i n . f a n d o m . m o d e

FIC: Five Things Katie Bell Did Not Sign Up For (Roger/Katie, PG-13)

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 11:57:19 GMT

Title: Five Things That Katie Bell Did Not Sign Up For
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Katie
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2200~
Summary: Katie's job demands a lot from her, but when it comes to Roger Davies, it can sometimes mean things that aren't even included in the fine print.
Additional Notes: Written for purelush as a pinch-hit for the first clever_claws fest. First posted here. Much thanks to hockeysaurus for the beta.

The lights were far too bright, the music too loud, the space too crowded. It gave her a headache, finding some sort of path through this maze of sweat-sticky bodies gyrating drunkenly to noise, her lungs filling with cigarette smoke and alcohol breath. With one final push she broke through at last, stumbling out from the dance floor to the lounge where there was more air though, impossibly enough, even more smoke.

Katie Bell sighed. "Really, Davies?"

Roger Davies looked up at her, smile bright and just a little loopy. "'Lo, Katie," he slurred, draped against the leather couch with his suit and tie loosened, a giggling girl by his side.

"I got a call from Oliver; he says he woke up and you weren't in your bed."

"S'prolly 'cause I'm here," Roger replied, face scrunching up in deep thought. "Did y'tell 'im that?"

"Davies, if Quenneville finds out you broke curfew--"

Roger waved his hand in the air. "Curfew's for rookies."

"You have a game tomorrow," she shot back, voice shrill. "And he will bench you if he has to."

Roger wrinkled his nose. "S'pose you're right," he conceded, holding out his hand to her. "Spoilsport."

Katie rolled her eyes. "I don't know why I put up with you," she said, pulling him up. She stumbled, her heels too high for the sort of heavy lifting she was attempting to do. "Oof. You know, this isn't part of my job description."

"Know, I know," Roger drawled, grinning impishly. "Katiebell, you're the bes' aishe-- agen'-- ever."

"Shut up, Davies, and save it for when you really need my favour," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

"Katie, I really need a favour right now."

The sentence was the same one she'd heard numerous times before, the source the same, but something in Roger's tone stopped Katie from rolling her eyes. She pursed her lips and wondered what it was this time. "I'll be over in ten."

"Thank you."

Five minutes later, Katie was at Roger Davies' 8-million-galleon flat, kicking herself for her idiocy. "Are you kidding me, Davies?"

"I didn't touch them!"

"They're still in Hogwarts!"

"They didn't tell me that!"

"You are unbelie-- do they look old enough to you?" she asked, gesturing wildly at the two seventeen-year-old witches who lay, passed out and drunk, against each other.

"It was dark!" Roger protested, running his hand through his hair. "I was drunk!"

Katie buried her face in her palms. "Merlin, what did I do to deserve this? Skeeter will have a field day."

"Look, I never would have-- I stopped as soon as I figured it out, I swear."

"And at which point was that?" Katie snapped. "When they asked you to undo their pigtails or when you saw the little pink hearts and lollipops printed onto their knickers?"

"I didn't touch them!"

"That's not what it's going to look like!"

Roger growled, plopping himself onto a chair. "So what do I do now?" he asked, helpless.

"I can help you hide the bodies?" Katie offered.

"What?"

"Wipe that look off your face; I was kidding," she said, appalled that he had, for the briefest of seconds, actually looked hopeful. "A memory charm would be illegal and traceable, but-- come here; my Transfiguration's a little rusty, but that may be to our benefit."

"What are you going to do?" Roger asked, warily eyeing her wand.

"They'll be a little disoriented when they wake up tomorrow, hungover and trying to piece the events of tonight back together," Katie explained, touching the tip of her wand to Roger's nose and muttering a soft spell to flatten it a bit. "Maybe they remember why they agreed to come home with you, maybe they won't, but in the light of day--" she moved the wand to his eyes, pulling them closer towards each other-- "they'll see--" his hairline receded a few inches-- "that perhaps you--" his ears grew bigger-- "were not the man--" his tummy bulged-- "they thought you were."

Roger blinked, catching himself in the mirror. "Katie, I'm hideous!"

"Didn't take you long to figure that out."

"And you're a genius!" he exclaimed, grinning at her.

"Well spotted," Katie said, putting both hands on her hips. "Can I leave you alone now? You won't get yourself into any more trouble for more than fifteen minutes?"

Roger crossed his heart and pinky swore yes.

"You really should look into hiring a PR specialist, you know. This wasn't part of my job description."

"I know," Roger said, beaming. "But you're the best."

"Tell me something I don't know."

* * *

It was the summer before her seventh year when Katherine Bell's father sat her down in the kitchen table and asked her what she planned to do with her life. The discussion quickly went downhill when Christopher Bell demanded she come up with a backup plan to playing Quidditch, devolving into tearful shouting when Katie cried out that she never had any desire to take over the family business (Bells and Whistles, est. 1581: For all your wizarding trinket needs), anyway, and ending with doors slamming and cold silence in the Bell household for days.

A few months later, Katie found herself the victim of a cursed opal necklace. It had the Crucio enclosed within it, but it was the fall that ultimately damaged her--she broke her wrist and the Healer told her it would never be the way it was again. That summer, at the National Quidditch League Combine, only the Holyhead Harpies would talk to her (and only because so few women were present), and it took one look from their Healer to let her know that her father was right all along.

Through some combination of luck, hard work and, unbeknownst to her, some string-pulling by her father, she managed to land a job as an assistant to Richard Vigneault, owner of the top Quidditch agency in the country. He was a demanding boss, detail-oriented and unforgiving, but she learned enough to impress him. When she decided to inform him that she was quitting to start her own agency, he told her to find him a new assistant before paying for her subsequent education in contract law. If that wasn't enough, he also assigned her the clients of one Alden Winters, who had worked for the company for years before dying from the impact of a rogue bludger at the seventh game of the Magpies/Bats League Cup Final. (Magpies won, 210 - 200, and Dustin Heatley, the Bats Seeker, was famously quoted as being so distraught upon the sight that he didn't notice the snitch in front of him--even if he wasn't actually looking at Winters then.)

Winters' clients were a mix of high-profile players and rising stars, among them old classmates Roger Davies and Oliver Wood. It hadn't been difficult to transition into the role, although Winters, it turned out, did much more than negotiate contracts come free agency periods, especially when it concerned Roger Davies.

"Katie, save me!" Roger shrieked, diving behind Katie as he literally struggled to keep his shirt on his person and away from the grabby hands of a thousand female fans.

"I am not your bodygua-- hey! Cut that out!" Katie yelled as someone tried to shove her out of the way. "Watch it!"

"I got his cap! I got his cap!" someone announced, though the triumphant crow was soon replaced by an ungodly howling.

"That's mine, bitch!"

"Merlin's balls, Davies, these girls really want your cap," Katie muttered to the man cowering behind her even as they continued to make their way out of the restaurant, half the girls fighting over the cap, the other half still attempting to grab a hold of Roger Davies.

"The gates of hell have opened," Roger bemoaned. "We'll never get out, Katiebell; it was nice knowing you."

"Shut up and take off your shirt."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Katie, I'm flattered, but this is neither the time nor the place--"

Katie glared. "It's not for that."

"Oh," Roger said. "But what about--"

"Trust me on this one."

"Fine," Roger replied, pausing only for a moment before he shrugged and moved to take off his shirt, which Katie snatched immediately from Roger's hand.

"Oh my god!" she trilled, voice about five octaves higher than it normally was, the shirt held up like the prize that it apparently was. "I have his shirt!"

A moment of dead silence descended upon the crowd, and then--

"Oh my god! She does!"

Heart pounding, Katie waited until all eyes were on her, and then, she rolled up the shirt and threw it as far away as she could.

There was another loud burst of screaming as the girls raced to grab the Davies-worn shirt.

Katie grinned, taking Roger's hand and Apparating them out of the street.

* * *

"You're a high-maintenance client, Roger," Katie decided, plopping onto Roger's large couch. "I need to start charging you a higher fee."

"For what?" Roger asked, feigning offense as he walked in with a bottle of Firewhiskey.

"Where do I begin?" Katie laughed, examining her arm. "I think one of those girls clawed me. Merlin, Oliver doesn't nearly give me this much of a headache."

"That's what you think," Roger said, pouring them both a shot.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Roger said, the smallest hint of a smirk on his face.

"Oh god, is he doing illegal potions?"

"No, of course not!" Roger laughed. "At least, not to my knowledge. Come on, do a shot with me."

"If it's going to cost him his career, you've got to tell me," Katie pleaded. "I just don't want to get caught off-guard here."

"It's no big deal," Roger insisted. "But if I tell you, will you do shots with me?"

"I don't recall ever signing a clause that says you can blackmail me with liquor," Katie pointed out.

"I didn't sign anything saying I had to put up with that stick up your arse," Roger shot back, only grinning impishly at the offended look on her face. "C'mon, I promise you this is juicy."

"What-- the shot?"

"No-- what Ollie's hiding."

"You said it wouldn't--"

"Shut up and drink, Katiebell."

"I hate when you call me that," Katie grumbled, though she took the shot and downed the Firewhiskey in a single gulp, making a face when she was done. "I don't know why you like that stuff; it's nasty."

"Well done, you," Roger said. "Now are you ready for this?"

"Yeah, spit it out already, and it better be good or else."

"C'mere."

"Why?"

"I can't say it out loud! What if someone's listening?"

She rolled her eyes. "If this is an elaborate plan to give me a wet--"

"It's not!" Roger said, and Katie believed him, so she leaned closer, waiting for Roger to whisper Oliver's secret in her ear.

"What?"

"It is a true fact."

"You're not serious-- Ollie? Our Ollie?"

Roger nodded solemnly. "Caught him myself-- told him I'd be out after that game in Tutshill, right, but I had to come back early--"

"And he was--"

"With my own two eyes, I swear to you, Katie--"

"Percy?"

"Head Boy Weasley," Roger confirmed. "They swore me to secrecy, of course, but you're alright, aren't you?"

Katie sat back in disbelief. "I s'pose," she said. "It's just-- wow."

"Yeah."

"Why did-- why did you tell me?" Katie asked, peering curiously at Roger.

"Like you said, I'm high maintenance and Oliver isn't," Roger said, grinning. "Figured it'd be best to keep it that way for your sake."

* * *

"I'd say that went well," Roger said conversationally, hands deep in his pockets as he and Katie exited Fiyero's late that night.

"Are you sure? He didn't look too impressed; what if he thought he could do better?" Katie asked with a frown.

"What-- my ringing endorsement isn't good enough for him?"

"He's Viktor Krum," Katie pointed out. "I'm not the only one after him!"

"He said he likes the idea of having a familiar face around, so you never know," Roger told her, patting her shoulder.

"I'm not a familiar face," Katie muttered. "He didn't know I existed."

"Still," Roger said. "You were there; that's got to help, yeah? I'm sure when he makes his decision to switch leagues, he'll give you a call."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," Roger promised.

"I guess we'll have to see how it turns out," Katie admitted, leaning against Roger. "Thanks for coming out to meet him with me."

"Anything for you, Katiebell," Roger said, squeezing her shoulder. "Ice cream?"

"Huh?"

Roger nodded towards a parlor a few feet away. "Looks like Fortescue's still open. How about it? My treat."

"At-- at this time of the night?"

"Hey it's the man's choice what time his business establishment is open, yeah?"

"I know that, I just mean--"

"Katie."

Katie looked up at Roger's grin. "What?"

"You're seriously going to tell me you'll refuse free ice cream because we don't have an Ice Cream Clause?"

"No, just--"

And then Roger cut her short, his lips warm and soft against her own, his hand gentle against her cheek. "Katie," he repeated in a murmur that tickled her jaw. "Please?"

"Alright," she conceded, only a little breathless. At this point, she should have already figured out that when it came to Roger Davies, there was very little she'd say no to.

Strangely enough, that was perfectly fine with her.

Fanart: Do You Believe in Snorkacks? (Luna/Hermione, PG13)

Thu, 07 May 2009 17:30:24 GMT

Title: Do You Believe in Snorkacks?
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author-turned-pseudo-artist: slumber
Pairing: Luna/Hermione
Rating: PG13
Medium: Colored markers
Summary: "You'll need to be very, very quiet, or else the crumple-horned snorkacks will take more than your shoes."
Additional Notes: Drawn for hpsauce at hp_april_fools over at IJ. Started out completely different (and much more detailed) in my head but lack of art materials, proper scanning tools, Photoshop skills, and actual artistic ability produced this instead. LOL. Whatever. There are skirts involved, and ties, too, so I am happy.

FIC: Salvation by Slytherin (Blaise/Theodore, Draco/Terry, some Draco/Theodore, NC-17)

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 17:21:29 GMT

Title: Salvation by Slytherin
Author: slumber
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8,700
Warnings: Nothing, really. Plot, probably, and a disappointing lack of darkness.
Summary: All Terry Boot wants to do is author a book and perhaps rewrite history as wizarding society remembers it, but the Slytherins just won't cooperate. When a civil war erupts and Terry's only chance of escape involves working with a poorly-acronymed rebel group and an army of questionable professionals to take down the largest magical empire in the world, is his potential bestseller really worth all the trouble? (Theodore/Blaise, Draco/Terry, shades of Draco/Theodore.)
Disclaimers: If I owned Harry Potter, it wouldn't be about Harry Potter. Made up facts and figures derived from actual facts and figures found in Wikipedia.
Notes: Though the Slytherins were nowhere in the Battle of Hogwarts in the book, JKR has stated in later interviews that they were, so I've taken that for fact. This was written for mr_mercutio during the recently concluded hpvalensmut, originally posted here. Much thanks and love to ccharlotte for the beta.

Foreword

Since the end of the Second War… the wizarding world has taken great strides in the advancement of wizarding relations with Muggles and other non-wizard magical creatures, and through the placement and enactment of various nondiscriminatory laws, many previously disenfranchised species [such as house elves, giants, and werewolves] now enjoy the same rights and privileges as any wizard.

…

For all intents and purposes, it does appear as though we are steps closer to achieving the harmony that Professor Albus Dumbledore… once dreamed of. However, it has been too easy to forget that, above those unlike ourselves…, Professor Dumbledore also encouraged us to embrace those who are, [all else] aside, just like ourselves.

-Hermione J. Granger, "Forgiving the Fourth House" (June 2001)

Draco Malfoy wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Is this what you call a manor?" he asked, stepping gingerly over a footstool that looked as though it had survived more than seven centuries, but should have been discarded before the first was over. The floor, buried beneath an inch-high layer of dust, only creaked and moaned under the weight of similar items: piles of unopened, half-opened, should-never-be-opened boxes, mismatched chairs, sofas that badly needed new upholstery, a table that was missing a quarter of a leg, and a book thick enough to prop it.

Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini exchanged a look.

"The pickings were slim, but at least this is spacious," Theodore said with a shrug. "There weren't many other choices with what Blaise and I managed to sneak out of the country before the Ministry stepped in. Though, of course, if you were to chip in…"

"This is fine," Draco replied hastily. "A couple of spells will do the trick. And anyway, I'll only need to be here for a few days—a week, at most. I should never have picked Polish contractors to do the renovations on Malfoy Manor in the first place; they're loud, lazy, and incompetent."

Blaise rolled his eyes, but a second look from Theodore kept him quiet.

"And whose unfortunate elf sleeps in there?"

"Actually," Blaise drawled, his lips curling into a smirk. "That'll be your room."

===

Chapter 1

For the darkness we have witnessed in the past is precisely the sort of darkness that we cannot allow to haunt our future, and this I say with utmost certainty and faith: for as long as remnants of this evil remain in our midst, so too shall we remain in danger of losing everything that we have fought for.

- Arthur Weasley, "Muggleborn Protection Act" (October 1999)

"I'm coming!" Draco snapped, rising from where he lay perched on the now-dusted, somewhat-upholstered sofa. Neither Nott nor Zabini were around, and they were not coming back until later that evening.

The rapping on the front door continued at an annoying rhythm, and it was partly his concern for the door's fragile state (one more knock and he just knew it would fall apart, and then what would they do?) that made Draco hurry.

"What?" he snapped, yanking it open.

There was a startled gasp. "Draco Malfoy? Hi, I was wondering—"

The rest of Terry Boot's words died on his lips as Draco slammed the door shut in his face.

===

Terry cringed. That had gone exactly as expected, if he were to be honest, and from the very beginning, he knew tracking Draco Malfoy down would be the easy part. He knocked again, an easy rap-rap-rap that he knew would be heard.

"I'm not interested in whatever you're selling."

"I'm not a salesman!"

"I know who you are."

Terry sighed. "Then could I— I would like to speak with you." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Please?"

"No," came the reply.

Terry knocked again.

"Stop or I'll make you pay for that door!"

"I'll stop when you come out and hear what I've got to say."

"No!"

Terry growled and kicked the door.

===

"Draco, there's a Ravenclaw on our front lawn," Theodore said when he walked in a few hours later, shaking off the disillusionment charm he'd placed on himself. "Would you happen to know why?"

Draco shrugged from where he'd curled up by the fireplace, working on the day's crossword puzzle. "No."

"That was Boot, wasn't it?" Blaise asked, a few steps behind Theodore. He wore a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"So?"

"Skinny boy with dark hair," Blaise noted, watching Terry Boot from the window. "That's almost a type."

"I do not have a type."

"What's he doing here?" Theodore asked. "And how are you even doing that crossword? You don't know a bit of Russian."

"This is Romanian," Draco corrected him. "And anyway, I don't need to know the language to figure out which words fit in the boxes."

"What?"

"Should we let him in?" Blaise asked, licking his lips. "I don't believe he ever made it to my list--"

"No!" Draco exclaimed.

"Absolutely not," Theodore said at exactly the same time.

===

Terry Boot finally left that night, though much to Draco's dismay, he only returned the next day with even more resolve and determination, along with some sort of contraption charmed to continuously knock on the door so he didn't have to.

"I don't understand," Blaise said, emerging from the shower, robed and looking disgustingly divine as he toweled off his hair. "What's he done to you?"

"Nothing," Draco mumbled. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be—wherever it is you go during the day?"

"I took the day off," Blaise said, eyeing Draco with something close to amusement.

