Archive of Our Own

2004

FRIDAY

The floo flashed green and Charlie tumbled out into Theo’s bedroom. Theo was holding his breath and chewing his lower lip and staring all at once. He hadn’t unblocked the bedroom floo in years. Charlie’s loose curls looked windswept, his freckled face expectant. He was already starting to smile.

Theo had put off all of Charlie’s attempts to visit, telling Charlie he liked coming to him. And he did. He liked seeing Charlie in Charlie’s cottage, where everything felt like Charlie and Theo felt like he wasn’t in his own life at all. He liked crawling into Charlie’s bed and smelling Charlie on the sheets—cold wind and fire and smoke and him—and falling asleep, waiting for Charlie to come home and find him there, like a little present.

But he had been in Charlie’s bed and Charlie had been holding him down and kissing his throat while he talked—babbled, really—and then Charlie had lifted his head and said, “You have a load of lads living there and I haven’t seen it?”

“What?” said Theo. “What was I saying?”

“Ooh, very aristocratic,” said Charlie now, looking around. “Why didn’t you want me here?”

“It’s full of dark magic, one wing is haunted, and the elves cursed it after Father killed too many of them during the war,” said Theo, watching him. Charlie looked even more himself when he was in an incongruous place. He didn’t make himself smaller or quieter or try to fit in.

“Bill would love it,” said Charlie, his eyes sparkling. “We should invite him over.”

“You want to invite Bill over?” asked Theo stupidly.

“Why not?” asked Charlie.

Theo wasn’t sure why not. He’d just thought . . . well, maybe he had thought Charlie would look around and see the inside of Theo’s head in his surroundings and realize Theo was for fun, not for keeps. Theo would understand. Who wanted this for keeps? Who wanted to invite their family into the way that Theo lived? But, then, Charlie thought dragons were big dogs and his favorite brothers were Bill and George—

“You haven’t seen the rest,” said Theo. “This is the good part.”

“Is it?” asked Charlie, who was backing Theo toward his fourposter, his hands on Theo’s ribs, Theo’s hands on his biceps, Charlie’s muscular body against his. He pecked Theo on the lips and then pushed him onto the bed. “The good part is when I shag you senseless in this posh bed of yours and then we go explore your haunted house.”

“Yeah?” asked Theo.

“Yeah,” said Charlie, grinning. “Why not?”

Charlie was generous with his fingers and his tongue and the lube and the check-ins. He said, “Yeah?” And “All right?” And “Still good?” And “Still with me?”

Still with me. Charlie wouldn’t let Theo drift off. Theo realized he was used to people preferring that. Theo preferred that—he could let his mind wander and just be used. It didn’t matter if it hurt. But if he winced with Charlie, Charlie slowed and said the charm again and wouldn’t go back to railing him until he said he was all right. Theo felt a lot more of the sex with Charlie and it was a little overwhelming. Now he was slick with lube and sweat and his own come and Charlie had a very tight grip on him and was pounding the absolute hell out of him, grimacing with exertion and pleasure, and Theo was breathing hard and was dizzy, like he couldn’t get enough air.

Charlie said, “You’re doing so good,” and Theo sucked in a breath and held it. And then Charlie was coming in him, and then Charlie was kissing him, caging him in, his mouth against Theo’s when he said, “Love you.”

Theo went still.

Charlie pulled back. “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”

Theo shook his head no. But he was lying. It hurt him, hearing Charlie slip and say that. “I’m good,” he said, breathing shallowly.

“Yeah you are,” said Charlie, grinning.

He leaned in and kissed Theo and Theo went with it, his heart racing from the sex.

Charlie pulled out with a grunt and cast a casual scourgify and threw himself down on his back next to Theo, pulled Theo to him. They lay with their heads together, Theo’s nose against the pulse in Charlie’s temple, his arm thrown across Charlie, Charlie’s heart beating hard while he caught his breath. Theo could feel the lube and sweat and come drying on his skin. Charlie liked to make a mess of him and he liked a cuddle. He liked kissing and rimming and roughhousing and looking into Theo’s eyes while he made Theo whimper. Theo had been choked and gagged and tied up, he had cried and pleaded while people hurt him, he had been shared and passed from one person to the next, but this—Charlie looking into his eyes while Theo gasped, unable to look away—was the kinkiest shit that had ever been done to him.

Eventually, Charlie turned his head and kissed him and said, “Should we get cleaned up?” And then they got handsy in the en suite.

Theo had a load of lads in the Manor because of Draco. These ducklings had been cast adrift when Longbottom wiped out the blood purists who had recruited them to play child soldier, and now—after seeing Draco kissing Granger on the front page of Witch Weekly—they’d attached themselves to him while they sorted out whether they were possibly not bigots. Draco had them spying for him after giving them clerking jobs in the Malfoy LTD subsidiaries. But Draco wouldn’t let them traipse in and out of Malfoy Manor. Which was where Nott Manor came in. The theory being: anyone who would live here wasn’t lying about being desperate.

