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Drowned Boy

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Late afternoon sunshine reflected off the dog-eared pages of Percy's Ancient Runes textbook. He read with eyes half-lidded against the glare, lazy in the warmth. His robes were folded neatly on the grass next to him and his shirt cuffs were unbuttoned and carefully folded back. The earlier rain had cleared up and evaporated off the grass, and he was too comfortable, stretched out near the Quidditch showers, to feel particularly urgent about the revision. Which meant that he was less peeved than he might have been when he was interrupted.

"Let me go-o-o-o-o, you bastard, I was happy in there ..."

Oliver, sopping wet and half-dressed, didn't look especially happy now. He seemed to have stripped down to an undershirt, but not bothered to take off his leather Quidditch breeches, before stepping into the shower. Or possibly falling into the lake.

Marcus Flint dropped him, letting him sprawl on his back on the grass, and then sat on him.

Oliver pushed at him. "If I wasn't drowning in sorrow I would kick your arse, Flint."

Flint grinned; that insanely dangerous grin that always made Percy want to turn out his pockets for illicit potions ingredients. Unfortunately, Head Boy authority had its limits, and they kicked in right about the time you tried to frisk the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Percy sighed; but he closed his textbook a little way so that he could watch.

If it came to it he wasn't peeved even a little bit. Oliver was awfully wet, and his clothes were clinging awfully close, and Percy could suddenly think of all sorts of things that were more interesting than Ancient Runes.

"Now if there's one thing I can't stand," Flint announced, bouncing a little on Oliver's stomach, "it's bad sportsmanship."

Oliver made a strangled noise. "Flint, you lying bastard."

"And I think," Flint went on, his grin widening, "that trying to drown yourself in the showers before Slytherin's had a chance to thrash you is damned unsportsmanlike, Wood."

Oliver squirmed weakly and subsided on the grass again.

"I'm going to hex you into something tiny and squeaky and step on you," he said in a dead voice.

He struggled again and seemed to find a spark of spirit. "That is bullshit, Flint. You have unsportsmanlike bloody patented, you twat. I think you get off on seeing what crazy illegal stuff you can pull under Hooch's nose more than you do playing."

Flint grinned and flipped so that he was braced over Oliver, one arm hovering over his windpipe.

"Now that's just hurtful."

Oliver groaned and turned his head away. "Damn it, Flint, I'm suffering. I think I'll die of grief. Everything's dark in the world."

"I think Marcus is blocking out your light, actually," Percy volunteered.

Both heads swiveled towards him. Oliver had to crane up off the ground against Flint's arm to see. Flint looked unsurprised but a little interested: Oliver's face lit up like a drowning man sighting land.


"Hello, Oliver."

"Percy!" Oliver said again. Percy pursed his lips and forbore repeating himself. It was undignified.

Oliver didn't seem overly worried about dignity. He squirmed against Marcus again, getting himself up on one elbow. "My favourite Head Boy," he added, apparently in case Percy needed clarification. "Get him off, Perce. Get him off and feed him to something evil. I need to curl up and die somewhere."

Percy considered for a moment. On the one hand, he was Head Boy, and it was probably his job to break up student fights. On the other hand, it was more of a farce than a fight, and breaking up a farce wasn't really worth getting up for. Also, it might result in fewer wet boys wrestling on the grass, and he didn't think he really approved of that.

"I think you could curl up and die anyway if you put your mind to it, Oliver," he decided, lecturing a little. "You're giving up too easily."

Oliver flopped onto his back, wailing, "Percy-y-y! Don't you know I lost today, Perce? My star Seeker. I have a star Seeker, you know. Flint here," he jabbed at Flint, who narrowed his eyes, "doesn't have a star Seeker, he just has a scrawny little kid with crazier ideas for cheating than him. My star Seeker fell off his bloody broom, Percy."

"You know something my Seeker's never done?" Marcus asked. He leaned down and pushed his face close to Oliver's. "He's never fainted in the air. Isn't that a thing?"

