leashy_bebes | FIC: Getting There

Excited seems to be the theme for the rest of the week. Several times, you catch his eyes on you from across the room and you have to look away because his stare is hot, and you can feel it trailing over you even when you turn your head. You must remember this technique in future, because you barely notice your end of year exams beyond the usual last minute scramble to compare facts with Al, and triple checking your wand movements before Charms.

True to your word, you fulfil the end-of-exam tradition by trekking down to the dungeons with Al after your Transfiguration practical, exchanging jokes. From there you go straight through the common room to the dorms where you each dig out a sizeable stash of sweets and sprawl on your beds chatting and eating and eventually falling asleep early.

Then, on Saturday, Al persuades you to go down to the lake. By mid-morning there are dozens of students on the shore of the lake, some actually paddling in the water. You find the shade of a tree and linger there with Al and Lisa and a few of your classmates.

You hear their voices first, loud and raucous, and occasionally raised in song. They're behind you, and you can't really turn and look. It's one of those things, though. You probably could turn and look; they're being loud enough that you're sure everyone else is looking. If you weren't doing things with James, you wouldn't think twice about looking. As it is you feel weirdly awkward, and you have to judge by Al's expression. He rolls his eyes and deliberately looks away, so you know James must be doing something ridiculous. It surprises you, how much you want to turn and see. Then there is an almighty splash from the lake, and you can't help turning at that, to see two of James' friends with their wands out, howling with laughter as James swims back from several hundred metres into the lake. You snort with laughter and Al pokes you in the back with his toes.

"Don't laugh, it encourages him," he says, and you feel an abruptly guilty flush. Normally you don't feel guilty, as such. You've felt bad, the times you've had to lie to Al, but you usually avoid that by being so careful that you don't have to tell a lie. You make sure he is disinterested, and he will have no reason to ask questions that you'd have to answer with lies.

Now you do feel guilty, but it's for the lies, for the deception, not for the act. You watch as James hauls himself out of the water and collapses onto his back on the shore, laughing and gasping for breath, and you can't help remembering the times you have been the one to make him look that way. You deliberately turn away from the sight, but you can't bring yourself to feel bad for owning those memories of him, breathless, secret, perfect memories.

"What are you doing this summer, Scorpius?" Lisa asks and you smile at her, grateful for the distraction.

"Nothing too definite, yet," you tell her. "I usually spend some time in Italy with my mother's family."

"Oh, are your family Italian?" she asks, looking interested.

"No," you laugh, looking down at your own pale skin. "They moved there when I was a baby."

"Lisa's dad is from Italy," Al tells you, for approximately the seven hundredth time.

"Oh, really?" you ask, feigning both interest and surprise.

"Si," Al says and you give him a curious look. "She's teaching me Italian."

"How nice," is what you eventually settle for, because you can't make the comment you'd like to about how she's teaching him something quite different. Not when she's sitting right there, anyway.

"Oh god," Al mutters, and you wonder for a moment if you didn't sound sincere enough. The you realise that Al and Lisa are both looking over your shoulder, and you turn your head just in time to see James jogging up to the three of you.

"Hi!" he says brightly, stopping between you and Al. He leans over his brother and shakes his head, showering Al with water from his hair.

"James!" Al protests, kicking James' ankle. "Piss off."

"'Congratulations on finishing your N.E.W.T.s, brother dearest, I am so proud.' 'Thank you, Albus, I'm glad dad messed up the contraception spell, you're not totally rubbish.' How difficult would that have been?" James says.

"Well done," Al says grudgingly, and you can't help chipping in.

"Yes, well done," you nod, and James gives you the briefest flash of a smile.

"Thanks, lads. Doing anything this weekend, baby brother?"

"Yes," Al says. "And before you ask, none of your business."

"Ahhh," James nods. "What about you, Blondie?" he asks, turning to look at you. "Got a girl stashed away somewhere?"

You could murder him, you really, really could. You could hate him, if you didn't already...not hate him.