Theo stepped out into the hallway with Charlie and immediately turned to lock the double doors to his suite. It was a series of spells of his own design—Charlie could overhear him and still not get them right. The wandwork was tricky, and Theo’s casting was fast and delicate. But when he turned back, Charlie wasn’t watching him—he was standing with his hands on his hips, gazing at the debris-strewn hall runner, the water- and smoke-stained walls, the heavy cobwebs. Bina kept Theo’s suite clean—the air out here smelled of musty rot and thick dust and, faintly, of sulfur.

When Charlie glanced over at Theo, he looked excited. “This will be fun,” he said.

“Want to go by the nursery?” Maybe it was the thought of Bina that brought it to mind. She’d been his nanny elf. “The ghosts cry a lot, but you can see where I grew up.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Charlie. He reached out and took Theo’s hand, knocked his shoulder against him. “Show me everything.”

“Oh, you’ve got your own pitch,” said Charlie, peering out through a second-floor window. The sun was beginning to set. Theo was surprised he could see anything through the dirt-streaked glass and cobwebs.

“Yeah, course,” he said.

“Bit overgrown,” said Charlie. “Your hoops are down.”

“None of these words means anything to me,” said Theo and Charlie snorted. “Notts—”

“—aren’t sporty,” finished Charlie. “Why do you have a pitch, then?”

“Cause everyone else has one,” said Theo. “Obviously.”

“So what’s the nature of this curse?” asked Charlie. They’d made their way down to the ground floor, careful of the holes on the stairs, and were headed toward the guest wing, where the boys were. Under the persistent drip of water, Theo could hear the paintings—they’d been muttering and swearing and crying since he’d turned them to the wall. It had been during his house arrest, when he’d got sick of them—and realized one day, drunk, that no one was there anymore to tell him he couldn’t. He’d spent the day getting drunker and flipping them around. The portraits would be cursing him now if they could see he’d brought a Weasley here.

“No repairs stick,” said Theo. “And any attempt to make a repair will trigger exponentially worse damage elsewhere on the property.”

“And you don’t know where,” said Charlie, starting to grin.

“Right,” said Theo. “Though sometimes you can hear it. It took us a while to catch on.”

Us. It didn’t feel right in Theo’s mouth. It had been a long time since there had been an us here, and longer since Theo had felt he was part of it. It hadn’t been a good feeling, when he’d felt a part of it.

Blood was running down the wall in a sheet. They’d cleared the entrance hall with the downed chandelier and the cracked flooring and brown stains everywhere and made it up more stairs with soiled runners and broken bannisters. Now they were on their way into the guest wing. Theo had been here in recent memory. (Out of curiosity, not humanitarian reasons.)

“Mental,” said Charlie, gazing at the bright red blood. “Does it seep through to the floor below?”

“No!” said Theo. “It’s site-specific and fairly self-contained.”

“Nice,” said Charlie, nodding.

Theo could hear noise drifting toward them—male voices and thuds and laughter. He could feel a new tightness in his chest. His body remembered these sounds from Hogwarts.

Theo pushed open the double doors, and then they moved—fast—over the boards that had been laid over the gaps in the floor. The elves had allowed it. Did they like having the boys here—people in the house again? Then the smell hit Theo—sweat and spunk and armpits and dirty socks—and he was back in the Slytherin boys’ rooms. He was fifteen and the Puffs had just jumped him outside the kitchens and broken his jaw. He was fourteen and Flint had beat on him after he saw Theo looking at Pucey too much. He was twelve and Draco was saying, Just stay with me—your roommates are pure rubbish.

The wallpaper was peeling here, the floorboards creaking—and there, ahead, Theo could see boys crouched in the hall. They were yelling over something. He looked over—Charlie was grinning. They stepped past muggle beer bottles and broken glass, and then they were passing open doors. Theo could see piles of moldering laundry, more bottles, an overflowing ashtray spilled across a sagging mattress, a boy looking up from his book, two shirtless lads swinging—a fistfight or bareknuckle boxing, Theo couldn’t tell. The boys said they were legal, but Theo thought a lot of them were fifteen or sixteen—they looked young. (Had he and Draco looked that young?) They were shooting dice in one room and racing rats in the hallway. Their heads turned on a swivel when they realized he was there.

“Sir,” said one, standing up.

Theo was looking for Barry, their usual spokesman, but he didn’t see the lad.

“And who’s this?” asked Charlie—Theo glanced over to see him picking up a large white rat. The winner of the race. His owner was getting to his feet as Charlie straightened with the animal.

“Whiskers Krum,” said the lad to sniggers. “All right, all right! My little brother named him—”

Charlie was laughing, already turning to Theo, lifting the rat to show him. “Sweetheart—"

“Sweetheart!” chorused the boys to whistles. “Ooooh!”

One of the bolder boys: “Lord Nott, is this your man?”

Charlie was smirking. He poked Theo in the ribs with the hand not holding Whiskers Krum. “Lord Nott.”

Theo was smirking back as he squirmed, grabbing at Charlie’s fingers. How many times had he said I’m Malfoy’s man and seen the other person’s eyes widen. He’d never said—

“Yes,” he said, staring down Charlie. His chest felt oddly numb. “This is my man.”

“I’d think so,” said Charlie, looking Theo down and up.

“Oh my Merlin,” muttered one of the boys and then the others were laughing and shoving at him.

Theo was smiling faintly, his lips parted, just watching Charlie, who didn’t look at all abashed. 

