leashy_bebes | FIC: Getting There

Your seventh and final year at school is strange. It flies past, as everyone warns you it will, but individual days drag by so slowly. The lessons feel twice as long as usual, even though they're not. You and Al have wondered if the staff are performing some slightly illicit spells to stretch out the hours and fill your brains with yet more useless facts. You're a Prefect again this year, to your surprise, and in all honesty, mild irritation, given the amount of work you have. The N.E.W.T.s are a blot on the horizon, but neither you or Al are the type to discuss exams more than a week before they begin, so you both live inside a peaceful little bubble, and have banned Lisa from so much as mentioning them.

You find yourself liking Lisa more and more as the year goes on. She's less shy with Albus, and less shy with you as a result, and you've come to realise that she has quite a wicked sense of humour. The two of you gang up on Al a lot, and a few times you have tested each other on Arithmancy while Al looks on bemused. You can tell that he's pleased the two of you get along, even before he corners you one evening and makes a rambling, vague kind of speech from which you conclude that he wants Lisa to be an extremely long-term thing. It's sweet, really, the way he is about Lisa, all devoted and over-the-top, and even if you find all that stuff slightly daft, you're happy for him.

One of the only major downsides at school is bloody Potions. Although you're a competent enough brewer, the subject has never been your strongest. You know that your high grades elsewhere are largely due to your writing style and that's all well and good in a subject like History of Magic, or even Transfiguration, but Potions requires exact and precise information, and your abilities largely lie with arguing a case. There is not much room for argument in Potions, other than in the odd theoretical essay, and you know that it'll take a lot of work for you to achieve more than an A in the class. You only took it because your other classes are so far on the theoretical side that you will look like an idiot without at least one practical N.E.W.T. to your name.

The other downside is that James is not there. You're sure you'd be a lot less stressed if that particular outlet was still available to you. James is true to his word though, and regularly writes you letters, funny letters, which he is sensible enough to send at odd hours of the day so no one remarks on your suddenly frequent correspondent. He's also subtle enough to use post office owls if his letters are going to arrive when other people are likely to be around. He has his own owl, a frankly terrifying beast which happily flies around the corridors of Hogwarts, often catching you when you're on your rounds. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to realise that James probably times most of the letters to arrive then, when you are alone. When you do realise, you're weirdly touched by it. Sometimes the letters are long and rambling, and sometimes they are half-coherent little notes, and you genuinely enjoy receiving and replying to each one of them.

You'd never have imagined, before, that someone could flirt through a letter, but he absolutely does, and his joking tone is achingly familiar. It makes you miss those stolen moments even more. He is as endearing on paper as he can be in person when he decides to turn on the charm, and he has excellent Quidditch stories now that he's training with the first team on a regular basis. The Tornados' policy is to rotate each reserve player in practices with the first team. It means that each first team player gets an occasional break from training, and the coaches get a real idea of the reserve players' progress. It seems to be going well for him, even though, half-sarcastic 'I am a star, a God among men, an unadulterated miracle on a broomstick' type comments aside, he is actually quite modest about his Quidditch skills.

One Friday, after a depressingly brief (to your sense of self control, anyway) bit of cajoling on his part, you agree to meet him in Hogsmeade so he can Apparate you to his flat for the weekend. You've already laid the groundwork by shuffling your Prefect duties and telling Al you're going home for the weekend. While you're all too aware of the ways your tenuous deception might fall apart, you force yourself not to think about it as you sneak down to the village after dark to meet him in the alley behind Honeydukes.

At first sight, the alleyway seems empty, but suddenly there comes a low whistle from the shadows. You step towards the source of the noise and then there is a flare of wand light and you find yourself looking at James and almost swallow your tongue, because he is wearing a muddied Quidditch uniform, complete with boots that cling to his calves. He looks so sexy it makes your knees weak.

"Hi," he says, and you smile.

"Alright?" you ask a bit weakly.

"Fine," he says. "Ready to go?"

"Yep," you nod, and he steps into your personal space, slipping an arm around your waist.

"I've got my Apparition licence, you know," you tell him. "You could just give me the co-ordinates instead of side-alonging me all over the place."

"Where's the fun in that?" he purrs, pulling you closer.

You tighten your grip on the bag you're carrying just as he tightens his grip on you and Apparates you both. He's kissing you as soon as you arrive, his hands clutched in the front of your robes. You give in to it eagerly and grab at him in return, pressing yourself tight against him, kissing him deeply.