"No," you say.

"Ah. Never mind, eh? Hey, Al," he says, turning back to his brother. "Make plans for the second weekend of the holidays, alright?"

"What? Why?"

"Annual Awkward Reunion," James says, and Al shudders.

You look away to give them some semblance of privacy, but you know that story anyway, or at least the basics of it, learned from Al, rather than James. When they were younger there had been an almighty family bust-up, something to do with the godbrother, a cousin, and a break-up (or a jilting, apparently, depending on whose version of events you believe). As a result of the ensuing schisms and rows, there was only ever a complete family gathering once a year, and the date is kept among the adults as long as possible so the kids can't wriggle out of it. The animated way Al tells his convoluted family stories is always guaranteed to make you laugh, even if the details sometimes escape you - it is such a sharp contrast to your own, tiny, self-contained little family.

"How'd you find out when it is?" Al asks James.

"Good old Uncle Charlie," James says, and you can hear the grin in his voice, even if you aren't looking.

"Brilliant. Scorpius?"

"Hmm?" you ask, turning back.

"Second weekend of summer. You free?"

"As far as I know," you nod.

"Brilliant," Al says gratefully. "You can be my alibi. What about you, James?"

"Not sure," James shrugs. "Last minute appointment to view a flat, maybe?"

"Canny," Al nods. "Given how much mum and dad want your sorry arse out of the house. What about Lil?"

"Already told her. She's going to some Muggle thing with Annabel's family."

"Nice one," Al says, nodding again.

"Won't your parents notice if you all miraculously have plans?" you ask.

"Nah. Mum thinks getting away with stuff is part of growing up, and dad's mostly just clueless, bless him," James shrugs. "Right, we're going to Hogsmeade," he says, nodding towards his friends, who are still messing around on the shore. "See you later." He looks at Al as he says those last words, but you can't help thinking he's talking to you.

By the time Sunday finally comes, you are more than ready for it, and only partly because of James and all the promises he's been making with his eyes. Partly you just need to get out of the bloody dorm and away from Al's twitching and muttering about bloody Lisa. For all that you're best friends, Al is intensely private about certain things, even with you, so he's not actually said that he's planning to deflower his blushing Ravenclaw today, but even if it hadn't been obvious in the nervous way he's been talking about this day for weeks, the bunch of flowers you caught him hiding behind his bed curtains this morning would definitely have made you certain. You're pleased for him, of course, you just really don't want to hear about it. So once you've finally reached your limit, at about ten in the morning, you head out of the common room and decide to head for the library.

Of course, you know the Potters have an invisibility cloak. You've seen Al disappear under it countless times, have even done the same yourself on a few occasions, but you still can't help a yelp of surprise when James' disembodied head appears in front of you in the corridor just along from the entrance to your common room.

"James! For crying out loud!" you protest, but he's already laughing.

"Oh - oh, your face," he wheezes.

"Shut up," you snap. "And put that thing back on properly, I am not getting caught up in the fall-out of someone seeing your bloody head floating in the corridor."

"Alright, alright," he says, and there's a flurry of movement before he's completely gone again.

"How long have you been loitering outside our common room?" you demand.

"Long enough," he says.

"Stalking me?" you enquire.

"Waiting for you," he corrects. "It's caring."

"It's frightening." you inform him. Although not, you reflect privately, as frightening as the fact that you are willing to do something so irritating as holding a conversation with an invisible person. Salazar help you, but there is just something about him you cannot resist.

"Anyway," he says pointedly. "I think I found somewhere for us to go."

"Yeah?" you ask, unable to deny that your interest has been captured. "Where is it?"

"A few flights up," he says. "Just follow me."

You glare at where you think he's standing and say, as scathingly as you can manage, "You're invisible, James. How am I meant to follow you?"

"Oh, right," he says. Then there's a ripple in the air and the cloak is hanging half off him. "Come here," he says, gesturing for you to join him under the cloak.

