hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2006-05-03 09:27 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2006-05-03 09:27 am
Entry tags:
Twentysomething – Chapter III
A Harry Potter story in five parts about getting older, getting over it, getting over yourself, and moving the fuck on.
Rated from General to Adult m/m, m/f
Previous parts here
 |
Chapter III
Blaise was an Arithmancy genius in the same way that, once upon a time, Draco had been a Potions genius. Well, no one was as much of a genius as Blaise, but at least Draco had been worthy of Blaise's company. If Draco hadn't gone off and got himself killed defending Blaise's honour, or his family's honour, or whatever it was that Draco had died for, they would have been happily uncommitted and living next door to each other –- because, after Hogwarts, Blaise was never cohabitating ever again.
Instead of living out this scenic idyll, however, several days after the incident in the toilet of Circe's Three Pigs, Blaise almost tripped over Potter and killed himself.
If life -– read: Theodore and Professor Vector –- had been kind to Blaise, then he would've been able to Apparate to his office and never would've had to bother with such trifles as walking across the road. As Blaise was forced to succumb to wards and other people's Arithmancy, and Potter was actually sitting on the steps of Blaise's building when he emerged, Blaise had little recourse.
After swaying, stumbling, and only being saved from falling on his face by Potter grabbing his bicep and hauling Blaise back against him, Blaise was not in the most amiable mood. He pointedly ignored the tingling of his Runes at Potter's touch.
"This is called stalking," he said curtly, pulling away from Potter and smoothing down his cream-coloured jumper. There might've been a scuff on the toe of his loafers; if so, Potter was buying him new shoes.
"I think people who've had as much sex as us have gone past the stalking stage, don't you?" Potter's grin was enormous and his hair was in even more disarray than normal. Even more amazingly, apart from the hair, he was almost semi-presentable.
"Two orgasms-—" Blaise began.
"Five."
"Four orgasms do not a couple make, and if you don't stop at once I will call the Ministry of Morons and," Blaise paused. "And they would be just as incompetent as ever."
Potter shrugged. "They're politicians, what else could you expect?"
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "I thought your ilk ran the Ministry. Are you subverting the system? Potter, I didn't know you had it in you."
"I haven't had it in me yet, but one thing at a time." Potter's deadpan tone was almost charming, and Blaise blinked. Potter was wearing his glasses, and the lens' reflection of the morning sun was clearly addling, which was why Blaise might've grinned. With the crisp weather and the blue sky it was a lovely day to spend indoors with Euclid.
"Perhaps you shouldn't put the carriage before the Thestral," Blaise said pointedly.
"I would've rung," Potter said, following Blaise down the steps, "but you don't have a phone."
Blaise stopped on the pavement and turned to Potter, managing to look down on Potter although Potter had an inch on him, two at the most. "Beastly Muggle contraption the fellytone. I have no need for one, especially if the lack keeps you away."
Potter crossed his arms. "Don't you ever get tired of being a tosser?"
At this Blaise smirked. "If it's not broke, why fix it?"
Potter sighed. "You're incorrigible."
"Using big words will not get you into my good standing."
"I didn't know you had good standing," Potter mocked.
"That's because you've never been in it."
Potter ran his fingers through his hair; Blaise wasn't surprised when they got tangled. "You're determined not to like me, aren't you?"
Blaise snorted. "You're amusing, Potter, in a feeble Gryffindor way. But, like all feeble Gryffindors, you hate Slytherins, so tell me once and for all, why are you interested in me? Apart from my brilliance, my stunning good looks, and my pedigree, which I know has never interested you. You persist in pursuing me, even though I've shown less interest in your attentions than I have in Quidditch. We have even less in common than you and Draco -– and the world knows how you two got on." Blaise moved to step off the pavement and instead found himself held by Potter's hand on his forearm.
"I don't know why I fancy you, I just do. You're sarcastic, and you don't care who I am. You're not Witch Weekly's Watch for the Perfect Potter Pairing, you're fit, and I'm old enough to make up my own mind about who I take home." Potter's plaintive note raised the hairs on the back of Blaise's neck.