Draco left it at that. Though he was curious, he had never been able to bring himself to ask either man what he did for money. All he knew was that somehow, over the last few weeks, while 'renovations on the Malfoy Manor' kept facing setback after setback, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini had managed to restore their crumbling estate into something remotely livable. Whether they were doing so lawfully or not remained to be seen, and Draco had long ago learned that in those instances, it was always best to err on the side of ignorance.

"So if he's done nothing," Blaise ventured. "Why are you so adamant not to see him?"

"I know what he's here for," Draco admitted.

"Oh?"

Draco sighed. "He wants to redeem us."

===

"I hear you're to be our salvation," a voice murmured from behind Terry Boot. "Colour me flattered."

Terry jumped up from where he sat on the lawn. "Who—Blaise!"

Blaise Zabini grinned at him, the last of the disillusionment charm dissipating.

"Oh," Terry breathed. "I... didn't see you there."

"Hello, professor." Blaise nodded to the thing that kept knocking at their door. "Do you mind? That's a very old piece of wood and you'll drive a hole right through it."

"Sorry." Terry waved his wand, and the knocking stopped. He looked at Blaise, who flashed him a benign smile. "Draco's told you, then?"

"Not everything," Blaise admitted. "But enough to know that, whatever your agenda, it's never going to happen."

"I don't have an agenda," Terry protested. "And why not? I saw you there, at The Battle of Hog--"

Blaise laughed. "The Battle of Hogwarts? Oh, that is rich. Was 'The Last Battle' taken? 'The Last Stand'? You're right, I was there, but were you? That was not a battle, Boot, it was a massacre gone awry; we're lucky so many of us lived through it at all."

"But we all fought fair and square, you as much as I did, and no one even believes you were there!"

"History is nothing more than propaganda the victors are allowed to write," Blaise told him. "You should know that. Nobody will ever want to read what you've got to say, not even us."

"You don't think I know that?" Terry asked. "It isn't just the book; the Ministry is more than willing--"

"The Ministry!" Blaise snorted. "Are you even listening to yourself?"

Terry said nothing, though his fists had curled into balls. "I wish you would."

Blaise sighed, leaning closer and smelling suspiciously of the ocean breeze. "Let me tell you something, professor," he murmured, his voice low and silky enough to send a shiver down Terry’s spine.

"Y—yeah?"

"Zabini, what are you doing?" an annoyed voice snapped from behind them both. Terry pulled back suddenly, turning to see Draco, arms crossed and a glare on his face.

"Entertaining our visitor," Blaise replied. "Well," he amended, "I was about to."

Draco ignored him.

"You said you wanted to talk to me?" he asked Terry, who stood up and nodded. "Alright. But not here."

===

"That's okay; I know a café!" Terry had said earlier, when Draco finally agreed to speak with him.

Terry had, indeed, passed by a small, cozy-looking coffee shop just a few blocks from where he'd tracked Draco Malfoy down, and though he meant to try it out (the smell of coffee always seemed overpowering, but the little signboard out front advertised a few types of tea that made his mouth water), his attempts at finagling an interview with the Slytherins had so far been distracting.

That the café turned out to be the bastard child of Madam Puddifoot's and Professor Trelawney's classroom was, clearly, unintentional.

"It looked better from outside!" Terry protested when he saw Draco's scowl.

"Not a word to Zabini or Nott and we'll call it even," Draco said, gritting his teeth as he took the strong, solid chair opposite the pink, fluffed-up booth that was going to be Terry's seat.

"Fair enough," Terry reasoned with a sigh. "So you've finally agreed to talk to me. Dare I ask why?"

Draco waved his hand dismissively. "Don't be daft; I didn't come here to help you write a bestseller. I've just preserved your honour—did you see the way Zabini was looking at you?"

"What?"

"Oh, don't be naïve. Never trust a man who smells like the sea breeze," Draco said solemnly, smirking when he caught the guilt in Terry's expression.

"So what are we actually here for, then?" Terry asked. "Is there no way I can convince you otherwise?"

"You've already tried," Draco pointed out. "Seventeen Owls' worth, I believe."

Terry took a deep breath. "What if—what if you could have Malfoy Manor back?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Ministry is willing to return some of the property they've seized," Terry explained. "As a show of good faith--"

"In return for what?" Draco asked. "Turning me into their poster boy for--"

Before he could finish the rest of his sentence, the shop across the street exploded.

"That wasn't me!" Draco yelped instinctually as he ducked, narrowly avoiding shards of what was once an apothecary.

===

"Draco, there's a Ravenclaw in our sitting room."

"I know."

"And the apothecary down the road is on fire."

"I saw."

"They don't, by chance, happen to be--"

"What are you implying, Nott?" Draco snapped. "I say the wrong spell one time--"

Theodore opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it. "Nothing," he said, looking out the window at the burning remains of the store. "I suppose it's a good thing we've made sure the manor is Unplottable."

===

"Elphaba's Brewery and Inn has been taken too," Terry announced to everyone the next morning, the day's paper open on the table as he ran his wand over the words to translate them. "The same goes for a number of local establishments, The Camelot—shit, that's where I—and oh, no. They've shut down the International Floo Centre."

"Are you always this bright and perky so early in the morning?" Blaise asked.

"They're talking about the possibility of declaring war," Terry added, ignoring Blaise's comment.

"War?" Draco echoed.

Terry nodded, tight-lipped.

"On who? What for?" Draco demanded.

Terry consulted the paper again. "The Magical Independence and Liberation Front of Moldova--"

"Moldova?" Draco asked, confused. "Who's Moldova?"

Terry blinked. "Moldova is a country. We're in Moldova."

"No, we're not," Theodore said. "We're in Russia."

"Russia?" Draco looked baffled. "I thought we were in Romania!"

Terry looked at Blaise, who shrugged. "Don't look at me; I just followed the man with the portkey. But at least I knew this wasn't Italy."

"You have got to be kidding me," Terry muttered.

"No, we're not, though now I do wish I'd taken Mother up on her offer, after all."

"Did none of you take Muggle Stud—right. Why did I even ask?"

"We're in Russia," Theodore insisted. "That's where my portkey was charmed to go."

"Did you charm it yourself?"

Theodore frowned. "No, it was—it's been in the family for—a while, I suppose."

"For emergencies, right?" Terry guessed. "And judging from the, uh, state of this manor, can I also assume the Notts have not set foot on their Russian property since that portkey was made?"

"Was the portkey faulty, professor?" Blaise asked.

"Professor?" Theodore interjected.

"Binns finally retired," Draco said.

"Actually, his wife died, so she came and dragged him off to vacation in Majorca," Terry corrected. "He'd promised her, and she said she wasn't taking any more excuses."

Blaise cleared his throat. "We were talking about the portkey."

"Oh, yes, well, it wasn't faulty, no. The timing was," Terry said. "This area we're in, it was part of both Romania and Russia at different times, but the Muggles know it as Moldova. Most wizards who live here do too, but as far as the Russian Empire of Magic is concerned, that doesn't mean a thing."

"So it's really more of a rebellion," Blaise said.

"Either way, we're stuck here until this insanity is resolved."

There was silence all around as everyone digested the news. Blaise did not appear to be the least bit concerned, nor did Theodore. Instead, he looked as though the wheels in his head were turning.

"Theodore, you don't happen to have any more of those emergency portkeys on you, do you?" Draco asked. "Maybe if we try to go to Ukraine, we'll end up with Binns in Majorca."

===

The papers the next day confirmed it: the Magical Independence and Liberation Front of Moldova had declared war on the Russian Empire of Magic, demanding sovereignty or death. And though Terry pretended he didn't see it, he could have sworn he saw Theodore Nott almost smile.

===

Chapter 2

While I most certainly understand [the arguments]… we must also let our emotions neither blind us nor rush us in our judgment. There are those who believe that intervention is in their best interests, but we must think of what is in the best interest of everyone involved… we cannot let that kind of near-sightedness lead us back into our own destruction.

- Kingsley Shacklebolt (August 2002)

If Theodore Nott learned anything from those years when Harry Potter was either saving the wizarding world or causing it undue discomfort, it was this: war could be very profitable.

He should know; his father sat on the board of The Daily Prophet and saw the charts spike whenever Skeeter published an article on Potter. Caractacus Burke, a family friend, said nothing about how well Borgin & Burkes was doing, but the jewellery his young wife wore at different parties (always extravagant, never the same) spoke volumes. And there was Janus Jiggers, of course, whose apothecary never lost the bustle of customer activity, and who saw more gold than he was taxed for when his store closed at day's end.

Theodore knew there were certain industries that thrived during a crisis, but when he slipped out of England, he was only able to bring with him enough resources to invest in the oldest one.

"Good morning, girls," he murmured as he strode into what stood for his offices, a nondescript, almost-falling-down pile of bricks that did an adequate job of hiding the secrets it stored inside.

"Good morning, Theodore," returned a chorus of heavily-accented English from girls (and boys) of varying ages, sizes and races scattered about the lobby. At its centre stood a woman with a clipboard in her hand.

Theodore walked toward her. "Anca, I trust everything went well last night?"

"Of course, sir," Anca replied with a beam. "Oh, but we are almost out of Roger Davieses, Harry Potters and Celestina Warbecks."

"Warbeck? Really?"

"They say she is doing a—what do you call it, coming back?"

"Ahh. Well, thanks for the warning," Theodore murmured, taking the clipboard she handed him and looking it over. "I'll ask Dima to take care of it. How is our potion stock otherwise?"

"I place order for everything else yesterday."

"We're about to have many Russian guests, Anca," Theodore told her. "Young, lonely Russian soldiers, by the looks of it. Expect at least twice the demand in the next few weeks."

"I read newspaper too, Mr. Nott. I ask for triple the usual stock of ingredients."

Theodore smiled. "Good. How are the rooms?"

"We just clean up."

"The girls?"

"A little tired, I think."

"Tell them they can sleep now. Oh, and what did you do about last week's applicants?"

"I already see them. They are with Mr. Zabini in his office."

===

"Oh, yes, yes," Theodore moaned, throwing his head back against the sheets. His skin was slick with sweat, his muscles taut, his long fingers tangled in fine blond hair as he bucked his hips.

Draco angled his head, straining to take the full length of Theodore's cock into his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks, tongue flat against the shaft as he sucked harder, eliciting a strangled gasp from the other man.

"Knees up," he ordered once he'd pulled away, wiping away the pre-come on his lips with the back of his hand, smirking when Theodore obeyed.

"Good boy," Draco murmured, pushing two fingers inside Theodore's mouth. With his free hand, he began stroking his own cock, groaning as it grew harder.

"Draco, please--"

"Please what?" Draco asked, withdrawing his fingers from Theodore's mouth and pushing them roughly inside him.

Theodore cried out, squirming beneath him. "Please—please fuck me."

Draco was about to oblige when the door flew open. There, standing by the doorway, wide-eyed and red-faced, was Theodore Nott.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

===

"The Camelot's still occupied by the rebels," Terry reported when he walked into the manor. "I couldn't even get in with a disillusionment charm; they had the whole place warded."

"Pity," Draco muttered from what had become his sofa. "What's an eight-letter word that ends in 's'? Third letter is 'a'; fifth is 'y.'"

"What's the clue?"

Draco snorted. "Do I look like I know Moldovan?"

Terry gave him a strange look, but Draco did not notice. "Where are Theodore and Blaise?"

"Give me an eight-letter word!"

"Fine," Terry huffed, pondering for a moment before he offered a suggestion. "Analysis?"

Draco nodded, penciling in his answer. "Well played, Boot."

"I don't see the point," Terry said, peering over Draco's shoulder to look at what he had written down. "You're filling them in with your own words?"

"What? It's a challenge," Draco muttered in response. "Nott and Zabini are at work."

"Huh. What do they do?"

"I don't know. I probably don't want to know."

"What about you? Don't you have work?"

Draco tensed. "I beg your pardon? Malfoys," he replied icily, "are never employees."

===

"Theodore!"

"Blaise."

"What? You told me you wanted talented people who can take up a challenge," Blaise pointed out, not the least bit perturbed, it seemed, by the murder in Theodore's eyes. "It's nothing personal, Theodore; sometimes I even let them turn into me."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Will tea?"

"Um, Mr. Zabini?" a hesitant female voice called out.

Blaise turned toward the bed, where instead of the men he'd been watching earlier, there were now two young women, both naked and wrapped in sheets. "Hm?"

"The potions run out."

"That's fine, girls," he told them. "That was all I needed to see."

"Is that—do we get job?"

"To be quite honest, I'm not sure Theodore would have been that loud, or Draco that aggressive, and remember, part of this is characterization," he said, to the obvious disappointment of both girls. "I'll have to think about it. Why don't you get dressed, come back tomorrow, and I'll let you know."

"Yes, Mr. Zabini."

Once the girls had left, the door closing behind them, Theodore crossed his arms and glanced down. "Is that an erection?"

"It took them less than two minutes," Blaise replied casually. "And they were able to sustain it. They're good; I think we should hire them."

Theodore made a frustrated sound and ran his hand through his hair. "For fuck's sake, Blaise, what was that about? You were the one who made a huge fuss about 'drawing lines' and 'setting boundaries,' and now here you are--"

"Theodore, that was my mother!"

"She's in demand!" Theodore snapped back. "Do you have any idea how much business we lose when we tell men no, we don't have Isabella Zabini in stock?"

"It's different!" Blaise snarled.

Theodore crossed his arms. "How?"

Blaise took a moment to calm down, inhaling a deep breath and looking Theodore in the eye, unsurprised to find that his cock had not softened. "There was no money involved."

"What does that matter?"

"I wasn't finished," Blaise said, moving closer towards Theodore. "I wasn't a stranger."

Theodore frowned slightly and stepped back. "That's still not enough."

"I'm not done," Blaise told him, eyes now alight, not with anger, but with something else, something that unsettled Theodore. "I promise I won't do it again."

Theodore swallowed hard. "I asked how it was different."

"I was getting to that," Blaise murmured.

"And?"

"She's my mother," Blaise said simply, pushing Theodore back against the wall. "I don't want to fuck her."

Theodore's eyes widened. "Is that why you're still hard?" he asked.

"Yes," Blaise said, closing the distance between their lips.

===

"'The Emperor of Magic announced yesterday that the Empire will soon deploy peacekeeping troops to monitor the situation in Moldova,'" Terry read, "'besides employing other measures to ensure that security is maintained.' I bet that means they've closed off the borders and started watching owls leaving the country, too."

"Will you stop reading the bloody paper already?" Draco asked. "It's only going to depress you."

"Ignoring it doesn't make it go away," Terry countered. "I'd rather know that I can't leave the country than try and get killed in the process."

"You make it sound so dramatic."

"In case it wasn't clear to you, it rather is," Terry said.

Draco shrugged. "The manor's Unplottable. As long as we stay inside, we should be safe."

"But until when?"

"Who cares? Someone else can have problems for once."

Terry pursed his lips, but kept quiet.

"Regretting coming out here now, aren't you?"

"Of course not," Terry said, but there was a little less certainty in his voice.

"You know, you never told me how you found out where I was," Draco remarked.

"Oh, I tracked your owls," Terry said. "You really should have been more careful with them."

===

"Oh dear Salazar," Theodore groaned as Blaise dragged the tip of his tongue along the shell of his ear. His fingers twisted in the fabric of Blaise's robes, hips pinned to the wall by Blaise's own.

"Blaise, not Salazar," the other man said in a low murmur that sent shivers down Theodore's spine. He pushed Theodore's robes off his shoulders. His shirt soon followed, and Blaise's attention turned to the fastening on Theodore's trousers.

"Careful," Theodore warned, holding Blaise's wrist still as he reached for Theodore's trousers. "I'm going to wear this later."

Blaise laughed, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Theodore's pants and yanking him forward, pressing a hungry kiss to his lips. "I don't think so."

There was the sound of ripping fabric, followed by the faint popping of buttons, and before Theodore could voice his protest, Blaise pushed his tongue past Theodore's lips to silence him. Theodore's trousers fell to the floor and pooled around his ankles. Blaise's hands closed around his cock and Theodore pulled back, head against the wall, a soundless cry on his lips.

"Blaise," he gasped, fingers curling against the man's shoulders. "You bastard."

"Why, Theodore," Blaise murmured, squeezing Theodore's cock and stroking it roughly, his thumb harsh against its tip. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Will you?" Theodore asked, looking up at Blaise.

Blaise shook his head slowly. "Too late for that."

"Then take off your clothes," Theodore retorted, tugging Blaise's own robes off him. He struggled for a moment, concentration easily broken by Blaise's hand on his cock, before he gave up and, with a spell, shred Blaise's clothes to pieces.

"Nott!"

Theodore smirked, swatting Blaise's hand away. He fell to his knees, hands on Blaise's hips, mouth dangerously close to Blaise's cock. He looked up and met Blaise's gaze.

Blaise swallowed hard. "Please."

Theodore smiled. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes on Blaise as he closed his mouth around the man's cock.

===

"What's wrong with 'echo'?" Terry asked. "All you need is four letters starting with an 'e', right?"

"How many five-letter words end with 'c' and 'h', Boot?" Draco replied, filling the spaces with 'eden' instead. "You're going to trap yourself early."

"You've really given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

"Shut up and help me fill out the rest."

===

"No, no—Theodore, wai—oh, fuck," Blaise cried out, thrusting hard against Theodore's mouth as he came. He leaned forward, one hand on the wall to support his weak knees, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Theodore rose to his feet, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He lifted Blaise’s chin and kissed him, tongue curling against Blaise's.

"Theodore," Blaise moaned into the kiss, body flush with heat as he tasted himself on the other man's tongue.

"Against the wall," came the reply.

"What?"

Theodore pulled back. "Against the wall," he repeated, holding Blaise by the hips. He switched their positions so that Blaise faced the wall and Theodore pressed up against him, his swollen cock against the back of Blaise's thigh. "Spread your legs."

"Wait, Theodore--" Blaise gasped, spine traitorously tingling with anticipation when he realized exactly what Theodore wanted.

"I'm not done with you yet," Theodore whispered, pushing come-slicked fingers inside Blaise.

===

"Aren't you worried?"

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Why should I be? It's only a puzzle."

"I didn't mean the puzzle."

"Are you still going on about that?"

"Well, there's a chance we're stuck here for a really long time, and I would like to go home sooner than that," Terry said. "Wouldn't you?"

Draco scoffed at that. "Home?" he echoed.