"It's too small - "

"Trust me," he says, reaching out and yanking you forward, swishing soft material over you just as a three girls come around the corner. He puts one hand over your mouth and silently walks you back towards the wall, and the girls continue without ever pausing in their conversation.

"Did this thing just grow?" you whisper, once the girls are out of earshot.

"You tell me," he says, giving you an over-the-top leer.

"Pervert. Did it?"

"Yes," he admits after a pause. "You mustn't tell anyone though, not even Al. If dad finds out we've been experimenting on it he'll go mad."

"We?"

"Me and Teddy. Oh - he's my godbrother. And your some-sort-of-cousin I think, actually."

"And you experiment on this thing?" you demand, half-turning away from him to examine the cloak properly from the inside.

"We're careful," he says, and standing this close you can feel his half-shrug. When you turn to look at him incredulously, he amends that to, "Well, Teddy's careful. Come on, let's go."

"Wait," you say, and slide your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him, long and slow, until he's panting against your mouth, one of his hands fisted in your shirt.

"Gonna - Gonna drop the cloak," he warns breathlessly, and you give him a last hard kiss on the lips before moving away a little.

"Where is this place, anyway?" you ask, taking hold of the cloak and helping him to keep it in place over both of you.

"Just a little room I found," he says. "It's off a side corridor, and it doesn't have the usual dampening spells on the door so I can set wards and stuff."

The room turns out to be little more than a large, empty storage room, housing a single large armchair and a small table. You can imagine this as some forgotten Professor's little hideaway from students and faculty alike, and as he locks and wards the door, you turn to look at him.

"We're not doing it in a chair," you object.

"We've done things in chairs before," he points out.

"Let me rephrase that. You are not fucking me for the first time in, on, or bent over a chair."

"Right. Okay. Of course," he nods. "Hang on, then." A few minute's worth of wand-work later, he has transfigured the armchair into a double bed.

"Not bad," you concede.

He takes your hand and pulls you to sit down on the bed next to him, starting to kiss you somewhere along the way.

"What d'you want to do?" he asks, surprising you.

"I thought we were going to..."

"Well yeah, but - which way round d'you want, is what I'm getting at."

"Huh?"

"Merlin's beard, Scorp, get it together. Are you getting fucked, or am I?"

"Oh - " you groan, unable to hold back the noise. You've genuinely never thought about that, just assumed he'd want to do it to you first, but oh, the idea of it... "Can - I can fuck you?" you check.

"If you want," he says. "Whatever you want. Provided we get on with it," he adds heavily.

"I think - I want that," you stammer out. "I want to fuck you."

"Right," he nods, cupping the back of your neck and drawing you into a quick kiss. "Get your kit off, then, and stop looking like I'm about to hex you."

"Oh, shut up," you grumble, annoyed that he's not only noticed, but also chosen to comment on your faltering.

"I'll be quiet," he says. "Just - here, let me."

His hands go to the buttons on your shirt, parting the first few before you push his hands back towards him and undo your shirt yourself. You drop it onto the floor for want of anywhere better to put it, and his follows quickly, tossed over your shoulder. He wriggles out of his trousers as well, but before he throws them aside, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a tube of lubricant, which he hands to you.

"Always prepared, eh, James?"

"Are you joking? I've been thinking about this all week," he admits, and you can't help smiling at that. He smiles back and kisses you just once, on the lips, before laying down, lacing his hands behind his head and staring up at you, his legs falling open.

"Have you - before?" you ask, looking down at him for a moment, almost struck dumb by his utter ease and confidence.

"A few times," he shrugs, and you nod, relieved. Enough experience to help you out if you get stuck, but not really enough to complain that you're not doing it right. Hopefully.

"What now?" you ask,

"Whatever you want," he says again, and it should probably bother you that he doesn't seem to have a single qualm about saying that to you. You're a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake. He should at least be concerned that you might be plotting how to use this to your advantage. You're not, but that's hardly the point. He should wonder, at least.