“All right, lads. How many are you?” asked Charlie, scanning the group in the hall. “Do we have enough for full teams if we try out that pitch tomorrow?”

“We’re playing quidditch?”

“There’s twenty-two of us!”

“Some of us are just too busy fucking—” The boy pounded on the closed door next to him. “—to be here.”

“Brilliant. We can sub in and out.” Charlie looked to Theo.

“Moi?” Theo flapped a hand to his chest. “No.”

“Hear that, Whitby? We’re playing quidditch tomorrow!”

The door jerked open to reveal a naked lad with a hard cock. “So piss off until tomorrow, then!” The door slammed.

“George can bring his gear,” said Charlie. “Tell Malfoy we’ll let him play seeker for the losing side. Does everyone have a broom?” He was ordering the boys about as they made plans to share when he caught the expression on Theo’s face. “I didn’t tell you I was Gryffindor team captain?”

Salazar’s sweaty sack, Draco would never let him live this down. One of the boys was offering Theo a bottle of gin, and he took it.

“You know,” said Charlie casually, petting Whiskers Krum, “I saw Victor Krum catch the snitch against Ireland in the ‘94 World Cup—”

The hallway erupted.

“No! You did not!”

“Bastard!”

“Did you really?”

“Tell us everything!”

Now Charlie was describing specific moves—the Wronski Feint—and an on-pitch fight between mascots. It washed over Theo—he was watching Charlie, his eyes alive, his hair wild, grinning as he held the rat and gestured with his free hand.

“But I’ve always regretted not punching Krum square in the jaw after he injured my Chinese Fireball—”

“Merlin, you’re Charlie Weasley,” blurted one of the boys.

Theo watched as Charlie—his man—laughed and said, “Yeah, I am.”

The hallway was abuzz—Theo saw a few heads poke out from open doors.

“Do you really have a Horntail?”

“Can we come to the preserve?”

“How many men has it killed?”

“Killed or eaten?” said Charlie. Now he had the rat on his shoulder so he could describe his Horntail with both hands, his rolled sleeves showing off the burn scar on his arm. Earlier, Theo had licked the scars on his chest and neck.

Theo leaned against the rotten wainscotting and sipped the gin and watched Charlie—his man—win over these lads. (Since when had there got to be twenty-two of them? Hadn’t they started with six?) They were afraid of Draco. Unsure about Theo. But they loved Charlie. 

Love you.

Theo felt a shiver down his neck. Charlie had slipped. He came from a big family that said that like hullo and goodbye. People didn’t say that to Theo. Theo didn’t want them to.

It was late.

Charlie had regaled the boys with stories about his dragons and asked all the other rats’ names and shot dice with Whiskers Krum on his shoulder—drinking a prodigious amount of firewhisky and talking loads of rubbish after Whitby and Barry emerged from behind the closed door and Whitby proved to be a Falcons fan—and now Theo and Charlie were making their way back to Theo’s rooms.

Charlie’s arm was slung around Theo’s waist while he sang about the Cannons, and it was hitting Theo that Charlie was actually going to spend the night.

Theo realized he had been anticipating Charlie finding a reason to go back to the cottage.

Charlie’s shoulders were warm and solid under Theo’s arm. Theo could still feel what Charlie had done to him earlier. Charlie jostled against him—he was here, he was real, Theo had never felt quite this way about another person.

But.

But maybe it was Theo who wanted Charlie to go back to the cottage. It was strange, having him in the Manor. Theo didn’t want him to leave—but maybe he did. Maybe it would just be more comfortable—missing Charlie instead of waiting for Charlie to get tired of being here with him. Waiting for Charlie to say, “I need a break, sweetheart. I’ll see you next time, yeah?”

Theo unlocked the doors to his suite, Charlie yawning beside him, running his hands roughly through his hair. Then Charlie was unbuttoning his shirt and brushing past him while Theo locked everything back up. When he caught up to Charlie, he was in the en suite, turning to Theo to say, “I’m using your toothbrush.”

He was, in fact, already using it.

“Forgot mine,” said Charlie before spitting into the sink.

Charlie had not, in fact, brought anything with him.

Charlie drank two glasses of water from the tap and pecked Theo on the lips on his way out of the room—he smelled like firewhisky and smoke and Theo’s spearmint toothpaste—and Theo took his time pissing and washing his hands and washing his face and using his wet toothbrush but he couldn’t reckon what he was thinking.

When he came out, Charlie had stripped off and was standing naked by Theo’s bed, shaking his sheets into place. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Which side is yours?”

He’d caught Theo staring—the dense freckles on Charlie’s shoulders and forearms, his white, unfreckled arse. “That side,” said Theo, jerking his chin.

And Charlie climbed in, yawning.

Theo stripped off to his pants and noxed the lights and got into bed.  

Then Charlie, drunk, landed a rough kiss on his head and said, “Love you,” and promptly started to snore.

Theo shoved him onto his side.

Charlie woke long enough to pull Theo’s arm around him, and Theo remembered Draco doing the same when they were fifteen.

SATURDAY

Charlie was up with the sun, humming his Cannons terrace anthem and throwing open Theo’s window.

“Bugger me,” moaned Theo.

