?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Don’t say that! The nurses at St Mungo’s told me it’s this new service that’s just started. They said that Ernie Prang parked the bus right outside the hospital and wouldn’t leave until a Healer come out to look at me. They said that I had to be a genuine wizard in distress or he wouldn’t have found me.’
‘No, no! I didn’t mean it isn’t real. I just can’t believe that the Knight Bus was a good way to travel, given your condition.’
Argus wrinkles his nose. ‘It’s better than a Flanders horse-drawn ambulance, I can tell you that much.’
‘They healed you, though. You look all right. Better than all right.’
‘Just don’t ask me to run up any stairs. Or work in any coal mines.’
Albus pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me!’ Argus snaps. ‘I should have drowned good and slow in my own water. I deserved to after what I did!’
‘But it’s war,’ Albus retorts. ‘You have to follow your orders.’
11th November 1918
‘My dear boy, I heard the news and came straight away!’
Albus shakes his friend’s hand delightedly and then pulls him into a hug. ‘You must be so pleased!’
‘More relieved than anything,’ Argus says. ‘It couldn’t go on forever.’
They are standing in the doorway of Argus’ room, up the narrow stairs that lead from a hidden door in the Leaky Cauldron parlour. Albus has visited lots of times over the past few months but he has never been further than the bottom of the stairs before. In his excitement, he has forgotten his manners and simply barged in, calling the barman’s name.
Suddenly awkward, he lets go of Argus and takes a step back. ‘I’m sorry! I should have asked for you downstairs.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Argus reassures him. ‘Come in. It’s not much to look at, mind.’
The bedroom is small and basic with a bare wooden floor and a grimy skylight. Argus flops back on the bed, all creaking springs and shy smiles. There is no chair to sit on so Albus perches at the end of the mattress and tries to look casual about it.
‘I am pleased,’ Argus admits. ‘It’s like a bit of lingering gas has finally got out of my chest.’
‘That’s good. That’s wonderful! The Times says the Kaiser has fled and there’s a revolution in Germany.’
Argus grimaces. ‘Poor bastards.’
‘I am learning, you know. Slowly.’
‘I’m not sure why you bother.’
‘Well you’ve had to learn about magic, and you can’t even use it! The least I can do is learn about Muggles in return.’
Argus blinks and then dissolves into wheezy giggles. ‘Christ, man! You’re a tactless bugger sometimes.’
‘Oh, hell. Oh, I am sorry! You seem to have this effect on me. I either get tongue-tied or lose all sense of decorum.’
Argus quietens. He stretches himself out with careful grace and gazes up from his pillow intently.
‘Albus. Are you-?’
‘Yes. No. Nothing has happened as such. I just want-’
‘Can I touch your hair?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I want to run my fingers through your hair. It makes my cock stiff just thinking about it.’
Delight. Fear. Desire. ‘Oh, Merlin.’
Argus shifts a leg and adjusts himself with a gentle hand. ‘See?’
He cannot stop himself from reaching out and touching the fabric of Argus’ trousers. It is rampant curiosity, he tells himself, blushing. The feel of a clothed erection not his own is both comfortingly familiar and astoundingly exciting.
‘Can I-?’
‘Yes.’ Argus sits up, shrugging off his braces and pulling his shirt over his head. He unbuttons his fly and lifts a shaky hand, combing his fingers through fine auburn strands of hair and drawing them back from Albus’ face.
Albus grabs the hand and pulls the palm to his mouth for a kiss. He closes his eyes and sucks the index finger with barely restrained hunger.
‘Undo your robes for me.’
He starts in the region of his groin and Argus grins appreciatively at his eager rush. Soon they are cock-to-cock, gasping for breath and touching tongues. Albus can feel his balls tight and tingling, rapidly approaching the point of no return. He is a big man on a small bed, half falling, half sliding off one side so he has the room to pull Argus’ hips towards his face and Argus’ cock into his mouth.
There are hands on the back of his head, caresses and wordless moans of pleasure. The delicious weight on his tongue and the scent of impending come are enough to make him spurt an electrifying orgasm against his own stomach.