Terry winced. "I'm sorry, that was--"

"Really stupid, Boot," Draco agreed. A few moments later, he added, "But I accept your apology."

"Thanks," Terry said, subdued.

"Why are you really here?" Draco asked after a minute or so of silence passed. "Why track me down for a stupid book?"

"I told you, it's—people ought to know there's another side to the whole story, and it's only right that--"

"Let me rephrase that," Draco interrupted him. "Why do you care? You've got a job, a house, your reputation's not completely shot to hell. What does this matter to you?"

Terry sighed. "You know, it's ironic. I spent seven years at Hogwarts, but I didn't see it until I came back to teach. Well, that's a lie—I saw it, but I didn't see how horrible it was until I came back."

"What is 'it', Boot?"

"The division," Terry replied. "Somehow we're paying the elves a galleon a week and giving them days off, whether they like it or not, but refusing to sit beside a classmate just because of the colour tie they're wearing."

"So? This isn't your problem."

"I helped create it. I didn't stop it. I let it blind me when I could have been kinder."

Draco frowned. "You feel guilty."

"I didn't know what you were going through in Seventh Year," Terry said. "When I saw you in the infirmary--"

"You should have told me to get well soon instead of threatening me with your wand?" Draco snorted. "Don't worry, Boot, I wasn't actually threatened."

"Well, I shouldn't have said what I did anyway," Terry mumbled. "You were—you looked more bruised than I was. And I thought that, but I ignored it."

"I was not more bruised."

"I didn't even—who did that, anyway? The DA weren't supposed to use spells that str—was it the Carrows?"

Draco did not answer, which was confirmation enough for Terry.

"I didn't know," Terry said again, looking down at his hands.

Draco shrugged. "I was the reason they were in Hogwarts."

"And I—I probably also shouldn't have hexed you when you weren't looking," Terry admitted. "Or asked Michael to do it again, either."

"That was you?"

Terry nodded guiltily.

"For fuck's sake, don't tell anyone!" Draco exclaimed. "If people find out I was bullied by a Ravenclaw, that'll really be the end of me."

===

Chapter 3

While the Ministry of Magic has neither confirmed nor denied it, sources [report] that the rebellion [in Moldova] could very well be the handiwork of [former] Death Eaters. Similar sources have confirmed that [Moldova] has indeed become a harbour for Ministry fugitives… Could the Ministry have kept this information from public knowledge to cover up its own incompetence? Is there a link between the Death Eaters and the Magical Independence and Liberation Front of Moldova? Is the Ministry refusing involvement due to diplomacy or cowardice?

- Rita Skeeter, "The Daily Prophet" (September 13, 2002)

It took the Russian Empire of Magic less than a week to send their men to Moldova, and even less time afterward before they occupied most major magical establishments. Despite intensifying skirmishes between the Russian army and the Moldovan rebels, life went on as best it could for some people.

"You burnt the toast again," Draco accused Theodore. "And mutilated the eggs."

"Perhaps you could do better next time," Theodore shot back.

"I don't see why this manor couldn't have come with an elf," Draco grumbled.

"What we need," Blaise proposed, "is an orphan boy."

Terry blinked. "What?"

"To do our bidding for us," Blaise explained. "He can cook our food and clean the house, and we can make him miserable and build his character."

Terry stared.

"Hell, we have a cupboard under the stairs; he can stay there," Blaise continued. "Maybe he'll grow up to be The Boy Who Saved Moldova."

Draco snickered into his coffee, and even Theodore appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh. "I better get to work," Theodore announced.

"That'll be my cue as well," Blaise murmured.

"Hey," Terry said, standing up hesitantly. "Could I go with you?"

"What for?" Theodore asked.

Terry shrugged. "It looks like I might be here longer than I'd planned," he said. "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to get a job in the meantime. Do you have an opening?"

===

"I still don't understand what was so funny," Terry mumbled, following Draco into the sitting room. "And what's he mean, I've been pulling my weight?"

"With the two of them, you never know," Draco muttered in reply.

"Yeah, they do seem—what's that noise?"

"Hm?" Draco turned around to see Terry walk towards the windows.

"Merlin—Draco? Do you have the wireless here?" he asked. There was something in the way he spoke, some sort of tension in his voice that made Draco frown.

"Yes, why?"

"Can you turn it on, please?"

Draco did, flicking his wand to tune in to the wireless channel. He cast a translation spell before he moved to stand behind Terry, curiosity overpowering his better instincts. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Behind him, the wireless channel crackled to life.

"…chaos today in downtown Chisinau where a troop of Russian soldiers attacked…"

===

"Anca? What's going on?" Theodore asked as he strode in. There was a tension in the workplace that he knew Anca had been easing and seeing the fear finally reflected in her own eyes unsettled him.

"Is everything alright?" Blaise asked. "Where's everyone else?"

"I tell them to stay in their rooms," Anca explained. "They are—it is not safe to go home, and last night—Mr. Nott, Mr. Zabini, there is something you must see."

===

"Turn that thing off," Draco ordered for the third time that day.

"Are you mad? How else are we supposed to know what's going on?"

"We don't want to know," Draco told him with a scowl. He'd already yanked the window curtains shut earlier, dragging Terry toward the sofa and forcing him to sit there instead of absorbing the carnage outside. It didn't seem to have helped; now the professor was instead flicking through various wireless channels attempting to gather all the information he could.

"Hey, what did you do that for?" Terry asked when the channels all turned to static.

"I didn't do anything! I was just about to turn it off."

"That wasn't you?" Terry asked, turning the wireless off before he switched it back on. Nothing changed.

"No, it wasn't," Draco said. "What happened?"

"They've blacked out the news."

===

There weren't a lot of things that slipped his notice, attentive as he was to detail, but this Theodore had forgotten: as there are opportunities, in war there are also casualties.

"Ileana's husband—the Russians kill him last week," Anca explained. "I did not know. She did not say. I send her this man last night, and--"

"I see." Theodore examined the body lying prone on the bed in a pool of blood and impaled upon its own wand. A Russian soldier's uniform lay crumpled on the floor. "Did he come in with anyone?"

"Four friends, but they leave separately."

"And where is Ileana?"

"She is with Dima. We give her calming potion."

"Theodore," Blaise murmured beside him. "His friends will come looking for him soon."

"I know." Theodore glanced down at the dead man for a few moments, until it seemed he'd arrived at a decision. He picked a few strands of hair from the man's head, took a vial from his pocket, and placed the hair inside. "Anca, find someone to clean this up, please."

"Yes, Mr. Nott."

"I'm afraid we won't be able to stay here for much longer," he continued. "It'll be too risky. But Anca, I would like to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Is there anybody here who wishes he or she was able to do what Ileana did?"

A pause. "Everyone here does."

Theodore handed her the vial. "How many more of these do you think we can find tonight?" he asked.

"There is no need, Mr. Nott," Anca said, eyes gleaming with triumph. "I tell the girls to take a few from each man who visits; we have many of those in stock."

And despite everything that had happened, Theodore found himself smiling once more.

===

"Who're 'they'?"

"The Russians, I'm willing to bet," Terry said in response. "All the news so far has been sympathetic to the rebels."

"Why would they do that?" Draco asked, sitting across from him.

"The head of the Magical Independence and Liberation Front was about to get an interview," Terry told him. "It might have turned into a plea for support. And the civilian body count's rising. That's probably the bigger reason. They don't want us to see just how many people they're killing."

"We're Unplottable," Draco repeated, noticing the way the other man's skin paled. "They won't find us."

"What about Blaise and Theodore?"

"They can take care of themselves," Draco answered after a short moment of silence. "They have before. They'll be fine."

===

"What do you have planned that you're not telling me?" Blaise asked, following Theodore as he walked down the hall to his office.

"An exit strategy," the man replied once they were inside and the door was closed behind them.

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Theodore returned the look. "Don't you trust me?"

Blaise laughed. "After the shit you keep pulling on me--"

And suddenly Theodore's lips were upon his, his fingers in Blaise's hair, tongue slipping past pliant lips to stroke Blaise's in a heated, hungry kiss that left Blaise flushed and out of breath.

"You bastard," Blaise gasped, laughing as he fisted his hands in Theodore's robes and pulled him close for a second kiss.

===

"If by that, you mean they're perfectly capable of fleeing one country only to end up in another one on the brink of civil war, then yes, they can take care of themselves," Terry muttered dryly. "None of you even knew where you were."

"Not my fault my map was a little outdated," Draco mumbled.

"This is bloody Hogwarts all over again," Terry said, standing up. "We've got to do something."

"Like what?" Draco asked. "We're fine here; no one will find us, Nott and Zabini will come back, and we can just wait this out."

"And when will that be?" Terry retorted. "We can't lock ourselves inside—what about food? What if this doesn't end soon?"

"So what are you saying we should do? Plan a daring escape? Fight to the death? Save the civilians?" Draco mocked.

Terry glared at him. "No, don't be stupid. We just—we need to be ready for anything, that's all."

"How do you plan on ensuring that?"

Terry's gaze fell on the sofa. With a quick swish of his wand, he Banished it to the wall, throwing Draco, who yelped most indignantly, to the ground.

"What in the hell, Boot!"

Terry ignored him, instead turning to rearrange the rest of the furniture in the sitting room, clearing out the centre. Satisfied, he turned to Draco.

"How good are you with your hexes?" he asked. "Because I'm fairly sure mine need work."

===

"Mr. Nott?"

"Come in, Anca."

The door opened and Anca walked in, arms full of fabric and rolls of parchment, which Blaise eyed with interest. "I bring what you ask me for."

Theodore first examined the fabric, unrolling it to reveal the dark reds and golds of the Russian uniforms. "This looks good," he said. "Get the girls working on as many exact copies of that soldier's uniform as they can Transfigure."

"I have them start already."

"And how do you plan to make sure there is no confusion?"

Anca stretched out the fabric for Theodore to see. "White stripe," she pointed out.

"That will have to do." Theodore took the parchment from her, spreading it out on the desk to reveal a map of the city. "You've marked the governor's office here?"

"Also the Floo Centres, the bases and the border stations."

"Thank you, Anca. Let me know when the uniforms are ready and make sure you tell Flaviu about the stripes."

"Yes, Mr. Nott."

Blaise turned to Theodore once the woman had left. "How long have you been working with the rebels?"

Theodore looked up at him. "I'm not. We need them to get ourselves, the girls and their families out."

Blaise crossed his arms. "And who is Flaviu?"

"Anca's husband." Theodore sighed. "And the general of the Liberation Front, yes. I didn't know until recently."

"We are not getting involved in another war," Blaise hissed. "This is not our problem, Theodore."

"We won't; we aren't," Theodore insisted. "I told you: this is an exit strategy. I'm getting us out of here."

Blaise did not look convinced. "Then I don't see why you can't tell me how."

===

"Ready?"

"I was ready five minutes ago, Boot. Are you stalling?"

"You're a git, you know that?" Terry shot back, casting a wordless hex and aiming towards Draco, who avoided it easily and shot a counter-curse in turn. It missed Terry by a hair, though before Draco could be smug about it, the professor had already tried to disarm him.

"I don't think so," Draco said, and for the next few minutes, the sitting room was aglow with the coloured light of various hexes and spells, shooting out of both men's wands, though hitting neither one, skilled as they had somehow become in evasive defense.

After some time, their footwork slowed and their reflexes became less responsive. Terry's aim was losing accuracy, though now there was more time for him to adjust in between the curses Draco cast in his direction.

"Need time to catch your breath, Malfoy?" Terry panted, casting a hex that missed Draco by a fraction of an inch.

"Calling this kettle black, Boot?" Draco asked, sending a Stunning spell Terry’s way.

Terry Summoned the nearest object, which happened to be a footstool, and Levitated it in front of him to block Draco's spell. The spell froze in mid-air before falling to the ground, and Terry jumped out of the way to avoid the second spell that Draco had cast.

"Careful with the furniture; I liked that footstool!" Draco growled. He aimed his wand at Terry, but his Stunning spell ricocheted off the walls as his feet flew out from under him. He landed against the sofa, which Terry had Summoned from behind Draco.

"You cheated," Draco snarled from where he lay on the sofa, looking up at Terry's wand, which was now aimed at his chest.

"Did not," Terry gasped, licking chapped lips as he looked down at Draco. "I used what was available. That's perfectly acceptable."

"Is this where you finish me off?" Draco asked.

"If we were in a real fight, yes," Terry replied.

Draco laughed. "Oh, I don't think so," he said, yanking Terry's wrist suddenly and twisting it so his wand clattered uselessly to the floor. He hooked his leg behind Terry's knees and lifted the man's feet from under him, eliciting a yelp as he knocked him to the floor and—unfortunately, as Terry's wrist was still in his hand—tumbled himself off the sofa and onto Terry.

"That went only eighty percent according to plan," Draco explained, sprawled against Terry's chest. "But the point was, I don't need my wand to disarm you."

"You cheated," Terry grumbled. He looked up at Draco. "Get off."

"That's an awkward request considering our position," Draco pointed out, smirking with glee when Terry merely flushed in response. "Why, Boot, are you actually--"

"You are utterly infuriating," Terry hissed, pulling Draco down to kiss him.

Draco opened his mouth to gasp, to sputter, to say something, but then Terry's tongue was stroking his, Terry's fingers were in his hair, Terry's hips were rubbing deliciously against him, and then Terry moaned, a low whimpering murmur that shot all the way to Draco's groin, and all manners of protestation were forgotten. Draco shifted against Terry, straddling him, and, hands against the man's chest, kissed him back.

===

"Now, once we're among the soldiers, it'll be easier to incapacitate them. Anca's taking a group to the governor's office, and we'll be taking care of the soldiers at the International Floo Centre. There aren't too many of them there; we'll be able to get out soon enough," Theodore finished.

"That's it? That's your plan?"

Theodore shrugged. "Well, we can't all flee by dragon," he muttered.

Despite himself, Blaise snickered. "I like to think we'd be a little more subtle than that."

"You must admit, it's a solid plan on such short notice."

"There's one possible wrinkle in it, though," Blaise pointed out.

"Oh?"

"When we reach the Floo Centre, where are we supposed to go next?"

"I've been corresponding with a man—an old friend of my father's; he's arranged our papers for us. I hadn't expected things to speed up the way they have, or that we'd have a Hogwarts professor tagging along, but he's come through," Theodore explained. "We'll meet him in Prague and from there, anywhere's fair game."

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "They've been monitoring the owls leaving the country; how do you know we won't be walking into a trap?"

For the first time since he'd started laying out his plans for Blaise, Theodore looked particularly pleased with himself. "Who says I've been owling? Marius and I have been using the Muggle post."

===

Terry threw his head back with a moan, only to wince when it hit the floor. "Wait—not here," he gasped, squirming from beneath Draco. "Bed."

Draco groaned, sitting up and tugging Terry onto his lap, hands roaming quite happily across Terry's chest. "No. Now," he murmured, pushing back Terry's shirt off his shoulders, his lips hot against the man's throat and collarbone.

Terry whimpered, his nipples hardening at the brush of Draco's fingers. He pulled back only to disrobe Draco. "Bed," he insisted, nipping a line down Draco's jaw. "Floor's too hard."

"Bed's too far," Draco protested. He lifted Terry and dumped him onto the sofa, crawling over him while he pulled Terry's pants away. "There. Better?"

"Fine," Terry mumbled, slipping his hands between them to undo Draco's trousers. "I suppose it is."

"Damn right it's—fuck," Draco moaned when Terry closed his hand around his cock. "Your hand's fucking cold, Boot."

"Be quiet and let me warm it up, then," Terry snapped back, stroking the tip of Draco’s cock with his thumb before he folded his hand around its shaft, sliding his hand all the way to its base. His own cock hardened as he increased the speed of his strokes and roughened the way he touched Draco.

Draco gasped, licking his lips as he rocked his hips against Terry's hand. Eyes on Terry's, he placed two fingers in his mouth and started sucking. "Ready?" he asked when he was done.

"Since five minutes ago, Malfoy. Are you stalling?"

"Fuck you, Boot," Draco retorted, pushing both fingers inside Terry.

"That's rather the point," Terry groaned in reply, pressing his hips towards Draco’s fingers.

"Didn't know you've got such a filthy mouth when you're hungry for a bit of cock, professor," Draco whispered, stretching Terry around his fingers.

"Just fuck me already," Terry hissed, jerking Draco's cock forward.

Draco smirked, shifting to sit between Terry's legs. He slid his fingers out, replacing them with his cock as he thrust his hips slowly and deliberately.

"Merlin!" Terry gasped.

===

"Mr. Nott, we have a problem!" Dima announced, bursting into the room. "The Russians—they are heading this way."

Theodore frowned. "Do you know why?"

The young man shook his head. "They're going into every store. Arresting people."

"Call Anca and tell her we'll need to get the fireplace ready; have the girls and their families prepared as well," Theodore told him. "Have them come up here with everything—the potions, the uniforms, everything. We won't be coming back for anyone, do you understand?"

Dima nodded and left.

Theodore sighed. "At least they don't suspect us yet, but they will if they see what we're doing," he muttered to Blaise.

"They won't," Blaise said. "And they can't follow us if they don't know where we're going."

===

The first thud went unnoticed, as did the second and the third and the fourth. By the fifth clattering of something, though, Terry was forced to wonder what the commotion was all about.

"Merlin's balls!" he cursed, pulling away from Draco and scrambling for his clothes.

"What in the hell?" Draco cursed, zipping up his trousers. "Who are you?"

The strangers—most of them female—did not seem to know what to say, and more of them kept popping out of the fireplace. The sitting room slowly became so crowded that a few wandered into the other rooms, and that was when Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini finally appeared.

"What the hell is going on?" Draco demanded.

"Who are these people?" Terry asked from behind the sofa as he buttoned his shirt.

"I'll explain later," Theodore replied. "I would have sent word we were coming, but there wasn't much time."

"We didn't interrupt anything, did we?" Blaise asked, his tone of voice only all too amused.

Neither Terry nor Draco were able to answer.

"I told you to use the bed," Terry hissed at Draco.

===

"You've been running a what?" Terry exclaimed, nearly knocking his tea aside.

"That's all you've taken from this? Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Boot," Theodore warned. "Especially as it's earned you your board and lodging and will perhaps continue to pay for your retirement."

"What?"

"I never gave you your royalty fees," Theodore went on. "But I had no idea there was such a huge market for the debauchery of academic types; you and I will need to discuss licensing once this is all over."