“How do I call your owl?” asked Charlie.

Theo lay flat on his back and sighed. Then he called Bina, thankful she was still speaking to him. He asked for Mercury and breakfast. Charlie had disappeared into the en suite.

“Is Nero still in control of the grounds?” asked Theo.

Bina nodded nervously.

Charlie reappeared in one of Theo’s dressing gowns, open at the chest.

“Bina, this is Charlie,” said Theo. “Charlie, Poppaea Sabina.”

“A Weasley,” murmured Bina, staring at Charlie’s loose ginger curls.

Charlie brightened and asked Bina’s favorite breakfast food. She wrung her hands happily as, together, they ranked sausage fillings.

When breakfast came, Charlie’s plate had sausages. Theo hadn’t been given sausages in four years. Theo drank his lukewarm tea and watched Charlie eat them while he wrote a note to George on Theo’s monogrammed stationery. Theo wrote his own note to Draco for second delivery.

Mercury arrived at the sill with an irritated hoot—he was a terrible bird—and Charlie jumped up to tie the messages to his legs. Five minutes later, he was still talking to the owl and stroking his plumage. Finally, Mercury nipped him and flew away, and Charlie turned back to Theo with a smile. “So that’s done!” He picked the butterfly knife up off the bedside table nearest the window and began to flip it open and closed. “Oh! Bina’s cleaned my clothes.” They were folded now, at the foot of the bed. Charlie dropped the knife onto the side table and went to examine them. When Charlie got away from the routine of the cottage, he had no attention span whatsoever.

“You’re getting dressed?” asked Theo.

“Didn’t say that,” said Charlie, smirking, and then Theo was on him. Charlie’s hands untied the sash of Theo’s robe while he kissed him. “Still early. I reckon George and Malfoy will need some time to get their gear together.”

He pushed Theo onto the bed and climbed on top of him. Then he was straddling him, tying the sash around Theo’s wrist.

“Where is this going?” asked Theo, grinning.

Charlie shrugged. “Let’s find out.”

“KNOCK KNOCK, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

“George is here! GEORGE!” Charlie was leaned out the window, yelling toward the front gate.

“COME GET THIS GEAR,” said George, his voice reverberating with the sonorous.

Theo sighed and untied his wrist. When he looked out the window, lads were streaming from the Manor. He got dressed and apparated down with Charlie to unlock the gates.

“Nott,” said George, jerking his chin with a smirk.

Then he and Charlie were clapping each other on the shoulder, and Charlie was picking up George’s second broom. Theo’s eyes played over them, next to each other. They were unmistakably brothers and yet undeniably each their own person. Theo’s father had wanted Theo to be his appendage and had hated Theo when he wasn’t. It was only as he got older that Theo wondered whether his father would have hated him even if he had been. Theo had thought his father hated everyone but himself—but now he wondered if he had hated himself especially.

“Angie’s not coming?” asked Charlie.

They’d begun to walk toward the overgrown pitch. Charlie and George had George’s trunk levitating between them. Boys were trailing after them, stealing glances. Theo could guess they’d grown up calling the Weasleys blood traitors and furtively buying George’s joke products.

“Said she’s taking the afternoon to drink wine and watch muggle telly, and if I come back before dinner, she’s deploying the security devices.”

Charlie laughed. “What, are you rowing?”

“Nah, just sick of my face ‘cause she’s been filling in—short-staffed at the shop.”

One of the boys made a noise.

George looked around. “Oh, do we have an applicant? Nott! Can I have a lad?”

“Yes, we have extra,” said Theo.

“Come see us after,” said George, chucking his chin at the boy. “How do you feel about workplace injuries? Think about it.”

“Oi, Nott!”

Theo turned back and there was Draco at the gates—in his old green and white quidditch jumper. Salazar. Theo couldn’t help grinning. He trotted back to let him in.

When he got to the gates, he saw—Draco had come with Pip. He had his broom over his shoulder and held a platter of raw meat cradled by one arm. Theo knew a bribe when he saw one. Pip was surveying the unkempt grounds with her hands on her hips and a look of disdain.  

“Hullo, Pip,” said Theo, giving her his best smile. He crouched down and she broke off her withering glare to give him a pitying pat on the cheek.

“Pip has generously donated her time and these venison sweetbreads, a gift from the Malfoy grounds elves to the Nott grounds elves from the Malfoy elves’ latest hunt,” said Draco formally. Theo stood and Draco muttered, “Is Nero still in control of the grounds?”

“It seems so,” said Theo, sotto voce.

Draco took a bracing breath, and Theo said, “Thank you for coming, Pip.”

She nodded and set off at a brisk pace.

“Malfoy,” said George when they caught up to the others. His smirk had taken on an edge as he eyed Draco’s jumper, and Theo remembered George helping to put Draco in hospital, back at Hogwarts. The twins had been dirty fighters—just what you’d expect.

“Weasley,” said Draco dryly, and George laughed. Theo knew they got on just fine when quidditch wasn’t involved.

“Hullo, Pip,” said George. “This is my brother Charlie.” Beating Theo to it.

Theo narrowed his eyes at him as he slid his hands into his pockets—and found the butterfly knife. He didn’t remember picking it up. But, then, his pockets were often a bit of a surprise—usually because he’d been drunk.

