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The Losers Collected

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Sweet Merlin, Harry thought as he righted himself from sculling his fifth pint and waited a second for the room to stop spinning before placing his empty glass on the table with more force than was necessary. It’s been a while since I’ve been this drunk.

He hadn’t gone to the meet at the Leaky that evening with specific plans to get drunk. The idea had been a more general notion to ‘chill out’, as Ron often said. Harry did not get many opportunities to chill out these days, what with his heading a division of twelve young Aurors, most of whom had some sort of death wish, judging by the mishaps and injuries he frequently had to report while trying not to imply that accidents would be far less common if the young Aurors were trained better. He spent most of his Friday nights at home, a quill in one hand and three fingers of Firewhiskey in the other, writing up on Terry Boot’s latest charm mishap or composing urgent Owls to St Mungo’s for written documentation of Susan Bones’ need for time to recover from being poisoned. It was only because his whole team had miraculously managed to get through the week unscathed that he felt himself able to go out with them this evening at all.

To his team’s credit, he was having a really good time. Dean had brought an Exploding Snap deck and bets had been taken for how many rounds it would take for Seamus’ eyebrows to catch fire (four, which wasn’t bad for him). They had done tequila shots (the Leaky had slowly been introducing Muggle liqueurs to the menu), and Harry and Susan had had to shove a thoroughly inebriated Terry into the back of a Muggle taxi just half an hour ago. Harry was feeling both buzzed and curiously lethargic from the alcohol, and he could safely say that he was having a far nicer time than he would have had by himself at home.

Or at least he had been, until about ten minutes ago.

“A Wasps supporter has NO right to laugh about the Harpies’ defence tactics!”

Harry groaned, pushed a hand through his shaggy hair. “For the last time,” he retorted, “I’m not a Wasps’ supporter, and acknowledging how well they’re doing in the League doesn’t make me one.”

Romilda Vane, the newest member of Harry’s team, folded her arms over her substantial bosom and sank back into her seat with a huff. He had no idea why she had suddenly decided to sit next to him, and her reason for starting to natter away about the superiority of the Holyhead Harpies was even less apparent. He chalked it up to her having at least as many drinks as he and not being as readily able to hold her liquor. Of course, it was equally likely that she was arguing with him because the woman appeared to have been genetically designed to be as big a pain in the arse for him as possible.

Seriously. Harry wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate effort on her part or an extremely unhappy clashing of personalities, but Romilda had constantly rubbed him the wrong way since she had finished her training and joined his team. Everybody in his team got harmed alarmingly frequently, but she had turned on-the-job injuries into a weekly ritual that she seemed to try and stick to religiously. Her safety checks were sloppy, her Shielding Charms were often non-existent, and her cavalier attitude towards extremely dangerous situations had given Harry at least two very severe migraines this month alone. If she hadn’t recently passed the required mental health check all new Aurors took before starting their official duty, Harry would have had no doubt that Romilda was actively trying to get herself killed. As it was, she was far from his favourite person in the world.

And it was not as though Romilda was particularly fond of Harry, either. She had told him more than once that she had wanted pretty much any team leader except him, and whenever they happened to work together, she would loudly and angrily say that he might as well do all the work since he was so bloody good at it. Talk about an inferiority complex. Back when Ron was still an Auror, he used to get stroppy about Harry’s natural affinity for the job, but Ron could not hold a candle to Romilda. She made bitter jealousy an art form, and in his drunken hazy state, Harry thought that she could also be sitting with him now to prove that she could at least beat him in an argument.

It was getting late, and most of the team had left. Only Harry, Romilda, Dean, and Seamus were left. Dean and Seamus, having each imbibed more than several alcoholic beverages themselves, challenged them to two-on-two darts.

“Fine,” Romilda said, “but if we win, you two have to snog, right here, with tongue, for one minute.”

Dean and Seamus looked at each other and shrugged, and Harry had to bite back a chuckle. Romilda probably thought that she was subjecting the two happily married men to some sort of torture; in actuality, it was nothing that they had not done before.

“Fine”, said Seamus. “But if we win, we want you two to go into the ladies’ together, stay in there for at least five minutes, come out, and present us with each other’s pants.”

“Ew! That’s disgusting!” Romilda pulled a face that Harry had to agree with.

“So is sticking your tongue in this bloke’s mouth after he’s been at the corn chips,” Seamus argued swiftly back.

Romilda rolled her eyes. “Fine. Agreed.”

As Romilda and Seamus shook hands, Harry said to her, “If we lose, I’ll write this up in your quarterly report.”

“Relax,” Romilda answered. “I spent my childhood playing against my brothers, and even back then I always won. I’ve got this.”

Twenty minutes later, they had lost by a country mile.