You kneel with one leg on either side of one of his thighs, lean down and kiss him, hot and wet, unable to stifle a gasp as he tugs you closer, his hands roaming across your back. You lie down on top of him and he tightens his arms around you, arching lazily up against your weight. He moans and drags his blunt fingernails down lightly over your sides, making you shudder against him. You kiss his jaw, nip a little trail down to the base of his throat and lick at the hot skin above his pounding pulse. He tips his head back into the pillows and the movement makes his Adam's apple stand out clearly so you lick at that as well, sucking on it, and he wraps one hand around the back of your neck, holding you against him.

You are already so hard that it aches, just from this, and from the knowledge of what's going to happen later, and you can't help resting your weight more firmly against him, your hips rocking just slightly. His hands go to your hips almost instantly, pulling you down harder and just holding you there, his fingers digging into your skin as he thrusts up against you. When he kisses you next his lips are wet and slick against yours and he lets out a sigh into your mouth that makes you groan before you let him pull you down against him again. He parts his legs as he does it, bending them at the knees, and you end up in the cradle of his thighs, sliding your hard cock along his and drinking in his gentle, needy sounds. He rubs his knee against your side and tangles his fingers in your hair, exerting gentle pressure to make you turn your eyes upward and look at him.

"Hmm?" you ask, resting your forearms on the bed on either side of his head.

"Ready?" he asks and you nod.

"Oh - yeah, I think - just - "

"What?" he asks, turning his face to nuzzle along your jawline.

"How do you want - how should I - "

"Oh, right!" he says, almost absurdly cheerful given the circumstances, and pushes at your shoulders until you're kneeling between his legs again. Then he hooks an arm under his own knee and pulls his leg up towards his own chest, exposing himself in a way that makes you groan. "Like this, for now," he says and you nod dumbly, reaching behind and around yourself, trying to work out where the hell you dropped the lubricant. When your hand stumbles over it you clutch it almost too tightly and he strokes his free hand down your thigh, soothing.

"You know this bit, right?" he asks, and you take a sharp glance up to see if he's teasing. His face is open and relaxed, his eyes wide and guileless. That's not always a guarantee that he's being serious, but you believe this time that he's not taking the piss, and you nod. "Onwards, then!" he cracks and you pinch his thigh in an effort to make him be quiet for a minute.

It's futile though, as he gives what amounts to a running commentary while you hastily slick your fingers (yeah, a bit more, sort of spread it – no like – warm it up a bit, yeah? God, you look so fucking sexy. Hurry it up, eh? Mmm, just - ). He does eventually shut up, for a moment at least, when you press a finger into him, covertly watching his face. His eyes close for a second and he breathes out, shifting a tiny bit. When his eyes open again they seek you out and there's a split second where it's written all over his face that you have him, completely and utterly. You move your finger, curl it, and his eyes drift half closed again before he snaps them open and quirks a brow at you.

"You'd better have short nails."

"Of course."

"Right. You probably get a manicure from a house-elf," he teases.

"Fuck off. I use a spell."

"You – for – " He slaps his free hand over his mouth and you realise that he's trying – and failing – to hide laughter.

"Shut up! You're not meant to be laughing now."

"Why not?" he asks. "It's meant to be fun. S'nice to laugh. And anyway you use a manicure spell."

"What? What? That's normal!" you protest, but you have to fight a smile. "Normal people do that!"

"How is it still mostly a secret that you're completely bent?" he asks, still laughing.

"Given our respective positions, I think I could ask you the same thing," you remind him, curling your finger again inside him, your free hand pushing back on his leg.

"I - " he says, and then bites his lip, his eyes fluttering closed. "Mmph. Another one, go on," he nods and as you comply he wriggles closer, wrapping his other leg around you. "Put your back into it, man," he requests jokily, and you look up, uncertain. "I mean do it harder," he says. "Move your fingers more."