The latter part of Potter's statement smacked highly of someone getting grief from his mates, and Blaise felt his temple twitch. There were worse things in life than annoying Gryffindors and getting blowjobs. He didn't have to like Potter to let him suck his dick. "Witch Weekly has a watch for who you date?" Blaise let his tone convey his distaste.
Potter rubbed his forehead. "Their readers send in photographs of themselves, apparently in hopes of catching my eye."
Blaise fixed Potter with a curious look. "Do they know that you're playing for the home team?"
"I thought you said you didn't like Quidditch."
"Not liking something doesn't mean I'm ignorant about its machinations. Draco was -– Draco was quite avid in his Quidditch interest."
Potter opened his mouth to say something, and then apparently thought better of it, which surprised Blaise as he didn't know that Gryffindors had any tact. "Do you want to have brunch with me?" Potter said.
Blaise looked around as though waiting for a group of Aurors or his mother to step out of the scenery and put a stop to this madness. When nothing occurred after several seconds, he shook his head ruefully. "Don't you have a job or some form of amusement that you need to attend to today?"
Potter's smirk was all blinding white teeth. "Most people don't work on Saturday, Blaise."
Blaise blinked. "It's Saturday?"
Potter shook his head. "I see you're going to be a challenge the whole way."
Blaise gave Potter a mildly haughty look. It was hard to be completely superior when one's stomach was rumbling. "I thought you liked challenges."
Potter winked. "Especially when they look like you."
The back lawn of Blavatsky Manor was orange. To some, this, or the naked satyrs charming each other shades of chartreuse and magenta, might've been disconcerting; to Blaise it was par for the course, like the enormous, brightly coloured sparkling eggs hanging from the trees, catching and casting reflections like the lighting at a rock concert.
When Blaise's grandmother was out of town, and his grandfather was free to run unchecked, nothing was safe.
"Morning, Master Blaise," a vermillion satyr remarked, and Blaise paused mid-stride, before he realised it was his grandfather's house elf, Zippy. "Master is on the veranda talking to Miss Tegan."
Blaise just nodded and continued onwards, deftly avoiding all sorts of Muggle contraptions and black vines. He took the steps two at a time until he found himself on the stone veranda, pausing to observe his grandfather talking with his publicist, Tegan Montague.
Every Sunday, Blaise had brunch with his maternal grandfather, Hermes Blavatsky. The tradition had started when Blaise was six, right after his father had died. As far as Blaise could surmise his father had been the only one of his mother's twelve husbands to die a natural death –- he was trampled by a hippogriff -- but one didn't question one's mother about her husbands; it was rather gauche. There was also the likelihood that if Blaise asked his mother, Gemma Blavatsky Wilson Hammond Zabini Owen Szernick Musoke Ramos Smith-Smythe Missoni Woodson Ashby Bagot, what had happened to her other eleven husbands she might've actually told him the truth.
Blaise and the truth weren't always on the best of speaking terms. If Blaise were into the truth, he would've probably brought Potter along, but that was just madness, because only a St Mungo's escapee would've introduced Potter to their family.
"For the last time, Tegan, no Muggle sporting events. How many times have we gone over this? If they won't let me do my own pyrotechnics, I'm not interested!" Hermes Blavatsky was a tall, lanky man; Blaise had inherited his eye colour without inheriting his wonky eye that, depending on the day of the week, either gave him second sight or the ability to see behind him.
Blaise could just imagine if he'd brought Potter along and they'd run into Tegan. The idea of the introductions alone made Blaise's head ache. "Tegan, this is Harry Potter, have you met before? He's the one who defeated the Dark Lord, sent half your clients to Azkaban, and his minions stuffed your son into the Vanishing Cabinet. Oh, you haven't been introduced? Well, this is Harry, and we're shagging like nifflers."
Tegan would've had them all over every inch of the Prophet and adopting orphaned wizarding babies on the back page by the evening edition. As Pansy's boss, Tegan Montague made Pansy look like a declawed kneazle.
"Just be practical for a moment, Hermes. The money alone--" She paused and then shook her head. "Why am I talking to you about money or common sense? You've made a living out of slapping on white powder and glamouring your hair orange and purple."