While Seamus and Dean were busy high-fiving each other, Harry asked Romilda if, when she had won against her brothers, they had been five-year-olds.

“Look, shut up! It was a bad night for me! That happens sometimes!” She bit back.

“If you’d known there was a possibility of it being a ‘bad night for you’, then why did you drag me into this asinine wager?”

“And look like a coward? I bet you’d love that.”

“Oh, for the love of—what is your problem, Vane?”

“All right, break it up you two!” Dean clapped his hands, chuckling as Harry and Romilda turned away from each other. “You know the terms of the wager. Into the Ladies’, now!”

With one more mutual glare for good measure, Harry and Romilda walked towards the women’s toilets. Romilda went in first to check that the coast was clear. The door had barely shut before it swung open again, and her head peeked out. She waved Harry inside.

“Good,” Harry said as he entered. “I don’t want to humiliate myself further by having some girl screaming at the sight of a bloke in their loo.”

“Yeah. This way you only have to worry about me screaming at you, just because.”

“Your wit burns me.”

The sound of a door opening outside caught Harry’s attention. Someone was coming in! Acting on his well-honed survivor’s instincts, he grabbed Romilda and dragged her into one of the cubicles, latching the door just as what sounded like half a dozen women entered. Romilda opened her mouth and Harry quickly covered it with one hand.

“Your make-up’s completely ruined,” came the strong London accent of one of the women outside. “This could take ages to fix up.”

“Well the pub doesn’t close for another hour, so that’s fine,” said another one. “Did you bring your kit, Gill?”

“Yep. And we should do something with Lou’s hair while we’re here. Anybody know any good lengthening or curling charms?”

Seriously? Harry closed the two-inch gap between his forehead and the toilet stall door with a heavy sigh. The situation could hardly be much worse. He was stuck in a women’s loo, for Merlin knew how long, with a woman who he was sure would happily hex his bollocks off if she were sure it wouldn’t get her fired. He was too drunk to Apparate and he hadn’t brought his Invisibility Cloak.

At least he had his wand. He pulled it out of his pocket and cast a Silencing Charm around the stall.

“Well, that’s not creepy,” Romilda said.

“Shut up.”

“Why? You’re the only one who will hear me.”

“Exactly. I should be able to at least share the pain.”

“Oh, now who’s the one with the burning wit?”

“I do what I can.” Harry pocketed his wand and shifted around so he was facing her. “I guess there’s nothing we can do but wait until they leave.”

“Outstanding.” Romilda rolled her eyes at him before pulling off her shoes.

“Er,” Harry began when her shoes were off and she had started unbuttoning her jeans. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

Romilda looked up at him as though he had just asked her to tap-dance on the toilet seat and that he’d brought the proper shoes for her. “Completing the wager, Dipshit. Or have you already forgotten?”

“Oh. Right. Good point.” He toed his own shoes off and was reaching for his trousers when she cleared her throat. He looked up and paused, one hand forgotten on his zipper. Romilda was half naked, holding a scrap of bright red lace between them in the inch of space afforded by the cramped cubicle.

Harry moved to take them but stilled, hand in mid-air. Romilda stood in front of him, eyebrows raised in an expression of exasperated annoyance. He was close enough to smell her, and while he didn’t like this woman, his alcohol-addled brain was able to cut through to the very real fact that she smelled amazing; like beer and fruity perfume and female person. Her legs were short, smooth, shapely, and a lightish shade of brown that indicated she had recently spent time in the sun. Unabashed in her nudity, she had made no effort to cover herself, and that sacred area at the apex of her thighs—her pussy, her cunt—was just covered by a small thatch of hair as curly, dark, and unruly as the hair on her head. For the first time in, quite frankly, an embarrassingly long time, Harry felt a pull in his groin.

"Potter? What are you waiting for?"

Harry focused back on Romilda's annoyed face, and, without thinking, brushed her proffered hand out of the way and crushed his lips against hers.

The kiss was sloppy, messy, drunken, and he was so pathetically out of practice. But the feeling of her warm lips on his, the cool leather of her jacket under his hands, and the smell of her hair and skin, was more than enough to make his cock twitch uncomfortably in his trousers.

It took a couple of seconds for his brain to catch up with him, and the realisation of what he was doing, without permission, made him pull away as though she had slapped him.

Then she actually did. The crack of her hand on his cheek echoed against the stall walls.

"What the hell, Potter?"

"I know", he said, rubbing his cheek. "I deserved that."

"Bloody right you did. You’re better than that.”

"I try to be."

"Good. Now shut up." She pushed him against the cubicle door, and this time it was her lips crushing against his.

Any more logical thought Harry might have hoped to have was lost. Romilda was definitely not out of practice. Her mouth felt unbelievable as her lips and tongue kneaded his. He knew he lacked her finesse as he kissed back, but her answering moan and the way she pressed against him was enough indication that she didn't mind.