You do as he says, trying to ignore the slick sounds that result because that is just too much, too sexydirtysweet. He makes a grateful noise, so you are obviously doing something right. The next thing you know, his own hand is sliding down the back of his leg, one of his fingers pushing alongside yours as you press into him.

"Fuck," you choke out, and he laughs breathlessly.

"Mmf. Push a bit - yeah, forward, like that," he says, his hand cupping around yours and pushing your fingers deeper into him. You only sort of know what you're looking for, but you definitely know when you've found it because he makes a noise you've never heard from him before while he arches off the bed against your hand. "God, right, just – "

His words end on a strangled groan because now you know what you're doing it's almost too easy to press and retreat and nudge and stroke and rub and it's only a minute or two before he is writhing around on the bed, his hair wild, his eyes dark. There's something deeply, strangely satisfying in this, in making him moan and gasp and shudder and the way he shifts his finger to curl it around your own inside his own body is nothing short of mind-blowing.

"Fuck, alright, hurry up," he pleads.

"Huh?" you ask as his words jolt you back to awareness of the world beyond your fingers and the way his body is squeezing them.

"Another one," he says. "Just a bit more."

"Yeah?" you ask, and he pushes himself half upright to kiss you breathlessly before falling back into the sheets, arms spread wide now, and his head tipped back. He's breathing hard and when you press in a third finger he groans and fists his hands in the sheets.

"Oh – oh – are you okay?" you ask warily, turning your head to kiss his knee.

"Yeah," he says slowly, around a long exhale, gradually lessening his grip on the bed and reaching for you again, his hands grazing over your chest before falling to his sides again. You move your hand more carefully now, until his face loses the slight bit of tension it was holding, and he rubs his leg against your arm again.

"Ready?" you ask, and he nods with a long drawn out murmur of assent. When you slide your fingers out of him he makes a quiet little noise of pleasure, and now that you're no longer distracting himself with his body, the full force of your arousal blindsides you.

"How - now what?" you ask, and you don't really care how desperate you might sound. Apparently neither does he, because he sits up with his legs splayed around you, grabs you by the back of the neck and kisses you in a hungry clash of soft lips and hard teeth and slick tongue. When your mouths part with a low, wet noise, he presses his face into your neck, gasping against your skin, his hands squeezing your sides.

"Like this," he says after a moment, turning onto his hands and knees, facing away from you. You groan, run your hands up over his arse and the small of his back to trace the clean trail of his spine, hardly able to believe the sight he's presenting. Merlin, he is completely fucking flawless.

"Like this?" you ask. "Really?"

"'s easier," he says, and you move behind him, kneeling on rubbery legs. "Bit more lube," he instructs. "On both of us." You start to reach for it, but something about the tilt of his hips or the tension in his arms makes you stop to look, really look at the sight of him waiting for you. It is just too much and you fall against him, pressing your forehead to his shoulder blade.

"Fuck," you breathe, leaning over him and kissing his back. "Oh, I want you so fucking much."

"Oh Merlin, when you talk like that..." he says shakily.

"Shh," you beg, unable to stand hearing him complete that sentence in that husky, broken-open voice.

"Get on with it then," he pleads, and you slick him and then yourself as quickly as you can, almost unable to bear the pressure of your own hand, biting your lip to hold in a whimper. "Christ. Fuck. Hurry up," he begs.

"Shut up," you say through gritted teeth and he makes a huff of laughter before he feels you lining yourself up against him, and that prompts a wobbly intake of breath instead. You push forward and encounter only solid resistance for a moment until he presses back against you and you slide into him with a little lurch. He lets out a sharp cry and you freeze momentarily.

"James?"

"Fine," he gasps. "Good, just – bigger than it looks."

You can't work out, through the haze of lust, whether to be flattered or insulted by that comment. Instead you move your hands from his hips to his lower back, stroking as soothingly as you can, tracing the perfect triangle of freckles above his hip.