"Argh." Oliver rolled his head away again. "I hate you. Why didn't somebody feed you a Bludger when you were a kid? "

"My Seeker," Flint continued, dreamily rocking a knee into Oliver's stomach, "has never done an amazing number of things, you know. He's never got himself hospitalised before the last game of the season. He's never lost control of his broom in the middle of the air. He's led, in fact, an awfully boring life. You must ..." he grinned at Oliver, his eyes feral, "be so proud of yours."

Oliver gave a huge heave and pulled himself out from under Flint. He scrambled over to Percy and collapsed in his lap.

"Oliver!" Percy tried to rescue his textbook. "You're wet!"

"Was drowning m'self," Oliver mumbled into Percy's tie; it sounded as though it had got into his mouth.

"But you're getting me wet, Oliver." He made another grab at the textbook, but Oliver moved, rolling it under him. He raised his head and stared into Percy's eyes, woebegone and draggle-haired.

"We lost, Percy. We were supposed to win and we lost. I have a star Seeker, you know."

Percy peered at him, sliding the damp textbook out from under his stomach. "Oliver, are you drunk?"

Oliver hesitated.

"Might've swallowed some of that blue shower gel when I was drowning." He squirmed, burying his face in Percy's neck with another unhappy moan, and Percy forgot about possibly intoxicating shower gel.

He was reminded, not of shower gel but of Marcus Flint, when the other boy gave a wild yowl and launched himself at Oliver. Percy's textbook was knocked out of his hands again and lost to sight.

"My book," Percy tried to say — because wet textbooks were beyond everything — but somebody's elbow was in his mouth and it came out as: "Mmb-wagh."

Marcus sat on Oliver's legs again and coincidentally on Percy's as well and attempted to pull Oliver into a headlock.


There was a tangle of sprawling limbs as Oliver jerked away and pulled Percy with him, and Percy found himself rolling over in the grass, somebody's leg hooked around his knee and somebody else's torso falling heavily onto his shoulders. They fetched up against a slight rise, longer grass tickling at Percy's nose and cheek. Oliver scrambled further, away from Flint and sort of underneath Percy, his head a damp warmth against Percy's neck.

Percy groaned, letting his head roll back, and gave up on the idea of staying dry. He also gave up on saving his textbook, because god knew where it was by now. He opened his eyes again and lifted his head a little; then blinked and instinctively drew back slightly. Marcus Flint was about an inch from his face. He was sprawled comfortably between Percy's legs, his mouth twisted again into a warm, lazy smile.

He stretched a finger out and pushed the mussed hair out of Percy's eyes, eyelids lowering a little when Percy's own eyes widened.

"Wouldn't you agree, Head Boy," he said softly, "that drowning yourself is awfully like cheating?"

Oliver said something that was probably obscene, but was muffled by Percy's shoulder.

"That's a serious accusation to make, Flint," Percy said. He wasn't actually paying much attention to what he was saying, because Flint had started idly rocking between his legs. Rather subtly, and almost as though he wasn't aware of it, until Percy caught the savage gleam in his eyes and oh, yes, definitely deliberate.

He didn't mind.

"It's a serious sort of thing to do; drowning yourself," Marcus said. He grinned and rocked again, and Oliver made another sharply derogatory comment which was again mostly muffled against Percy's shoulders. Percy heard "prick", and "people with no soul" — or at least something like that. Oliver finished with a snort and nuzzled further into Percy's side.

"Y'r all warm, Perce," he said, and Percy heard that. "Warm'r'n me."

"That's because you're wet, Oliver," Percy muttered, still distracted by Flint's focused rocking which was doing all kinds of interesting things to him. Oliver mumbled an assent and turned his face, rubbing his nose against Percy's collar. His tongue darted out and licked at the skin just above the edge of the fabric; a shock of warm and then cool in the aftermath.

He started; he felt Oliver's lashes flicker against his skin and his mouth move into a smile.

Percy paused, and then shifted, experimentally, and felt Flint slide a little between his legs. Oliver moved to accomodate the shift, his mouth never quite leaving Percy's neck. Flint met Percy's eyes with a wolfish grin and rocked once more; harder this time. Unmistakable.

Oh, yes. This was definitely a better way to spend the afternoon than revision.

