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They’ve been bothering you more since Harry got back—the flare-ups. Not that they haven’t always been an issue, well, since you hit your teens anyway. But they got worse out of Hogwarts. They’re worse still, being around all those wands all day. And now that Harry’s on a hiatus from the Defence circuit he’s been on, going around the world and teaching all the best teachers how to be even better, it seems your magic’s ready to burst from your skin—spontaneous wizard combustion—and just take you out for good.

It’s excruciating sitting through Sunday dinner with all the Weasleys, the Potter kids, Lorcan and Lysander, the Thomas-Finnigans. All of them—except that one Malfoy kid Albus keeps inviting over—like cousins to you. And you can’t enjoy any of it. Because inside, you’re liquid fire, you’re plasma, neon jettisoning around your veins, lighting you up hot.

You drop your spoon in the trifle for the fourth time and excuse yourself.

Air, air, blessed air, your legs walk you away from the house, past the garden, into the thick weeds near the creek. You hug your arms to your body and watch the fireflies. Muggles think they don’t exist in England, but they do. They just love magic and can often be found congregating in the gardens of magical families at dusk, like they’re at church, swarming happily near a glow similar to their own. Fireflies were made for what they do. You watch them, blinking on and winking off, and you find yourself wishing you were small and contained and shiny, rather than a bomb ready to go off. Rather than the problem child, always.


His voice like a low breeze, a harmony to the rush of the creek, newly swollen with rain.

Your magic begins to throb, a pain at your wrists, your throat.

“It’s worse now,” he says. “Worse than before.” He’s come nearer, and you shiver.

“It’s not so bad,” you say, but it’s in your voice, your fight for control. Why the bloody hell does this have to happen right in front of him? The person you want to impress most. The person you’re dying to see you for more than the frayed magical bundle of nerves that you seem to have become.

“I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long,” he says, coming up beside you and looking off into the trees, into nothing. “James is cross with me.” He gives a sad little laugh.

“It was only two months,” you say.

He shrugs. “Two months is subjective.”

He means that James would naturally have missed him more than you have. But he doesn’t know the nights when he’s all you could think about. He doesn’t know.

He shifts beside you, and your magic frissons up your body with a ferocity you can’t disguise.

His hand cups the back of your neck. “Easy,” he says. “How long has it been this wild?”

Wild. No one calls it that. They use such technical terms, like that will make you feel better. It only makes you feel more like a freak, like a lab rat.

“M-months,” you get out. But you’re lying. It’s been years.

“Mm,” he hums, his thumb brushing the little hairs that grow down your neck from your hairline. “Can you concentrate it?”

You shake your head. It’s getting worse by the second. “Harry, I should just— I need to go inside.”

“No, you don’t.”

No. You really don’t. You need to take off running. You need to rip at your own skin. You need to fly or scream or submerge yourself in a bathtub full of ice like shards of glass.

He turns you to face him. “Teddy.”

You can’t look at him. You look at his shirt, grey button-up, open at the collar. Dark hair in the V, around his collar bones. “H-harry, I can’t.”

He tips your chin up with the knuckle of his index finger. There’s a wand callous there. You meet his gaze. It’s so steady. Nothing could be that steady.

“If you can’t concentrate it, you need to pour it out.”

Nobody ever talks about your problem like that. There’s no pouring involved. There’s only control. Dampening. Strangling.

He cups your face with one hand. “Pour it onto me.”

Your eyes widen with the horror of it. Bloody hell, you’ll burst him into flames! You’ll slice through his skin! You’ll hurt him.

“No you won’t.” He shakes his head a little. “All you have to do is let go. I’ll catch you.”

Your teeth chatter a little with the effort to hold it in. You let it slip, just a little, and it singes your flesh, the connective tissue holding your feeble body together. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” he says. You watch a small, dark cloud flit over his expression before he seems to steel himself. Before he’s the calm shore that opens itself willingly to the threat of erosion from the sea.

“Teddy,” he says now. “Pour it into me.”

You have no idea what that means. Until he’s leaning down. Until his thumb brushes lightly over your bottom lip. He tilts his head, his breath on your mouth. “Into me,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

And he does. You realise he’s wrapped his arms around you. You’re trembling but still standing. His lips part over yours. You gasp in realisation. His words move his lips against yours, “Pour it all into me,” and that, those words, are the beginnings of a kiss.

You hear yourself whimper. But his arms tighten around you, and you open your mouth a little more. And then you touch his lip with your tongue. All at once, you’re groaning into it. You don’t kiss him; you unleash it on him, mouth to mouth. Harry’s kiss is deep and calm. His tongue tastes of cherries, Scotch. Your magic rushes out like water over a dam that’s been opened. Your knees go out, but he holds you against his body, an arm around your lower back, a strong hand cradling your head.

You realise your whimpers have turned to grunts, little ones, somewhere between a groan and a snarl. And you get it, what he meant. Because you’re giving it all over to him, and he’s accepting it. Easily. Your magic. No one has ever been able to take it from you.

The kiss ends, and you pant against his lips, limp against him. You blink, unsteady, before he sets you back on your feet with the gentleness of a conductor summoning a note of music: pianissimo.

You try to say his name, but all that comes out is a stuttering series of breathy H’s.

There’s a slight aura around him and you realise it’s you. It’s your magic, on him, so calm and… beautiful. Transmuted.

“Sit on the ground for a few minutes to centre yourself,” he says. As though they haven’t, godfather and godson, just made out. “Take a hot bath later. Drink more water.”

You nod dumbly, unable to look into his eyes. He’s Harry. And he just kissed you.