"I like the uniform," you say as you finally part and he laughs.

"Dirty bugger. Late night training," he explains. "I had to come straight from the pitch or I'd have been late."

"You won't hear me objecting," you shrug and he nods.

"Good to know - for future reference and all that. I er - " he ducks his head and looks at you almost bashfully, not quite able to contain a smile. "The coach said I might get a first team start in a few weeks if I keep my game up."

"That's brilliant!" you enthuse, and he smiles properly, the smile that lights up his whole face. "Jenkins is well past his best, hasn't scored more than fifty points together for a whole season and - "

"I never knew," he laughs. "Never knew the extent of your Quidditch obsession."

"It runs extremely deep," you admit with a smile.

"And goes beyond the sight of me in my uniform?"

"A little bit beyond that," you shrug. "Although you do look completely edible," you add and he laughs, kissing you again.

"Right. I need to take a shower," he announces as he steps back.

"Oh. Alright," you say, a bit disappointed at the apparent change in direction, and he cocks an eyebrow at you.

"Join me?"

"What?"

"You heard. You coming or not?"

He kisses you once more and then turns away, pulling off his robes and tugging at his Quidditch jersey, revealing his broad back. You shake yourself and follow him after a moment, and by the time you get to the bathroom (following the long trail of discarded clothes) he is already naked and soaking wet, and covered in soap suds.

The little room is starting to fill with steam as you shrug out of your own clothes and step into the cubicle behind him, sliding your arms around his waist.

"Oh! Hello," he says, starting a bit as you touch him.

"Hello," you say, nosing into the wet hair at the back of his head, herding him forward a bit so you can duck under the spray, and then yelping at the heat.

"Sorry," he laughs. "I like it stupidly hot."

His shower is some sort of Muggle contraption, and he reaches out and jabs at a button on a white box. The heat relents a little and you duck your head under the torrent of water, shuddering at the sensation. Over the sound of the pounding spray, you hear him laugh and turn to look at him curiously.

"You've gone all pink," he says and you roll his eyes.

"Idiot," you inform him, and he steps closer to you, digging his hands into your wet hair and tilting your head up to kiss you.

"I didn't think you'd come," he says when he moves back, and you shrug.

"I said, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but I thought you'd find a reason to - You know what? Never mind."

His fingers wind into your hair again before you can ask what he means, and he kisses you once more, hot and soft, water from the shower slicking your mouths.

"You can't," he breathes, nudging you up against the wall of the shower and kissing you again. "You can't imagine how much I've missed this."

"Don't be so bloody soft," you chastise, squeezing him closer, and he laughs, all lazy smile and sparkling eyes, and you can't resist dragging him down into another kiss.

"Soft, huh?" he asks, nuzzling along your jawline and into your hair, his hands on your shoulders. "Why does that sound like a challenge?" he asks, and you laugh, turning your head to kiss him.

"Because it was. Come on, prove me wrong."

He groans and kisses your throat, your shoulders, your collarbones, before his hand slides down your side to your waist to pull you against him. You can tell in the way that he's slow and careful in his movements that for whatever reason, he is deliberately holding back, purposely being gentle, nearly sweet. He's still getting hard, though, and the fact that you can feel it happening makes part of you want to rip away that self control and feel him all over you, against you, inside you, but you go with it instead, letting him pull you back under the water with him. You shiver at the swirl of air against your chilled back and he moves his hands gently across your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses along your jaw.

You slide your hands up over the swell of his biceps and across his shoulders to loop around the back of his neck, leaning up into his slow kisses. You feel his fingers twine into your hair again and he strokes his other hand firmly down your side.

"This – " he says, breaking away to kiss your neck, muttering his next words to your skin. "This was really not what I was planning," he says, almost apologetically.

"No?" you ask, turning your face to crush him against you, your hands squeezing at his shoulders, distantly wondering what he was planning. "Funny. It's almost exactly what I had in mind," you observe and he laughs, kissing you again.

"I've – mmm – missed you," he says softly between kisses and you falter. He apparently senses your confusion because he kisses you again, harder this time, and then edges bare inches away. "Let's go to bed," he says, and then amends that to, "Let me take you to bed."