He moved again, deliberately sliding his leg up and over Flint's, and turned his head so that he was nose to nose with Oliver — mussed and flushed, his eyes somewhat unfocused. Or maybe that was Percy; his glasses had slipped down his nose and they were very close together. Oliver stopped licking at his neck when he felt Percy move and met his eyes, wet tendrils of hair spiking into his eyes. He looked at Percy for a second, then leaned forward and licked again, this time at Percy's bottom lip.

Percy made a noise, unconsciously thrusting harder against Marcus' leg — he heard Marcus snigger — and leaned forward to catch Oliver's mouth. It fell open easily, Oliver letting out a satisfied sound like a purr, and then there was, oh, warmth and Oliver's mouth and tongue and yessss, mmm, he was never looking at Ancient Runes again.

The slide of tongues was intoxicating: the taste of Oliver, his warm breath puffing against Percy's lips when they slid partially open — not all the way, but then Percy discovered the line of Oliver's jaw, water-slicked from his drowning effort and flecked with scraps of clean grass and dirt from rolling around with Flint. He followed it down to Oliver's collarbone and nuzzled the wet cloth out of the way. He was aware that Marcus was shifting between his legs, twisting around to get the reach to do something; he wasn't sure what until he heard Oliver grunt and turned his head to see.

Marcus was stretched all the way over the top of Percy now, tangled in his legs, and reaching over his shoulder blades to grab the back of Oliver's neck. He pulled Oliver forward, hard, and for a moment they were suspended, forehead to forehead. Oliver's face hardened into a challenge in an instant; Flint was grinning that feral grin again and breathing heavily. Then Marcus moved, pushing Oliver flat to the grass again and biting his lip. Oliver snarled and surged up, opening his mouth and shoving his way past Flint's grin.

Percy slid down a little further and slowly sank his chin onto Oliver's hip to watch. He thought he might never look away. Then he had to clean his glasses on his shirt tail so that he could see properly.

Oliver growled and twisted his fingers up into Marcus' hair, throwing his other arm up around Marcus' neck and pulling him closer with his elbow. Marcus laughed low in his throat and worked a hand under Oliver's back. Oliver made a surprised sound, pulling away to breathe harshly. Then he dipped his head and scraped his teeth along the skin under Marcus' ear, following it a moment later with the tip of his tongue.

Percy absently stroked Oliver's hip as he watched, the water-darkened leather warm and uneven under his hand. Oliver muttered something inaudible — possibly because he'd gone back to kissing and so was talking into Flint's mouth — and flung a hand down, reaching blindly for Percy's. Probably he meant to direct it. If so he got distracted by Flint's hand, which had now rucked up the wet shirt and pushed underneath.

Oliver's hand found Percy's and twisted their fingers together, white-knuckled. Percy, eyes glued to the two boys in front of him — well, sort of under and over him really, or at least his legs — lifted the interlocked hands to his mouth and sucked on the top of Oliver's forefinger. He scraped his teeth gently against the pad.

Oliver broke away from Marcus' mouth to stare at Percy, his breathing heavy and his eyes almost black.

"Fuck, Percy," he breathed. "You look ... fuck."

Flint's eyes had slipped a little lower, to the bulge ruining the line of Percy's perfectly-pressed trousers. He raised his eyes, delighted. "Percy Weasley, you total voyeur."

Percy drew Oliver's finger most of the way out of his mouth and ran it over his lips, looking at Flint steadily over the top of his glasses.

Oliver gave a tiny moan and his hips jerked, trapped under Percy's elbow.

Flint's grin widened. He crawled over to Percy, insinuating a knee between his legs once more. "I've always wanted to know, Head Boy," he said, "how you earn your title."

Percy rolled his eyes, because that was the worst line ever, but then the heel of Flint's hand was pressing against him and suddenly it wasn't so bad. It might have been witty actually, if he could — oh — if he could remember ... what ... oh god, what it was now.

"Oh?" he managed. That lacked something as a retort, and so he made an effort to follow it up with raised eyebrows and a superior glance over his glasses. Then Flint moved his hand and Percy screwed up his eyes for a second and whined, embarrassingly puppy-ish. Flint bent down to lick against his tongue with a snicker.