His hand rises, and he strokes his palm over your head. It’s everything you can do not to lean into it. You close your eyes and wobble on your legs as though you’ve only just grown them and don’t know how they operate.

He walks away, toward the light of the house, making a dark silhouette of himself.

You fold onto the ground like a foal, and it is long minutes later when you realise: Your magic feels fine.


You don’t see him for a few days, close to a week. He took James on some trip, just the two of them. Something involving Luna Lovegood and sitting with unicorns in the forest of some preserve. He’s a good father, Harry.

You did as he instructed, with the bath and the water. Your flat seems bigger now, not tight. It fits you, just enough room for your magic to fill out the space. For those few days.

Your work goes okay for a bit. Carving willow, eight inches, you use a whittling knife for the most part. It’s mindful work, the carving. You have to leave early on Friday, becoming, as you have, too sensitive to the cores. You don’t handle the cores ever; that’s Ms Chang. When it gets bad, they fly across the room at you like you’re some magnet.

You can’t stand the look on Ms Chang’s face when that happens. Pity. And like she might need to consider taking on a more skilled, and less sensitive, apprentice.

Saturday evening. You know he’s back. He sent you an Owl asking how you were, which you didn’t answer.

You know he’s in that lovely little house of his, the one he bought after the divorce and let Neville Longbottom fill with plants.

You’re not sure why you’re on his doorstep right now. You’d intended to Apparate to the hole-in-the-wall vegetarian place down the street from Vic’s, the one with the shitty coffee but excellent vegan chocolate-raspberry cake.

But here you are. You’ve even knocked already. Too late to run away, or even Disapparate, because the door swings open, and he’s there. T-shirt stained with the blue paint he’d used in the guest room. Black jeans, ripped over one thigh. Bare feet. He’s got, inconceivably, a Crup tucked under his arm.

You must look alarmed, because he frowns down at it a moment himself. “Oh,” he says. “I got her for the kids, but Luna’s going to help me train her first. It’s a surprise,” he adds, “so don’t say anything. Her name’s Dennis.”

“Denise?” you say.

“No, Dennis.” He puts her down without further explanation. Dennis sniffs your shoes, pants up at you, and then takes off into the house, tails wagging behind her.

“I, erm…” You stand outside his doorway, unable to come up with a lie about why you’re here.

He sighs and says, “Come in and follow me.”

He lets the Crup out into the back garden, and she takes off like a shot, barking at gnome holes.

Harry leads you through the house, flicking his wand as he goes. Lights come on, but dim. A bottle of water zings up next to you. “Drink,” he says.

He brings you to a room you’d never known existed. Open, no furniture, a duelling studio, perhaps. Knowing Harry, definitely.

He comes to the centre of the room, doing wandwork as he goes, jabbing and then flinging a circle, like a lasso, around his head at the ceiling. Fifteen different wards go up all at once.

Stupidly, pathetically, all you can think is, He’s not going to kiss me this time.

Your palms are sweaty, your whole body clammy and off-kilter. “Should I… draw my wand?” you ask tentatively—for Harry has just stopped in the middle of the room and put a hand to his head. He’s faced away from you, the broad line of his back narrowing to his waist and hips. The bareness of his feet against the floor seems deceptively casual.

He holsters his own wand, and his voice, when he speaks, drifts over to you like magic itself. Like a waft of sweet poison, it’s enticing, only hinting at the danger lurking beneath.

“It crackles through you,” he says, “like you’re a kiln, holding fire, making glass from sand.”

You swallow, your stomach hollowing out at the accuracy.

He turns slightly, just so you can see his profile. He hasn’t shaved in about a day. He didn’t plan on company; you’ve walked in on something private, some relaxation he hardly allows himself.

“It wants something,” he says, rubbing the fingers of his hand against his thumb slowly. “It’s seeking something. It’s like…” He blinks. He turns to you, gaze finding you shivering in the middle of this warm room. “It’s like desire. If desire could eat you alive.”

As though it’s a snake answering his Parseltongue, your magic slithers over your skin. The metamorph in you takes over, and you feel yourself glowing, a throbbing pulse.

“I can teach you to concentrate it,” Harry says.

“Yes,” you blurt, forcing your skin to settle, even as the magic zips along under the surface of you, almost angry to get out, imprisoned.

He shakes his head. “Teddy…”

“I want you to.”

He takes a step toward you. “With your magic, the way it feels… My methods would be... unorthodox.”

Like kissing me was unorthodox? Like your tongue in my mouth? Like mine in yours?

You just nod. He walks toward you, so slowly it’s like the tide coming in. His footsteps make no sound. “Are you sure?”

An embarrassing whining groan comes out of you in reply. Your cock’s already more than half hard.

“Teddy, I’m...”

At his hesitance, something brave comes awake in you. Maybe not brave, maybe just panicked you’re not going to get the promise of this thing swirling around him like blue smoke.

“I’m your—” he starts.

“Teacher,” you finish for him quickly, beseeching him. The darkness in his gaze is tranquil only insofar as the the horizon with a storm on its edge, too far to feel but easy to see, is tranquil. You swallow and take a shaky breath. “Teach me, Harry.” And when he merely blinks, you say it again, feeling naked in its wake: “Teach me.”

He breathes slowly, in and out, assessing you. And then he nods. “You’re ready then?”

“I’m ready.” You’re trembling.

He steps around behind you. For a moment, he only stands there. Reckoning with himself, perhaps. You feel him on some precipice, waiting for the wind to gust him back away from the ledge. Or over. Then his hand slips onto your body, resting in the centre of your chest. “Here,” he says. “Start here. Feel the heat of my palm. Let your magic flow toward it.”

His body and breath at your back.

“Do I need my wand?”

“No. Close your eyes. See this spot,” he pats your chest, “in your mind.”