The lads were organizing themselves—Barry back in the role of mother hen, he and Whitby standing six feet apart—and Theo idly flipped the knife open and closed and looked at Pip smiling fondly as she watched them. The elves liked babies and children best. Theo could understand that—most people only got worse. The Nott grounds elves had decided they were done entirely with humans, and Theo couldn’t blame them. Now he kept an eye out in case he needed to intercede, but there was nothing much he could do against their magic—maybe prostrate himself and ask them, please, not to disembowel anyone.

George and Charlie were standing together—Charlie’s back to Theo—as Charlie looked over George’s second broom. Then Charlie was wrenching off his boots and shucking off his trousers and tossing them onto the grass. He stood in his pants, holding up George’s spare flying breeches. “Bit of a squeeze, eh?”

Draco caught Theo’s expression and rolled his eyes as he walked past.

George was saying, low and confidential, his head canted toward Charlie’s, “Mum’s been talking to Laura—”

“Godric, Mum,” said Charlie. “Just marry her yourself.”

George snorted. And Theo’s stomach dropped.

Charlie still had a witch. Of course he did.

Theo watched as Charlie pulled on the breeches, saying something to George he didn’t catch. His eyes played over Charlie’s thighs, his arse—they had just been naked in Theo’s bed. So what, right?

He must go to her when Theo wasn’t coming to him at the preserve. She knew his mum. Was waiting for Charlie to propose. That’s who he’d got used to saying love you to. That made more sense than—

Theo felt his shoulders drop and his face go sullen. Fine. That’s how it was.

Stupid that Theo had thought something different. Just because Charlie had told him to stop sleeping around.

Theo took in a deep breath through his nose, his jaw set. He flipped the knife open. The knife he’d taken off rough trade in Knockturn.

He felt like hurting someone.

“Where’s the She-Weasel?” called Draco from where he was sitting in the grass, strapping on his leathers. “You’re not playing your ringer?”

“Contract won’t let her,” said George, looking over to him. “No pick-up games against bozos who might ring her bell right before a big match.”

“You’d do that to your own sister?” Draco sounded delighted.

“Have done,” said George. “Falcons sent me a fruit basket when it got out.”

“That reminds me,” said Charlie, turning. “Malfoy, you’ve got Whitby. Whitby! You two shitbirds can stick together.”

“Whitby, my good man!”

Then Draco and Whitby had started a Falcons call and response.  

“You going to say something to Mum?” asked George, his mouth twisted in amusement.

“No,” said Charlie, sharpish—Theo hadn’t heard him like that. “I haven’t talked to Laura in two years. If Mum wants to lead her on, that’s her business. I’m not getting dragged into that.”

Charlie shook his hair back from his face as he turned, and Theo straightened and flipped the knife closed.

It was a beautiful day. He felt like hugging someone.

Theo spun on his heel, whistling, and went to sort out his seating.

Draco and Theo stood to the side in grass to their knees—the pitch had been overrun by ornamental silver grass. Draco had his broom in hand, the platter of heaped sweetbreads held at the ready. The deer thymuses and pancreata were a mottled white and pink. Pip and Nero were negotiating in their own language. 

Nero’s tone was challenging.

They went back and forth while the boys waited, eyes darting between them.

Then Pip said something authoritative and lifted her chin. She held out her hand, and Draco thrust the broom to Theo’s chest and stepped forward with the sweetbreads. Draco presented them to Nero silently. A pause—Theo holding his breath—and then Nero took the platter and Pip said something approving as Draco stepped back. Draco and Theo carefully did not look at each other—if Nero thought they were taking the piss, the hoops would stay down and something incendiary would probably happen to the pitch. 

Finally, Nero turned to a cluster of grounds elves that had appeared. He called out in their language—

And then the Nott elves raised the hoops.

The boys clapped loudly and cheered.

Nero’s back straightened.

“No blood, no penalty. Slop counts,” called Charlie. “C’mon, sweetheart, you’re starting us off.” 

“Me?” said Theo. 

“Let’s go, lover!” hollered Draco, staring Charlie down. 

“Oh, it’s on,” snickered George, swinging his bat in circles behind Charlie. 

Theo had trotted to the trunk sitting between them in a rough circle of trampled grass, the lid unlatched but still closed. Now he heaved it open and unstrapped the quaffle, grabbed it before it got loose, and threw it up into the air. 

“GET IN THE HOLE!” yelled the quaffle as it streaked past Charlie to be caught by one of the boys. 

George grinned as Draco said, “Really?”

Theo was releasing the bludgers, which were trying to mash his fingers. 

“EAT SHIIIIT!” yelled the first as it missed Draco’s head. 

“GET BENNNT!”

“That loses the element of surprise, George.” Charlie had turned to look at his brother. 

“But adds the element of amusing verbal abuse,” said George. “Duh.”

Then Theo released the snitch and Draco was off, Charlie just behind him. 

Theo retreated to his rug.

The manor pitches didn’t have stands. Society women didn’t want to sit on a hard wooden bench—they wanted to lounge on picnic blankets and mill with cocktails while the match played out overhead. Theo had memories of lying with his head in his mother’s lap, her skirts spread around them, her fingertips in his hair.