August 31st 1925
‘Will you miss me?’
‘You’ll be here at the weekends. Or I could catch the train to Hogsmeade.’
‘Why waste a whole day on a train? I can Side-Along Apparate you in a second.’
Argus gives him a warning glance. ‘Albus. Don’t.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous and I’m going to miss you dreadfully.’
‘It’s your choice, you daft sod! Why you want to be a teacher is beyond me, but I’ve never seen you so excited as when you got the offer.’
Albus raises his eyebrows. ‘Never?’
10th August 1938
‘I’m so angry with Armando! The boy has been in an orphanage since he was born, and he hasn’t lifted a finger until now. The Hogwarts register clearly shows the child’s location as well as age and name. He could have fetched Tom Riddle and found a foster home any time in the last eleven years!’
‘Not if he was a squib,’ Argus replies shortly. ‘No one came for me, even when I was eleven, did they?’
‘Dear boy. You know I wish they had. You know I wish I’d met you when I was sixteen, and not-’
Argus places a firm hand on Albus’ chest and halts the onset of self-recrimination. He straightens Albus’ turquoise tie, smoothes the lapels of his new purple suit and brushes his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Go and see the boy. Give him the good news.’
Author’s Notes
1. At 3.10am on June 7th 1917, the Battle of Messines began in earnest with the simultaneous detonation of 19 huge underground mines by Allied forces. The mines were in Belgium, the explosion was heard by David Lloyd George, the British Prime Minister, who was in his study in 10 Downing Street. No official figures were ever released regarding German casualties but within 3 hours 7,354 prisoners were taken, 10,000 were reported missing and over 6,000 known dead. It is estimated that 10,000 German troops were killed in the explosion. A description of the tunnelling companies is provided at:
http://www.1914-1918.net/tunnelcoyre.htm
2. The 186th (Argus’ tunnelling company) is a fictitious addition.
3. The assumption is that Argus has an extended life similar to any other wizard. In this story he is born in 1898 and still able to work in 1998.
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Author/Artist: camillo1978
Title: Give Him the Good News
Rating: G for the picture, R for the story
Pairings: Albus Dumbledore/Argus Filtch
Word Count: 2500
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *war story; slash*.
Summary: Like many of his generation, there’s a lot more to Argus Filtch than meets the eye. Albus Dumbledore discovers that he isn’t the only man in London with a heavy conscience.
Author's/Artist's Notes: Picture drawn in Photoshop. Profound apologies to Tripperfunster for not drawing comic smut. I couldn’t do it nearly as well as you do! Instead, I’m afraid I got all thoughtful about character history and this was the result.
7th June 1918
Somebody new is working behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron. Albus has just discovered a twelfth use for dragon’s blood and is therefore very eager to get a celebratory drink off him.
‘Double Ogden’s and one for yourself,’ he tells the new barman cheerfully.
‘Thanks,’ replies the barman.
‘It’s been a good day,’ Albus explains.
The barman pours two drinks and gulps his immediately. His left hand is waiting palm upwards for money before his right hand has begun to lower the glass. Albus pays and the barman nods, flipping the Galleon into the little Mokeskin-lined casket that acts as the pub’s combined cash register and safe.
‘Thirsty?’ Albus enquires mildly, sipping his drink and savouring the burn.
The barman shrugs. ‘A bit.’
After downing two fingers of Firewhisky, any normal drinker would be weeping and gasping for air. Albus examines the barman more carefully. He is pale, and thin, and young. A fine network of lines around his eyes and the blank hostility in them whisper a mystery.
‘I’m Albus Dumbledore.’
‘Argus Filtch.’
‘Do you want another drink?’
‘It’s my round.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘I do. And I’m working. So no thanks.’
Daniel Dodderidge, the Leaky landlord, pipes up from the other end of the bar. ‘Don’t worry, Argus. It’s pretty quiet tonight. You may as well finish early.’