You do. And what was dull and green, brackish, lights up when you focus there, where it meets the glowing platinum of his hand.

“Ohh,” you breathe.

“Good,” he says. “When the glass is sharp, when it cuts you, make it smooth. Make it smooth here, in this place.”

You nod, lips parting. The green isn’t sickly anymore, but like bottle glass, glinting.

His hand rubs over your heart. “That’s good,” he says. “That’s good.” Then he plucks at your t-shirt. “Take this off.”

Your hands go to the hem, wrist over wrist, and you pull it up and off, letting it fall to the ground. He gives you room only to step back in even closer. His hands settle on your sides. Then his fingers sift up your ribs, around front. You feel them before they’re even there; you gasp in your breath and hold it. They’re tingling already. And then his fingers rub over your nipples.

“Now, here,” he murmurs. “Right here.” He pulls so gently, so soft, pluck, pluck, pluck.

Ohhh,” you cry. You don’t even have to imagine your magic going there. It zooms right to his fingertips. You press your nipples into his fingers, the light in you scarlet and terrifying.

“It’s a fire that answers to you,” he says at your ear. “Even when you let go completely. It belongs to you. It’s not separate from you. It’s powerful because you are powerful. It rises up and takes over because you’re afraid of it. It will learn to answer you like it’s answering me.” This last as he pinches them rosy, his touch a breath-catching little bite, and following it a roar of magic.

Your head falls back, and you arch into his touch. Your cock is so hard it’s beating with your pulse. “Harry…” you sigh.

He takes his hands away, and you frown. A small sound of complaint rises in your throat. His soft laugh is anything but cruel, his hands touching down on your hips. You feel his magic, like pewter, strong and dulled down on purpose, a counterpoint to yours, an anchor.

But your tits are tingling with pleasure, from just the air on them, from remembering him. And from the magic coursing through you in a familiar rhythm you know so well. It’s the rhythm of your hand when you masturbate. It’s the bang of a bed into a wall. It’s your magic when you forget the time and you’re casting for hours and it feels like your wand is simply a part of your hand. You don’t remember the last time you felt like that.

The bottle glass turns to crimson silk sheets, rubbing over your nipples, fluttering over your body. You are silken. You could float if you decided to. No broom, wand, or incantation required.

“More?” he asks, and you hear a ragged note in his voice, the only thing so far to let you know he’s at all affected.

“More,” you groan.

His hand wraps around and splays itself tenderly on your belly. “Here,” he says. “Blue as deep as the ocean. Right here. You are as deep. Feel it sink into you. Here.”

He presses in, and as he does, your body and his come together. You feel how hard his cock is.

You’ve always been enamoured of his cock. You saw it once, when he was coming out of his shower and you were half-asleep still, 5am, just needing the nearest loo. Christmas during fifth year. You’ve thought of it since. With other lovers, you’ve thought of it.

Feel it sink into you.

“Harry…” you try to tell him. Because you’re close. His magic is pooling all around you, and your pulse beats against his hand. It’s not going to take much. Not much at all. Your nipples are so tight they almost hurt. You arch into nothing, needing it.

“Concentrate it,” he tells you. And then when his hand cups your cock and balls—so sweetly maybe it’s not even meant to be erotic—when he cups you there, it’s all over. You can’t even stop it, even though you’re mortified it’s happening. Harry cups your hard cock in his tender hand, and you bloody come from it.

“Oh Teddy,” he breathes, his other arm wrapping around you fast so that he can hold you up. Belatedly, he squeezes your dick, helping you through it. Just the once. Almost consoling. As you shoot in your pants and wail to the empty room.

When you’re finished, you sag, and the hand holding your cock moves instead to your middle, wrapping around. “I’ve got you,” he says. And he does. Kind and strong and so Harry.

“Oh god,” you groan.

He runs a hand over your hair. “It’s alright.” He sends a feather of magic downward, and in the next moment you’re cleaned up, no more sticky come drying fast in your pants. “Now then,” he says. “Pull your wand, and Reducto that wall.”

He steps back. When he flicks his hand, the wards come down on just that side of the room.


“Don’t think. Just do it.”

“It’s your house.”

“Do it.”

You obey without any further hesitation, and when your wand hits your palm, you feel it instantly. A click, like the tumblers in a lock. “Reducto.” You say it calmly, and the spell strikes true and with great force. The wall crumbles to dust. You’re standing there in the stance you learned at school, your arm straight. Everything connects: bottle glass, scarlet silk, blue deep.

“Right,” Harry says calmly. “Now put it back.”

You take a breath. Deep. Silk. Glass. You flick. And the dust rearranges itself, arcing inward like film of your spell running backward, mending itself into shards of sheetrock that then solidify into the unmarred expanse of wall exactly as it was before.

You turn to him with spontaneous joy, smile bright on your face. It hasn’t been that easy or that powerful in a long time. Seamless. Nothing erratic about it. Your glittering gaze meets his, and after a beat, your smile falters. Because you can still feel his fingers pinching your nipples, his hand on your cock. His eyes look between yours and see everything you’re thinking. A soft blush touches his cheeks, and he drops his gaze.

“Teddy…” he starts.

You step closer to him. As unsure as you are about what you want to say, you know you need to say something. That you’re grateful. That he’s amazing. That you’ve never felt like that, not with anyone. Not ever. That you want him to touch you again. That you want to fall to your knees for him right now and let him do anything he wants to you.

He lifts his eyes, a tumult rampaging there. You open your mouth to say more than his name, to plead with him. You step closer, your gaze shifting to his lips. He licks them. He says your name again, unsure. You lean in. You can feel him not breathing. Neither are you.