Flint was hard too, hot and insistent against the seam of his trousers, and he ground against Percy and against his own hand on Percy. His eyes were feral again, glinting under shaggy bits of fringe. He pulled the edge of his lower lip between his teeth, twisting it into a smirk, then let it slide free. Percy could see his own fringe where it fell into his eyes under his glasses, blurred copper obstructing his view. He shook it free and pulled Marcus' head down, kissing until the mouth above him opened and slid against him and couldn't smirk anymore.

After a moment he needed his breath back. The slide between his legs was uncomfortably rough, the material of both their trousers damp and scratchy like the rest of their clothes after the tussle with Oliver. It was hot and awkward and frantic; too much and not enough at the same time.

It was wholly brilliant.

He shifted his own hand from around Flint's neck and slithered it down between them. He shoved Marcus' shirt out of the way and found the hardness under his trousers, squeezing. Marcus gave a shaky exhale and bit down on Percy's cloth-covered shoulder, hard, thrusting forward with his hips at the same time and sweet god Percy was coming, biting down on his own lip, strangling the cry on his tongue into something unrecognisable.

He let his head fall back, breathing hard. He didn't fight against the lazily contented smile that would come out, or the languor like golden syrup seeping through his limbs. He opened his eyes to see that Marcus had paused, black eyes under shaggy fringe staring at him intensely, and so he squeezed hard and sudden with the hand that was still curled around Marcus. Marcus jerked, stiffened, and Percy flopped his head back onto the grass with a satisfied feeling.

"Fucking hell," somebody breathed.

Percy remembered that he still had his fingers tangled in Oliver's. He shifted his head to the side, looking for him.

He wasn't prepared for the wave of lust when he found him. Oliver was sitting with one knee drawn up to his chest, his other leg splayed open and resting in the grass. He had one hand — the one that wasn't still tangled in Percy's — pressed urgently against the front of his leather breeches. His eyes were wide and his hair, beginning to dry in feathery tufts, was sticking to one temple. He looked at Percy as though he could see the Quidditch Cup in the distance, and it was made of chocolate.

Percy shivered.

Marcus flopped onto his back, freeing Percy's legs, and he used Oliver's hand to pull himself upright.

Oliver shook his head. "Do you have any idea how hot you look, Perce?" he asked, wondering. "You should get rumpled more often."

"Er. Thank you?" He played with Oliver's hand rather than looking up, fascinated by the tanned fingers with their bitten-down nails and broom-roughened pads. He stroked a finger along the skin between forefinger and thumb and Oliver made a noise, something like "Hhnugh," and pressed down harder with the heel of his hand on his trousers. Percy's eyes slid sideways and he couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to. Oliver was right there, still damp and tousled, Quidditch breeches straining noticeably, and Percy hadn't realised he had a thing for wet brown leather until he was actually bending down and sliding his mouth over the bulge there.

Oliver made another noise, one with only consonants in it, and jerked his hips upwards, his hand scrabbling free of Percy's so that he could tangle it in Percy's hair.

For a minute there was only the warmth under his mouth and the sound of Oliver's unsteady breathing.

"Oy, Wood," Flint said suddenly. "You're taking Ancient Runes, right?"

"Wha — uh, what? Yes?"

Percy supposed Flint had found his textbook. It was nice to know that it hadn't been completely lost. He pressed down harder with his mouth, trying to trace out the shape under the brown leather.

"You know, you should really revise more." Percy could hear the grin in Flint's voice. "NEWTs this year, and everything. You should take every opportunity to revise."

"What are you — fuck, Percy — what are you going on about, Flint?"

Percy moved upwards, pushing the damp undershirt out of the way once more, and swiped his tongue experimentally over Oliver's stomach where the tan didn't reach.

He heard pages rustling. "So, alright, tell me what the rune for protection from friends is," Marcus said.

"Sharn," Oliver said. He shuddered and tightened his fingers in Percy's hair. Percy adjusted his glasses, which had got knocked askew. "Or maybe Sarn. I don't know. What the hell, Flint?"

"It was Sarn," Percy mumbled, probably indecipherably. "Protection from friends. The other one ... is ..." he trailed off, distracted by the hard little nub of Oliver's nipple. He sucked on it, sliding one hand back down to the little trail of hair disappearing into Oliver's waistband.