"What?"

"Mr. Nott, everyone is dressed, and the potion is ready."

Theodore ignored Terry and nodded at Anca. "Alright," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us to the Floo Centre?"

Anca smiled. "Thank you, but I promise Flaviu I will meet him in the governor's office."

"If any of you want to change your mind, now's the time to do so."

"The girls with families, I understand why they want to leave," Anca told him. "But the girls without, we want what's ours, and we'll get it back whatever it takes."

"Then you must use any means to achieve that end," Theodore told her. "Alright, pass the brew around; make sure everyone's got a mugful."

"Yes, Mr. Nott."

"Good luck, Anca."

"You too, Mr. Nott."

"Have you all got your hair sample?" Blaise asked once it seemed there was a mug in everyone's hand. Everyone nodded. "Into the mugs, please."

Terry followed Blaise's instructions, wrinkling his nose when his brew turned an unsightly orange. He glanced up to see Draco eyeing his own potion with disgust.

"We've only an hour to make the most of this," Blaise declared. "Bottoms up!"

===

Afterword

There is, of course, much speculation about the events leading up to the night that the [Magical Independence and Liberation Front of Moldova] succeeded in overthrowing their government, and consequently achieving independence from the Russian Empire of Magic… A few so-called academics have postulated that the traitorous Russian soldiers were paid off by [the rebels, and] a few more have suggested the involvement of Death Eaters… but unless there is undeniable evidence proving otherwise, [those theories] remain in the realm of absurd fiction… and have no place in the pages of our history.

- Professor Cuthbert Binns, “A World History of Magic” (February 2009)

"Boot, you've got a package!"

"Bring it up here, will you?" Terry called, loathe to move.

"I can't, you bloody git; it's too heavy!" Draco hollered from downstairs. "Come in here and get it yourself!"

Terry groaned, pushing himself from the deckchair. "Alright, alright," he grumbled, walking away from the Grecian sun and down the steps to the dining table. Four owls were just taking off, leaving a large box behind. "Oh, is this it?"

Draco read the mailing label. "It's from Whizz Hard Books, so probably, yes."

Terry read the note that came with the package. "The first edition!" he exclaimed, tearing open the box and taking out a mid-sized, hardbound book. "Quick, call Blaise and Theodore!"

"We saw the owls coming in, professor," Blaise said, strolling inside, Theodore following not far behind. "We hope you don't mind us letting ourselves in."

Theodore nodded to the box. "Can I see?"

"Of course you can," Terry said, tossing them a copy each.

"'The Boys That Saved Moldova' by Terence Buttons," Draco read. "Buttons? Really?"

Terry shrugged. "I needed a nom de plume. It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Professor, this has been classified under fiction," Blaise said, studying the inside of the book.

"Has it?" Theodore asked, looking over Blaise's shoulder. "'The events and characters depicted herein are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.'"

Terry looked sheepish. "Who would believe it?" he asked.

"Good point," Theodore said.

"Though it's not exactly what you were going for, is it?" Blaise asked.

Terry laughed. "Not quite what I had in mind, no. I'm sorry."

Draco shrugged. "We'll take it."

FIC: Never the Straight and Narrow (Draco/Astoria, Draco/Pansy, PG13)

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 19:58:39 GMT

Title: Never the Straight and Narrow
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Astoria, Draco/Pansy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: The problem with Slytherins was that they never did anything in a straightforward manner.
Additional Notes: Muchos gracias to ccharlotte for the beta. Written for the hp_unfaithful's Fabulous No-Pressure Laissez-Faire Challenge. Prompt: "Why didn't you just ask her to marry you instead?"

The problem with Slytherins was that they never did anything in a straightforward manner. If they wanted to win a Quidditch game, they had to take out the other team's Seeker. To win the House Cup they made sure the other Houses were docked points for things they never did. If they loved someone, they married someone else, just to keep marriage from souring the relationship.

And if they found out their husband was cheating on them with his ex-girlfriend, they didn't just have to confront him about it. They had to buy contraband polyjuice, steal something of the ex-girlfriend's, impersonate her, seduce their husband, and then confront him about it.

"I don't believe it!" Astoria hissed, now that she was Astoria again, instead of that harpy Pansy (and by the way, did her darling Blaise know about this?). She hit Draco's arm repeatedly, fiercely, her cheeks bright red with anger. "Of all--" THWAP! "--the bloody--" THWAP! "--whores--" THWAP! "--to fuck--" THWAP! "--behind--" THWAP! "--my back!"

"Astoria!" Draco growled, putting up his arms to shield himself. "Stop it!"

"I hate you!" Astoria shrieked, fumbling for her wand and aiming it point-blank at Draco, who had time to duck and roll away as she started shooting off curse after hex after curse. When that failed, Draco found himself ducking away from flying vases, portraits, even a grandfather clock. "You--"

And then there were no more hexes or flying furniture. Draco, who'd started to cower behind what he'd appraised to be a fairly sturdy wardrobe, gathered enough nerve to see what had happened. Astoria's wand had fallen to the floor and rolled off a safe distance away, and his wife-- his wife had curled into a small ball, knees drawn up, hugged close to her chest, bare shoulders shaking with badly muffled sobs.

"Astoria?" Draco's voice was hesitant now, a little uncertain. He'd never seen his wife cry. He moved closer, kneeling beside her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. When she didn't lash out at him, he braved a bolder move and drew her into his arms.

"If-- if you love her--" Astoria started, sobbing into his chest. "Then-- then be with her."

"I don't love her!" Draco denied hotly. And it was true, he realized. Pansy was-- she knew Draco best, knew what made him tick and what buttons of his to push-- but at best, they were friends who enjoyed each other's company, with clothes or without. Even if Pansy's parents eventually approved of a Malfoy, in a relationship they would suffocate each other, and they nearly had, too.

"Then why?" came Astoria's question, in that defeated sort of tone that Draco had never heard from his willful wife, and in that moment he knew he'd broken her heart.

"I wasn't-- I wasn't thinking." And that was true as well, wasn't it? Draco had assumed far too many things-- that because it didn't mean the same thing it didn't matter, that they would never get caught, that Astoria would learn to handle it if they did.

"Was it because you could have me? Because her family wouldn't associate with yours after-- oh, how stupid could I have been? Did you even-- did you even really want to marry me at all?" Astoria asked, looking up at him with eyes big and watery and pitiful.

"Yes, of course! I love you!" Draco said quickly, surer now more than ever, bending down to kiss his wife. "I'm sorry."

***

"I don't understand. Did it not go well?"

Astoria folded her hands primly in her lap, and smiled beatifically. "Oh, it did, thanks for asking."

"So what do you need another five bottles for?"

"You don't get to ask the questions, Theodore," she reminded him. "All you have to do is nod and tell me how much I owe you. After all, I'm fairly certain you don't want the missus to hear anything that would only aggravate her already delicate situation. I heard you were expecting twins?"

The look that Theodore gave her was anything but friendly. "Do you need anything else, Mrs Malfoy?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Oh, no, thanks, I still have-- wait, actually, I think I do. You don't happen to have any of Gregory Goyle in stock, do you?"

"I can't say I've ever had him requested, no. I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's fine. I'm sure I'll manage." Astoria beamed. Nobody associated with Gregory Goyle these days; the poor man was locked up in what she'd heard from ghastly rumors was a dingy, second-floor apartment in Knockturn Alley, helping out the shopkeeper below. Poor, dear Greg. A visit from an old friend of his would cheer him up, she was sure. And if she was correct, she'd always thought he harbored a bit of a crush on Pansy. He'd appreciate that, and Astoria was never above a little generosity every now and then. "So how much?"

"That'll be 150 galleons. Should I put this on your credit?"

"No thanks." She pulled out her purse, and from it, drew out a large bundle of gold coins. There was another, smaller bag inside, but Ms Skeeter never asked for much, and she could never pretend that Astoria did not provide her with her bread and butter. "I'll be paying cash."

Theodore took her money, disappearing for a moment before he came back with the bottles for her. "Have a good day."

"Oh, I will. You too, Theodore," she murmured. "Do tell Blaise I say hello."

The problem with Slytherins, and this Astoria Greengrass now knew firsthand, was that they never did anything in a straightforward way. If they wanted to conduct business, they were coy about their intentions. If they wanted to ask friends for favors, they resorted to blackmail. If they wanted to be asked for forgiveness, they resorted to manipulation.

And it wasn't enough that they simply picked certain battles to win, and rested on their laurels then. They had to resort to all-out war, and then claim both vengeance and victory.

Moodtheme: Joaquin Phoenix (95x55)

Mon, 09 Apr 2007 13:36:01 GMT

I made Joaquin Phoenix and Jude Law mood themes more than a year ago. They were both intended for private use, but I figured a year is long enough a period of time before I can share the themes. (And besides, this journal needs to be used. :\)

Download and Installation:

As far as I'm aware, mood themes are good only for Paid and Plus Account users. If you have a Basic Account but would like a mood theme, simply upgrade to a Plus Account, install the mood theme, and then downgrade back to Basic. LJ will store your mood theme for you. :)
Download the mood theme here and unzip in a folder. (It's a Sendspace link that will run out. If you find that it has, please leave a comment and I'll upload the file as soon as I can.)
Upload all the icons, names intact, to an image hosting server. (Photobucket works very well.) It might take a bit of time, even to upload in batches, but at least it's much faster now than before.
Go to LJ Admin Console. In the text box, copy and paste the italicized command: moodtheme_create "Name of Moodtheme" "Description of Moodtheme"

Replace "Name of Moodtheme" and "Description of Moodtheme" accordingly. Use something simple and easy to remember for "Name of Moodtheme". Click execute.

Check out the green number that LJ will give you, and write it down.
Open the notepad file that comes zipped along with the mood theme. Replace "12345" with the number that you had written down. Replace "http://www.hosting.com/" with the URL wherein you had uploaded your mood theme.

To replace words using Windows, simply click Ctrl+H and type in your edits.
Copy and paste the whole text file into your Admin Console. Click execute. If you are successful, LJ will show you a list of executed commands in green. If there is anything in red, go back to the console and repeat the steps.
Go to the Look and Feel tab of the Customize page. From the drop-down menu beside Mood Icons, find the name of the mood theme you had just installed. Select it and then save changes.
Credit creativeslumber in your userinfo.

Please comment if you are taking, have questions, clarifications, etcetera. The Jude Law set will be up soon. :)

FIC: Un Crimine in Tre Atti (Roger/Blaise, R)

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 16:26:06 GMT

Title: Un Crimine in Tre Atti (A Crime in Three Acts)
Fandom: Harry Potter (barely :|)
Pairing: Roger/Blaise (hints of Blaise/Theodore)
Rating: R
Word Count: 350 words
Summary: Il Seduzione. La Relazione. Il Tradimento.
Additional Notes: Because things sound better in another language, hee. Written for ccharlotte, though most of the inspiration for it came from her too. :P Happy Birthday! Here's to more random plotting, Roger and Blaise, growing old!, and eee, graduating and grad school! (See you in August! :D:D:D)

Atto I: Il Seduzione

It starts with a playful comment, like it always does. It follows through with a wink here, another smirk there, like it always has. But his eyes linger a second longer and you catch him then, and where you would not have pushed, you do.

(Cat-got-the-mouse grin, voice lowered to a murmur.) "Like what you see?"

Where he might have backed out, he doesn't.

(Tongue wetting full lips.) "Maybe."

Where you meant to keep your distance, you don't.

(Hips now dangerously close, lips moving against his ear.) "But you do, don't you?"

Where he would have said no--

(The softest, traitorous hitch of breath.) "Goddammit, Roger."

He doesn't.

*

Sosta A

His skin pulses hot with blood, flushes desperately against your hands, pinned to the wall back arching hips thrusting lips moaning si si-- you kiss.

Si.

*

Atto II: La Relazione

There is a line, and you've crossed it-- once that first night, many more after. You fuck him in your bed, wedding ring glistening from the chain that hung round his neck. He comes hard, moaning your name.

You meet him again, fuck him again, in places with higher chances of being found, of being caught--a stolen kiss when you visit him at work, a quick fuck on their bed while he is home alone.

You do not care.

One night he hesitates, and you pull him back to bed. He stays the night-- it's another line you've crossed.

You will not apologise for it.

*

Sosta B

He doesn't meet your eyes-- you growl, touch rough lips harsh grip tight skin marked yours yours yours.

"Does he fuck you too?" you ask agan.

"...No."

*

Atto III: Il Tradimento

It cannot end when he sleeps tucked against you, not when your feet play beneath the table over coffee, not when he slips his fingers between yours. You don't want it to end, not when you've developed a taste for his lime sherbet, his blackberry tea, not when he's agreed to watch your games.

(Words softly murmured, question quiet.) "Stay?"

You don't see how it can end.

(Smile sad, barely-heard sigh.) "He'll ask where I've been."

You don't want to push it.

(Subtly pleaded, pleadingly whispered.) "Stay forever."

You don't know if it can--

(Wordless, startled gasp, eyes flickering to hold your gaze.)

But that's how it begins.

FIC: Definitions (Roger/Various, PG13)

Mon, 18 Dec 2006 14:21:13 GMT

Title: Definitions
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Various
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 710 words
Summary: Roger Davies and his various love interests. :|
Additional Notes: Part of the fanfic100 challenge, for the prompt Heart, I suppose. (In retrospect, I should probably have signed up for Roger Davies instead of Ravenclaws.) Written for ccharlotte.

It was growing up with Laura from next door and going from setting frogs on her hair to letting her beat you up for yanking her pigtails free when she just wanted to say hello. It was wanting to see her long brown curls framing her face and finally, finally letting her make you play house so long as the other boys didn't know.

It was going off to 'boarding school' and writing her every day, coming back on holidays to find her taller, older, when you were big enough to kiss under the mistletoe in your third year, and small enough to turn seven shades of red while she giggled and ran away.

It was walking on cloud nine when you returned, soaring high enough to score goals you imagined she knew were for her. It was every sweet-smelling envelope that owls dropped onto your table at breakfast.

And then, it was reading her neatly printed apologies in fifth year and replying with a neatly printed forgiveness before you sat slumped in the owlery until morning came.

*

It was a pseudo-house rivalry that turned to a scuffle by the Quidditch shed that quickly degenerated into something a little bit entirely too surprising. It was awkard limbs fumbling for contact and hushed whispers and hissed curses chorused with monosyllabic interjections rising and rising until it dwindled to heavy breathing and flushed faces and then, and then it was--

It was split-second moments of eye-fucking and mumbled excuses and dark closets, empty classrooms, warded towers. It was private jokes and secret codes and sharing and being many tiny secrets of a whole that slowly, gradually, persistently insisted on turning into a lie.

It was pressure and expectation weighing in, shame and pride taking over. It was the refusal to meet your eyes anymore and the quickly muttered excuses to avoid speaking with you and the pointed effort to hold a girl's hand.

It was anger hot and burning first before it became silence cold and unforgiving.

And then it was dead.

*

It was asking Cho Chang out, being rejected, and finding yourself immeasurably relieved. It was late nights out at the pitch and even later nights by the common room fireplace sharing contraband Firewhiskey, slurring sentences together and raising your glasses high in salute for Ogden.

It was having Fleur Delacour in your arms and twirling her around just to see if Cho was having any fun with him. It was kissing Persephone Clearwater at Madam Puddifoot's while watching her from the corner of your eye to make sure her date with The Other Golden Boy was going fine.

It was moving back to London and looking her up first, crashing into her apartment until you found your own and letting her crash into yours when her apartment got infested with special law enforcer investigators looking out for her best interests and knowing you did that better than them. It was celebrating Cedric's birthday with wine and chocolates, and sharing a look that needed no words for the both of you to understand what the other meant.

It was going from awkward pats on the shoulder to fierce bear hugs with the one girl you're smart enough not to fuck and fuck over.

*

Then it was a scrawny, pretty boy with green and gold-speckled eyes who left his room in a too-large shirt, as nameless as he came in, like the thousand others that would follow, but not--never--as easily dismissed from memory.

The scrawny boy grew up, filled out, lost the stammer in his speech, charmed irreprehensibly, teased mercilessly, walked back into your world not like he had a right to be in it, but like he knew enough to turn it inside out.

It was his self-satisfied smirk and childlike beam and Slytherin grin and all the twenty-three other ways--and counting--that his face lit up. It was his cheek and petulance, the suggestive words that turned quiet and thoughtful, his doomed loyalty to childhood illusions.

It was realising you weren't sure what it was about him.

It was him getting underneath your skin, refusing to be forgiven with neat handwriting or killed with silence or boxed within the confines of friendship.

It was finding the godforsaken, proverbial exception to every painstakingly upheld rule, and realising you didn't mind one whit at all.

DRABBLE: Stages (QaF!Michael, PG)

Mon, 18 Dec 2006 14:20:56 GMT

Title: Stages
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Pairing: Canon
Rating: PG?
Word Count: 250 words
Summary: Michael's family is dying.
Additional Notes: ccharlotte was reading too many cancer!Brian fics. There's a logical connection there somewhere, I'm sure. :|

Michael's family is dying.

He doesn't think about it very often, though, if at all, because Ben works out, Hunter still outruns him by a mile, and they finished Liberty Ride together.

It's a thought that startles him when Hunter complains about the winter cold or Ben sneezes, and then he thinks about it, but only for a while.

Because when Michael imagines the future he sees him and Ben with white hair and grandchildren.

*

Michael's family is dying.

There was a draft in the apartment and nobody remembers anymore who left the window open, but three days in and Hunter's caught a cold.

"Here, take some vitamins," Michael says.

"Have some water."

"Orange juice?"

He breaks down with a fever, and it isn't just the flu anymore.

Ben catches it too.

"We'll be fine," he tells Michael, and Michael asks the doctor if he has a stronger prescription to give.

*

Michael's family is dying.

The doctor asks to talk to Michael in private, and when he comes out he heads straight to Brian's apartment.

"Fuck them," Brian says, arm slung around him as they both lay amid broken furniture. "We're all the family we fucking need."

Michael's lips are tight and he takes another joint, knuckles shaking and bleeding. He breathes it in deep and holds it until it burns like fucking hell.

"Fuck them," he lies.

*

Michael's family is dying, and nobody knows what to say.

He locks himself in a room, shooting down hugs or offers of kind words with a deadened look in his eyes.