“Dad?” comes a yelled voice from somewhere down the hall.

You step away from each other quickly, and the next moment James and Lily barrel in.

“Hey, Teddy,” says James. “Hey Dad, can we have Rose and Hugo over? The Wasps are playing tonight, and I told them they could sleep over and—”

“Wait, you told them already? I thought you were asking.”

Lily hides behind James, peeking out at you from under her bangs. (She’s going through a shy phase, Ginny told you last time.) You give her a little wave, and she ducks back further.

“But can they?” James is saying.

Harry sighs. “Sure. Yes.” He looks at you. “So much for the surprise.”

For a terrible moment, you can only think he’s speaking of the two of you and what you just did. But then…

“Take Lils out to the garden first. And Floo your brother too. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The Crup.

Suddenly you can’t bear whatever he’s going to say, something paternal because he’s now shifted into that mode, something placating perhaps. Something to make less of what he just did to you, certainly.

“I have to go.”

“No, Teddy. Are you sure?”

He wants you to go, and you both know it.

“Yeah,” you say, giving him a smile. “Yeah. Um, thanks.”

He blinks, a small frown sitting on his brows. The kids have run down the hall, and they’re now screaming joyfully about their new Crup. You can hear Dennis whining in puppy excitement at having children to play with. You slip down the hall in the other direction, leaving through the garage where Harry keeps his old motorbike, and you Apparate away.


He Owls you, “I wish you could have stayed. Or, as much as I love my kids, that they hadn’t shown up when they did. I get the sense I upset you. Maybe we could get together again, to talk if you wanted. Whatever you want.” He signs it ‘love always’. Which is confusing. Because… you know he loves you. Of course he loves you. It’s just that, is that the same version of him that coaxed an orgasm from you? Is it the very same Harry Potter who touched your nipples and turned you on so badly you thought you might cry? Or was that somehow, inconceivably, only about the magic?

You answer his Owl but decline getting together. If only because you’re swamped at work. Four new wands to be carved by next Friday, the time it usually takes you to do one.

He Owls back, “Okay. But Friday evening I’m having some people over. The kids will be with Ginny, so just adults. Might watch some Muggle films. There’ll be popcorn and wine. That’s about all I know. I’d like it if you could come.” This time there are little x’s and o’s before his mess of a signature.

You sigh and end up leaving his invite until the last minute. You get your wands finished, it’s not that. It’s just that… Well, it’s Harry. You’ve been in love with him since sixth year. Maybe before. And now… Well, now he’s teaching you to manage your magic by kissing you, and touching you, and making you come, and… He’s showing you how sexual you are… how big a component that is in all this. And yet, he’s still him and you’re still you, and where the absolute fuck does that leave things?

And you can’t ask. Merlin, you can’t bloody ask. Not that you want to be anything to him other than what he wants you to be. You’re just Teddy Lupin, this godson he got when he was still mostly a kid himself. He got someone else to have to save. And now… Now all you can think about is having sex with him. You’re twenty, barely, and your magic goes haywire every so often and you’re a walking erection regardless and he’s him. And dear god, he’s touched you. As a lesson, sure, but he got hard from it too. He felt things too.



You twiddle the quill in your fingers and check your watch. It’s past time. The party’s already going, probably has been for over an hour. If you’re not going, he deserves a reply.

You growl, flinging the quill away. And then you get up and—stupidly; Merlin’s balls, what are you even doing?—wear your best jeans that cup your arse perfectly and that red t-shirt that shows your nipples through it a little bit.

“Stupid,” you curse beneath your breath in the mirror, as you artfully tousle your turqoise hair. As you dab cologne onto your neck, just above where you want him to sink his teeth into you. As you jerk off perfunctorily into a tissue, just to take the edge off.


And, just now, unstoppable.


It’s Luna Lovegood who opens the door to his house and lets you in. You hand her the vegan chocolate-raspberry cake you brought as she kisses your cheek.

The disappointment at not seeing Harry drains away completely when, jacket whisked off to a cloakroom, straightening your t-shirt, you spot him across the room. He’s talking to Uncle Ron, all animated and conspiratorial, like they must have been at Hogwarts. You just stare at him a bit, even though there’s someone at your elbow, asking you some question. Harry’s gaze lifts, finds you, and everything stops. A warm smile lifts the corners of his mouth. He lifts his chin a little in greeting. As he turns back to Ron, he licks his lips, brings his bottle of beer up for a swallow.

“Teddy?” It’s George.

“Hmm? Oh yes.” You take the glass of red he hands you. At some point you’d agreed to one.

When you look up again, Harry is gone.


You don’t get sloppy drunk, but the three glasses of wine do help. They help you not to worry so much about how you’re coming off, about how you’re supposed to behave around him. You smooth out the bottle glass and allow the crimson silk to float beneath your skin, and you let yourself relax a bit.

You let yourself seek him out in a corner. He’s listening to a story Arthur’s telling with half-interest, his eyes kind and sparkling. You sip your wine and watch his jaw as he cracks a smile and it turns into a laugh. You smile too, though you’re not at all listening.

“Excuse me,” Harry says, and he touches your elbow as he edges past.

You mill about in his absence, but Aunt Hermione is queuing up the first film, and people start to find places to sit. Hermione and Ron on a pallet on the floor, wrapped in the same blanket and leaned against a large ottoman; Luna cross-legged in an armchair; Bill and Fleur take the loveseat; George, Angelina, Seamus and Dean all transfigure household items into beanbags, plush footstools, and the like.