Blaise smirked to himself and glanced out over the property. The grounds of Blavatsky Manor were kept in such remarkably pristine order that for years Blaise's grandmere had won awards for their maintenance.
The fact that the grounds were corralled by the magic of three House Elves, an Inuit dreamcatcher that Blaise's grandpere had appropriated on his travels, and his grandmere's unspoken threats to the flora and fauna around the property were irrelevant.
"Blaise, it's been interesting, as always." Blaise glanced over at Tegan Montague's words and gave her a slight nod as she Apparated with a pop.
"Thank the Lord that's over," his grandfather said, getting up from a table laden with every breakfast food under the sun. "She's a brilliant woman, but she's become impossibly insufferable ever since she left Rhys and took up with that lesbian woman."
Blaise snickered even as he crossed the patio to greet his grandfather. Hermes Blavatsky wasn't what one would've called politically correct by any stretch of the term. He tended to call it like he saw it, and felt no need to call it anything else. The fact that his wife was a blood magic practitioner, his only child a serial husband murderer, and his grandson gay was fine with him, but he wasn't going to sugar-coat it.
Blaise could just imagine his grandpere meeting Potter and calling him that "arse-bandit that ruined my touring schedule for four years with his nonsense." The "arse-bandit" would've been Hermes nod to Blaise, undoubtedly.
As the great, great, great grandson of Madam Helena Blavatsky, Blaise's grandfather came from the purest of pureblood means. Apart from an unremarkable time at Hogwarts -– where he hawked Muggle goods with Andromeda Black -– Hermes had seemed destined to do little with his life until he created the androgynous persona of Ziggy Stardust. It was a bit much for 60s wizarding Britain and his wife, the daughter of a Benin princess, but ten years on, he'd found a Muggle fan base and thirty years later he was still in demand.
Blaise ducked away when his grandfather tried to rub his head. "You look knackered, son. You've got circles under your eyes and you haven't shaved." Hermes's piercing stare roved over Blaise curiously. "You've been shagging in back alleys, is that it? Merlin, I hope that's it."
Blaise made a scoffing noise. "Back alleys? Grandpere, really." Back alleys were so déclassé.
"Damn shame then," his grandfather sighed as Blaise sat down and was accosted by the eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and black pudding. Blaise hated black pudding, so he waved it off, and busied himself with filling his plate. "You've been so celibate since Draco that I had to stop Ines from poisoning the food with love who-do -- by-the-by, don't eat the chocolate biscuits."
Blaise looked up from his eggs and thanked Morgan la Fey, Circe, Salazar and any other random deity that he hadn't brought Potter along. The last thing Harry needed was incentive to be more amorous. "I thought grandmere was visiting her family?"
"She is, but she only left this morning. Those were made yesterday."
"Ah."
"Exactly. So, judging by the marks on your neck, you've ended your vow of celibacy, excellent. Who is the cad? Anyone I know? How was the sex? Did I ever tell you about the time I shagged this Muggleborn singer, Mick --"
Blaise did not choke on his eggs, but it was very close. He opened his mouth, but his grandfather was having none of it.
"If you open your mouth to tell me any sort of tall tales, Blaise Lorenzo Blavatsky Zabini, I will owl your mother and have her come home with Twelve." At some point in their lives, Blaise and his grandparents had stopped learning the name of his mother's husbands and just referred to them by number. Names were written down on the family tree at their deaths.
"It would be horrible if you had to sleep on the street the next time Grandmere kicks you out," Blaise said blandly.
Hermes smirked at his grandson. "Loving someone is a difficult business. If they try to leave you, you kill them and get blood on your favourite leather trousers. If you leave, then they try to kill you." Hermes looked almost wistful. "Like I said a difficult business to navigate. Take your grandmere for example -- I love her dearly; she never lets me forget it either. A difficult woman, too -- like your mother. I suspect you get this blackmailing streak from them."
At this Blaise had to laugh. "You just told me you'd call Mother if I didn't tell you who I was shagging."
