Harry clears his throat. It sounds like dead leaves rustling. A chill wind whips through the trees in Elmfield Park, and oh, he thinks it must be lovely here in the spring with the heavy, fragrant branches full of pink blossoms and bright, fresh green color all around, nothing like this dark pathway and the gusty autumn razors that rush over the pavement, blowing bits of trash and smoke through his diaphanous body. Harry shivers. He hated Halloween when he was alive, and now that he’s a Ghost (promoted this very morning from Specter 2nd Class, thank you very much) it’s somehow become much worse. Perhaps because it’s now his job to participate.
Harry sighs. It sounds like a death rattle. He’s not sure who made the decision to promote him; he was never the best at haunting… but he suspects the Powers That Be are having a hard time filling the seasonal rush this year. They have stock in candy sales or something. Harry’s learned not to ask.
He simply has to haunt one teenage boy, just for the night. Satisfy the P that B and then he can float back to his comfy home in the sewer and curl up with a discarded magazine and his pet ghoul-that-used-to-be-a-cat-he-thinks-or-maybe-a-squirrel-it’s-kind-of-hard-to-tell. Maybe he’ll even stop to look through the rubbish bins for a new book. He hasn’t been able to locate a copy of the sixth Harry Potter yet, and he’s been very much looking forward to finding out who the Half-Blood Prince is.
He wishes he were a ghost at Hogwarts. Why do ghosts exist, but not Hogwarts?
Harry blinks. Standing in front of him is the very boy he’s been assigned to, a smiley nineteen-year-old with a bit of caramel fringe peeking out from under the gauze of his mummy costume.
“Oh! I-I mean… boooooooooooo.”
The boy laughs merrily, stopping in the middle of the path and cocking his head. “You’re not very scary, mate.”
“Yes I am. I’m a ghost. Wooooo, spooky.” Harry does jazz hands, and feels a little self-conscious when the boy laughs at him again. He can’t see very much of him through the mummy costume, just a pair of bright blue eyes that crinkle around the edges.
“Come on, love, I’m headed to a party. Loads of people for you to scare there. Name’s Louis, by the way, in case you were wondering.”
“Uh, Harry,” Harry answers, mildly perplexed at how Louis manages to grab his hand without phasing through him. Must be because it’s Halloween.
Before he knows it he’s being dragged through the park, bobbing a bit like a balloon on a string as Louis calmly strides toward the lights and raucous music of one of the houses on a bordering street. Just his luck, he thinks, to be assigned to someone who already has experience with ghosts.
It’s kind of nice, though. Touching someone.
“Oi! Stan!” Louis’s pounding on the front door of the party house. “Let us in!”
“Happy Hall’ween!” The door swings in and a tipsy werewolf admits them to a foyer already littered with confetti and empty red cups.
“Yeah, Happy Halloween, you drunk bastard.” Louis claps Stan on the back, not letting go of Harry’s hand as he tugs him toward the kitchen and the makeshift bar. “You can’t drink, can you?”
“I… I don’t think so, no.”
“Well that’s bloody awful, mate.” Louis downs two shots in a row. He unwraps part of his mummy head, and wow, his cheekbones. He grins at Harry. “Wanna dance, ghost boy?”
Soon they’re sandwiched in between sweaty bodies in the living room, Louis shout-singing along and nodding his head to the beat. “Beyoncé, can you handle this? I don’t think they can handle this!” He smirks at Harry and starts to dance a bit closer, moving his hips in a seductive rhythm. (Harry’s glad he no longer has the ability to blush.) “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly,” and now Louis’s murmuring the lyrics into Harry’s ear, he’s turning around to grind on him “‘cause my body’s too bootylicious for ya, babe…”
Things are happening that haven’t happened to Harry in quite a while. He’s not even sure how many of these people can see him -- some catch his eye and smile, but others are definitely shooting Louis weird glances, like he’s dancing by himself up against a wall. Harry can hardly bring himself to care; his head’s going fuzzy, his fingers skimming lightly over the gauzy tatters on Louis’s strong-looking biceps, fuck, he’s hard… Harry didn’t even know he could get hard. If he had a heart, it would be pounding. If he doesn’t kiss Louis soon, he’s going to burst.