Even Brian says nothing.

*

Michael's family is dead.

FIC: The Benefit (Roger/Blaise, PG)

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 04:32:55 GMT

Title: The Benefit
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Blaise
Rating: PG
Word Count: 350 words
Summary: It is a benefit. It is always a benefit.
Additional Notes: Belongs to the fanfic100 challenge under prompt Diamond. Written for ccharlotte. Forgive me for the crappy title. :|

It is a benefit. It is always a benefit.

It is a benefit in the middle of winter, in a ballroom of sparkling crystal chandeliers and dazzling water-fountain center pieces, light cocktails served with equally superficial conversation and gorgeous velvet robes mingling, dancing, waiting to be seen and noted and photographed.

Introductions are unnecessary.

“Needed fresh air?”

The night chills and cuts through his bones; inside, a tall brooding man with broad shoulders and dark eyes leads his new wife to the ballroom. He nods without looking back. “Yourself?”

He doesn’t see the man shrug, but he hears the tinkle of wine-glasses and the beginning strains of a dead man’s last waltz from inside, feels the movement of elegant black robes and the whisper from just behind his ear.

He is not given an answer. “You’re nearly shivering.” Hot air ghosts over his skin as a coat is draped over his shoulders. “I was bored. Nobody inside knew how to dance.”

“Are you asking me to dance?” he asks, turning his head around the smallest inch, lips playfully contemplating a lazy smile.

His smile is returned, impish and devious. “I don’t ask.”

He lets him take his hand and he is drawn inside, from out of the blue-white winter night into the warmth of large, slightly rough hands beneath his, hips barely touching hips as he is swayed to the last notes of an allegretto, drawn breathlessly closer as song fades into slower lento.

“Didn’t know you danced,” he murmurs.

His voice is a low and husky promise. “It’s a perk that comes with the package.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Excuse me.” And then he is gone.

Somewhere the program is beginning. The music fades, war orphans—the cause for the evening—are given hope, and everyone turns to face the stage, anticipating with bated breath.

He isn’t surprised when they call him first from among his team’s lineup. It is, after all, their benefit. Light brown eyes lock into his own olive green, winking deliberately, and he knows the night’s far from over.

He smirks.

Let the bidding begin.

FIC: Five Things That Roger Davies Never Did (Roger/Blaise, PG)

Sat, 21 Oct 2006 23:01:06 GMT

Title: Five Things That Roger Davies Never Did
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Blaise
Rating: PG
Word Count: 525
Summary: See title. :|
Additional Notes: Written for ccharlotte, and written also for fanfic100, under the prompt If.

If he’d asked.

The quiet boy with the carefully combed hair and black-rimmed glasses frowns, cocks his head to the side, but Roger refuses to explain the reasons behind his question, and Terry Boot shrugs his answer, going back to his History of Magic reading when the older boy leaves, only vaguely curious.

Roger rolls the name on his tongue, contemplating it during practice, in class, as he catches glimpses of avoidant olive-green eyes across the Great Hall, along dungeon corridors and Hogsmeade weekends.

One day he walks by, brooding best friend in tow, and he doesn’t hesitate.

“Morning, Blaise.”

*

If he’d wooed.

There’s a serving of lime sherbet that appears on Blaise’s table for lunch one day, when desserts for everyone else had only been pudding, and Pansy tries to grab a spoonful but he moves it away greedily.

“You’re meant to share,” she pouts, sulking prettily.

“You’re only jealous because the elves don’t like you,” he replies cheerfully, giving her some lime sherbet while discreetly, he slips the note that comes with the bowl, catching Roger’s eye from across the Hall.

The quiet boy with the carefully combed hair and black-rimmed glasses has been very helpful, Roger decides.

*

If he’d tried.

Tracey Davis eyes him with interest before she remembers to eye him with suspicion, eyebrow raised in appreciation (appraisal, she means) as she looks him over. “Did you need anything?” she asks, intending for her voice to be cold though it hitches and comes out in a throaty murmur.

Pansy Parkinson shoots her a glare, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. “We’re a bit busy,” she says curtly.

Theodore Nott, tall and imposing and quiet, glares possessively.

Blaise Zabini is a difficult boy to know.

“Wanted to speak with him,” Roger announces. It’s not a request.

*

If he’d said.

The echoes of club music buzz in their ears, tequila and vodka and double their doses still intoxicating the senses, with the crisp air of autumn dying to winter hanging over them.

Blaise leans against a lamppost, hands deep in his pockets to keep them warm, stopping for a minute to catch his breath, regain the balance in his steps. He looks too tired, too old for twenty-four.

“Fag?”

He shakes his head. “I just want to go home.”

“To what?”

Blaise looks stricken, eyes pleading for Roger to be kind.

“Come home to mine,” Roger whispers.

*

If he’d stayed.

Mickey Harrison guzzles down his beer like water and calls him mate with heavily accented English, eyes huge and face wider than it is long.

“There’s no offer like that anywhere else, mate,” he says, watching Roger read the contract.

He’s right, but Mickey Harrison looks like a koala, and Roger reconsiders the appeal of hanging around koalas and kangaroos in the dessert.

“I’m not going to Australia,” he says when Blaise opens the door.

“Didn’t know you were going.”

“That’s because I’m not,” he replies, grinning when he pushes Blaise against the wall and kisses him.

*

For all that he refuses to apologise, to look back and wonder what could have been, Blaise Zabini remains to be Roger Davies’ only regret.

DRABBLE: Gentler Kisses (PG)

Mon, 28 Aug 2006 16:18:31 GMT

Title: Gentler Kisses
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Vague, but let's put it at Ravenclaws, although it could work with another pairing I like.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 150 words--me and my love affair with the exact
Summary: There were gentler kisses now.
Additional Notes: For the fanfic100 challenge, for the prompt Taste. I haven't written properly in ages so this is a little. Meh. Unexpected, I guess. I was trying to write something else.

There were kisses that burned his lips and marked his skin long after they first claimed him territory. There were kisses that haunted him long after they'd gone, kisses from a wide-eyed boy with messy hair and goofy grins, now a lonely boy with delicate wrists and soft lips and kisses that lingered. There were kisses that he remembered, kisses that he missed, kisses from the boy he loved who thought love wasn't enough.

There were kisses he learned to forget, kisses he learned to replace with kind smiles and shy hellos, hesitant pauses that eased back into years of friendship and light banter with the same wide-eyed boy who kissed his heart to pieces.

There were gentler kisses now because they meant nothing and, in being so, broke nothing. They were too fragile to break anymore, the boys and their kisses.

But one kiss might have made them whole.

FIC: Crashing (Justin/Terry, PG13)

Sun, 25 Jun 2006 17:52:21 GMT

Title: Crashing
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Justin/Terry
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1,229
Summary: Justin had never been very good at remembering.
Additional Notes: For the fanfic100 prompt Not enough and dedicated to siobhanohare, for whom I began writing this as a Valentine's Day present way back in 2005. :| Slightly edited from the version I originally posted. There's a companion piece but I've given up hope on that for the night. :|

Remember the summer of 2000? He used to ask, and you’d never know what he was talking about until he would remind you that that had been the summer of Anthony Goldstein and Hannah Abbott’s wedding, which took place on the Quidditch pitch of Hogwarts, and then you’d remember. Anthony gave such a boring speech during the exchange of vows, of how he and Hannah grew close because of prefect duties, you’d say, and he’d remind you of how he had to nudge you awake because you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, in the middle of Anthony’s narration of the time they’d both started discussing career options in the second floor by the portrait of Merlin As A Young Boy.

Remember what happened an hour after the wedding? He’d ask, and you’d shake your head ruefully, clueless, until he would start talking about that incident with Hannah’s father toasting to the newly wedded couple, and then you’d remember. He was practically threatening Anthony with death if he so much as thought that Hannah wasn’t happy, you’d exclaim, and he’d chuckle and tell you of how you’d rolled your eyes and muttered something about marriage and heterosexuals.

Remember? He’d ask, and you wouldn’t unless he told you what happened first. You never remembered things linearly, unlike him—give him a date and a year and he’d know what you were talking about, perhaps even what sort of tea he’d had that afternoon—you merely kept your life stored in a stream of memories, arranged almost on a whim, if at all, never knowing which happened first and when and before which other memory, only drawing upon them randomly or when prompted.

You remember the wedding, though, because weddings made you feel uncomfortably lonely, and emotions like that were rarely felt so acutely in your life—they’d developed into a dull sort of ache that you found easy to ignore, given the proper distraction—that it was difficult to forget it ever happened. You remember being placed in the Singles Table, with him and a couple of other classmates, and you remember stealing longing glances at the Dating Heteros Table a couple of feet away, where Zacharias had his arm around Hermione Granger. You remember drinking far too much champagne, eventually striking up a mostly one-sided conversation with him about what sort of chocolate should best be licked off a person and whether or not one should drink champagne while doing so.

It’s bubbly, you’d declared by means of an explanation, and he’d chuckled and pointed out that chocolate, on the other hand, is sticky-sweet, and it had made so much sense back then, perhaps because you were already more drunk than was good for you, that you had pronounced him a genius for his brilliant insight and consequently asked him to marry you please.

You hardly remember that bit, but he told you about it sometimes, enough so that it almost felt like your memory instead of his, but you did remember having to stay behind after, too drunk to Apparate or Floo or even walk the distance to stay over at an inn in Hogsmeade. You don’t remember Hannah asking him to look after you, if it was fine with him, and you don’t remember him agreeing, or asking Professor McGonagall for permission, but you remember leaning on his shoulder as he guided you to an empty room to spend the night. You don’t remember how long he made you stay up so you don’t get a hangover the next day, but you remember how he finally tucked you in as the moonlight slipped through the window curtains. You don’t remember asking him to stay with you, but you remember waking up snuggled beside him, and you remember how that made you smile a little.

He’d tutored you in Arithmancy, you were never sure when—fifth year, perhaps—and he’d always been patient and quiet and he usually made you smile a little, when you’d playfully nudge at his leg and he’d turn an adorable shade of pink, or when you’d rest your chin on his shoulder while you looked over his notes, falling asleep after a while and waking up to his exasperation. You’d tell him he was cute when flustered, and he’d be even more flustered and you were always secretly pleased because he was cute and adorably easy to distract. You loved making him giggle, because he was usually so serious otherwise and smiling suited him a whole lot, you thought.

There were a few strong memories when it came to him, you realise, like when you read his palm over a cup of coffee one autumn afternoon—unless it was summer, or when you woke up to the smell of tea the morning after you’d first stayed the night—but then again, you always woke up to the smell of tea when he was around. You’d smile drowsily and he’d blush; you’d pull him near and the tea grew cold and neither of you would care very much.

You remember him even in the instances when he wasn’t there. The first thing you’d thought to yourself upon waking up one day, before you’d thought to ask why your head hurt like hell or why there was a foul taste in your mouth, was why you didn’t smell any tea. The tousled blond head beside you began to stir, and then you remembered. You’d gone out clubbing after receiving an invitation to another wedding, drinking shot after shot of vodka and rum and coke and bubbly, stupid champagne, which you were sure to drink plenty of in a couple months’ time again, and dancing and spinning and dancing and dancing and forgetting. Maybe you threw up after, maybe you didn’t, you didn’t know and you didn’t care, but you went home with Tousled Blond, who blinked annoyingly ungreen eyes at you as he asked you who Zach was.

There was the time you caught him asleep on his bed, a half-read book in hand, glasses still on his face, and a cup of cold tea by the bedside. You saw a lot of that often, you realise, and you don’t know whether his memories included the sheepish, apologetic grin you always wore when he’d wake up or the stink that hung around your clothes you always wished you’d washed clean, but the blank half-smile he always wore after you’d kiss him good morning never left your mind, even when after a while the blankness began to be tinged with tired lines and a hint of emptiness.

It’s a curse, your weak memory, and you wonder if there are other parts of him that have slipped through the cracks of your mind. How did he smile when you teased him, what shade of pink did his cheeks become when you whispered vulgarities in his ear? You lie in bed and wonder if you’re lying on your side or his, and you feel it, the fading away of years, the loss of memories; even as you close your eyes he begins to disappear into the dark, and you wish you hadn’t let him leave, that you’d had the courage and foresight to ask him to stay.

At least that way, you think, you’d live your memories everyday and didn’t have to rely only on what’s been left behind.

FIC: Fiction in the Spaces Between (Ravenclaws, PG)

Sun, 25 Jun 2006 13:45:37 GMT

Title: Fiction in the Spaces Between
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Justin, Terry, Michael
Rating: PG
Word Count: 563 words
Summary: Lisa Turpin watches Ravenclaws from the sidelines.
Additional Notes: For the fanfic100 prompt Middles. Also for siobhanohare, because I couldn't finish the other fic just yet without getting distracted by this one. This was only supposed to be 100 words. :| Inspired in part by Telling Stories by Tracy Chapman. A little scattered, a little weird, I hope you forgive me. :|

She spends the hours making up stories. Curled up against the large leather chair in the corner of the common room, she watches her Housemates studying, flirting, gossiping, and in her head are various backstories to explain every glance, every movement, every pause in speech.

Terry Boot enters the room, face flushed and nearly stumbling over himself, and she imagines him coming back from some romp in the Room of Requirement with a mysterious Slytherin girl. His glasses are slightly askew and she imagines painted fingernails removing them haphazardly, a forceful hand tugging on blue-and-bronze tie to pull the poor boy closer, scarlet lips pressing against Terry's.

"You aren't listening to me," he points out patiently, although this was the seventh time he'd had to say something.

"Mm?" Bright blue eyes look up at him, and a shamelessly brilliant grin is thrown his way.

He sighs. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

He feels a naked foot rubbing up his leg, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to reread his Arithmancy notes. "Justin, please."

Michael Corner follows him, pouting petulantly and glaring at Cho Chang, who was in the huge couch with most of the Quidditch team. She remembers the break-up a few days ago, how it had been the subject of mild gossip among the girls, and she feels a pang of pity for Michael, who must have still been a little bitter over the whole affair.

"It hasn't worked!" he complains, kicking a rock that had defiantly placed itself in his path.

She shrugs, long black ponytail bobbing along with her head. "I told you, you're using the wrong tactic."

"Oh? What tactic should I be using then?"

"You ought to ask him to tutor you in Arithmancy or some such subject," she replies, glancing at him slyly from the corner of her eye.

His reaction comes belatedly. "What."

"You don't have to believe me if you don't want to," she says. "But check out the library tomorrow, if you like. That Hufflepuff could teach you a few things."

Cho Chang pays him no heed, and she watches her from behind her huge copy of A History of Hogsmeade, slightly contemptuously, imagining that Cho simply liked validation, and boys, and perhaps because she was pretty and popular got what she always wanted, including Roger Davies, who'd just leaned over to whisper some secret in her ear, causing the both of them to grin conspiratorially as they discuss in hushed tones. They must be planning some tryst in the Quidditch sheds sometime soon, she surmises, now that Cho's available again.

"She's looking at you again," he whispers.

"She is not," she hisses back, although a corner of her mouth lifts up in an irrepressible grin. "Is she really?"

"Doesn't look too friendly, though."

She sulks a little. "I don't understand why she loathes me."

"Who can say what goes on in the minds of the quiet ones?" he asks, almost philosophically.

She spends the hours making up stories. Curled up against the large leather chair in the corner of the common room, isolating herself from the daily lives of her Housemates and watching from outside their circle, she assumes drama after intrigue after secret, studying every small action to form conclusions of her own, never knowing just how far she strays from the truth in between what she sees.

Ravenclaws don't really know everything.

FIC: Deconstruction (Roger/Various, R)

Thu, 01 Dec 2005 06:01:29 GMT

Title: Deconstruction
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger Davies/Various
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,205 words
Summary: The trick to having, he is told, is not wanting.
Additional Notes: Here it is, what appears to be another paper crane. For fanfic100, for the prompt Lovers.

The trick to having, he is told, is not wanting. He is lying in a single bed, plain cotton sheets sticking to too-sweaty skin, lungs just a little damaged from the stink of second-hand cigarette smoke. In the dim light of the room he can make out the silhouettes of almost-empty bottles of whisky and beer, a few of them knocked over and leaking a thin trail of alcohol that would leave a stain for the next occupants to ignore. He can see where his shirt had been kicked to, right beside the shattered painting of a bowl of fruit—the new vogue, Still Pictures—that had been shaken out of its hook in the wall when his back hit it.

“I wanted you,” he lies. God, the smoke stung—he’d hardly been able to keep from coughing, and if he’d known he’d be sleeping with a chain smoker he’d have found someone else.

There is a smile—shining in the dark, and he wonders how they’d look years from now, yellowed and nicotined—a sigh of gratitude from the bed springs as one of them stands up, and the zipping of trousers. “I didn’t.”

He rolls his eyes and kicks the sheets until they bunch at the foot of the bed, and cool air soothes his legs. “It’s a half-baked point,” he points out, intent on being contrary, swinging his legs to the other side of the bed and sitting up with his back turned. Another cigarette is already lit.

“There is no point, kid. I’m leaving half the pay with Rosie,” is all he hears, and he shrugs in reply, more keen on hunting around for his pants.

The man must have been carrying extra packs, because one is left behind. There are three sticks in it. He takes one out, lighting it and placing it between his mouth, angling it so it juts out from the corner, like he’s seen them do, and he breathes the smoke in. It’ll get to him eventually anyway.

***

It’s like this. His parents are away and he’s left behind. He’s not allowed to go out since the last time he did and did not come home until the next day, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes and missing a sock.

The draft in their dorms is brutal, nipping and biting until he’s sure sooner or later his fingers will just fall off and he’ll be kneeling on the floor, wondering how to pick them up again. He’s to keep himself amused, but he’d rather be bundled up. Their fireplace is never hot enough, and he never wears enough clothes. Too many clothes make him look fat, anyway.

There’s hot apple cider in the main hall and snowball fights out on the field, lights line the halls at dinner and leftover students avoid the mistletoes pretending they don’t like to be kissed. Their eyes linger for a split-moment longer on the mistletoes, though, traitorous and virginal.

The trick to getting, someone repeats in his head, is not wanting. Don’t want it enough, and the world will beg to be had.

***

It is better like this, under three different blankets in front of the fireplace in the middle of the night, warm breath thawing the crook of his neck, his back protected by the carpeted floor and his chest shielded by the draped-over body of a sleeping boy.