You want to tease him for being such a bloody girl (or treating you like one) but the words die in your throat when he nuzzles into your neck, sucking droplets of water from your skin. He switches off the shower a moment later and steps out of the cubicle, grabbing a towel from the rack. When you step out after him he whisks the towel around you and uses it to pull you closer. You decide to forgo drying off and press your body against his, kissing him as demandingly as you can. He makes a soft murmuring noise and drops the towel, wrapping his arms around your waist and walking you backwards and out of the bathroom. He hardly stumbles on his way to another, larger room, and you barely notice your surroundings before he's kissing you again.

"C'mere," he says as he parts your mouths, reaching for your hand and backing up again, leading you towards a double bed. Your patience snaps and you push him down onto the edge of the mattress, straddling his lap and kissing him.

"Fuck," he groans, when you move on to plant biting kisses on his jaw. His hands squeeze at your back, and his hips struggle to move, to press his hard cock against you. You moan into his skin and push against him, and he falls unceremoniously onto his back, taking you with him to sprawl over him. You kiss his wet, open mouth again, shifting to line your hips up with his and thrust against him. He spreads his legs under you, bending his knees to put his feet flat on the bed and grip your hips with his thighs. His hands slide down to cup your arse and pull you in tighter against him, and the noise you make then is not far off a whine.

"Fuck, this is..." you mutter against his jaw. "Feels like it's been ages."

He turns his head again to nudge you into another kiss, his hands clenching and relaxing on you in time with your haphazard thrusts against his body.

"I wanted – " he gasps out between kisses. "Properly, you know?"

"Huh?"

"I wanted – oh, oh God – wanted you to fuck me."

"Later," you promise instantly and he groans. "I want it too," you breathe and his face suddenly goes very still and attentive, even though he keeps moving against you, with you. "A lot. Since – ohh – since about five minutes after the last time actually."

"Yeah?" he asks, and there is something in his voice, prompting you to go on.

"Of course. And I'll know what I'm doing this time," you promise.

"Didn't hear me complaining last time, did you?" he asks and you laugh, shaking your head against his throat.

"This time - this time I'll make you forget your own name," you tell him, and it would probably sound more threatening if you could catch your breath.

"Please, please - fuck," he groans, his whole body going tight under you, and you know it means he's right on the edge, so you press down and grind against him. Sure enough he meets your deliberate movements with rough, sloppy ones of his own, and it's only a few moments before he's crying out, slicking your increasingly ragged thrusts with his come.

"Uhh - ohh - " he groans against your neck, his hands clumsy as they stroke up over your back. "God - you too," he pleads. "I want you to - " and that is it, he doesn't get to finish his sentence because you kiss him again, teeth clashing before you hone in on his lower lip and suck at it, your hips jabbing down against his as you shudder your way through your orgasm.

He lets out a deep breath and his shaking hands finish their journey up your back to tangle his fingers in your hair. You're hardly aware of him stretching out his legs until you settle against him again, letting the gentle pressure of his fingers pull your head down to rest against his collarbone.

"Mmm," he murmurs a moment later, turning his head to kiss your hair. "Definitely, definitely left it too long."

"Yeah," you agree, and he makes another contented humming noise, stroking his fingers down the back of your neck.

"Oh, that was..." He says a little while later, tightening his arms around you and then kissing your scalp. "Mmm, brilliant," he finishes and you laugh, nodding your head against his chest.

"Yeah," you mutter, then shift slightly to lie at his side. He takes the opportunity to reach over and grab his wand from the bedside cabinet. He waves it and you feel the slight tingle of a cleaning charm. After a brief pause he dries off the sheets and both of your bodies as well. He curls himself around you and sighs happily into your hair. You walk your fingertips over his side before falling still. Ten minutes later he still doesn't seem inclined to move and you decide again to just go with it. There is a definite sense of luxury in being able to relax afterwards, and you can't deny that the warm press of his body against yours is more than nice.

You close your eyes before you smooth your hand over his back again, settling down into the sheets. His fingers tighten around the side of your ribcage for a moment and he lets out a blissful sigh against your skin. You're on the verge of sleep when you feel him shifting around. You crack one eye open to find him looking at you.

"Bit creepy," you comment, and he laughs for a moment before sobering up and looking at you again.

"What are you going to do after school?" he asks curiously and you blink at him.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I - " He shrugs. "Don't know. There's just a lot I still don't know about you, I suppose."