Maybe Bina remembered that too—she’d conjured heavy Persian rugs for Theo and the spectating lads, arranged them on the flattened grass. She and Pip stood together, talking excitedly—Bina smiling in a way Theo hadn’t seen in years. Now Theo conjured a few cushions. And a cashmere throw. And then several pillows—

“WASTE OF SPAAACE!”

Theo now had a bone china dish of strawberries. (Bina was happy!)

“FUCK YOUUUU!”

A brown and white goat kid bounded up to Theo and bleated. 

“Shh,” whispered Theo. “Charlie’s not meant to notice you.”

(Stealing the goat from the preserve had been easy. Theo had just leaned over the pen’s fence and scooped the kid up, walked to the portkey point with it tucked under his arm. Maybe he should have taken a second to keep it company?)

The kid climbed up on Theo with its hard little hooves, and then jumped off him, and then back on, and then back off, and Theo fed it the strawberries as it came and went. The lads not playing were yelling insults and placing bets and trying to lure the kid over to be pet.

“Godsdamnit!” The kid had bounced over to butt one of them in the chest with its sharp little horns.

“GOOAAAAL!”

Theo looked back to the sky. The game had been going on for some time while he’d been conjuring cushions and playing with the goat and daydreaming about his mother. (Sometimes Theo lost time.) Quidditch—so pointless, except as an excuse to put people in tight pants. Theo could appreciate flying breeches, and the way Charlie’s forearm flexed when he gripped the broom. He looked good with his freckled cheeks pink from the wind, his hair blowing around his head—he hadn’t tied it back. 

Draco had come to a standstill, squinting as he scanned for the snitch, his mussed hair fallen over his forehead. It took Theo back, it did—to watching in the stands with a flask, Pansy calling Draco’s name too loudly in front of the other witches, Theo thinking ahead to the party. There was usually someone he spent the night trying to find, and someone he spent the night trying to avoid—and sometimes it was the same person. Sometimes it was Draco, because Draco had kissed him at the last party and Theo wanted to kiss him again.

Purebloods weren’t gay—there were strategic marriages to be made, heirs to produce. You could let another bloke suck you off and say it was hedonism, but you couldn’t hold hands on the way to Hogsmeade. You couldn’t go to the Yule Ball together. You couldn’t call that bloke your boyfriend. You’d get your face bashed in. 

Theo used to kiss boys at parties and it was a joke so long as he kissed all of them. A showy mwah on the lips before they pushed him off. It was usually only Draco who wanted to snog. He would tilt his head, open his mouth to deepen the kiss, feel up Theo’s thigh while Theo played with his hair.

If anyone called Draco gay, Draco said, “I’m irresistible, is what I am. What are you, a shop clerk? I’ve heard the lower classes are prudes,” or “Yeah, that’s right. Come here and I’ll fuck your mouth. No, keep talking. I’m picturing it right now. I’m going to have to wank soon,” or “I fucked your witch in the arse, does that count?” Draco chased so much skirt and talked so much shit, people gave it up.

And Theo didn’t push it. He didn’t try to kiss Draco when they were alone. It was a stunt if there was an audience. It was the end of their friendship if it was just them. When Theo tried to imagine how it would work, his brain skittered away. And, in real life, he did too. Theo would see Draco on the common room sofa with a girl and approach from behind, fist Draco’s hair, pull his head back, bend over him to kiss him, the long line of Draco’s throat exposed, and Draco wouldn’t fight him a bit. Then Theo would find another boy at a different party to shag him and avoid Draco for the next two weeks. 

Still with me? No. Theo had never risked not being enough for Draco. Draco fancied girls. And so did Theo. Theo didn’t want a boyfriend.

Still. Sometimes, buzzed and bored in the stands, Theo would picture it: Draco dropping his broom at the end of the match and pulling him in by his scarf. Draco smirking when he came to find him in the library. Draco walking to class with him, fingers linked, shoulders bumping. Draco going off if anyone said anything.

Then Draco went and got himself Marked. And Theo learned that people stopped messing with you if you hurt them bad enough.

Now Theo hurt people for Draco sometimes, and when people called him Draco’s boyfriend, they meant it as an insult.

“SUCK MY DIIIICK!”

Theo could see an alternate timeline in which Draco married Astoria after Azkaban, and he and Draco kept trying to drink themselves to death like that first year of Draco’s house arrest, and all the flirting and teasing finally turned to shagging—Draco kissing him hard on the settee in the study while Tori sat with the baby in the nursery. Draco pulling him down on top of him in the marital bed when Tori took the baby to see her parents. Draco with his arm around Tori at the Malfoys’ Yule Ball, glancing at Theo and then making sure not to touch him all night. Draco kissing him in front of everyone at midnight on New Year’s Eve and then saying, “Someone had to! This one can’t find a wife. When are you getting married, Nott?” with a look at Theo’s expression that said Theo had better not get cute. Draco buttoning his shirt and saying, “We’re trying for a second. You need to make yourself scarce.” Draco zipping his trousers, saying, “We have to stop whatever this is. Tori’s threatening to take my heir. We were just blowing off steam. It never meant anything.”  