The barman’s expression unexpectedly swoops towards despair at the news. Albus is instantly fascinated. He catches the man’s eye and leans forward slightly. ‘Get drunk with me,’ he murmurs. ‘I could really do with the company.’
The barman turns away from him and reaches up to grab a full bottle of Ogden’s from the top shelf. ‘Five Galleons each,’ he says firmly, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulling out a fistful of loose change.
Three drinks later, Albus has told Argus all about dragon’s blood, especially the way it heals werewolf scratches better than anything else. ‘So how did you end up here?’ he asks eventually, aware that he has been dominating the conversation and showing off horribly.
‘I’ve been in hospital for a while. One of the Healers heard that Daniel was looking for some help and put in a word for me.’
‘In hospital?’
‘Trouble with my lungs.’
‘Oh?’
As if to contradict his own words, Argus takes another masochistically large gulp of Firewhisky. ‘And my eyes.’
‘Your eyes? That doesn’t sound too good.’
‘It wasn’t. They’re fine now, though. Lungs are a bit fucked but I’m luckier than most.’
‘Luckier?’
Argus stares into his glass and chews his bottom lip. ‘Much luckier,’ he mumbles.
‘Argus-?’
‘Have you ever done something unforgiveable?’ the barman asks suddenly. ‘Something that makes you wake up screaming?’
Albus Dumbledore’s heart shudders. He is very good at not thinking about it during the daytime, but his nightmares catch him out if he gets too comfortable. He looks into the widely unsober eyes of his new acquaintance and nods sadly.
‘I’m a squib.’
This takes him aback. Magic literally saturates his being. He can tickle it with his fingertips and taste it in the air when he closes his eyes. He always thought that proximity to a squib would evince some kind of dismal sensory vacancy, but Argus Filtch doesn’t have that effect on him at all.
‘So?’
‘When I was nine years old, my parents wiped my memory and left me outside a police station. I have no idea who they are, what they look like, or where I lived. I didn’t know I was anything other than an amnesiac Muggle schoolboy. The police searched for months. Nobody came forward.’
Albus is appalled. ‘I can’t believe people still do that!’
Argus shrugs. ‘The orphanage was ... I got a job in the mines when I was sixteen. Sutton Colliery. Much better.’
‘Mines?’
Argus rolls his eyes at the wizardly ignorance. ‘I worked in a coal mine. Long hours, hard work, good money.’
‘Digging for coal?’
‘Yes. And then the war started.’
Despite a concerted effort to stay as far away as possible from world affairs, even Albus knows that Muggle Britain is at war. There are lots of men in uniform hobbling around London, and he hasn’t been able to visit Nicholas Flamel in Paris. The Ministry of Magic have even forbidden the use of international owls in case they are shot down. It is most inconvenient when one has several co-authored papers for Ars Alchemica in preparation.
‘Because it provides fuel, coal mining is a protected occupation,’ Argus explains carefully, pouring himself another drink. ‘But the army started recruiting us for a specific job and I wanted to do my bit.’
Albus’ eyebrows shoot up. ‘You were a soldier?’
The barman stands up suddenly, snaps his heels together and straightens his back. ‘Sergeant Argus Filtch, 186th Tunnelling Company, sah!’
The whole pub freezes. Although it is a quiet night, Albus is painfully aware of at least ten pairs of eyes peering at them curiously. Daniel Dodderidge makes his way across the room towards them with a frown on his face.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asks surprisingly gently.
Argus jerks his chin even higher and bites out a ‘Yes’. He swallows hard. ‘Sorry, Dan. I’m trying to explain to Albus, here.’
‘You don’t need to explain anything,’ Daniel tells him firmly. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’
‘But I do. I bloody do! It’s a year. A year today.’
‘What is?’ Albus asks eagerly. ‘Please go on.’
Argus sits down again. Daniel fixes Albus with a “don’t push it” stare and grudgingly leaves them be.
‘What’s a Tunnelling Company?’ Albus prompts.
‘We were mining the German trenches.’