Warmer, now, but not quite. He wishes he had a cigarette.

Lashes sigh fluttering against his skin, and for a moment a sliver of winter air sneaks in under the blankets to streak an icy line down his spine, tingling past his legs to his toes.

He really wants a cigarette.

He sighs and the carpeting bristles against him, a flutter and two against his skin and there’s a soft mumbling from his neck, a leg brushes up against his thigh and a hand travels down his chest. “Good morning to you too,” he says, nudging himself up on his elbow and reaching over for his pants.

“Wh’time is it?” comes the sleep-lined response.

He tugs his trousers up, pulling up the zip, turns to look at mussed up blond hair, the back of tanned and talented hands rubbing against half-closed eyes. “Got a fag with you?”

“I don’t smoke.”

He’s already on his way out the door. “I thought as much.”

***

Satin-silk melds into his hand so he presses it against the small of her back, twirling her and spinning her around and around and eyes following the folds of her skirt to the flawless skin peeking up from where the fabric lifted into the air.

She doesn’t stop talking, low alto voice heavily accented with disgust and complaints and nothing and he tucks an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear to distract himself.

“Do you want to go out of here?” he asks, stopping her mid-sentence.

“But it is freezing,” she protests.

He is already standing up, placing his coat over her bare shoulders. “Exactly.”

She frowns and it’s another imperfection on her doll-like face. “Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“Yes, to every word,” he replies, and it’s the truth so she takes his proffered hand and lets him lead her out to dark gardens behind trees no one would think to look.

If he didn’t listen, he might end up really wanting her.

***

The funny thing with rules is this: it’s a three-dimensional polygon. There’s always more than one side to them. Corollaries. Postulates. A’s and b’s and bullet points under. Loopholes. And even then, there are exceptions.

“I beg your pardon?” The sun is bright and beaming, he squints at the sky and he’s sure he heard her wrong. Her head is bowed low and away from him and the wind could have carried her yes away, like it was doing to his breath just a few minutes ago, before he’d called training over.

“No, thank you, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.” She’s the one who turns her back to him, long ponytailed black hair limp against her back.

There are external factors, like dead boyfriends and pining young heroes to feel sorry for and keeping things professional, which is thrown in as an afterthought. They aren’t even professionals, but it doesn’t matter, and he thinks, that’s a corollary in itself. In case you can’t have what you don’t want, so what? You never wanted it.

He shrugs and doesn’t watch her walk away. He strips off his uniform and scrubs himself clean in the showers, so when he passes by, a girl with curly dark hair resting until just above her shoulders can pretend it’s the clean smell of his soap that turns her head, that it’s the little drops of water hanging at the end of his hair just waiting to run down the nape of his neck that her eyes follow. That she’s startled when he turns to look, that she blushes of embarrassment when he catches her eye.

He’ll let her grieve, she can cry in bathroom stalls, face hidden by her hair and eyes smudged red. In the meantime, he’ll run his hands through curls and up skin left pale by the sun’s neglect.

The other corollary is this: the rule reverses itself, in order to right itself, one way or another. You just have to be careful.

***

Come here often is a stupid line. I’ve tasted better at home is only a relative improvement, but it needs the proper context, which means a half-empty glass of cheap alcohol in a student-filled bar under the influence of boredom. And a pretty face.

Pretty faces can get away with anything, and this boy, he’s getting away with being pulled through busy streets, up flights of stairs and through private rooms to which he’d otherwise not been allowed. You forgive pretty faces anything—the bad lines, the coy faces you can see right through, their inexperience. This boy, even before he holds on with clammy palms, even before he bucks under him like a horse in an attempt to seduce, is already absolved, even found endearing.

“You tore my shirt,” is what replaces ‘That was brilliant’ or ‘Wow’.

Forgiven, forgotten.

“You can borrow one of mine,” he says, instead of ‘See you around’ or ‘Do you mind, I need to take a bath now’.

He watches his white shirt pulled over a small frame, hanging loose and droopy over slender—because skinny is hardly pretty—shoulders. Self-conscious green eyes look up, fingers fumbling over buttons.

“What?”

“Do you smoke?”

There’s a flash of uncertainty. “Yes?”

He tosses him the rest of his clothes, the ones that aren’t ripped in places. “You shouldn’t, they’ll make your teeth yellow.”

Because for pretty faces, you make exceptions.

***

Puckered red lips formed into a perfect pout, slinky red dress clinging to smooth, remedied curved-just-right skin, heels so thin and sharp they can kill. Legs so long they wrap around his waist two times over. It’s an image so distinct it’s seen everywhere.

“When will you call?” Lines so profound they’re echoed through time.

His answer is not an answer but a delaying tactic, giving him time to find where he’d lost his tie, where his other shoe has gone to hide. “When I’ve time. You’ll know.”

“Baby, why do you break all the rules on me?” Red lingerie stopping short of her thighs, red nails on his chest but lingering further down, unforgivably not enticing. Best-selling blonde curls framing her face. And the pout, the perfect pout that’s just waiting for a camera somewhere to photograph it.

He doesn’t kiss her like she’s expecting him to. Like she wants her to. “That’s funny,” is all he says, before he steps out, “I’m doing nothing but following them.”

***

The second time he’s told no, he doesn’t ask it to be repeated. He’s sure it means only until my boyfriend’s out of earshot. When he’s not paying attention, when we’re having problems. When I want to make him jealous.

No is only short for not now.

Some bloke who never got laid enough, he said it’s wanting what you have that’s the problem*. He doesn’t care about wanting, but he’s enjoying it, here in this darkened corner, illuminated in part by strobe lights reflecting off the lowered head of a blond angel. He rests his head against the wall, smirks a little, groans a little, and he says, “The bloke was bitter.”

Blond head perks up, tongue licking lips and so far away from where they’re meant to be. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Keep going.”

And this angel—who ten minutes ago slid lithely up against him, pressing against the right places and who thought he’d get a free drink and play coy, who said you’ll have to do better than that but kissed him seven sentences later, this angel who played hard to get—this angel obeys him and keeps going.

No has an average life of one day.

It’s no until I get a drink. Until you pout at me, until you start to walk away. Until you change my mind, and how do you plan to do that? Refusals are only good for as long as the temptation can be resisted, until it goes away, and the fastest way to make it go away is to yield to it**. That’s the secret behind the no. Eventually it evolves, if you wait long enough, because long enough usually means soon, or else it isn’t worth it.

He never waits for long, never very long until he can say “Point proven,” and this angel, who pretends to refuse, who is coy only for so long, he agrees.

This no, this second one, he’s sure it isn’t real. So he waits a little longer. More than a day. Over a few weeks. A few months. When the boyfriend’s out of earshot. When they’re having problems. When he wants to make him jealous. Even then, he keeps waiting.

Because for pretty faces, you make exceptions.

***

The trick is to be careful. The trick is to be indifferent. Knowledge is all well and good, but somebody eventually screws up the application. Most people do. He’s lucky he got so far, that he got as far as whittling the stubborn no to okay, we can have dinner. “Are you paying?” is added, and it’s almost like you’ll have to try harder than that, so he begins counting the sentences.

The seventh one is this: “Is the salmon any good?”

The trick is to have enough sense not to count goddamn sentences in your head. The trick is in the context, under flashing lights, several double shots, noise pretending to be music. A few more shots. And a pretty face whose name you forget to ask.

Almost everyone eventually screws up the application.

“You know what people want the most?” he asks, shouting to be heard.

There’s no uncertainty this time around, only a mild sense of curiosity he gets away with. “I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

The trick is to look through, to always look through, never at. He knows it, and he’s finally the somebody screwing up the application. “It’s what they can’t have.”

FIN

* Adapted from the quote of Geoffrey F. Abert: “Prosperity depends more on wanting what you have than having what you want.”
** Adapted from the quote of Oscar Wilde: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

And in order of appearance: OMC, Cedric, Fleur, Cho & OFC, Blaise, OFC, Justin, Blaise

FIC: Words of Wisdom, one-sided Justin/Zach, PG

Fri, 25 Nov 2005 22:32:53 GMT

Title: Words of Wisdom
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: one-sided Justin/Zach, Zach/Ravenclaws (hah)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 250 words
Summary: Words of wisdom for unrequited love.
Additional Notes: Written for siobhanohare. Your ghost sex fic will come soon. :| I am SO still making this fit fanfic100, for Friends.

i. what curiosity did to the cat

He comes back to the dormitory, flopping on his bed with an unsettingly contented sigh.

“Anything interesting happen at the library?” you ask.

“She’s so perfect,” he breathes with a lovelorn sigh.

“Who?” He sighs a name.

You’re the only one unsurprised when he begins siting at the Ravenclaw table.

ii. when it’s a crowd

He’s reading by the fireplace, legs propped up against the table. You’re curled up by the floor, a thick book lying open in front of you.

“What does this mean? Oh.”

“Hi,” she says, a glaring blue amidst a sea of yellow.

“I’ll ask Ernie,” you mumble, closing your book.

iii. where there are plenty of fish

“It isn’t the end of the world,” you tell him, but he doesn’t stop sulking.

“She’s going to come back,” you say, but she doesn’t.

“You’ll find someone else,” you promise, and he does, one day in Hogsmeade, while you were buying sweets and he was brooding over a Butterbeer.

iv. what is better than sorry

“Up for a drink?”

“Sure,” you say, wondering what heartbreak happened where and with who.

You drink only light alcohol.

“Girly drinks,” he teases, and you roll his eyes while watching him down another Firewhisky.

You walk him home later that night. He stumbles and you grunt, muttering and cursing.

v. a half of loaf will do

You receive his invitation just before he calls.

“White? I don’t look good in white!” you whine, and he give you the pleading look you never learned to turn down.

“But it’s the theme and you’re going to be best man!”

“What?”

“Be my best man?”

“Am I?”

“Of course.”

FIC: Five Ways to Fuck, ??/??, R

Thu, 24 Nov 2005 16:47:41 GMT

Title: Five Ways to Fuck
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: ??/??
Rating: R
Word Count: 500 words
Summary: Mostly, though, it's any way you want to.
Additional Notes: It started out Terry/Michael, somehow I think it ended up being Blaise/Theodore, thus naturally I think this ought to be for ccharlotte (making up for the last fic) and starflowers (thank you for the drabble :D). Because I need to cut me some slack, this is also for fanfic100, for the prompt How? I apologise for the title, no better one presented itself to me between writing the fic and now. (Also, I am SO unsurprised that despite the title and subject matter, this refuses to go past R.)

The first time is gentle and slow, tentative and exploring, breathtaking and a bit surreal. He kisses you deeply, feather-lightly, everywhere; his tongue swirls and lines on your skin, above wildly beating heart. Your eyes are closed; you see him with with your fingers in his hair, your hips by his waist, your neck nestling his head by the curve where neck and shoulder meet. You lift your legs against his thighs, run your foot against the muscle of his calves.

You murmur and he sighs, you whisper and he moans. It is unhurried, tender, and you never forget it.

***

Some days it’s with silk ties, bound securely around your wrists, around your mouth. Twice it was with rose petals ghosted over your skin, over areas only he’s had the chance to discover. On certain days it’s bent over the kitchen sink, trousers half-undone and groaning over the unwashed dishes. Sometimes it’s against the bathroom tiles, your mouth half-open, his closed over you, rivulets of water streaming down the paleness of his back. Once it was in the cinema, in the last row, where he bit his lip to keep from screaming.

Mostly, though, it’s any way you want to.

***

There are no words, no prelude to anything. Instead he presses himself against you, and you shiver when he nips at your earlobe, wets the spot just below your ear with his tongue. He tells you what to do, to keep your mouth shut, your hands still; he speaks with the quiet confidence of authority that knows it is going to be obeyed.

When he finally turns you around to cover your mouth with his you think you see a hint of green in his eyes. When you gasp out his name he smirks, like he’s proven something.

He has.

***

Your back hits the edge of the door frame, and you wonder why it feels rougher than it should have been. Your head is still reeling from the sudden impact, blood still pounding with barely restrained anger, and it’s interesting how you hiss just as he growls, coming together like the wild chorus to your primal song.

“Fuck you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

He taunts you and your smile is ugly; you refuse to heal the scratches on his arms and back, he grits his teeth to keep from begging. It is cruel, heated, and you like it.

***

Your eyes are closed; this time, you wonder if you dare open them. His lips press fluttering kisses against the lump in your throat, his hands pin your own, clenched and defeated, down; he parallels your body chest to stomach, waist to thigh, in an odd tangle of limbs clashing disjointedly.

It is quiet, unhurried and reluctant to end, drawing out the final tremors of your sighs until its echoes are all that’s left in your mind. Your fingers run through his hair; he rediscovers what makes you shiver.

But it is too late; in the morning you are gone.

FIC: This Charming Man (Roger/Blaise, PG13)

Tue, 22 Nov 2005 03:02:15 GMT

Title: This Charming Man
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Roger/Blaise
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 580 words
Summary: Play. Pause. Fast Forward. Rewind.
Additional Notes: Written for ccharlotte. *kisses* Also for fanfic100, for the prompt Who?

It's a crowded enough place and a busy enough day, with enough of spring to lift their spirits up with distractions of gossip and teasing, but it isn't difficult to notice his attention's wandered away. She smirks and nudges him on the arm, and he flashes her an easy grin. He sets down his drink, pushes his chair back, and stands up to leave.

She follows with her eyes, because watching Roger Davies stalk his prey has never failed to amuse her, and a corner of her mouth lifts in approval when he turns to face a younger, smaller, prettier boy.

play.

He climbs into the portrait hole of their common room much later than he should have, the buttons of his uniform uneven and tie slightly askew.

"Must have been amazing," she muses nonchalantly, turning the page of her Potions text.

"Hm?"

"What's his name?"

He pauses by the fireplace, brow furrowed. "He didn't say," he replies finally, looking thoroughly confused.

"That amazing?"

"Rookie."

"But pretty."

"Yes. Gorgeous."

pause.

A professional team hires him out a short while before he leaves school, and the pub is crowded, blued and bronzed.

He is distracted, but there is no prey.

fast forward.

He drags her out of work to watch the final match for the Quidditch Cup one year after she leaves school, two years after he does. It’s the first time their House is in the finals since they could remember, and she turns to him in excitement after five successive goals.

She is torn between being appalled and being amused when she realises he is no longer there.

“Beneath the Slytherin stands, against the post, just as Slytherin caught the snitch,” he tells her later, appearing from out of the crowd, breathless and smug with the swagger that comes after a successful fuck. He wrinkles his nose. “Then his friend came to get him.”

“Still nameless, though?”

“Ah, shit.”

pause.

She reads the report on the Sunday edition of the Prophet late in the afternoon just as she receives his Owl, which comes in days later than intended.

fast forward.

He’s a little early for his Floo, and he picks up The Daily Prophet off the rack to pass the time.

“Decent shot,” he murmurs to himself, eyes scanning the rest of his article before he turns the page in what he knew was a vain attempt to find something more interesting.

pause.

She hands the tawny owl something to nibble on, stroking his feathers absently before tying a scrolled up note to his leg.

rewind.

“…promising young Chaser from Pride of Portree…”

Hey, I guess I ought to tell you.

“…two-year contract with the New York Nifflers…”

My manager says it’s a good move. They’re a brilliant team.

“…American League welcomes this new addition…”

I leave by International Floo this Sunday. No need for an entourage. Really.

She huffs in reply, reading the rest of the paper with a cup of coffee.

“…family, are throwing a lavish ball tonight, in order to celebrate the recent…”

Roger, you ass. I saw you in the paper today.

“…youngest Healer in the Association, and the first in the family of…”

Take care of yourself, and good luck!

“…parents claim it their proudest moment, and could not ask for more…”

pause.

His Owl flies up to him, distracting him momentarily. He tucks the paper in his back pocket and unties the note.

And his name’s Blaise Zabini.

fast forward.

He grins.

stop.

FIC: Girl (Ron/Pansy, PG13)

Mon, 10 Oct 2005 03:22:39 GMT

Title: Girl
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Rating: PG13 (for language)
Word Count: 1000 words
Summary: Is there anybody going to listen to my story / All about the girl who came to stay?
Additional Notes: The third and last fic for xylodemon's Ficlet-a-thon, still for saphreanth. Ron/Pansy. Prompt: Girl, by The Beatles. I have been uncreative (please ignore the mood) and chosen to use the song titles for titles.

i. the girl who came to stay

Molly had hoped that she was wrong about Pansy Parkinson the way she was about Fleur Delacour. She knew she should have trusted Bill’s judgement, and that was why, when Ron brought Pansy home (Molly recognised the sneer from Sylvia, the arrogance from Francis) and she wrinkled her nose in discontent, Molly kept quiet, positive that the Burrow would grow on her son’s girlfriend.

“It’s rather moldy in here, isn’t it?” Pansy scoffed, to Ron’s mortification and Molly’s indignance.

“You’ll just have to get used to it,” Molly said, mustering up just enough politeness.

Pansy didn’t, however, and neither did Molly. Whereas Fleur attempted to cook them breakfast and make herself useful around the house, Pansy expected to be waited on and was mortified to learn there were no house elves in the Burrow and that she needed to wash her own knickers. Whereas Fleur was cheerful and perky, Pansy was sour and scared Ron’s young nephews and nieces away. Whereas Fleur grew on Molly, Pansy most certainly never did.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Arthur told Molly. Molly sighed, resigned to wait for the day Pansy decided to leave.

Like stubborn mold, however—surprisingly enough—Pansy Parkinson stayed.

ii. it makes you sorry

Hermione thought it was because she’d been so hard on Ron when she broke off their relationship. She thought maybe it was a means of getting revenge, some stubbornness and defiance that really wasn’t healthy at all. She almost felt sorry. She wasn’t the girl for Ron, but then again, neither was Pansy.

She still visited the Burrow, and though she tired of listening to Molly and Ginny complain bitterly about the latest Parkinson Problem, after which they’d give her Meaningful Looks, she figured listening was the best she could do.

“You and Ron were so good together,” Molly sighed wistfully.

Hermione coughed delicately. “We fought a lot.”

“They have a row every day,” Ginny countered, making a face.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “It’s Ron’s decision in the end. If he wants to—"

“Hullo, all,” Ron waved a bit, and all three women turned to look, smiling awkwardly. “Talking about her again?”