“Ooh, ooh.” George threw his arm up and caught the bludger against the flat of his bat with an extra tap to reverse its course before he hauled back and walloped it. “That’s that shit I like.”

“PISS OFFFF!”

And he laughed as it nearly took off Draco’s head.

Theo imagined being Draco’s open secret, and it felt like . . . what he deserved? A relationship that wasn't a relationship. Where no one owed him anything. Where he was to blame. So why had he felt so angry when he’d thought there was a witch expecting to marry Charlie?

Theo scanned for his man.

Draco was speeding toward the snitch and Charlie was coming in hot, pacing him, leaning toward him. Draco, eyes on the snitch, crouched lower over the broom. Charlie knocked into him. Draco elbowed him off. Charlie shouldered him, their thighs rubbing. Draco reached out and grabbed Charlie’s broom, shoving it away. The snitch took a sharp right turn and Draco pushed off Charlie and was away. Charlie circled round and was after him. Draco swung his arm back, hitting him with a closed fist. Charlie hooked his arm, and then they were locked together.

“GOOAAAAL!”

Theo fed the kid a strawberry and watched Charlie and Draco tumble through the air. The lads were yelling, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Charlie and Draco were spiraling, all fists and elbows and knees. They were falling to earth, punching and shoving. Faster . . . faster . . . faster. Then one of them braked just above the ground and they disappeared with a WHOMP into the knee-high silver grass. The snitch was suddenly there, buzzing over them like a nosy terrier—

Draco’s hand darted out—

—and grabbed it.

“Motherfucker!”

Theo heard a loud groan.

Theo was already up, pushing through the grass—

And then Charlie and Draco were sitting up—laughing.

Charlie slapped Draco on the back.

Draco was smiling like they were fifteen again.

Charlie looked up to Theo. “Hey, there—”

“You hurt?” asked Theo. He felt strangely . . . worried.

“I’m good,” said Charlie, jerking his chin, grinning.

And then Theo was on him. He dropped down, pushed Charlie back—

“I’m not hurt either,” said Draco, somewhere to Theo’s right.

Theo straddled Charlie, his hands on either side of Charlie’s head in the flattened grass—

Draco was climbing to his feet, the snitch held aloft. “Shitbirds United!” he yelled, and his team cheered.

Theo buried his nose in the crook of Charlie’s neck, breathing him in—sweat and the musk of his armpits and leather and broom rosin. “You smell delish,” he said, low.

“You smell like goat,” said Charlie, his voice husky. “Why is that?”

“No idea,” said Theo as the kid, bleating, bounded up and butted Charlie in the shoulder.

Charlie pushed the kid away and then Theo was caging Charlie in between his forearms, the rest of the world falling away. He sensed someone hefting up the kid and leaving, the calls of Draco and George and the boys just distant noise. Theo was kissing Charlie, Charlie’s hands on his thighs.

“You’re my man, huh?” murmured Theo.

“Yeah,” said Charlie.

“Say that thing again,” said Theo. “The thing you said last night.”

“What?” said Charlie. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing,” said Theo.

“No, what’d I say?”

“Before you fell asleep—”

“Did I say I love you?”

“No,” said Theo, shaking his head.

Charlie laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Maybe,” said Theo. “You were pissed.”

“I wasn’t that pissed,” said Charlie. He lifted his head and pecked Theo on the lips. “I love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Charlie with a little shrug.

Theo watched his face, but Charlie just looked at him with those hazel eyes.

“Now you say it back,” said Charlie.

Theo’s heart was beating fast. “Eh. What if I—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit—”

Theo gasped—

“That’s bullshit, Lord Nott—”

Theo started to laugh—

“You already told George and Bill.”

“I did not. I said I might be in love with you—”

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

“They were going to run me off—"

“And you’d rather run off on your own.”

Theo inhaled and stopped. Why did that hurt so much?

Charlie had seen him freeze. “It’s all right, sweetheart. We’re just having fun.”

Why did that feel even worse?

Maybe because Theo knew it would stop being fun, dealing with him. Theo could be a real pain.

“C’mere,” said Charlie, and Theo followed orders—lowered his head and let Charlie kiss him. He was so warm and solid under Theo. Theo didn’t want him to ever leave, but he also didn’t want him to stay and get sick of him. It was so much easier to miss him.

“Charlie! Charlie! CHAZ.”

Charlie made a noise in the back of his throat. “WHAT?”

“C’mon, we’re going to go see how pissed Ange is—”

“I’m going home to Mrs. Malfoy.” Draco had cast and a shimmering map had appeared.

“You have an avenseguim on Granger?” Theo had pushed up from Charlie but was still sitting astride him in the trampled grass.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Draco. Then: “It’s on her jewelry.”

“She’s with Ange—”

“What?” Draco was squinting, his brow furrowed, at the pocket-sized notebook held in George’s palm.

“Prototype,” said George. “Ange and I both have one, and our writing appears in the other’s in real time—”

“I need that,” said Draco, sounding angry.

Theo laughed. “You don’t pester Granger enough? How many of her meetings have you disrupted?”

“If she can’t owl back in an hour, she must want to see me in person,” said Draco.

“They’re watching Sense and Sensibility,” reported George. “We’re all about to get laid.”