It is one of the most mystifying sentences that Albus has ever heard. His face obviously reflects perplexity because Argus looks into his eyes and then smiles and shakes his head incredulously. ‘This is going to take a while.’
The bottle of Ogden’s is three-quarters empty and Daniel has locked the door and gone to bed.
‘Ten past three in the morning, right?’
Albus nods.
‘Nineteen mines detonated simultaneously all along the ridge. I reckon there was more than four hundred tons of explosive altogether.’
‘Is that a lot?’
‘Enough to hear it in London! Ten thousand Germans killed in a minute. I worked my heart and soul out for eighteen months in those tunnels. I killed them. I did.’
For once in his life, Albus is lost for words. Argus is visibly shaking.
‘Of course, by the time it went off, I’d been sent back to a reserve trench near Ypres. You get so used to the bombardment that you sleep through most things, but that one certainly woke me up. Three hours later, my dugout was hit by a stray shell. The blast knocked me out and broke my leg. When I came ’round, everyone else was wearing their gas masks.’
‘Gas masks?’
‘Phosgene gas. Mixed in with chlorine. The air goes all heavy and green. You try to breathe and it just catches in your throat. And then everything starts to burn. A chap helped me to put my mask on and got me outside until a field ambulance came. They splinted my leg and took me to a dressing station.’
‘How did you get home?’
‘I don’t really remember much. The pain. And I couldn’t bloody see! There was a train, and a clearing station, and a ship. Nurses with posh accents washing my eyes out. I kept waking up in a panic because I’d stopped breathing in my sleep. As far as I know, you just keep moving until you’re either dead or in Dover.’
Albus is leaning forwards, his hand over his mouth as he listens. ‘My God.’
‘We had to get a train from the port to whichever hospital we were assigned to. I was lying on a stretcher on the platform. These people grabbed my stretcher and started to move me. I thought it was a bit odd because I hadn’t heard the train pull in.’
‘Who was it?’
Argus frowns. He tilts his head and asks worriedly, ‘Have you ever heard of a Knight Bus?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Don’t say that! The nurses at St Mungo’s told me it’s this new service that’s just started. They said that Ernie Prang parked the bus right outside the hospital and wouldn’t leave until a Healer come out to look at me. They said that I had to be a genuine wizard in distress or he wouldn’t have found me.’
‘No, no! I didn’t mean it isn’t real. I just can’t believe that the Knight Bus was a good way to travel, given your condition.’
Argus wrinkles his nose. ‘It’s better than a Flanders horse-drawn ambulance, I can tell you that much.’
‘They healed you, though. You look all right. Better than all right.’
‘Just don’t ask me to run up any stairs. Or work in any coal mines.’
Albus pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me!’ Argus snaps. ‘I should have drowned good and slow in my own water. I deserved to after what I did!’
‘But it’s war,’ Albus retorts. ‘You have to follow your orders.’
11th November 1918
‘My dear boy, I heard the news and came straight away!’
Albus shakes his friend’s hand delightedly and then pulls him into a hug. ‘You must be so pleased!’
‘More relieved than anything,’ Argus says. ‘It couldn’t go on forever.’
They are standing in the doorway of Argus’ room, up the narrow stairs that lead from a hidden door in the Leaky Cauldron parlour. Albus has visited lots of times over the past few months but he has never been further than the bottom of the stairs before. In his excitement, he has forgotten his manners and simply barged in, calling the barman’s name.
Suddenly awkward, he lets go of Argus and takes a step back. ‘I’m sorry! I should have asked for you downstairs.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Argus reassures him. ‘Come in. It’s not much to look at, mind.’
The bedroom is small and basic with a bare wooden floor and a grimy skylight. Argus flops back on the bed, all creaking springs and shy smiles. There is no chair to sit on so Albus perches at the end of the mattress and tries to look casual about it.
‘I am pleased,’ Argus admits. ‘It’s like a bit of lingering gas has finally got out of my chest.’
‘That’s good. That’s wonderful! The Times says the Kaiser has fled and there’s a revolution in Germany.’
Argus grimaces. ‘Poor bastards.’