"Hm. Well, I want to be a journalist."

"Oh, please tell me you're joking," he says, sitting up suddenly and looking down at you. The look on his face is much the same one Al had worn when you told him in fourth year, and for the same reasons, you'd imagine.

"Not the kind your father has such well-publicised spats with," you hasten to add.

"What other kind is there?" James frowns.

"The serious kind," you point out flatly. "The kind that actually report news and politics, rather than gossip."

"Huh," he huffs, as though he doubts such people exist. "Well, for the record," he says in a lighter tone of voice, "No comment."

"Like I'd want to interview you. Just another brainless Quidditch player."

"You will pay for that," he says.

"Really?" you ask flatly.

"Yeah. At a later date though, I'm pretty knackered."

"You're terrifying," you tell him. "I have every faith that that wasn't an idle threat."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Yes. Slytherin."

"So I suppose you'll be going for one of the summer internships at The Prophet?" he asks.

"Yes," you nod. "I've got the application forms back at school, I just need to send them off."

"Ever-prepared, eh?" he asks, and you shrug noncommittally. "You haven't sent it yet?" James asks, turning onto his side to look down at you curiously. "I thought you'd be the type to do it straight away, give them longer to absorb your brilliance."

"Yeah," you say, shrugging and fixing your eyes absently on a point over his shoulder, not really wanting to get drawn into this. However, he slides his hand across your stomach so that his fingers can drum out a rhythm against your ribs and you find yourself opening your mouth to explain. "I probably won't get it."

"You think?" he asks, sounding surprised.

"Mmm."

"You mind if I ask why not?" he asks gently, and you're quite surprised to find that actually, you don't mind as much as you'd thought you would.

"Name."

"Huh?"

"Malfoy. Doesn't exactly go too well with The Prophet's new liberal ethos."

"Oh," he says, fingers drumming against your ribs again. "That's shit, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Is that - d'you - I mean, does that happen a lot?"

"Well - " you shrug. "Dad always did his best when I was a kid, so not much then. And it's different at school, we're young enough that most people largely ignore it. It's just - the people who run The Prophet now were there. They saw - everything."

"That still - that shouldn't - "

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks down at you. He's frowning and chewing on his lower lip, and he looks like he's caught between being pissed off and thinking hard. You weren't really expecting much of a reaction, and you're not entirely sure what his means so you keep quiet.

"Do you ever get grief at school?"

"Not - " you start but he interrupts you quickly.

"You said they largely ignore it."

"Right. So I largely don't get any grief."

"But - that's - fuckers. What d'you do?"

"Walk away," you shrug, and he looks at you dubiously. "Walk away and then hex them from behind a suit of armour a few days later," you admit and he grins.

"Still," he says noncommittally a moment later. "What kind of friend is my stupid brother, anyway? Why hasn't he beaten them up for you?"

"James. I don't need anyone to beat someone up for me. Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not - Just - that's really unfair."

"Lots of things are unfair," you remind him. "Like the fact that some people get a job that doesn't involve any brain input at all," you say, poking him pointedly in the thigh.

"Quidditch is extremely mentally taxing," he says, reaching down and capturing your hand, fiddling with your fingers. "But - School kids are one thing, but - is this rubbish really going to effect your career?"

"Maybe," you admit, shrugging again. "If it comes to it, I can just help my dad run the estates."

"But you don't want to," he protests.

"Not yet." Shaking your head, you push yourself up to sit next to him, leaning against the headboard. "Listen, James," you say, nudging him and turning your head to catch his eye. "This really isn't something you need to worry your pretty little head about, alright? It's just life."

"But - "

"James," you interrupt flatly. "This was definitely not on my agenda for the weekend."

"Nor mine," he admits, laughing and dispersing some of the tension that's built up. He grabs your hand again and lifts it, kissing your knuckles. "One last thing?" he requests and you nod with a long-suffering sigh.

"Go on, then."

"Lily's Godmother runs The Quibbler," he says eventually, then looks at you almost warily. "I'm just saying."

"The Quibbler?"

"I'm just saying. It's not all Snorkacks and Humdingers these days. There's some halfway decent stuff in among the craziness. That's all. I'm just saying."

"Right," you say slowly. "Well let's leave it there, then."

"Right," he says, squeezing your hand. "Sorry."

"What? Why?"