"Are you alright?" you ask, your voice breaking around the question. "Can I – "

"Fuck, yeah," he interrupts. "I keep telling you, get on with it."

No matter what he says, you can't bring yourself to be anything other than careful as you push yourself deeper into the impossible heat of him. You press yourself forward slowly, rocking into that incredible tightness until you are fully seated inside him, your hips pressed up against the swell of his arse. You think you're doing fairly well in terms of maintaining control and some semblance of dignity until he speaks in a ragged, husky voice.

"Fuck, yeah... Feels so good, Scorp."

"James - " you say, and there's a bit of panic in your voice that you try to hide.

"Fuck me," he says, letting his head drop down between his arms. "Go on, do it."

"James - "

"It's okay," he says, bringing one hand back to trace his fingertips over your thigh. "You can - "

"No, fuck - oh - James, I can't - "

"S'okay," he says, reaching back to brush his fingertips over your thigh. "You can. Go on."

"No, I mean – " you bury your face in his back, thoroughly frustrated. "I can't." If you move, that will be it, game fucking over, and you'll probably die of the embarrassment right here, on a transfigured bloody bed in a glorified bloody storage cupboard. Not happening.

"Oh. Ohhh," he says, obviously amused, turning his head to look back at you. "That's...gratifying."

"You are a complete idiot," you say, or at least that's what you want to say, but you lose the sentence to laughter half way through, leaning against his back as he joins in your mirth. Somehow that tiny movement makes him stop laughing on a gasp and then he groans thickly.

"Go on," he insists. "Fucking hell, you're driving me mad!"

"Sorry, just - "

"Bit too much? Yeah, I get that. Think you can move without embarrassing yourself now?"

"Shut up!" you protest.

"Make me," he fires back instantly, his voice low and serious. You groan and press a kiss to his spine before experimentally shifting your hips, pulling a little way out of his body before sliding back in again with another groan. "Mmm, that's right," he murmurs, arching his back to press back against your movements. "Again like that, go on."

You comply wordlessly, because you couldn't gather the brain-power to speak even if you wanted to. This is almost nothing like you'd imagined. It is hot and tight, and you were right about that, of course, but you were not prepared for the way his body clings to you, draws you in, and squeezes around you. All you can do is try to keep breathing, and to establish some sort of rhythm as you move inside him.

You notice that he keeps angling his hips in a certain way, and when you respond by pressing harder he makes this incredible noise. It's somewhere between a breathless gasp and a hoarse shout and it makes your whole body shiver. The suddenly his body lurches forward, and you realise he's propping himself up on his elbows now, in a way which presents his arse to you perfectly. You can't help yourself moving harder, faster, because he is just amazing, this is amazing, his body is -

"Fuck, oh - harder," he begs unexpectedly and you tighten your hands on his hips, bite your lower lip ragged and fuck him harder, sweat stinging your eyes as he arches his back and presses back against you more forcefully.

"Is that - " you gasp out. "I'm - I don't - "

"It's good," he assures you. "So good, so good. Please touch me."

"Oh yeah," you groan, shifting one hand around from his hip to slide over his cock.

"Mnph," he grunts, almost falling onto his face, and you wrap your other arm around his waist as you stroke him, feeling the way he wriggles and strains against you. When he comes all over your hand, the way his body tightens and clenches spasmodically around you is unlike anything you've ever imagined and you press your face into his back, managing a few more ragged thrusts in and out of his body before you're coming as well, white spots darting across your field of vision as you strain every muscle in your body for more.

For a few long seconds you stay frozen like that, the only sound in the room the mingling of your panting breaths with his. Then you gather yourself enough to pull carefully out of his body and fall down onto your back next to him, just as he allows himself to sink down onto the bed, turning his face towards you, blowing hair out of his eyes with a puff of exhalation.

"Good - " he says breathlessly. "Good first effort."

"Sh - uhh - shut up," you wheeze and he turns onto his side, running one hand down your back.

"Only joking," he admits. "That was fucking brilliant."