“How was the couch?” Ginny asked brightly.

Ron glared at her.

“Hullo, Ron. Tea?” Hermione offered sympathetically.

“No thanks.” Ron shrugged, got his cup of coffee, and left the room.

“There’s really nothing I can do,” Hermione said meekly, shrinking under Molly and Ginny’s encouraging looks. Was there?

iii. and i believe her

Ron went to his flat sometimes, steaming and pissed off and Harry would open the door dutifully, yawning the sleep away while he padded over to his small kitchen, taking out the alcohol that’s more Ron’s than his.

“Will you be taking my spare room tonight, or is this the kind of night when she storms into my flat and I’ll have to go amuse myself in a coffee shop while you have mad make-up sex?” he wearily asked one night. Ron stared blankly.

“Ronald Weasley, I know you’re in there!”

“Coffee shop it is,” Harry sighed, looking for the silver lining of his dark, Slytherin-shaped cloud. At least he had enough time to put on decent clothes, instead of being thrown out in his night robes.

“What are you doing here? Go away,” Pansy fumed when he opened the door.

“It’s actually my house, but I was just on my way out,” Harry replied dryly. “And please, try not to leave your knickers hanging by my windowsill this time.”

Sometimes, Harry mused, sipping the coffee Bert had already put out even before he’d said anything, if they weren’t kicking him out of his own flat, they were rather amusing.

iv. as if it’s understood

For all the crap Ron gave her about her choice in men, Ginny was rather miffed that he went right out ruining everything with Hermione made-for-Ron Granger for Pansy bloody-sodding-bitch Parkinson and being a right bloody hypocrite.

“Calm down,” Harry told her, touching her arm soothingly. She exhaled slowly, loosening her grip on her glass before it broke.

“It was about the chores. Again. She made a crack about how she’d pay me if I washed her clothes for her. Again.”

Harry patted her gently.

“I don’t know what Ron sees in her. She’s such a bitch, and if you ask me—are you even listening?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Harry stopped mid-yawn, nodding. “Yes, yes I was. Sorry. Was up early.”

Ginny sniffed. “And you can’t say I didn’t try either. I told her she looked pretty, and you know what she said?”

Harry knew. “What?”

Another sniff. “And I quote, ‘Sorry Weaslette, nothing much we can do for you.’ Can you believe her?”

Harry shook his head ruefully. “I’m sure Ron has his own reasons.”

“Love potion?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“Pansy’s a very… different kind of girl,” Harry explained diplomatically.

“It’s all that inbreeding,” Ginny said sullenly.

v. cool, cool, cool, cool

If Pansy was good at anything (besides the sex, and she was excellent in that), it was coming up with reasons. Pansy Parkinson was brilliant at rationalising away everything.

“Why don’t you play nice?” Ron would ask.

“I’m not sleeping with them, am I?” she’d reply boredly.

“You’re not going to try at all?”

“Weasley, if you can’t deal with it, there’s an easy enough solution.”

He can’t believe she still called him Weasley.

“Pansy.”

“I’m already the scorn of high society, my family’s disowned me, bless their souls, and I’m expected to do hard labour. What else do you want me to do for you?” she’d say, and it would make so much sense that Ron had nothing left to say.

“It was just an idea,” he’d mumble, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Let’s go out. Please?” she’d whisper in his ear, and the conversation would be dropped.

“Fine,” he’d agree, and she’d beam and kiss his nose.

“Good, I’ll be outside in five,” she’d say, shooing him out. “Do something about your face, you look hideous, and you better take me somewhere nice or you’ll be sorry, Ronald Weasley.”

Ron would sigh rather fondly.

Ladies and gentlemen, Pansy Parkinson.

Double Drabble: Ava Adore (Harry/Ginny, PG)

Sun, 09 Oct 2005 20:19:51 GMT

Title: Ava Adore
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: PG
Word Count: 200
Summary: Harry and Ginny are in love, but. Post-war.
Additional Notes: Again, written for xylodemon's I Didn't Get to Go to TWH Ficlet-a-thon. For saphreanth, who prompted with Harry/Ginny. Post-war, but dark. They are both definitely in love with one another, but still, dark. Prompt: lovely girl, you're the murder in my world (from the song Ava Adore by The Smashing Pumpkins). Thanks also goes to siobhanohare, who laughed at me when my word count went from 58 to 74 in thirty minutes. :|

Sometimes she’d like to believe in fairy tales, like she did when she was so much younger. Sometimes she wished that a boy’s smile and the flutter of a girl’s heart set everything right. Sometimes she wanted to close her eyes and open them to white picket fences and sun-dappled gardens and his smile. Her blush. Everything right.

*

He thought it would be over when it was over. He thought he’d finally get his normal life back, the one that was stolen from him when he was one, the one that kept slipping from his fingers when he was thirteen, and then sixteen. He deserved to be surrounded by his friends, not haunted by their memories.

*

There was a story once, tucked between a poem and a tale of knights and quests, of a perfect, short life traded in for a longer, tragic story trapped in the pages of a gift. She wonders if she’d made that choice.

*

In a quiet moment he finds her in the kitchen, humming to herself. He stands behind her, hand resting comfortably on her stomach as he kisses her good morning. She leans back against him and he smiles. She blushes. And everything’s right.

FIC: Post-war Confessional #7 (Harry/Charlie, PG)

Sat, 08 Oct 2005 16:42:26 GMT

Title: Post-war Confessional #7
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Charlie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 300 words
Summary: Harry attempts to admit something, but Ron's just not getting it.
Additional Notes: For xylodemon's "I Didn't Get To Go To TWH Ficlet-a-thon", as requested by libel. (Harry/Charlie, includes the phrase "because he tames dragons")

Things never came easy for Harry. That was rather quite obvious, in fact, and he’d spent most of fifth year capitalising at the world for that, but of all the things that made life more difficult, Ron was the unexpected topnotcher.

“What do you mean, my brother’s cute?”

Actually, he’d said hot, but whatever made Ron feel better. “He rather is, don’t you think?”

“How would I know? I’m his brother.”

“Well, there is that, but I’d’ve thought you’d be used to the idea, what with Fred and George—“

“WHAT.”

Harry turned red. “I thought you knew, is all,” he mumbled. “But anyway. What I was saying. About Charlie.”

“The one you think is fit.”

“Erm. Yes. I think he is.”

“I don’t—what are you talking about?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Charlie?”

There was an impatient sort of whining sound coming from the back of Ron’s throat. “Yes, Harry, I know that. But--why?”

“Because he tames dragons?” Harry offered, rather lamely.

“You don’t look like a dragon to me,” Ron pointed out, in a fabulously successful subconscious attempt to miss the point.

“It’s just sexy,” Harry explained. “Actually, Charlie is sexy.”

Ron stared at him blankly. He’s been through quite a lot, for a boy barely under twenty, but nobody had ever asked him to process a sentence that included any of his siblings and the word sexy in it.

“Ron?” Harry asked tentatively, after some time had passed in uncomfortable silence.

“You like my brother. In that way.” His tone was almost accusatory.

Harry licked his lips. “Actually.”

“Harry, I was just—oh, you’ve told Ron about us, then?” Charlie asked, walking into the room.

“WHAT.”

When Harry turned to glare at him, an unconscious Ron in his lap, Charlie grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “Thought he knew.”

FIC: Nineteen Truths About Theodore (Gen, PG)

Tue, 20 Sep 2005 11:39:16 GMT

Title: Nineteen Truths About Theodore
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None (gasp)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1900
Summary: Nineteen truths, nineteen years, nineteen drabbles. Theodore Nott in nineteen hundred words.
Additional Notes: Unedited and written in the spaces where life would let me. For tastes_of_ink. Happy birthday. :)

i. nineteen

Theodore dies slowly, hit not by the Avada Kedavra but by a spell that bleeds him dry. His breath is ragged, his chest constricting; he is woundless but blood is squeezed out of his pores. He’s not sure who else is dying around him, and his vision blurs until everything is reduced to splotches of colors.

In the last few minutes of staggered breathing and stinging pain, Theodore remembers. It hasn’t been a long life and it isn’t a short death. Everything flashes slowly before him, and he thinks to himself that he chose a rather fine time to die.

ii. eighteen

He doesn’t know who the first wizard he kills is, but he’s fairly certain it is an Auror who got in the way of a killing curse meant for someone else. It could just as easily have been an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire, but he doubts that. There are no innocents.

He doesn’t remember the wizard’s face. He doesn’t remember how the wizard looked like, crumpling lifelessly to the ground. He doesn’t even remember seeing the green light of the Avada.

He only hears the sound of a body hitting solid ground. It echoes repeatedly in his head.

iii. seventeen

He is Marked one year later than Draco, two months later than the others. It is a calm night in the Lestranges’ dungeons, and hooded figures surround him as he pledges allegiance to the Dark Lord. The Mark burns into his flesh, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming.

“I thought you said it didn’t hurt,” he says, smiling grimly, arm still burning painfully, when Blaise asks about it.

“I said it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” Blaise corrects him, and when he casts a salving charm, Theodore doesn’t protest.

iv. sixteen

Draco is angry, but Theodore is used to not having his father around. The students are wary of him, and he catches the last threads of whispered rumours as he passes by. Draco, too consumed by fury, ignores him. Pansy, no doubt under her parents’ orders, shrinks away from him. Blaise is, unfailingly, quiet and indifferent.

He goes home for the holidays. He doesn’t visit Azkaban; instead he surveys the manor, watching over house elves in their work. On Christmas Eve he sits alone at the head of the table, eating a meal made for the Master of Nott Manor.

v. fifteen

He finally gathers enough courage and that summer, he enters his father’s special library, managing to trick most of the wards to let him acquire a few choice titles. He pores over them for the rest of August, almost ignoring his assigned schoolwork, and upon returning to Hogwarts he uses his spare time to sneak into the Restricted Section for more reading material.

The Dark Arts, he finds, are a much more precise, much more intelligent form of magic, relying less on instinct and emotion than on carefully thought out processes. In the end, it is about using one’s head.

vi. fourteen

The Malfoy manor isn’t as impressive as the Notts’, Theodore thinks as a rather pathetic-looking house elf leads him to the gardens. His father and Lucius Malfoy have disappeared to the study, and he follows Draco to a stone bench after the boy dismisses the house elf.

“Things are about to happen,” Draco tells him in a nonchalant tone, eyes gleaming almost maliciously.

“Great things,” Theodore agrees. “Your father has told you as well?”

“Father tells me everything,” Draco confides, and Theodore nods.

They talk about Hogwarts next, because in truth, neither knows anything of what is about to happen.

vii. thirteen

He plans to try out for Slytherin Beater after hearing about the opening for the position, and he practices flying in secret, swinging a club against random objects transfigured into Bludgers, perfecting his aim.
*
Draco discusses the planned tryouts with an attentive Pansy Parkinson over breakfast one day.

“We’ll get the biggest and strongest for Beater,” he says. “Scrawny players don’t have as much force in them.”
*
Theodore is in the middle of finishing a Potions essay when Blaise passes by him. “They’re holding tryouts in the pitch. Do you want to watch?”

“Waste of time,” Theodore mutters in reply.

viii. twelve

None of the Hogwarts professors ever praise Theodore in class, let alone notice his performance, but Theodore is a bright and diligent student, ranking high even among the Ravenclaws and Hermione Granger. He surprises most of the faculty, who remember only the raised arm of Hermione Granger and the clusters of Ravenclaws discussing in the library.

Theodore, by contrast, stays in a corner of the Slytherin common room until late into the night, sometimes working by the light of his wand to finish all his homework. Often he is the last to leave, until Blaise decides to study with him.

ix. eleven

There are children and parents everywhere. Theodore follows his father silently, hands stiffly by his sides, back straight, eyes trained on his father’s back. Mr Nott walks briskly, taking long strides with each step. Theodore hurries to catch up but is distracted by a small girl crying into her anxious mother’s skirt.

“Theodore,” his father calls him, and he snaps his attention back to his father, slightly ashamed.

“Yes, father.”

“You’ll find a compartment in here easily enough,” his father says, gone before Theodore could even see the house elf drop his trunk.

He’d wanted to at least say goodbye.

x. ten

Draco has a broom as well, and though they are both a bit too big for their brooms they fly around the gardens with it anyway, neither admitting to trying to subtly outdo the other.

“We’ve company,” Mr Nott announces from the entrance, and Mrs Malfoy waves Mrs Zabini over from her shaded seat. The men retire to discuss business, and the women chat over tea. Blaise sits himself dutifully with them, watching Theodore and Draco with an air of boredom. Theodore lands by him and asks him if he wants to fly, and Blaise hesitates only for a moment.

xi. nine

Mr Nott begins attending parties and gatherings, and Theodore never quite knows what he is expected to do, but his father insists on bringing him along. He stands in a single spot for a great portion of the evening until his father leads him elsewhere, steering him through the crowd and introducing him to heavily glamoured women and stiff-lipped men.

“Good evening, Mr Parkinson, Mrs Parkinson,” he says politely. He brings his gaze down to eye level. “Good evening, Pansy.”

Pansy curtsies awkwardly, whispering back the greeting.

Their parents leave them, and they wonder when they’ll be allowed to leave.

xii. eight

He opens his birthday present and finds he’s been given a small broom. He is elated, and his father hires a private flying instructor for him. Gingerly he holds onto the broom handle, hovering shakily a few centimetres above ground in nervous excitement. He lets out a long breath, following the instructor when he is told to lean forward and almost falling off when the broom advances a few inches.

A few weeks later he is able to steer and dismount without incident. His father tells him he’s done well.

It is the only time he remembers being told that.

xiii. seven

The Zabinis and the Malfoys are respectable pureblooded families, his father tells him, and he nods obediently, knowing it means that they are very important people.

He is left in the parlor with two boys—one as silent as he is and another as arrogant. Draco demands for sweets and tea, which Theodore orders a house elf to bring for them; Blaise says his thank-yous and pleases. At the end of the afternoon their parents come to pick them all up, mothers delighted that their sons are friends.

None of the boys admit that they didn’t particularly enjoy the company.

xiv. six

Left alone in his father’s library, Theodore soon tires of all the books he finds difficult to understand. It is a restless day, however, and he decides to look for more interesting books—something with pictures, perhaps.

He touches the spine of a thick black book at the bottom of the shelf, intending to read its title, when it screeches suddenly. Theodore stumbles, blinded and howling in pain.

His father appears out of thin air, with a flick of his wand removing the curse on Theodore and, after Theodore begins breathing more evenly, forbidding him from visiting the library unsupervised.

xv. five

Theodore is given a nanny to watch over him while his father attends to business during the day. He is a quiet child and has no interest in running around the halls of the Nott manor, which is fortunate, as Mrs Whitaker has no breath left in her to chase him around.

They both like walking, however, and one day after tea, when it is too rainy to enjoy a stroll outside, they take to exploring the manor, finding themselves inside Mr Nott’s library.

Theodore has never seen books until then, and that afternoon he is taught how to read.

xvi. four

Nobody tells him anything, and Theodore wonders why he is no longer allowed to see his mother, or why she wouldn’t even come out. His questions are met with silence and the cold, impenetrable eyes of his father, who tells him it isn’t his place to ask.

It is a quiet day when he is dressed in itchy black robes and told to stay quietly by his father’s side. He wants to ask what is going on but knows better, not knowing what’s happening until months later, when he sneaks into his mother’s room and finds it emptied of everything.

xvii. three

Theodore learns to walk fairly early, and by the time he turns three he runs around frequently, knocking everything down until he runs into his indulgent mother’s open arms.

He is let loose around the garden one summer morning, and it is in an attempt to grab a stray pixie that Theodore’s foot catches at the gnarled root of a tree. He falls hard, chin and knee scraping against the rough ground, tears stinging his eyes. His mother is upon him immediately, cradling him while she charms the pain away.

There are few other times he’d ever feel as safe.

xviii. two

They know he’s a clever boy, not because they are expected to have overrated views of their son, but because he is a naturally smart child, even as a toddler.

“He started speaking early,” Mrs Nott tells her friends proudly, while Theodore wakes up squirming in her arms.

“Milk,” he commands, standing up in his mother’s lap and faltering only slightly before he rights himself again, tiny fingers clinging to his mother’s shoulders.

Mrs Nott’s friends coo over him and, to their delight, Theodore giggles adorably.

He knows what he wants, and he’ll grow up knowing how to get it.

xix. one

It isn’t an easy birthing; the Mediwitches take their turns inside the ward for more than a few hours each, wiping sweat off their brows as they come out, reassuring Mr Nott that his wife is doing fine. He fumes in silence, calming down only when the Head Healer comes out all smiles, informing him that he’s a son.

Theodore Nott, named after his grandfather, is born on a warm summer day and, swathed in soft cloth and held close by his mother, he blinks sleepily before falling asleep.

“He chose a fine day to be born,” a Mediwitch remarks.

Fic Rec: love in lower case by passo

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 11:35:10 GMT

Title: love in lower case
Author: passo
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Category: Romance/Humor
Summary: Harry, tired of kissing (and doing other things to) numerous lovers, decides to escape the confines of rated fanfiction. But just when he thinks he's safe, who else but the former bane of his existence arrives to liven up his new, peaceful life.

Recommendation: for people who adore e.e. cummings and something a little bit more original and quirky than your regular run-of-the-mill fanfiction. love in lower case is fun and teasing and adorable and hey, it's also sadly over all too soon. i rarely rec, but i think my flist must be exposed to this.

“you can’t scream. capitals don’t exist here.”

FIC: Cordially Invited, Blaise/Theodore, PG13

Fri, 12 Aug 2005 02:49:54 GMT

Title: Cordially Invited
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Blaise/Theodore, slight mentions of Blaise/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,991 more or less
Summary: [SPOILERISH] Highlight to read: Takes place years after the war. Blaise's mother is engaged to Theodore's father, and everyone gets busy with wedding preparations. More or less.
Additional Notes: Dedicated to starflowers, from whom I stole Grayson, Kalan, and Theodore. *kisses* Lissa, I really don't know what else to add besides gratuitous shagging. :| Much love to ccharlotte, who editted and lent me Isabella. :D I take full blame for the title. :|

Blaise had known that the loud buzzing of his fireplace early that morning was from his mother, thus despite a rather pressing need for sleep, he slid his way out of bed, slipping into thick white robes with the languid movement that came naturally with being a Zabini, and padded over to the fireplace. Seven years after Hogwarts and still his mother found it necessary to call at ungodly hours. "Good morning, Mother," he greeted wearily.