There were all different sorts of families in the world. There were the cloying sort that lived in each other's pockets, as Draco's had. There were the self-interested kind like Pansy's, where everyone just wanted to see what everyone else could provide. Queenie's family genuinely seemed fond of each other, which was just indicative of her only quasi-humanity.
Blaise came from the kind of family where everyone just happened to be related to each other: they all seemed to get on in spite of being family and not because they were required to.
"Ah, so you admit to having sex, finally!" Hermes looked far too pleased with himself.
"I admit nothing of the sort," Blaise countered, taking a sip of fresh pumpkin juice and watching his grandfather warily. Hermes' wonky eye was dilating and contracting rapidly as though he were focusing his second sight on Blaise. Blaise hated it when he did that. If he'd brought Potter along they could've avoided this in favour of discussions of their sex life.
Blaise blinked. Knowing Potter he probably would've been more than willing to tell Blaise's grandparents everything. Being mind-probed was preferable; Hermes just smirked. "Every day I thank the Lords of Debauchery that they sent you to me, so that I could mess with your mind."
"You say the same thing to Grandmere all the time."
"Because I love her."
Blaise snorted. "Grandpere, you're afraid of Grandmere. Everyone is."
"Your mother isn't." Hermes picked up a piece of fruit, studied it for a moment, and then threw it over his head when it didn't meet expectations.
Blaise could see various apples, plums and bananas strewn across the patio behind them. "That's because they're crazy together."
Hermes made a hmming noise. "Well, yes, but we prefer eccentric to crazy. Speaking of which, how is Theodore?"
Blaise ate a piece of bacon. "You mention crazy and Theodore in the same sentence. That's -– worrisome."
"All of my thought processes are worrisome –- Theodore's still at the university in Geneva, isn't he?"
Blaise knew exactly where this was going. "Yes."
"Still writing? Still working on a proper career?" Hermes paused with a grin. "Still not gay?"
Blaise covered his eyes with his hand. Hermes carried on. "I'll take that as a yes on all accounts. That's a shame though, really. You know your mother and your grandmother have always preferred Theodore." The 'to Draco' part was unspoken.
Blaise opened his mouth to announce his conquest and then thought better of it. He could clearly envision his grandmother making a space for Potter on the family tapestry; telling his grandfather would be like writing in Potter's name himself.
"Was he good at least? Did you get your end in?" Blaise froze with his fork between his plate and his mouth. His grandpere's sly look was priceless.
Blaise ate his forkful of eggs before answering. "Obviously."
Hermes preened. "That's my boy. Nice arse?"
Blaise sat back in his seat and fixed his grandfather with a look. "Like you wouldn't believe."
To Blaise all owls that weren't Hammurabi, Archimedes, or his grandparents' owl, Nebuchadnezzar, looked the same. This was obviously why he mistook the white, snowy owl that flew through the wards of 181 Glebe Place for a business owl –- and since Queenie took care of all their bits and baubles, Blaise was rather annoyed when the owl landed on the knee of his newest designer trousers and dug its talons in. "Queenie, come and remove this flea-bitten creature before I see what sort of stew can be made with owl!"
Blaise wasn't prone to hollering, he just tended to project on occasion, and he protested loudly when the owl, shot through with grey, squawked in displeasure and whapped him on the side of the head with a wing.
"I'm in the bathroom! Don't bother me!" came Queenie's muffled reply, and since Queenie only tended to use the bathroom for thinking -– as all the equations on the walls could attest –- Blaise was left to his own devices. He reminded himself that he couldn't divorce her.
"I see if you want something done properly, you must do it yourself," he muttered, shutting Euclid's Elements and eying the owl. "What do you want? State your business."
The owl squawked again, and shook its right leg at Blaise. Blaise sighed. "A proper owl would never behave this way," he said, jerking his hand away when the owl pecked him.
"I don't need this," Blaise said shooing the owl away. "Go away."
The owl hooted, shook its leg again, and dug in its talons more. "Fuck!" Blaise hissed, "You're even more of a pain than Nero was." Blaise and Draco's owl had never got on. "If I didn't think you were important, I'd sauté you with a nice bottle of plum wine."
The white owl eventually let Blaise take the letter, and Blaise growled to himself even as he unrolled the parchment.