"Uh-huh," you agree, stretching out again and settling deeper into the mattress. You half-doze for a while, due partly to feeling completely wrung out, and partly to his hands trailing smoothly over your body in such an oddly relaxing way. He makes a quiet humming noise as he kisses your shoulder, and you feel the vibration against your skin, reaching up to curl your fingers into his hair. Your hands feel clumsy and too large, and you stroke them gently through messy, sweat-damp strands until he falls still.

"Tornados, by the way," he says suddenly a little while later, and you blink.

"Tornados what?"

"Don't be thick, Scorp. I'm going to play for the Tornados," he announces, falling down onto his back again, looking up at the ceiling.

"You are?" you ask, unable to help a grin. "All these Slytherin lessons must have paid off."

"Must have," he says with a laugh. "I'm meeting the chairman in Hogsmeade tonight with my dad to sign the contract."

"Congratulations," you nod, and he beams at you.

"Well, you were right. I want to have a career. I want to play for England. I need to get myself out there properly, not waste three seasons farting about at the Cannons."

"Good. You'd better win my team the league, you know."

"I'll work on it," he jokes. "Although I'll need to get out of the reserves first."

"Details," you scoff.

"I uh - I had an interesting conversation with my dad the other night," he says, and you can't help tensing. He wouldn't. Surely he wouldn't talk to his dad about this? What normal person talks to their dad about this? "About the Quidditch, I mean," he says casually, and you hold back a sigh of relief. "You know how – I don't know, I think all parents say they want their kids to be happy – "

"Benefit of all that liberal post-war parenting," you interrupt and he rolls onto his side to face you again, nodding. He reaches down and tugs a sheet up over you both before he continues.

"But you have to work out what they actually mean by that – how they want you to be happy, I mean."

"Right," you say slowly, because he's acting as though this is all terribly important, and you just can't see it yourself.

"Well, my dad – his thing is all about – you know, being your own man and living the life you want, not the one other people want for you, or the one that's handed to you on a plate."

Weirdly, you think it's the intimacy of this moment that makes you reply where you'd usually keep quiet. Never mind what you've done today, or before today, it's this, lying here barely inches apart, looking at him looking back at you, which makes you indiscreet and careless.

"My dad's said similar things," you tell him.

"Yeah?" he asks, seeming surprised.

"Yes. I imagine he puts a heavier emphasis on the part about not letting people make decisions for you than yours does, but - " you shrug. "Similar things."

He makes an interested noise and noses in to kiss you softly before pushing you onto your back and fitting himself in close along your side.

"What time d'you have to leave?" he asks.

"Not yet," you say, even though you're not sure what time it is now, and he curls one hand around your ribs, kissing your jaw before going still, his eyes closing. "I can stay long enough for a bit of turnabout if you're not too worn out," you tease, and he opens his eyes again pretty rapidly at that.

"Yeah?"

"I think you should show me what you were making such a fuss about, yes," you nod and he smiles again, this one blissful and slow to form.

"Definitely," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Oh, I should definitely show you."

He kisses you again and again, his mouth barely moving away from yours in between, his lips clinging to your own while his hands rove gently across your body.

"Yeah," he sighs at one point, shifting back just far enough to look you in the eye. "You're so fucking great."

"James?" you breathe, moving your hands across his shoulders and down his back.

"Mmm?" he murmurs.

"Show me," you tell him, and he does.

For a while it's awkward, but there is something about his delicate explorations that you can't help enjoying. Then it hurts, in spite of his best efforts, but then there is something else, something really brilliant, and you suddenly find yourself clutching at his sweaty back and messily kissing any inch of his skin you can reach. You've never thought, never imagined that anything could possibly feel this good. Even earlier, being buried inside him, even that was not akin to this kind of complete, near-excessive pleasure, and you have to close your eyes because he looks just amazing like this. His eyes are wide and earnest, pupils huge, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth like he's concentrating on something genuinely difficult and massively important. When you crane upwards to kiss him, you can feel the little marks his teeth have embedded in his lip, and you run your tongue over them, greedily swallowing down every noise he makes.