"How about the one for concealing deceit, Wood?" The smirk was more obvious now.

"Um ... um ... P—Pollir, I think," Oliver said. And then, when Percy's hand dipped into the hollow of his belly and under his waistband, "Oh, fuck, I don't care."

Percy sighed in satisfaction when he felt his hand close around Oliver's erection, heat and silky hardness under his fingers. He traced the length with his fingers, enjoying the way Oliver's breath staggered and sped up, and swirled his tongue around his nipple again. Then, conscientiously, he switched to the other one.

"What happens if you draw the rune Grulnahk from the left diagonal instead of the right diagonal?" Marcus asked.

"F-Flint," Oliver breathed. "If you don't shut up I'm going to — unhh — hex you so bad."

"You're not even trying," Marcus said sadly. "Come on, now. Think about it. Grulnahk. Drawn from the left diagonal."

Percy slid his hand slowly up and then down again, enjoying the weight and heaviness in his hand. Then he set up a steady stroke. He had to awkwardly unbuckle Oliver's fly with his other hand to get the freedom to move properly. As soon as that hand was free again he pushed Oliver's shirt up further, over his collarbone, and went back to licking and biting over the skin there, intoxicated with the warmth and smoothness under his mouth. His hand strayed down Oliver's side, under the loose waistband and over his hip, and then back up over his stomach.

"I don't — I don't — know," Oliver said. "I don't even know that rune. Oh god, your mouth, Percy."

"Hmmm," Percy said against his skin, pleased.

"Course you do," Marcus said. "Think about it. It's right here in Chapter Four. What would your professor say if you tried to give that answer? Grulnahk, Wood."

"You sadistic bastard, Flint, would you shut up!" The last word was a whine, desperate and needy.

Pages were rustling again. "Grulnahk. Same family as the standard encryption runes."

"It's — it — oh god, Flint, it — ah — ah!"

Percy let his teeth scrape over Oliver's nipple a half-second before he stiffened, warmth pulsing against Percy's hand.

Percy smiled, relaxing against the warm skin of Oliver's side, feeling tiny aftershocks of shivers against his cheek, and then rolled to the side. He drew his hand out and wiped it on the grass.

Marcus was laughing. He threw himself down on the grass, his legs sprawling and his head thunking onto Oliver's stomach.

"Flint, you bastard," Oliver said, when he could talk.

"It becomes an active instead of a passive rune," Percy said. He stretched his legs; he was damp and scratchy and uncomfortable but as pleased with himself as a cat on a sunny window ledge. "Grulnahk, when you draw it from the left instead of the right."

Oliver laughed, breathlessly, and shoved Flint off his stomach. "Percy, remind me to sit next to you in the Ancient Runes NEWT." Marcus moved his head to Oliver's hip instead, unperturbed.

For a while they just lay there, a drying tangle of limbs in the sunshine. Eventually Oliver shifted, restless. A moment later there was a badly muffled sigh.

Percy looked at him. Oliver looked at his own hands. "Damn it," he said. His voice was quiet. "We lost the match, Perce."

Flint was still leafing through the pages of Percy's textbook. It looked a bit more dog-eared and sad than it had before, but not as bad as it could have done. "Your whole house is insane, Weasley," he said, turning the book sideways to read the cartoon Bill had scribbled there. "I thought you should know." He squinted to read the little voice bubble and snickered. He started leafing through for more cartoons.

"There's a good one on page 164," Percy offered.

"Maybe I'll go down and throw myself in front of the train in Hogsmeade," Oliver said. "That's probably a quicker way to go than drowning anyway."

"Next Hogsmeade weekend's not till the 8th," Percy reminded him. Oliver scowled.

He shifted and dislodged Flint again. "Here, give me that cartoon." He squirmed and shifted around until he could curl up against Percy, warm and rumpled with his clothes still clinging to him damply.

Percy adjusted to give him room. His textbook didn't seem to be in immediate danger, and the warm sunshine and warm boy curled against him, combined with the afterglow of what, really, had been a rather good orgasm, meant that he didn't especially care anyway.

He suspected he might be a terrible Gryffindor, but he thought that losing was something he could stand to see their team do more often.