Do you fancy box seats at the Falcons' match this Thursday? I thought we could have dinner beforehand.
-HP
Blaise stared at the parchment, turned it over, stared at the owl, and then looked back at the note. "You tell that –- no, wait. I'll tell him myself." Digging between the cushions of the sofa, Blaise found a quill to jot down his reply.
Potter:
Which part of 'I loathe Quidditch' has escaped your primitive mind? Stop bothering me.
-BZ
Blaise handed the parchment back to the owl and stared until the owl took off.
An hour later the owl was back, and Blaise groaned. "Has he really nothing better to do?" he asked the owl. The owl gave him a peevish look. Blaise just snorted. "Why am I even asking you?"
Blaise:
I thought I might be able to change your mind about the Quidditch. And then I could change your mind about me.
-H
Blaise snorted. He crossed out Potter's note and wrote below it.
You're deranged.
If the owl seemed to sigh when Blaise handed the parchment back, Blaise took no notice
Forty-five minutes later the owl was back again. This time it dropped the parchment on Blaise's head and then proceeded to help itself to the tea biscuits on the table. "No manners whatsoever," Blaise said pointedly even as he opened the parchment and then had to turn it over with all the crossings out.
You're cracking. You find me amusing. Admit it. I'm strangely charming in my own way.
At this Blaise actually let out a snort before writing down his answer.
Dear Slacker of Epic Proportions:
Have you nothing better to do with your day than send me notes? How puerile.
BZ
P.S. You are not charming. I was wrong before, you're not deranged, you're delusional.
Some time after Blaise had seen Potter's owl off for the third time, Queenie emerged from the toilet. She took one look at Blaise's place on the sofa, the lack of books and parchment surrounding him, and eyed him thoughtfully. "Blaise, have you got anything done? Have you been wool-gathering about this man you claim doesn't exist?"
"There's no man," Blaise protested, pointedly not rubbing at the talon marks that were now on his knee and his wrist and his thigh.
Queenie narrowed her eyes, and her gaze seemed to look down into the place that some people might've called a soul, if they were a foolish romantic who didn't understand that the body was nothing more than a collection of parts waiting to fail.
"Someone's keeping secrets," Queenie didn't have a particularly melodic voice, but her mocking tenor was rather clear.
"Oh, stop being paranoid. That's so passé," Blaise snipped, even as the white owl returned for a fourth time. Blaise steadily ignored Queenie's eyes on the crown of his head as he read Potter's message.
You're slipping, Blaise, you called me dear. We should have dinner on Thursday anyway. You can cook. I'll be there at half-six.
Blaise's sputters of outrage would have been more effective if he hadn't already been planning what he would create. Blaise didn't cook, cooking was plebeian Muggle nonsense; Blaise created.
Dinner on Thursday was the smashing success Blaise knew it would be; no one could resist his grandmother's recipe of curried pheasant and new potatoes, if only because the curry had enough refined red pepper and chicken blood to weave a spell on even the most picky eater. It was such a smashing success that Potter sucked Blaise off in the kitchen, jerked him off in the sitting room, and then spent the night drooling on Blaise's bedclothes.
The next morning Blaise had to contend with the morning after, his appallingly gossipy bathroom mirror, which gave Potter the third degree, and the fact that if he kept having sex with Potter they were going to have to have rules about where Potter could leave marks. Blaise's neck was a cornucopia of bite marks and bruises.
Things only got worse from there.
Much to Blaise's chagrin, Harry Potter had hidden depths. Potter could walk, talk, and be charming without tripping over his own two feet. He was able to carry on a conversation for longer than two minutes that didn't involve Quidditch, Past Events, or his broom, and he thought that the Ministry was run by complete idiots.
Potter gave blowjobs that made Blaise's toes cramp, and most astonishingly, he wasn't nearly as idiotic as Blaise had believed. He actually managed to follow for longer than fifteen seconds when Blaise told him how he was going to revolutionise Arithmancy with his new version of Cartesian cartography.