"You've not dressed yet," Isabella's crisp, cool voice cut through the haze of his morning. An eighth husband's death—the former Prime Minister was deceased by a mysterious Muggle illness three years prior—seemed to have done her well. Her hair was miraculously coiffed at seven in the morning, cheeks and eyes conscientiously charmed to hide the damage of age.

Blaise shrugged, yawning nonchalantly. "I wasn't aware we had an appointment."

"I sent you an Owl."

Briefly an image of a pile of unopened envelopes fluttering to the ground—pushed aside by urgent hands—flitted through his mind. Blaise glanced briefly to his side. They were still there. "Must have missed it," he murmured, thoughts of sleep now discarded in favour of more pleasurable pursuits, such as once again debauching the lovely Puddlemere United Chaser he'd brought home last night.

Isabella's lips drew a thin line, and she pulled the corners into a smile. "Blaise, love, it's thankful I called, then. Do try to be ready by ten; you and I have brunch with the Notts at their manor."

"Excuse me?"

"The Notts, love, we'll be brunching with them at ten. You went with Theodore in—“

"I know who they are, Mother," Blaise cut her off. He'd been reading the society pages, but as his mother had never mentioned anything, he'd assumed they were only rumours. "But surely the brunch is—“

"Nothing else but the perfect way to meet your new family, naturally."

“What?”

“Ten a.m., sweet, do be on time.”

***

"We didn't want to spring this upon everyone, but we didn't want word to spread unless definite plans had been made, of course," Isabella explained. "Alex and I value our privacy, surely you understand?"

"Of course," Blaise nodded, certain they'd be on the front page of the Prophet in three months' time. He sipped his tea dutifully, leaning forward in feigned interest as his mother relayed plans for her ninth wedding.

"It'll be small, of course, just family and close friends," she was saying. A Prophet reporter or two for posterity, too, Blaise added quietly. "And we've planned on a honeymoon to Greece, can you believe Alex has never been there before?"

"No, really?" Blaise gave a little gasp of shock, the corner of his eye catching a glimpse of the littlest Nott squirming in his seat, and Theodore sighing impatiently. He couldn’t blame them. He'd strolled into the Nott gardens at half past eleven, expecting the worst to be over, only to meet Isabella and the Notts just as they were coming out of another part of the estate. His mother had kissed him adoringly, thanking him for coming on time, and as Nott Sr. nodded approvingly from behind her Blaise had wished his mother didn't know him as well as she did.

"Yes, I wasn't able to believe it either, but Alex has always been a workaholic, he says he's never had the time. Well, we'll have to make time for him, then, won't we?" Isabella went on, smiling indulgently at her newest fiancé, who gazed at her adoringly.

"I'm sure you and Father would love to discuss this more at length without our presence, Mrs Zabi—Mrs Scrimg—“

"Just Isabella, Theodore," Isabella said charmingly, though Blaise could detect the barest hint of venom in her voice.

"Isabella," Theodore corrected himself, forcing a pleasant smile. "I'm certain you and Father would love to spend more time together, why don't I take my siblings and Blaise out to the gardens? We've not properly caught up with each other since Hogwarts, after all."

"Are you certain, love?" Isabella asked.

"I will be fine, Mother," Blaise assured her, standing up to take his leave. "I've never been in the Nott gardens and I would love to see them."

"Well, alright then," she acquiesced, kissing Blaise's cheek as he left. "Manners, love," she whispered.

"Always, Mother."

***

There was something surprisingly unnerving about having a child staring wide-eyed and gawking at you, especially if he'd not stopped doing so for the last twenty minutes. "Yes?" Blaise asked coolly, turning to look down at the little boy that clung to one of Theodore's arms.

Grayson only stared back.

"Right, then," Blaise muttered, bending forward under the pretense of examining the chrysanthemums. He wondered why he allowed himself to suffer this, and Roger Davies had given him a confused look when he went back to bed that morning only to get dressed, as though he wondered the same thing. He wished he could say his mother only got married once, maybe even twice, thus it was a special event, and it would have been excusable, but that was far from the truth, as well. For Isabella, marrying was a hobby, and she demanded each wedding be treated with even more attention than the last.

"Will you play Battlebroom with me?" a tiny, suddenly brave voice piped up from behind.

"What?" Blaise turned back, eyebrow raised in mild surprise.

"Theodore always plays Battlebroom with me, and he's my brother, so if you become my new brother, are you playing Battlebroom with me? It's only good for two people," Grayson said in a rush of solemn breath.

Manners, Blaise reminded himself, before smiling down at the boy. "If you like, though I won't mind if you want to keep playing with Theodore."

"I want to play with you, he always lets me win anyway—“

"Why don't you go and find where Kalan's gone off to, Grayson," Theodore interrupted with a discreet cough. Grayson shot him a slight smirk before he disappeared around the rosebushes.

"Charming boy," Blaise observed, but Theodore did not reply, and they were silent for a while.

"My father adored my mother." Theodore's voice was calm and matter-of-fact when he spoke again, with the sort of tone one would employ when discussing the weather.

Blaise merely tilted his head in response. He wasn't accustomed to bluntness. "Your mother is dead."

"And soon enough, my father will be, as well," came the insolent reply, and when Blaise faced him, Theodore’s eyes were coldly angry.

"Then we're doing him a favour, aren't we?" Blaise shot back.

***

"She could have used a bit more sense," Blaise muttered, picking at his pasta. The date had been announced to all the important people, along with invitations (there was a long and lengthy discussion regarding the remaining Malfoys; in the end, there was a compromise to send an invitation laced with a spell to make the receiver forget the appointment), and five months before the big day, Blaise was still complaining. "The Notts, imagine."

"Imagine, indeed. I do feel sorry, love, isn't this the first time you'll have step-siblings?" Tracey nodded sympathetically from across him, reaching out a hand to pat the back of his hand. In the background, amidst the soft tinkling of utensils and the gentle murmur of conversation, Blaise heard the frantic clicking of a camera.

"We'll be in the sixth page of the Prophet," he noted dryly, casually turning his wrist so his palm lay directly under Tracey's. "Page five, now. And no, there was that episode with the Wrights. I'd rather not be reminded."

"Poor love, what do you plan to do now?" Tracey asked, eyes focusing on him a bit more intently than she meant. Blaise gave her a half-smile and she leaned forward, putting her lips close to his ear. "Front page."

"Tiny box in the bottom-left side. Story on page three," he whispered back. "I've an appointment with a Chaser after dinner."

He felt her leg on his, ankle hooking slowly around his calf and sliding upward. "Headline," she insisted playfully. "And I meant with the family. It's the Notts, love."

Blaise leaned back, smiling languidly at Tracey. The girl was a fabulous gossip, and an even better socialite, and he was certain the Prophet wouldn't have enough of her for the next few weeks. "I can hardly dictate her life choices, as I'm sure she tries not to interfere with mine. Besides, the Notts are respectable now."

"There are doubts," Tracey pointed out. "Nearly everyone turned informant, in the end."

"Doesn't matter, in the long run," Blaise countered. "I will have to suffer the family in the meantime, I suppose."

"In your own special way? They’re the Notts," Tracey reminded him.

"Yes, love, I'd noticed."

"But they're—“

"Mother knows what she's doing, and so do I."

"So do the Notts, most of the time." Tracey smiled angelically. "Theodore especially. You remem—“

"Yes, I do, I remember Theodore," Blaise interrupted, rolling his eyes. "We did spend seven years in the same House—the same dorm, even, of course I know him."

Tracey only smiled dazzlingly at him, and for the final time that night the clicking of a photograph not-so-discreetly taken interrupted the quiet of the evening.

***

They began robe fittings three months before the wedding, and Blaise turned around for the eleventh time while his mother inspected him head to foot. Beside him, the haggard assistant looked up expectantly.

“The sleeves are too short, collar’s a bit high, the cut at the shoulder’s not right at all,” Isabella murmured, each criticism punctuated by a definite droop in the assistant’s shoulders.

“We’ll see what we can do,” Madam Genevieve Gozum, Italian designer and a close personal friend of Isabella, sighed beside her. “It is difficult to find a style and a cut that suits men, but the colour?”

“All men generally end up suiting the same thing,” Isabella agreed distractedly. “And that shade of cream should do marvelously, yes.”

“Take note of the measurements, Olivia,” Genevieve instructed, pausing thoughtfully as Olivia scuttled around taking Blaise’s measurements. She turned next to the three Nott siblings, who’d been watching warily the whole time. “Which one of you gentlemen would like to go next?”

“Kalan,” Theodore and Grayson both blurted out. Kalan, who had pointed to Grayson, froze in his seat.

“I recommend keeping Theodore for last,” Blaise commented, shrugging out of the dress robes and smiling charmingly at Olivia. “He’s the strangest proportions and I imagine he’ll take the longest time.”

“What difference does it make?” Theodore muttered, annoyed. Isabella shot Blaise a warning look.

“Because then I can take Grayson and Kalan out for some ice cream, while we wait for you,” Blaise explained matter-of-factly, not failing to note the way Grayson’s eyes lit up, and the grin Kalan wore, even as he stood to have his robes fitted. Isabella gave him an approving nod, but it was the way Theodore sulked for the remainder of the afternoon that pleased Blaise most.

***

Alexander and Isabella weren’t featured on the front page of the Daily Prophet three months after they announced their engagement, contrary to Blaise’s prediction. Instead there was a small announcement in the society pages and, a month and a half before the designated Event of the Year, The Daily Prophet wanted to know if they could feature the couple for their Sunday special. Isabella agreed graciously, and one chilly day late in February, the Daily Prophet sent a reporter and photographer to the Nott manor.

“Rita Skeeter couldn’t make it,” Zacharias Smith gritted through his teeth by means of explanation. His right hand was gripping a quill quite painfully and his knuckles were white. Beside him, a blond head bobbed up and down behind a large, clunky camera.

“Colin Creevey, pleasure to meet you, it’s so exciting to work on this article, let me tell you, my brother’s very excited for me,” he said in a rush of breath, a hand extending from out of nowhere and shaking Alexander Nott’s enthusiastically.

The senior Nott looked quite ill at ease. “Likewise.”

The Notts looked wary, and Grayson clutched Blaise’s hand anxiously. Blaise tilted his head curiously. “You look familiar—have I seen you before?”

“We went to Hogwarts together,” Zacharias replied coldly. “I was in Hufflepuff.”

Blaise nodded cheekily. “Hufflepuff, right, yes,” he said, turning to Grayson and whispering, quite loudly, “Remember, Grayson, when they place the Sorting Hat on your head, you’re supposed to say ‘Not Hufflepuff’, okay?”

“And ‘Gryffindor over my dead body’, right, Blaise?”

“Yes. Good boy.”

“The gardens should be suitable for the interview,” Isabella said primly, just before Zacharias or Colin had time to react. “I trust you’ll have no problem with the lighting?”

“Oh no, ma’am, it’s a beautiful day out, it’ll be perfect for outdoor pictures,” Colin said, beaming. “And if not, I can always adjust camera settings accordingly, this model I have here’s one of the finest, actually, did you know? It has five different kinds of settings and it automatically changes the apertures depending on—“

“How are plans for the wedding coming along, ma’am?” Zacharias said loudly, cutting off what was promising to be a lengthily tedious monologue. Blaise watched in amusement as Smith attempted to discreetly consult a list of questions from a short piece of parchment.

“Oh, everything’s going perfectly according to plan,” she replied airily.

“Ninth time around should be enough practice,” Theodore muttered beside Blaise.

“I heard that,” Blaise whispered casually.

“You were meant to.”

“And how does it feel, Mr. Zabini and Mr. Nott, to find that you will soon be step-siblings?” Zacharias said suddenly, turning his attention to both men, grin wide and plastered on.

Blaise flashed him a charming smile. “I think it’s just about the most exciting thing to happen this year,” he said smoothly.

“Yes, I can hardly wait,” Theodore chimed dryly beside him.

***

The reason Isabella was never implicated in any of her husbands’ deaths, though she was almost always one of the primary suspects, was that she never actually killed any of her husbands. Everything was simply a case of bad luck and terrible timing when it came to marrying. She’d also long suspected it to be a curse some stupidly jealous hag had cast on her years ago, but as the curse turned out to be a blessing, she never concerned herself with it.

Nevertheless, while most of her husbands died of accidents, some had been driven to their deaths by madness. Isabella, with her infuriatingly unruffled composure and poise, was very skilled at causing this, and she’d manage to pass her talents on to Blaise.

“Merlin’s fucking beard, what are you doing?” Theodore cursed when he walked into the loo, four weeks prior to the wedding, at a rehearsal.

“I’m not quite su—who are you again?”

“Darren.”

“Darryl, Theodore, now go away.”

***

As far as weddings went, the Scrimgeour-Nott nuptial was a raging social success. If it wasn’t the bride, the flashing lights of a thousand different cameras blinded the guests enough to dazzle them into amazement. Not a detail went out of place, the whole entourage was radiant, everything went perfectly according to plan, and everyone photographed well. Not a fifth of the way through and already everyone knew it would be the Wedding of the Century—until Isabella’s next wedding, of course.

Most of the Ball that followed the wedding was picture-perfect too. Mostly.

“Not up to joining the festivities?”

Theodore turned to look at the door. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said evenly. “Not up to any sort of festivity?”

“Seems like I’m not.” Blaise smirked, arms crossed smugly over his chest as he leaned his weight against the doorframe. “Or maybe I am.”

Theodore waved his hand dismissively. “Go back downstairs. Your public awaits, and I’m certain your girlfriend needs to hang off your arm for the cameras.”

“And steal the spotlight from my mother?” Blaise snorted. “Tracey’s a big girl—she can take perfectly good care of herself.”

“What are you here for, Blaise?” Theodore asked, brow furrowed and arms crossed. “Have you no one else’s time to waste?”

“Oh I’m always worth the time,” Blaise said, winking suggestively. He tilted his head at an angle, smirking at Theodore until the man looked away. “Theodore, we’re family now, you realise?”

“All too painfully,” Theodore said gruffly. He looked up and was startled to see that somehow, in the few moments when he wasn’t paying attention, Blaise had moved from a safe few metres away to an alarmingly few centimetres from him. “What’s your point?”

“Conflict and tension is not a suitable environment for family to have,” Blaise said solemnly, never taking his eyes off Theodore as he leaned ever closer. “It’s unhealthy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Blaise’s voice had dropped to a low, teasing murmur, and Theodore blinked rapidly, edging away in confusion.

“Theodore?” Blaise leaned two centimetres forward.

“Yes?” Theodore edged three centimetres back.

“Why are you moving away?” Four centimetres more.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Five centime—Theodore’s back hit the wall. “Um.”

“Hmm?” Blaise moved closer.

“You are infuriating,” Theodore gritted out, breath hitching traitorously.

Blaise flashed him a smug grin. “I know,” he said, straightening up and taking a few quick steps backward. “I’ll see you around, Teddy.”

“Bloody tea--bastard,” Theodore muttered, righting himself and smoothing down his hair with as much dignity as he could, but Blaise had already gone.

***

“Good morning!” Blaise greeted chirpily when Theodore came down to breakfast the next day. “More toast, Grayson?”

Theodore blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“Blaise is moving in to be closer to family, isn’t it just marvelous?” Isabella asked, clearly pleased. “Alex is thrilled, too. He’ll be in the room across yours, you won’t mind, will you?”

“No,” Theodore said, though the feral grin Blaise wore told him he should.

Unless he didn’t, really.

***

Drabble: Chapter Twenty-Two Outtake (Michael/Terry)

Sat, 16 Jul 2005 08:16:58 GMT

Title: Chapter Twenty-Two Outtake
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Michael/Terry
Rating: PG-15
Word Count: 100 words
Additional Notes: Um. Contains something SPOILERY, so if you've not read til chapter 22 of HBP yet, not that it's really related to that, then yeah, you'd best avoid this then. Um. Just got the idea, which is really just. Silliness. I've not even finished reading it yet, ha. ha.
Edit: For fanfic100, for the prompt Insides, for obvious reasons. :|

Destination.

“One.” Michael closes his eyes.

Determination.

“Two.” His mind is blank, and he feels it sweep over him.

Deliberation.

“THREE!” Suddenly the air is pressing from all around, forceful, and he can actually feel movement, and there’s that strange sensation, and, yes, a soft, telling pop.

He’d done it.

“Um.”

Michael curses, eyes still shut, mentally examining his body, which certainly feels complete, only.

He opens his eyes to Terry’s flustered cheeks and startled eyes, and Twycross breaks the horrible silence that follows.

“Mr Corner, please remove yourself from Mr Boot’s pants as soon as you can, thank you.”

REC: Rarepair OTP Communities

Thu, 16 Jun 2005 00:51:48 GMT

terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael terrymichael

Now if this place (terrymichael!) had FIC, my life would be complete.

Honestly. This should have, like, more members. Which slasher WOULDN'T ship Terry with Michael, and Michael with Terry? I demand a raise of hands, so I know who to knock sense into. :|

Nobody had better bring up Ginny either. Michael was clearly ~~love spelled~~ ~~experimenting~~ TRYING TO MAKE TERRY JEALOUS YES THAT'S IT. :| And Ginny broke Michael's heart anyway. And aren't nerdy Ravenclaw boys so adorable? No really. They are.

~~PS. HETTY I am APPALLED that you knew of this community BUT DID NOT TELL ME.~~

*

in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows in_teh_shadows

This one has fic, BUT NOT ENOUGH OF IT. And HELLO. Draco is clearly not a fourth the Slytherin Blaise and Theodore are. So we never hear of them, so what? THEY'RE TOO BUSY SHAGGING TO BE SEEN BY POTTER THAT'S WHY. So Theodore's stringy and weedy-looking. It's an awkward age. So Blaise sometimes has boobies. Blame the fangirls who are not versed in the ways of traditional names for boys and the obvious slash potential of someone named Blaise Zabini. :| THE POINT IS, nobody in their right mind wouldn't make them fit either. It just is.

Don't make me sit there and say I told you so when HBP comes out and everyone else begins saying "Blaise/Theodore! DOH! Why did WE never think of it before?" Because dude. We did.

~~Yes, I am aware that I'm spamming. But fandom post, hello?~~