Molly and Arthur take two-thirds of the sofa, and Harry takes the last seat when he returns. He gestures to you (the dolt still standing off to the side), and he pats the small space next to his knee. You make your way over, careful not to step on Ron and Hermione’s bundled bodies. The opening credits are rolling already. Neville sits in front of Luna’s chair and leans back against it, so you take inspiration from the idea and do the same, sitting on the floor next to Harry’s legs.

Car chases, car crashes, someone falls in love with someone else. It’s all vague compared to his knee touching your shoulder. Somewhere in the middle, when they’ve paused for Hermione to pee, Arthur and Molly stand, stretching, and announce their intention to go home to bed.

Hugs follow, sleepy waving goodbyes. They take the Floo. Everyone else settles back in. The film starts anew, in the middle of someone screaming as a car flies over a cliff. Muggles have so many cars.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, startling you. He pats the newly empty sofa next to him. “There’s room now.”

Sad music on the tv, but you can’t imagine being upset at the guy’s death as he was an utter arsehole. You sit close enough to Harry to lean over and share this information, and he laughs.

“Shhh.” Hermione flaps her hand at Harry and then wipes a tear from her cheek. Ron pulls her closer.

“Another one?” Bill asks when the film’s over and you have no idea who’s left alive or why you should care.

As a new film is chosen and set up, the room loses more people. Luna and Neville both work weekends; Dean and Seamus have morning plans. You suspect George and Angelina just want to have some sex. That leaves Bill and an already dozing Fleur, Ron and Hermione ensconced on the floor, Harry and yourself.

This film is quieter, more interesting. You like the characters. You like that Harry has stretched his arm out along the sofa behind you. A deep sigh comes from the floor. Hermione and Ron have lain down, and the light flashes over their faces as they blink. Bill’s head is propped on his hand, Fleur fast asleep.

Harry’s got his feet up on an ottomon, legs crossed at the ankle. He’s watching intently, a soft frown on his face. You edge a little closer, the soft fog of alcohol lending a nice excuse. You lean your head on his shoulder, and, after a long moment, feel his hand cup your shoulder too, his arm holding you there.

You draw your legs up, curling into a drowsy ball against his side. He’s warm, musky. You sigh, and his thumb brushes over your shoulder idly, back and forth.

You’re not sure when it happens; the weight of gravity just seems to pull you. At some point you shift until you’re lying on your side, your head cushioned on Harry’s thigh.

He sighs, his arm going back to rest along the sofa back, not touching you. But he lets you stay there. You snuggle a little closer, and you feel his magic light up when he Summons you a blanket, tucking it around you.

You could fall asleep like this. Maybe you actually do.

When you wake, the film’s still going but quietly now, the sound turned way down. Bright scenes flash over the room. You blink. Soft snores come from the floor, a pair of them. You glance across the room to see Bill’s now joined Fleur in her slumber, his mouth comically open.

Then the sensation strikes you… that he’s gently sifting his fingers through your hair.

Harry’s awake.

You don’t want to disturb this moment. You don’t want him to stop. But it feels so good that you move under his hand a little, tilting your head so he has better access to your neck, that sensitive place behind your ear. You give a sleepy little moan when he strokes over it, the backs of his knuckles. You’re getting hard.

It’s innocent, what you do next. You’re in that state between waking and sleeping, you tell yourself. You’re just getting more comfortable—when you shift under the blanket and turn over onto your other side. It doesn’t so much matter… that your head is still in his lap… that now your face is inches from the bulge in his jeans.

His hand has moved, and it doesn’t alight on your head again, but neither does he make you move away. You give it a few moments, nearly holding your breath. It takes some time for your body to unclench and sink into even a falsified relaxation. You don’t want to scare him. Your heart’s beating as fast as a bird’s wings. Light from the TV flashes over his body, onto the white of his t-shirt, the shine of his belt buckle up close. You watch him breathe, watch the air fill his belly and then sink, leaving folds of cotton.

It’s the fact you drank too much wine, you tell yourself. He could stop you, you think. He probably will. He definitely should. But you can’t stop yourself, as you shift, as though fitful in sleep, and you press your face against him, nuzzling along his cock with a snuff of breath and then settling once more.

You lie still, waiting for him to push you away. You feel the slight graze of denim against your cheek. Somewhere in this, he stopped breathing. But now he starts again, deep and measured, not natural at all, though you suspect he wants it to seem so. And on the edge of that thought, you realise he’s schooling himself not for you, but for them. So they won’t wake, so they won’t know: what you just did, what, in a few more seconds, you’re going to try again.

You flit your gaze up to check and find Harry determinedly watching the TV, jaw clenched, even though the rest of him seems relaxed. You watch his face as you lean in slowly, as you nose against his swelling shaft, just once. Could be an accident. His lips part, lashes fluttering. But otherwise he doesn’t move a muscle.

You lean in. You open your mouth. It’s just one kiss. Just your parted lips against the hard length of him, a test.

He gasps quietly, his hips reflexively thrusting up for more. And with a rush of adrenaline, you give it to him, mouthing his cock through his jeans, letting your tongue lap at the thick cotton, sucking on his cock through all that material; it jumps against your lips.

He breathes hard, tries to stop. His gaze flies around the room, checking everyone’s still asleep. You expect him to shove you off now, to say your name as a warning, softly though, under his breath. But he doesn’t. You suckle gently at the rise of his cock—and Harry lets you.

No. He doesn’t just let you. As delirious with pleasure as you are, you almost don’t register it… that his hand is back on your head… that he’s stroking through your hair… and then that he’s holding your head in place as you suck on his cock.

You take a chance and, quiet as you can, quiet as a mouse, glancing up at him to check, you start to unbuckle his belt. It jangles gently, and his fingers make a fist in your hair. You both still, listening to the sounds of continued sleep around the room. And then his fingers soften, and you work the belt and his jeans the rest of the way open. Dear god, dear god, dear god, he’s not going to let you, is he? Is he?