Harry licks his lips. It sounds like a snake slithering through wet grass. Louis gazes up at him, eyes soft. They lean in at the same time. Harry’s translucent lips brush against Louis’s solid ones, radiating heat and vibrant life. Harry doesn’t know how they’re touching like this; he’s hesitant to press harder, ask for more… But Louis opens his mouth and deepens the kiss and oh. It’s delicious. Harry can’t help letting out a breathy moan (it sounds like an abandoned gate creaking in the wind), shuddering as Louis presses him up against the wall and brings their crotches together. Soon they’re rutting with slow, lazy thrusts.
It must be odd for Louis, kissing a ghost, but Harry’s never felt so warm. His hands find Louis’s arse and squeeze, hard -- shit, Beyoncé was right -- and he can hear Louis growl into his mouth, nip at his bottom lip in response, like he can really feel it.
He can really feel Harry.
“This is… irregular,” Harry says, as Louis moves down to his neck, pressing his shoulders firmly to the wall as he sucks something that feels like a bruise, but won’t be.
“You’re irregular,” Louis grins. “Come on, let’s find a room. I want your mouth.” He pulls Harry through the crowd, erection clearly visible even through the tightly-wrapped gauze, and Harry feels like electricity. He looks down and notices that he’s glowing now, his fingers and hands limned with incandescent gold, the lines on his palms… Huh…
“I’m supposed to be out scaring people, you know. Ghost, and all that.”
Louis just smiles cheekily at Harry as he crowds him into a spare bedroom, slamming the door closed behind them and jumping into Harry’s arms, completely trusting that he won’t fall through his spectral body. And he doesn’t, somehow. Harry’s supporting him, groping his arse and sticking his tongue down the boy’s throat, getting friction in all the right places as they tumble onto the bed.
“Mmm, fuck,” Louis gasps as he grinds down on Harry. “You’re so hot.”
If Harry had a pulse, it’d be racing, and now he gets to unwrap the gauze around Louis’s torso, winding it around and around until he uncovers a broad, bare chest with just the right smattering of chest hair and shit, Harry was still a sixteen-year-old virgin at the time of the car accident. This sort of situation was something he’d only gotten to fantasize about with his hand and his fingers and a stolen bottle of lube… Fuck fuck fuck, Louis’s body is warm and pliant, muscled and sweaty and boy. Harry might die. Again.
He swallows thickly when he peels the gauze away from Louis’s happy trail, admiring the sizable bulge just below it and the elastic band of the boy’s boxer briefs. He pauses for a moment to palm the hot outline of Louis’s cock.
“Ohhh… shit, Harry, don’t make me come yet.” Louis puts his hand over Harry’s, holding it still as he bites his lip. He’s flustered, flushed, and so fucking pretty. Harry’s in awe of him.
After giving Louis a moment to compose himself, Harry tugs the rest of the gauze away with Louis’s pants and kneels by the side of the bed. He licks his lips, staring at Louis’s massive erection, then up to his face and the kind blue eyes that haven’t seen through him yet.
“Well. Don’t fuck about.”
Harry huffs a laugh that sounds like rust squeaking in the hinges of a screen door. He’s imagined doing this so many times, and thought he’d never have a chance to… He wants to make it good. So good, for both of them.
He wraps his hand around the base of Louis’s cock, squeezing softly so that Louis doesn’t finish too soon. Starts with some kitten licks around the head, empty chest fluttering as he hears Louis’s breath catch in his throat. He loves knowing how much it’s affecting him. Then Harry’s lips part and he’s sucking Louis down and, no, gag reflexes aren’t a problem for ghosts, if you must know. Louis mutters a soft “fuck,” and threads his fingers through Harry’s curls, tugging them slightly. Testing. Harry moans on his cock, letting him direct his bobbing head as he starts to establish a rhythm. He wants to take Louis deeper.