Afterwards he lays himself down half on top of you and showers your face with little kisses, muttering breathless words that you don't quite understand, his hands fluttering over your heaving sides. You give into it without question, turning towards him and pressing your face against his neck, practically clinging to him while you wonder why you can't get your breath back no matter how hard you try.

Later, when you are finally able to think again, you would like to believe it's the sex which causes such a rush of tender emotions, but you know it's not that, it's him. There is something about him, something you don't understand but can't help liking. He has a little bit of that same Potter magic as Albus and Lily, and you don't think any of them realise how much they draw people to them. It's not the money and it's not even the name really, it's some inner core of self-assurance, and you're not sure where they get it from. James' appeal goes beyond even that though. It's something all his own, some kind of warmth and modesty and a lazy charisma that you sometimes think he barely notices.

You lose track of time like that, lying in his arms with his fingers brushing through your hair and down the back of your neck. You must sleep for a while at least, because you open your eyes with a yawn to find him watching you, his eyes bright.

"Mmm, h'lo," he says, kissing your cheek.

"Alright?"

"Mmm," he nods. "Just woke up."

"Me too."

"I saw," he says, nodding again.

"What's the time?" you ask, and he shrugs, kissing the side of your throat.

"Don't know. Don't care. Time is an illusion."

"Very deep, Potter."

"That's me," he nods. "Profound."

"Profoundly crazy," you suggest and he laughs.

"Only about you, pretty-boy," he says, and kisses you before you can object to the name. When he finally moves back you poke him in the ribs as retaliation and he catches hold of your hand as you lie down by his side.

"Think we've missed lunch?" you ask idly.

"Probably by miles," he nods cheerfully. "We can go to the kitchens if you're hungry?"

"Not really," you shrug, and he grins, curling into your side again.

You doze again, and when you finally get up to leave the room later, your body is aching pleasantly and you still feel sweaty and sticky in spite of the cleaning spells. You're reaching for the door handle when he stops you with a hand on your shoulder and turns you around. He looks down at you seriously for a moment and then shakes his head like he can't think what to say. He kisses you instead of speaking, soft and gentle and chaste.

"That was..." he says before trailing off, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone.

"Yeah," you nod, and he takes a deep breath like he's going to speak again, but he just shakes his head once more, kisses you gently and takes half a step backwards, his palm still pressed softly against your cheek.

"Listen, if I don't get to see you before the train tomorrow," he says, "Then - you know, have a good summer."

"You too."

"I'll see you, though," he says determinedly and you look at him.

"For a week," you nod. "As usual."

"Not what I meant," he says with a grin.

"Huh?"

"Oh, you'll find out," he says, looking insufferably pleased with himself and kissing you again. You hook your arms around his waist and he cups your face in his hands as you kiss. His fingers slide into your hair as he moves away and he presses his forehead against yours for a moment. You don't really want to leave the room. In fact what you want is to re-transfigure the armchair back into a bed and drag him over to it so you can exhaust yourselves all over again. Instead you kiss him once more and then step away, opening the door and peeking out into the empty corridor.

"Right," you say in a hushed voice, ducking out of the room and getting the shock of your life when he steps out into the corridor behind you and kisses you once, quick and hard.

"Couldn't help myself," he says with a wink as he moves away before squeezing your forearm once and haring off. You watch him go, and can't help smiling to yourself.

It's only when you get back to the dungeons that you realise you're still grinning, and even then, only because you see the dreamy, completely satisfied look on Al's face. You hope it is not the same as the one on your own, but you're worried that it might be, and you consciously sober up a bit. What's left of Sunday afternoon passes quickly, as does the leaving feast, and before you have seen James again or even really had time to think for five minutes, it is Monday morning and you are loading your trunk onto the Express with Al.

Part D