She reached hungrily for his trousers and he spared no time helping her get them and his trunks off. Romilda shoved the trunks into her jacket pocket before tugging the garment off and hooking one leg around his newly naked thigh.

The grind of her hips was slow and wet and thoroughly effective. Harry’s cock was rock hard within a few strokes of her slick folds against him. It was no super studly ability on his part; he was just that turned on. He had never done anything this reckless, this random, this debauched before in his life. The fact that it was with probably the last woman he could have pictured himself doing this with only added to the wrongness of it all.

But that was part of what was making it so good. With other women he was always careful, wanting to make sure he wasn’t hurting them or making them feel uncomfortable. But this was different. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt Romilda or anything. It was more that he knew she would let him know, in no uncertain terms, if she didn’t like something he did. He didn’t have to worry about making her feel bad or hurting her feelings or anything else. Because the fact remained: they did not like each other. Therefore, there were no feelings to hurt.

She ground against him again. Getting the message, Harry grabbed himself and nudged at her opening, groaning at the feel of her giving way as he pushed in. She was tight and wet and felt amazing around him. To move against her, feeling her walls clench his cock with each movement, was nothing but pure instinct on his part.

She matched him thrust for thrust, one hand anchored at his hip, the other pressed somewhere behind him to keep her upright. Her moans, at first soft and seemingly torn from behind the bottom lip she had clenched between her teeth, were getting louder and higher each time Harry pushed in. Sensing that she was reaching her peak, Harry gripped one round buttock in his left hand and shoved his right hand between their bodies. With the long unused finesse similar to an accomplished flyer hopping on a broom for the first time in several months, he found her clit with only minimum fumbling and started massaging it, slowly but firmly, the controlled action of his fingers contrasting with the frantic pace of his hips against hers.

This time, her moan was low and guttural, the wanton noise of it going straight to his groin. The next flick of his thumb brushed the edge of his nail against her clit, and Romilda’s shocked eyes met his before she arched back. Her pussy spasmed around him and she cried out, one last time, clutching onto him desperately as an orgasm shook through her. With one more thrust he was over the edge as well, spilling his seed into her with a loud groan.

It was over, start to finish, in less than five minutes. As soon as the last waves of his orgasm had subsided, Harry opened his eyes and looked at Romilda, who pulled casually away from him as though they had just engaged in an activity as every-day as chatting over a coffee in the Auror’s cafeteria.

Well, that suited Harry just fine. If she was not going to treat what they had just done as a big deal, then neither was he. He pulled his trousers back on, being careful not to get any of his bits caught in the zipper, and removed the Silencing Charm on the stall. Remarkably, it seemed that they were once again alone in the bathroom.

“Maybe those girls thought the light in here wasn’t good enough?” Romilda suggested as an answer to his unasked question.

“Perhaps,” Harry agreed. “You go out first, just in case.”

They approached their table two minutes later and presented each other’s pants to a grinning Seamus and Dean.

“It took you two a while,” Seamus noted, his grin growing, if possible, even wider. “What were you doing in there?”

“Conjuring up the most antibacterial pair of gloves I could, mostly,” Romilda answered as she picked up her drink, and although the joke was at his expense, Harry could not hide a snort of amusement. She was actually pretty funny sometimes.

Seamus and Dean announced their mutual desires to get home to their wives not half an hour later. Harry and Romilda stood side by side, waving them off as they entered the green flames of the Leaky’s biggest fireplace.

“I suppose I should head home too,” Harry said, reaching for the flowerpot of Floo powder.

“Me too,” Romilda agreed.

They looked at each other, and Harry’s arm froze inside the flowerpot. He could not say for sure what was different. Maybe it was that she was voluntarily looking back at him without anger in her eyes. Or perhaps it was the way her hands were crossed and clutching just below the elbow of the other arm in a gesture that looked uncharacteristically uncertain. Or maybe it was that he now knew, at least partially, what she was hiding underneath those form-fitting clothes.

Whatever the reason, he could not tear his eyes away from her, and she seemed to be having just as much trouble looking away from him.

“You know,” Romilda finally said, speaking slowly, as though she was considering her words carefully. “My bed. At home? It’s pretty small. And a couple of the slats underneath have cracked. I should replace it, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Harry could not help the smile that tugged at both corners of his lips. “Well, funny you should mention that,” he answered, “because my bed at home is huge. Far too big for just me. And I just changed the sheets last night and everything.”

Romilda’s answering grin matched his own. The next thing he knew, she had reached past him, thrown a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, and dragged him in with her.

“Harry Potter’s house!” he said, and Romilda pulled him down for a kiss as the warm green flames whisked them away.