But he does. He lets you shove the waistband of his pants down, and when you go to take him in your mouth, he cradles the back of your head.

Your lips stretch. He’s thick. There’s not a lot of time to savour his taste, to memorise the feel of him filling your mouth. This is a blow job. You’re giving him a blow job. And you get to it, bobbing your head in his lap while you frantically open your jeans and shove your hand into your pants, turning slightly onto your stomach, legs widening, knees bracing, hand haphazard around yourself.

He hisses when you suck at his shaft, curling your tongue underneath to hold him there while you suckle. And then, when you plunge up and down on it again, all shining lips and covered teeth, he pants quietly. His hand sifts up, and he pets your head: reassurance, encouragement… surrender.

It happens quick then. You come with his prick moving in your mouth. You come all over your shaking fist; it’s so good you feel like you might pass out. Then Harry does this thing: When next he sighs, it gets caught in his throat, and you feel his already stiff cock go even stiffer. He’s about to come in your mouth with his friends in the room. He’s going to do it. You’re going to make him.

His head falls back, his mouth open, the light from the TV splashing him as you lift your lips and let it spurt on them, as you watch him come, your hand now stroking up his cock while he finishes. You take the head inside again and kiss it, kiss him, licking and suckling until it’s over, and you collapse into his lap again, resplendent.

You’re already dozing off. You can’t help yourself. You’re boneless, so heavy. It’s the last thing you think, his slowing breath erratic above you:

This had nothing to do with your magic.


You wake to daylight flooding in.


But, squinting your eyes open, you see you’re alone in the room. The TV is off, and you’re right where you were when you fell asleep, still on his sofa, under the blanket. Harry’s gone, though. A throw pillow has replaced his thigh under your head. They’re all gone. It’s peaceful and disorienting. You rub your face and blink out at the altered world.

His shower is going upstairs.

You’re properly dressed, and he must have cleaned you up a bit, so it doesn’t take long to just fling the blanket off and find your shoes. You leave quietly through the front door like a Muggle doing the walk of shame. You should have left him a note. But it’s too late now. You walk to a close-by Apparition point, use it, and drop onto the pavement outside your favourite coffee shop on Diagon. You reek of sex despite whatever charm he may have used on you, so you don’t take a table. You just get your coffee—black, unsweetened, the gastric equivalent of a slap in the face—put a stasis on it, and Apparate the rest of your way to your flat.

You shower, not to wash him off but to get your bearings. To feel your own skin on your body, to touch yourself and remember him touching you.

You brought some wands home with you for the weekend, so you end up fiddling with them some, just for something to do with your hands, with your magic. Bottle glass, crimson silk, deep blue. It helps. But you have a flare-up that evening regardless. Probably because you skipped lunch. Because you’re worried about what Harry’s thinking.

Owl him, you idiot, you think. Floo-call. Go back over there. But maybe the kids are back home with him. Who knows?

You’re making yourself dinner when the Owl thunks into your kitchen window. It’s Harry’s, and your hands shake trying to let it in.

There’s a letter and a package. You open the package first to find a copy of the DVD that was on the night before. Not the car crash one. The one that was playing while you… Oh. All the air leaves you, and the smile that flits onto your face is accompanied by the telling heat of your blush. The note is simple, short:

Eight o’clock Sunday evening. Here. Plan to stay the night.


Your happy shriek startles the poor bird.


His Patronus greets you at the door, and, caught off-guard, it takes you a moment to process its instructions. Which are to meet him in the duelling studio. You’re half-hard and fidgety with electric zaps of magic by the time you arrive.

“Wand out,” he says, when you’re just in the doorway. He’s in the centre of the room again. He’s dressed like he’s going out to a nice restaurant or something, collared shirt (lavender), grey trousers, nice pair of shoes.

He tells you to face him. He’s calm, neither the man that breathed on your neck and plucked your nipples in the name of channelling your magic, nor the one whose cock was so recently in your mouth. He’s here to teach you, and you get the vague sense (though this feeling builds on itself and solidifies) that he’s not going to touch you in order to do it.

And he doesn’t. It’s not duelling precisely, but it’s all about the wand and your magic coursing through it. He shows you new ways to hold it, new techniques for brandishing it, new spells to use with it. He works you for two hours, making you do the same exercises again and again. This is what Harry does with all the other people who aren’t you. This is what Harry does. And he’s frightfully good at it. But you start to wonder if ‘plan to stay the night’, rather than evoking the response it had, should have wracked you with anxiety instead.

But around 10pm he nods. “Good.” He holsters his own wand. He never broke a sweat, but you’re somehow panting. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes.”

He’s stalking out the door when you call after him, “Harry?”

He turns. “Yes?”

“The kitchen?”

He slants you a smile. “You’re going to help me make us dinner.”

And here, too, he makes you work. He’s got a chicken already roasting, but he has you use magic to do all the sides.

“Smooth as glass,” he says when you take too strong a spell to slicing cucumbers. You remember his hand on your chest, the flat of his palm, his fingers tapping you there, and you make thinner slices much faster, the magic coming with astounding ease.

Dinner itself is delicious yet spent discussing magical strategies, both for using your magic and for how to take care of it when it’s not in use.

You help him clear the dishes, put leftover food in the fridge, clean up. You notice that for every three swishes of your wand, he only has to take one. He does as much wandless as he does with the holly in his hand. He’s so graceful. He puts care in even the tiniest, most inconsequential spells, and yet something momentous he tosses out effortlessly.

“Follow me,” he says, and your heart beats faster as he leads you toward the stairs.