"I - don't know," he shrugs. "You don't seem to like - I feel like I just dragged all that out of you," he goes on, looking uncomfortable.

"I'd have lied if I wanted to," you tell him after a little while and he slings his arm around your shoulders with a sigh, kissing your temple and tugging you roughly against him.

"Do you have any training this weekend?" you ask, partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire to change the subject.

"Nope," he says, with a satisfied sigh. "Not 'til Monday morning."

You settle closer against him and he tightens the grip of his arm around your shoulders.

"I'm hungry," he says abruptly a few minutes later. "Are you hungry?"

"Er - "

He grabs your hand and hauls you off the bed.

"C'mon," he says. "Let me give you the grand tour."

The flat is only a modest two bedroom affair, but his enthusiasm for it is evident in the way he hustles you from room to room, proudly proclaiming that he painted this one the Muggle way, or took that photograph himself. You get the impression, though, that the current tidiness doesn't reflect its usual state. Sure enough, he finishes his 'grand tour' with,

"And this is the cupboard where I shoved everything I couldn't find a place for. Don't get too close, okay? It might burst at any minute." You step away from the cupboard and nod at a similar one on the other side of the hall.

"And that one?"

"Quidditch stuff," he shrugs. "Right. Food. D'you fancy a bowl of cereal? Or something more?"

"Cereal's fine," you nod, and he leads you back through to the kitchen, rummaging for bowls and milk. You can't stop your eyes lingering on the perfect shape of his bare arse as he moves around the room. When he hands you a bowl of cereal (kids' cereal, you note, the kind with the chocolate flavoured snitches) you can't help laughing as you take it.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," you shrug. "Just never eaten cereal in the nude at..." you crane your head to see the clock, "...almost eleven at night before."

"Ha. Well in my opinion, you should do a great many things in the nude, at all hours of the day," he says firmly and you roll your eyes at him, getting a wink and a little smile in return. "This is nice," he says a while later and you glance up quizzically, wondering if he means the cereal or something else. "I mean - I like you being here," he adds.

"Yeah, it's nice," you grin, looking at him slyly and adding, "Girl."

He gives you a look of mock outrage, then flutters his eyelashes at you. You laugh unexpectedly, dribbling a bit of milk, and he throws a roll of tissue at you.

"Extremely suave," he comments, and you glare, pressing a wad of tissue to your mouth. He polishes off his cereal and lets the bowl clatter into the sink. While you watch from the corners of your eyes, he fills a glass with cold water and drains half of it in one long gulp. You drop your spoon with a rattle and step up behind him, kissing his shoulder. He tips his head back at a weird angle to quirk an eyebrow at you smugly.

"Couldn't resist, eh?" he chuckles, and then gasps when you pinch his hipbone. "Actually," he says, turning round and looking at you teasingly, "That reminds me. You did make certain promises earlier, didn't you?"

"I think I did," you admit.

"Can I presume you intend to make good?" he asks, and you laugh at how endearing he is when he's being completely ridiculous.

"I absolutely do," you promise, and he beams.

"Well then," he says, leaning forward to kiss you once, sweet and teasing. "Shall we?" he asks, nodding over your shoulder towards the bedroom.

"Let's," you agree, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him down into another kiss, this one longer and hotter, as you try to tell him with a kiss about all the plans you have for him, and all the things you want to do to him. As it goes, you don't need to tell him what you want, verbally or otherwise, because he seems to sense it unerringly, and when you get back to the bedroom he pulls you down with him and just completely surrenders himself to your whims.

It's frankly amazing, the way he seems to come apart under your hands, the way he looks at you as though you're the only thing he's ever wanted, as if he trusts you completely and without question. It's amazing, but it's a bit terrifying, too. For the first time, you think you know how he feels when he forces himself to be all slow and careful with you, because the impulse is there for you too now. It's something about the combination of vulnerability and absolute lucidity on his face - as though he has made a conscious decision to give in to anything you want.

You feel the weight of that like a responsibility, and strive with everything you have to make good on your promise. Judging by the way he whines and wriggles (and then after that, by the way he clings to you, refusing to let you move so much as an inch away as he breaths harshly against your skin) you think you've succeeded. Certainly, you know that the sight of him gulping desperately for breath as his hands stutter across your back and he pulls you closer, breathing please please onto your skin, will stay with you for a long time.