Potter had even heard of the Paracelsus Prize, which shocked Blaise so badly that he almost walked into a lamppost. If Potter hadn't made the lamppost move at the last moment there could've been a horrible accident, which perhaps was the most telling action of all.
Blaise would've let someone else walk into the lamppost. Draco would've made sure there were multiple posts to run into. Theodore would've yanked the person out of danger at the last moment, but said it was their own fault for not watching what they were doing. Potter was a breed apart from everything else Blaise knew.
He was devious, backhanded, and sarcastic enough to amuse Blaise on occasion, but he seemed to do the right thing, not out of any pressing desire, but just because he could. It was extraordinarily confusing. Perhaps for his next experiment, Blaise would study Potter.
Things started to go wrong, not the first time Blaise stayed over at Potter's, nor the second time, but the third time. The morning after the night before, Blaise wandered somewhat blindly into Potter's horrific excuse for a kitchen in his boxers, and knew by instinct where to step, where not to step, where the sticky part of the floor was (spilled pumpkin juice), which cupboard held random Quidditch Snitches, and which one was for tea mugs.
There'd been an episode with Blaise opening the wrong cupboard and releasing eighteen Snitches into the house. Potter had then spent twenty minutes zooming around the house on his Nimbus 3000 (The Potter Edition ©) collecting them, while Blaise had gone off to have a bath, showering Potter with invectives the whole time. He'd spent so long in the shower that eventually Potter had joined him, and with his surprisingly agile fingers, put Blaise in a much better mood.
On this particular morning, the sun was streaming through Potter's kitchen window, which looked out onto a back garden that made the Forbidden Forest seem tame. Blaise scratched his chest as he made his tea the Muggle way by putting water in the lectric kettle and plugging it into the wall. The whole lectricity thing fascinated Blaise in a way that he felt had to be wrong. How Muggles could've invented something so spectacular was completely beyond him, but he took solace in the fact that the man who'd generated the lectric current on a practical scale, Michael Faraday, was a Ravenclaw.
Rubbing his forehead, Blaise leaned against the kitchen counter and wondered where he'd left his cigarettes. He resolutely did not jump when Potter's arm snaked around his waist.
"You're making tea. In the kettle." Potter's amusement was clear. "Are you sure being near Muggle devices won't taint you irreparably? Don’t you have people who're supposed to prevent you from doing these things?"
Blaise growled in the back of his throat, even as Potter's mouth brushed along the nape of his neck. "You're not funny, you know," he said, relaxing against Potter's chest. He could feel Potter's smile against his skin.
"You're a tough customer," Potter remarked his mouth brushing against the Runes on Blaise's shoulder.
"You wouldn't want me if I were easy," Blaise pointed out, enjoying the feel of Potter's tongue tracing along on his shoulder blade. There were ordinary, bothersome brown birds in the tree outside the kitchen window, and Blaise kept his eyes on them, letting his mind wander as Potter's hands and mouth traversed his back and stomach.
"Your paranoia is mind-boggling," Potter said, kissing Blaise behind his ear. "And I hate to tell you, but as someone who's come at least ten times –-"
"Twenty."
"Fifteen times," Potter conceded, "Anyway, you're really easy."
"You flatter me."
"I can't just want you, because I do, can I?"
"That's not an explanation, that's a rationalization."
"They can't be the same?"
Blaise turned around, freeing himself from Potter's hold, and eyed him inquisitively. They were close enough that Blaise could make out the fine lines starting to etch themselves on Potter's face. His eyes were distractingly green from so close. "This is a very profound conversation for me to have without tea and cigarettes."
Potter's hair was a lamentable mess of tangles, and he raised an eyebrow, which disappeared into his fringe. Blaise could barely make out the scar on his forehead; most times he forgot it even existed. "So, Potter, you want to talk existentialism?"
Potter gave Blaise a look. "Harry -– you can call me Harry, Blaise, it won't kill you."
Blaise exhaled through his noise as the kettle whistled behind him. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Harry."
Harry's smirk was entirely too broad for so minor a thing. "Was that so hard?"
"If you're going to persist in whinging like a first year, then, yes, it was."
Harry took a step into Blaise's personal space, and then another. "I think I like it when you insult me."