He concentrates, sinking down until he’s making soft sputtering noises, and his nose is nuzzling the soft hair on Louis’s groin. So fucking deep, and Harry’s throat is burning; his eyes are actually watering, what? But he doesn’t stop to question, just concentrates on the satisfying sensation of being so full of cock. He makes a slurping sound as he comes up for air (not that he needs to breathe, but he’s sort of clung to the habit over the years), and Louis’s mouth is open, dazed, his thumb brushing a ghostly tear from Harry’s cheek.
“You’re gorgeous, Harry.”
Harry smiles. He licks a warm stripe up Louis’s shaft, tasting the bitter edge of the boy’s precome and now Louis’s groaning, thrusting into his mouth, fuck, he’s coming in sudden, hot spurts down Harry’s throat, shuddering prettily through it and --
The door slams open and Harry pops off Louis’s dick, one last drop of jizz catching him on the cheek as he turns around to see the werewolf standing in the hallway.
“G-g-ghost!” Stan stutters, face white as a sheet. He makes a weird choking sound, eyes wide, and pulls the door shut again with a shaking hand.
“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” Harry says. He hears the little ding inside his head that tells him he’s satisfied his quota with the Powers that Be.
“Oh my fucking God,” Louis groans. He flops down on the bed, legs still tangled in gauze. Pulls Harry up with him, cuddling him close and nuzzling into his neck. “You are an amazing ghost,” he whispers. “I think I want to keep you.”
Harry just kisses him. It’s so nice. He doesn’t want to think about not kissing Louis. Doesn’t want to think about what’s going to happen when the clock strikes midnight and it’s November 1st. Then Louis’s touching him and that helps, because Harry can’t think about anything at all with the boy’s hand down there, on his… oh.
“You’re big!” Louis crows, delightedly. Harry’s mouth is slack as Louis works him with quick, practiced strokes and he’s glowing, oh, he’s shining…
And then he’s coming apart, flooding Louis’s fingers and making a mess on the bedspread. He gasps, opens his eyes because he can feel the wetness, and that’s not supposed to happen, he’s pretty sure…
Louis’s just giggling, swirling his fingers around on his stomach, playing with Harry’s come. “Glow in the dark!” he says. “Cool.”
Harry smiles dopily. He’s starting to feel sleepy. One last kiss, just a little one, to steady himself before --
“I’ve got to go.”
Louis pouts. “Why? Stay! Stan won’t mind if we sleep over.”
“No, it’s… You won’t be able to see me in the morning.”
Louis frowns. He slides his hand up to the back of Harry’s neck, and Harry feels himself go pliant; he doesn’t know why being touched in that spot makes him feel so vulnerable, but it does. His eyelashes flutter.
Then Harry’s nodding, and they’re curling into each other on the bed, spooning and drifting off to the thump thump thump of the sound system blaring down the hall.
Sunlight is shining through the lace curtains. Harry blinks. He can still feel Louis next to him, snoring softly, a warm lump of sleeping boy. He shakes his head to rid himself of the morning cobwebs, and floats up to the ceiling to think.
It’s good that he woke up first. He should leave. It’s going to hurt so much when Louis opens his eyes and can’t see him anymore.
Louis groans in his sleep. He’s smiling. Harry is fascinated; he can’t just go home when something like this is happening right in front of him. Now Louis is stirring. Waking up slowly but surely, and soon he’s going to be disappointed. Soon the dream is going to be over.
Louis yawns awake and hmms contentedly into the warmth of the duvet. He scrunches up his face, making adorable stretching noises. He opens his eyes.
“What are you doing up there?”
Louis reaches out his hand, beckoning. “Come back to bed, ghost boy.”