Even after he's got his breath under control, and it's started going deep and steady as though he's drifting off, his grip on you doesn't let up. You resign yourself to the not entirely unpleasant thought of falling asleep tangled up in his arms and legs, with his sweaty hair in your face, and his heart thrumming out a steady rhythm under your hand.

He falls asleep before you do, and you're not entirely sure how you know to pinpoint the moment. You can tell though, precisely, even before he lets out a rumbling snore and you have to suppress a groan. A bloody snorer. Not so perfect after all.

"Huphh," he sighs and you glance at his face to see that he's still asleep. "Hmmmf," he mutters and then falls silent, snores tapering off into the occasional tired grumble. You can't help a tiny huff of laughter at his sleepy noises, and once you are sure he's fast asleep you rub your fingertips lightly across his chest, over soft, warm skin and crisp, dark hairs.

Something settles in your stomach, something warm and scary, like a bigger version of what you felt earlier, as though you are responsible for something you don't even understand. You fight the feeling for a moment but it only makes it worse and you start to wonder if you'll ever get to sleep. He sighs again, his arm sliding down your back a little, and you make a conscious decision to give into this weird, heavy warmth. Once that's done, it feels like only a matter of moments before you're blinking your eyes open, closing them quickly against the early morning sunshine pouring through his bedroom window.

You've never woken up next to anyone in the morning before, and it's a strange experience. As you start waking up properly, you become aware of a stripe of heat across your back. You crack an eye open again and realise that it's James' arm, that in fact he is curled around you, his forehead pressed against your arm, one of his legs tangled around yours.

You don't breathe for a second, just bite your lip and stay as still as you possibly can until it becomes clear he's not going to wake up just because you have. You let yourself relax slowly, and it occurs to you that this is the first time since he suggested the idea that you've thought there was anything weird about the idea of sneaking out of school to have – no other words for it – a dirty weekend with your... What? Your best friend's brother, that's what. Merlin's beard...

Still, you're not really inclined to move, and eventually you stop being so acutely aware of every tiny point of contact between his body and yours. At some point in the night he must have dragged the sheets up over both of you because the cool cotton is a sharp contrast to the almost uncomfortable heat of him pressed against you. You find yourself weirdly curious and crane your neck to look at his face. He looks younger in sleep, as most people do, and there is a warm flush across his cheekbones. There are freckles on his nose, lighter than the others on his face, so pale-golden as to be almost invisible, and he has the longest eyelashes of anyone you've ever seen, male or female. You wonder why you never noticed this before, on any of the dozens of occasions you have been this close or closer to his face. After a while, when you have almost become used to the feeling of him lying against your side he stirs a bit, mumbles something, and tightens his grip on you. His face presses into your neck as he sighs, and you can feel his lips shifting against your skin.

"Hey," you say, poking him in the side. "Hey, wake up."

"Mmmph?"

"Wake up."

"Huhz? Wha'sis?"

"Wake up and stop pawing me unless you're going to do it strategically."

"Hmm, strategic pawing," he says around a yawn, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him, kissing you with sleep-warm lips. "Good morning."

"Mmm, morning," you reply softly, smiling against his mouth. He trails his fingertips lazily up and down your spine while you kiss, almost light enough to make you shiver.

Eventually you shift to lie at his side, and he twines your fingers together idly, running his thumb over your knuckles.

"Sleep well?" he asks and you nod. "Good. What'd you want to do today?" he asks after a moment.

"You," you say jokingly and he laughs, squeezing your hand.

"Plenty of time for that," he says, with a suggestive glance at you. "We can go out for breakfast first if you want?"

"Yeah, alright," you nod, and he grins, pushing himself up and kicking the sheets away.

"Come on, then," he says. "Get moving."

"You're keen," you observe, taking the opportunity to watch him padding about the room gathering clothes to wear.

"The sooner we go, the sooner we get back, right?" he points out, winking at you, and you laugh, grabbing your discarded trousers and hurrying off the claim the bathroom before he can. You wash, brush your teeth, and then wander through to collect your bag. It's still lying in the living room where you dropped it last night, and by the time you get back to the bedroom, he is there, dressed and ready to go. As you button your shirt you catch him watching you.

"What?" you ask, adding because he lives in a Muggle area, "Will they think I look weird?"

"They'll think you look like a posh kid, so..." he shrugs. "No harm done."