He stops at a door down a hall lined with bedrooms, one for each of his children, the master for himself, and a guest room next to that. This is where he stops with you. He opens the door. You just stare at him, unsure what this is. A brush-off? A kindness? A deliberate denial of the last two weeks of your lives?

“It’s for you,” he says, eyes darting over your face, “if you want it.”

You take a deep breath. Scarlet silk melds with ocean currents inside you. “I don’t.”

He blinks. It’s a long moment, or it seems so to you. Then he steps away. He turns the knob on his own bedroom door, pushing it open, and then he steps aside in silent invitation.

Your blood pounds through you as you walk past him, holding his gaze as it darkens… as you grab his nice shirt and yank him in by it and he shuts the door behind you both.


He strips you naked with slow deliberation. So slow you’re shaking by the end. He cups your face in his hand, still fully dressed, and he kisses you that way. You’re standing there in his bedroom, nude, while he simply kisses you. It’s unbearably erotic: being naked, his mouth on yours, while he’s still clothed. Your cock jerks up, smearing his trousers. You whimper as he gathers you into his arms. You can’t help it; you start to thrust against his leg, helpless to it. He smiles against your mouth, his hand descending and smoothing over the cheeks of your arse.

“Easy,” he says. Cupping your bum. “Easy, Teddy.”

You bury your face in his neck, embarrassed to be so turned on so quickly. He’s not even fully hard yet, though you can feel the swell of his cock against you.

“Lie down,” he murmurs against your hair.

Eagerly, you obey, crawling up onto his four-poster and reclining on the fluffy pillows. He stays at the foot of the bed and begins undressing. Cufflinks first. A slip through the buttonhole, fingers working, one wrist and then the other. He takes off one shoe, and then the other. Socks. He starts to unbutton his shirt, and you belatedly realise you’ve been touching yourself. Just a little. Not in pursuit of orgasm. You’ve just run your hands down your stomach, and you’re cupping your cock, almost like you intend to protect it from how fit he is. Your other hand has descended even further, and one finger is stroking over your arsehole in an almost innocent way; you didn’t even realise you were doing it so much. It’s something you’d do by yourself, without thinking. And now he’s watching you do it.

“Christ,” he breathes with a little shake of his head. Then, gaze zeroing in, “Spread your legs for me.”

Your breath leaves you, and you do it. He strips off his shirt while watching the tip of your finger tease your hole.

He unbuckles his belt, watching. He takes off his trousers and pants, and then he’s as naked as you. But his nakedness is different than yours, not a vulnerability at all. Like he’s bare of any artifice called clothing; he’s his animal self.

He joins you on the bed, kneeling and pulling your arse into his lap so that his dick rests there. Something like a mewl leaves your throat.

And then, by Merlin, he starts to teach you again.

“Settle it here,” he says, laying a hot palm low on your belly, so low your cock lies over the back of his hand.

It feels so good, him touching you, handling your body the way he wants it, that you’re dying to just wank, hard and fast. A few seconds and you could be coming all over your own chest.

“No,” he says, gently.

You huff, provoking a smile from him, but then you concentrate, drawing the magic down to his touch. It pools like a hot spring, soft and rich. You feel your knees fall open still more, a strength you didn’t know blooming forth even as you let go of it. It runs through you, from the top of your head, down your spine, into the depths of you, the place you want him inside of you.

“Mmm,” he moans, rubbing your belly with his hand. He makes a small sound of awed surprise. You feel his cock lying against yours, like a kiss, and bite your lip.

He looks like he wants to fuck you. You think he’s getting ready to do it. But he doesn’t just stick it in you, as much as you’d like him to. He thrusts a bit, running his cock along your crease, over your entrance. Shamelessly, you relax the way, hoping he’ll just slip into you by accident. One side of his mouth quirks up. The motion of his hips is hypnotic, so sensual it creates an ache in you, reminds you of your emptiness. He strokes his hands up your stomach, over your ribs, and he plays with your nipples.

Just that, and you’re an arching, pleading mess, arse squirming in his lap, head turning on the pillow. You push up into his fingers, and up still more, your body arcing up off the sheets.

“Merlin, you are wonderful,” he says to you on a breath. “I should feel horrible about what I’m doing right now.”

Nnnngh,” you whine, undulating as he pluckings at your tits again. “So horrible.”

He laughs, a low, pleased chuckle. It sounds like real pleasure, like amusement and delight and arousal.

“Don’t stop, Harry.”

He flicks with his thumbs. “Do you feel yourself?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. You do feel it… your magic pulsating through you. It’s building, like a vibration, like thunder, not entirely under your control but absolutely answerable to you. And there’s one spot especially, inside you, and all you want is his magic to touch you there too.

Suddenly, you’re filled with a specific desire, something you know you’ll never be able to voice. “I… I want to turn over,” you tell him, a half-truth.

He lets you manoeuver yourself into the new position, his breath slow and deceptively patient. The truth—this thing you can’t say, can’t tell him— is that you want to present to him. You want to give him something to mount. You want it from behind so that all you can feel is his cock and your taking of it. So you lower your face to the sheets and spread your knees, letting your arse tilt as you dip your lower back. You relax. You ask without asking, beg without begging.

“I know you want me to fuck you, but Teddy,” he says, almost regretful, “I’m going have to eat you out first.”

You’re inhale to groan your utter consent when his fingers grip you, pulling at the tender skin near your arsehole so that you’re even more open for it, and all that comes out of you is a wordless, broken cry as his tongue flicks over and then inside you.