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Oh Great Salazar, save me -– Potter, really."
"Ahem."
Blaise found himself being pressed up against the kitchen counter, the edge pushing into his spine uncomfortably. "Harry, right, yes, so really, what is this all about? The mind-blowing sex is a lovely perk, but really—-"
"Ah ha, you admit the sex is mind-blowing!" Harry's cackle sounded like a deranged unicorn.
"I admit no such thing. It was a slip of the tongue," Blaise said, tilting his head away as Harry nuzzled the side of his neck and slipped his hand inside Blaise's boxers.
"Blaise, I didn't know you had it in you." Harry's hand was warm and dry, and he stroked Blaise leisurely, his thumb rubbing Blaise's foreskin as Blaise gripped the kitchen counter behind him and prayed to a distant Mawu goddess that his knees wouldn't collapse from under him.
"I don't," Blaise replied belatedly.
"Not yet at any rate."
Blaise groaned at the innuendo. "Juvenile humour, Potter, err, Harry. As I was saying--"
Blaise paused when Harry removed his hand. "Better idea," was all Harry said, before dropping to his knees and yanking Blaise's boxers down to his ankles.
"I like this idea," Blaise said. Harry just looked at him from underneath his eyelashes. One minute, Blaise swore he was getting a blowjob, and the next, Harry was licking the flat of Blaise's right hand.
"This is new," Blaise's voice wavered when Harry's tongue licked along Blaise's lifelines. Harry's tongue was pink and wet, and the damp heat from his breath seemed as though it should be illegal.
Blaise's cock twitched eagerly as less than a foot away Harry held Blaise's wrist and sucked at the tips of Blaise's fingers, much in the same way he'd sucked Blaise last night. It was obvious that Harry was deliberately provoking Blaise; it was a complete success.
"I know that this rigmarole and anal sex is simply in your pursuit of erstwhile Gryffindor justice, whatever that may be." Blaise babbled as Harry paused mid-suck to give Blaise an incredulous look.
"You're absolutely delusional," Harry mocked. "Gorgeous and brilliant, but delusional."
Blaise opened his mouth, but then Harry wrapped their enjoined hands around Blaise's cock and gave him a preliminary stroke, and Blaise went non-verbal.
Harry's "Show me" was all guttural filth -- Blaise loved guttural filth.
The angle was a bit awkward with Harry on the floor and Blaise standing, but the pressure was spectacular, and when Harry found that perfect spot on the underside of Blaise's cock, Blaise thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head. He tilted his head back, focussing on a ceiling that had charred blast marks from whatever Harry'd been up to in the kitchen.
"That's it," Harry coaxed, his words wrapping around Blaise like a fog as he untwined his own hand. "Fuck, Blaise, do you know what you look like?"
Blaise didn't attempt to contain his half-hysterical snort. He was standing naked in a ramshackle Gryffindor kitchen, with birds chirping outside, while he had a wank in front of the purported saviour of all wizarding kind, who was kneeling on hideous blue and white tiling just for Blaise.
Surreal didn't even begin to cover it.
Blaise could just imagine what he looked like. Wanton. Whorish. Hot. He hadn't done this for anyone in years, and as he panted to the ceiling, part of him had an utter breakdown that he would put himself on display in this matter.
The part of him that spread its legs wider when Harry played with his balls, told that other part to shut up before it was Crucioed.
Blaise's orgasm was like green-fire along his spine, not scalding, not purifying, but punishing and exhausting. Blaise's legs went on strike, and several seconds later, when Blaise's brain decided to work again, he found himself spread over Harry's lap being thoroughly kissed.
"Jesus, you're hot," Harry said appreciatively.
Blaise grunted against Harry's shoulder. "Obviously."
"And so modest."
Blaise ignored Harry's sardonic tone. "What else did you expect?" he said with a yawn.
"Not you," Harry said honestly. "Definitely not you."
--On to Chapter IV--
+ Art by
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
mellafe+ Soundtrack available here and casting here
+ Betas provided by
ethrosdemon and the lovely oxoniensis who pushed and pushed and then pulled me down from the ceiling.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 2 of 2