"Fuck you," you inform him serenely, only to realise that you've mis-buttoned your shirt. He snorts with laughter and moves towards you, batting your hands away and undoing the top three buttons of your shirt, lining them up properly. He pauses before doing the buttons up again and looks at you contemplatively, one corner of his mouth curling in a familiar smile.

"How hungry are you?" he asks, tugging gently on your collar to pull you into a soft kiss.

"Not especially," you shrug, thinking that you know where this is heading, and you certainly like the direction.

"I have the ability to make toast," he announces.

"I'm impressed," you tell him dryly.

"Oh, be quiet, for once," he says, looking amused and exasperated all at once, and pulls you in for another kiss that is anything but soft, fingers making short work of the last buttons on your shirt. His hands move along your ribs, across your stomach and up over your chest to brush your shirt away. You shiver, but from the touch of his fingers, rather than the rush of cool air over your skin, and press yourself closer to him, your own hands going to work on the clothes he only put on ten minutes ago.

You end up eating what he rather grandly calls brunch, and you call toast, scrambled eggs and pumpkin juice about half an hour later, and that seems to set the pattern for the weekend. Every time you decide to go somewhere, and start making yourselves look presentable, one of you will find a reason to waylay the other and make them a good deal less presentable. Admittedly, the first time was his fault, and you like to believe that set a precedent and led to your own behaviour.

The next time is Saturday evening and, granted, this one is entirely your fault. Having decided to go out for dinner ('somewhere classy. To match your shirt,' he'd quipped) you both make an effort to smarten up a bit, and he leaves the bathroom door open while he goes to shave. On your way from the bedroom to the living room, you pass the bathroom and for some reason, the sight of him tilting his head back to draw the razor up his throat awakens something in you. You step into the room and press yourself against his back, hooking your chin over his shoulder.

"Whoa, sharp implement in hand," he says warningly.

"So put it down and use a spell," you suggest.

"I prefer doing it this way," he says firmly.

"Oh well," you shrug, moving your hands around his sides and across his stomach before slipping them into the front pockets of his trousers. "Don't let me stop you."

The razor clatters into the sink and he orders takeaway curry about an hour later. In the end, you barely leave the bedroom until extremely late on Saturday night, in spite of his repeated offers to go out – for a meal, or to a pub, or for a walk. You're lying in bed together, talking quietly when he suddenly sits up with a look on his face like he'd been hit by lightning.

"I know where we can go!" he says.

"We don't have to go anywhere," you tell him. "Especially not this time of night."

"No, it'll be brilliant! Come on, up! Clothes! C'mon!"

"It's almost midnight," you protest.

"C'mon, please. I'll feel rubbish if I lure you out of school and we don't go anywhere."

"Oh, alright," you groan, pushing yourself upright and fending him off one-handed as he tries to drag you to your feet. "Down, idiot."

"Brilliant," he beams, getting up and practically bouncing around the room, grabbing your clothes and throwing them towards you. "Here, put this on, too," he says, handing you a thick black sweatshirt, and pulling on a similar one himself.

"What are you up to?" you demand, his haste infecting you as you scramble into your clothes.

"It's a surprise," he says. "Come here a minute," he says, and you follow him out of the bedroom to the cupboard in the hallway that he'd said held his Quidditch stuff. You'd expected boots, robes and a couple of brooms but he opens the door with a flourish to reveal a collection of at least a dozen classic brooms, and nothing else.

"Bloody hell, James! This is a bit extravagant, isn't it?" you ask, trying to tot up the value of the brooms in the cupboard, and quickly losing track.

"What? Oh, no. I didn't pay more than ten galleons for any of them. I buy them from junk shops and fix them up."

"Really?" you ask, impressed in spite of yourself. You reach out and take a Nimbus 2000 from the collection. This close, you can see the little imperfections, and the signs of careful repair. The balance is perfect, though, and that's usually one area where repaired brooms suffer. "This is really good," you tell him and he pauses in his rummaging to look over his shoulder at you with a smile.

"Thanks," he says. "Ready?"

"Think so," you nod.

"Right, come here then," he says, looping his arm around your waist.

"We're not flying there?"

"We're flying when we get there," he says, and you raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "You'll see," he says cheerfully.

"But - "

"Stop it," he tells you firmly. "It's a surprise, okay?"

"Alright, alright," you relent, getting a tighter grip on the Nimbus and readying yourself for the jolt of Apparition.

>>Part F