“H-hh-hh,” you try to say his name, but the heat of the pleasure has already consumed you. The intimacy of it. He’s kissing you there. His tongue dips inside, over and over again, a soft groan muffled, a little growl rumbling against you. His fingers grip the flesh of your arse, and he tongues down to lap and then suck on your balls. It’s enough to make your dick leak profusely, although your arse feels empty and you crave his return there. Maybe sensing your minor distress, his fingers find you, both his indexes, and they push a little way inside.

“Oh my fuck,” you gust out. Then it’s his fingers and his tongue, and you’re crying because nobody’s ever opened you up like this before. Not like this.

He eats your arse till you’re trembling. Then he whispers a lubrication charm, almost not getting his face out of the way in time, maybe not caring to, but then he rises up behind you. He lines up. He rubs the head of his cock over your relaxed rim. “Meet me here,” he murmurs. He starts stroking with his thumbs, down your lower back, into your cleft. “Right here,” he says, thumbs petting you sweetly.

You whine his name, and he whispers it to you, “Right here. Right here, baby. Right here.” And then, when he feels you do it, “Yes, god,” and then breaches your arsehole, slow and smooth, and so perfect you’re nearly screaming.

It’s not deep blue like you thought it would be. It’s not fiery or smooth or like anything else so far. It’s the softest golden thing, like a Snitch catching the sun. And it’s you. It’s you and Harry together.

His whole cock starts sliding in and out, his hands gripping your hips to steady you, to haul you back so that when he bottoms out in you, it’s impossibly deep. Each thrust bangs a startled grunt out of you. You know he must be watching himself fuck you. That, as much as the sex itself, sends a silvery thrill dancing up your back. How open you must be. Pink and slick.

But then he’s draping himself over your back, hands planted on the bed next to your shoulders. His thrusts come harder and shorter, more focused on a goal. It makes you smile. You have no idea why. You’ve gone mad from this maybe. You’re huffing out little rhythmic groans, which he answers with affectionate whispers about how good you feel, how perfect you are, how he’s going to make you come, interspersed with the occasional instruction: “Here too,” he’ll say, balancing his weight on one hand to reach under you with the other, and, spanning your chest, rub both your nipples at once with his third finger and thumb.

You cant back into him, meeting his thrusts, so hungry for it. And deep inside you, ley lines begin to map your body, your own magic coursing across them, filling in the gaps where you’ve starved parts of yourself, lighting those places up now with the very thing you’d been denying them: access to the full flood of your power.

He drops down, holding you back against him, his arm across your chest, his mouth at your ear. “Can you take it?” he asks you. And it only now occurs to you that he’s been holding himself back.

You nod, turn your head enough to meet his gaze. You don’t feel it, but you must look at least a little bit frightened, judging by his reaction. “Teddy,” he says, leaning in. You part your lips in invitation, and he closes the distance, slowing his hips and filling you up, holding himself inside you so that he can kiss you. Your lips part together, and his tongue laps at you softly. You can’t help it and rock back into him still, leaving breathy little moans in his mouth.

“Hold on,” he says, taking your hand and placing it on the headboard. You wrap your hand around the solidity of the wood. Then Harry holds your shoulders, and he fucks you hard.

He doesn’t hurt you; far from it. It’s exquisite. It’s his magic not just meeting yours but rushing over it, full force. He consumes you, but only in a way that will leave you shining and bare afterward, polished rather than raw. His thick cock is like a piston, and you’re loose and hot, the friction between you more than enough to make you come. You’re breathing small noises that sound a little like his name, a little like ‘love’, like ‘love you’. You thought he’d make you scream when you came. But you can’t stop smiling. Not even, maybe especially not, when it’s Harry who cries your name, and comes apart inside you.


“Come with me,” he says.

It’s the middle of the night, not a breath of sound, everything still as a deer waiting and listening in the woods. He pulls your leg over his hip, fingers stroking the back of your thigh, up and down.

“Where?” You like looking at him like this: your heads on a pillow, face to face, soft. Spontaneously you run your finger over the stubble on his jaw, just for the feel of it. You touch his scar.

“Everywhere,” he says, hikes your leg up a little higher. You notice he’s aroused.

“For how long?”

He shrugs. “However long you’d like.”

“I have a job, Harry.”

“Do you like it?”

The wood of the wand minus the magic. You sigh.

“Come see what it’s like with me. I’ll bring you back, I promise.”

You smile, and when his hand creeps between the cheeks of your arse and he feels for your hole with two fingers, your breath catches.

“What about… won’t they miss you?” You almost don’t even want to obliquely mention Harry’s children while he’s touching you like this; you don’t want him to stop, nor do you want him to suddenly remember that you belonged to him first, that you’re closer in age to them than you are to him.

He cups your arse while he considers. “We’ll wait until the school year. Only be gone a couple of weeks at a time.”

“Who will care for Dennis?”

“Are you joking? There will be a line. I’ll have to hold a contest.”

He rubs his fingers over your arsehole, his smile made of patience, fondness.

He’s serious.

“I’ll need to—oh Harry—uh think about it.” Which is difficult to do when his fingers have sunk into you now and he’s slowly finger-fucking you. You lean your forehead on his, beginning to pant, hips rocking.

He nods, leans in to kiss you, softly. He gathers you closer into his arms; you wrap yourself around him.

You know you’re going to go though. How can you not follow where Harry leads?

And the more you think of it, the more you want it. Crave it. Italy maybe. India. New Zealand? Next door. It doesn’t matter.

You roll over on top of him, straddle his hips, moving your cock against his. From one breath to the next, you take charge: of yourself, your magic, your life. He stares up at you, a hand pushing your hair out of your face, only for it to fall once more. He sees it, sees you. “Right there,” he says. A statement of fact. And the spark that flares in the wake of that moment, in the next, ignites.