‘I am learning, you know. Slowly.’
‘I’m not sure why you bother.’
‘Well you’ve had to learn about magic, and you can’t even use it! The least I can do is learn about Muggles in return.’
Argus blinks and then dissolves into wheezy giggles. ‘Christ, man! You’re a tactless bugger sometimes.’
‘Oh, hell. Oh, I am sorry! You seem to have this effect on me. I either get tongue-tied or lose all sense of decorum.’
Argus quietens. He stretches himself out with careful grace and gazes up from his pillow intently.
‘Albus. Are you-?’
‘Yes. No. Nothing has happened as such. I just want-’
‘Can I touch your hair?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I want to run my fingers through your hair. It makes my cock stiff just thinking about it.’
Delight. Fear. Desire. ‘Oh, Merlin.’
Argus shifts a leg and adjusts himself with a gentle hand. ‘See?’
He cannot stop himself from reaching out and touching the fabric of Argus’ trousers. It is rampant curiosity, he tells himself, blushing. The feel of a clothed erection not his own is both comfortingly familiar and astoundingly exciting.
‘Can I-?’
‘Yes.’ Argus sits up, shrugging off his braces and pulling his shirt over his head. He unbuttons his fly and lifts a shaky hand, combing his fingers through fine auburn strands of hair and drawing them back from Albus’ face.
Albus grabs the hand and pulls the palm to his mouth for a kiss. He closes his eyes and sucks the index finger with barely restrained hunger.
‘Undo your robes for me.’
He starts in the region of his groin and Argus grins appreciatively at his eager rush. Soon they are cock-to-cock, gasping for breath and touching tongues. Albus can feel his balls tight and tingling, rapidly approaching the point of no return. He is a big man on a small bed, half falling, half sliding off one side so he has the room to pull Argus’ hips towards his face and Argus’ cock into his mouth.
There are hands on the back of his head, caresses and wordless moans of pleasure. The delicious weight on his tongue and the scent of impending come are enough to make him spurt an electrifying orgasm against his own stomach.
August 31st 1925
‘Will you miss me?’
‘You’ll be here at the weekends. Or I could catch the train to Hogsmeade.’
‘Why waste a whole day on a train? I can Side-Along Apparate you in a second.’
Argus gives him a warning glance. ‘Albus. Don’t.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous and I’m going to miss you dreadfully.’
‘It’s your choice, you daft sod! Why you want to be a teacher is beyond me, but I’ve never seen you so excited as when you got the offer.’
Albus raises his eyebrows. ‘Never?’
10th August 1938
‘I’m so angry with Armando! The boy has been in an orphanage since he was born, and he hasn’t lifted a finger until now. The Hogwarts register clearly shows the child’s location as well as age and name. He could have fetched Tom Riddle and found a foster home any time in the last eleven years!’
‘Not if he was a squib,’ Argus replies shortly. ‘No one came for me, even when I was eleven, did they?’
‘Dear boy. You know I wish they had. You know I wish I’d met you when I was sixteen, and not-’
Argus places a firm hand on Albus’ chest and halts the onset of self-recrimination. He straightens Albus’ turquoise tie, smoothes the lapels of his new purple suit and brushes his fringe out of his eyes. ‘Go and see the boy. Give him the good news.’
Author’s Notes
1. At 3.10am on June 7th 1917, the Battle of Messines began in earnest with the simultaneous detonation of 19 huge underground mines by Allied forces. The mines were in Belgium, the explosion was heard by David Lloyd George, the British Prime Minister, who was in his study in 10 Downing Street. No official figures were ever released regarding German casualties but within 3 hours 7,354 prisoners were taken, 10,000 were reported missing and over 6,000 known dead. It is estimated that 10,000 German troops were killed in the explosion. A description of the tunnelling companies is provided at:
http://www.1914-1918.net/tunnelcoyre.htm
2. The 186th (Argus’ tunnelling company) is a fictitious addition.
3. The assumption is that Argus has an extended life similar to any other wizard. In this story he is born in 1898 and still able to work in 1998.
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