“Unless we’re constantly interrupted,” said Charlie.

George had that sly grin on. “Bring the boytoy. Ange will want to see you.”

Theo turned back to Charlie. “I’m the boytoy,” he said gravely.

Charlie snorted. He sat up but Theo didn’t get off him.

“C’mon, we gotta take this gear back,” said George.

“Leave it here for next time,” said Draco. “I’ll pay for it—”

“No one else is paying for talking bludgers, George," said Charlie.  

“I’m getting my team brooms,” said Draco.

“And matching jumpers?” asked Theo.

Draco looked shifty. “Yes.”

When they got to George’s flat above his shop, Johnson, Granger, and Ginny Potter were sprawled across mismatched furniture in front of a muggle telly, smudged wineglasses in hand. They were all drunk.

The witches didn’t get up—they just looked skeptically at the men milling in the doorway.

“What’s for dinner?” asked George.

“What are you making?” asked Johnson, eyebrows raised.

George’s eyes narrowed and then he turned abruptly and went into the kitchen.

Charlie was making for the sofa—“Hiya, Angie,” he said cheerfully—and Theo followed.

“How was the match?” asked Johnson as Charlie and Theo wedged in beside Granger.

“Good!” said Charlie.

“I caught the snitch,” said Draco. Still in his quidditch jumper, his hair finger-combed.

“Aw, I’m proud of you,” said Granger, laughing, and Theo watched Draco go still.

“Charlie!” called George from the kitchen. “I need your help!”

“You better have decent pans,” said Charlie as he got up, his hand squeezing Theo’s thigh.

Don’t go, thought Theo.

“Don’t count on it,” muttered Johnson, pulling a face.

“Harry should be getting off. If we’re doing dinner, I’ll tell him to come over—"

Next to Theo, Draco had bent over Granger, caging her in on the sofa. He was murmuring in her ear.

“I’m proud of you,” said Granger quietly.

The room was buzzing around him but Theo could only hear himself, begging: Say that thing again.

Now you say it back.

And he hadn’t.

Theo remembered facing Bill and George in the hall at St. Mungo’s—Weaselbee in hospital after Draco had gone to town on him, Theo negotiating a truce—and Bill asking his intentions with Charlie, and Theo blurting, “I might be in love with him.” He hadn’t put it into words before then. It had just come out. But Theo hadn’t been fussed. He told people the truth all the time—they usually thought it was a joke. And Bill and George had looked at each other like that was between him and Charlie—like they wouldn’t be the ones to tell him. But they had—they’d taken the piss out of Charlie about his new fuck toy—and Charlie had tried to be decent about it. Tried to treat him like a person. But Theo wasn’t a person—he was a mess.

Charlie and George appeared in the doorway.

“What are you making?” asked Johnson.

“A run to the Leaky for take-away,” said George.

“Thank Godric,” said Johnson.  

“I’m paying,” said Draco, straightening. Then he saw Ginny scribbling in a pocket notebook held in her palm. “Does everyone have one but me?”

The witches burst out laughing.

Theo could hear high-pitched singing and Charlie swearing when he ducked his head into the en suite.

Charlie had the bath running and was standing naked in front of the sink, considering a toothbrush that wasn’t Theo’s.

The toothbrush was singing a song that rhymed chompers with rotters and dirty with thirty.

“Never ask George for a spare toothbrush,” said Charlie through a mouth full of toothpaste. He brushed for another thirty seconds, then spat and rinsed and laid the toothbrush on the sink. “I’m going to forget it sings every time, aren’t I?”

Every time.

“You’re coming back?”

“Yeah,” said Charlie.

Theo looked at him, his chest tight. Now Charlie would say, If you want me to. And Theo would hesitate and say, Only if you want to. And then Charlie would think he didn’t want him here.

But Charlie didn’t say, If you want me to. He just drank some water from the tap.

You’re coming back?

Yeah.

“You taking this bath with me, or do you like smelling like goat?” asked Charlie.

“Which answer—”

“You’re sucking my cock either way,” said Charlie, eyeing his mouth.

Warmth flooded Theo’s chest. “Yeah I am.”

He was grinning wildly as he began to strip off his shirt. It was a relief—knowing he could do this and make Charlie happy with him. Hearing Charlie still wanted him to.

Theo was used to angry men. He gravitated toward them. He didn’t like soft boys—he’d been beaten for being soft. It always threw him off, when Charlie wasn’t angry with him. This felt better. He’d get back in Charlie’s good graces—even if Charlie wasn’t acting like he was out of them.

Charlie had come back from the Leaky and spent the rest of the evening sitting beside Theo, his hand casually on Theo’s thigh when he wasn’t gesturing or getting up to tidy George’s kitchen. He’d taken Theo’s plate with him after looking over and deciding Theo was done pushing his food around it. Theo had felt oddly out of sorts. He should have been flirting with the Potters—trying to get one or both of them to make him their secret. He should have been making eyes at Charlie while Charlie ignored him. But if he made eyes at Charlie, Charlie would just say, “Hey, there,” and lean over and kiss him. Theo’s brain kept having to recalibrate.

Part of Theo’s brain kept saying cheat, break this, ruin it. But then he pictured Charlie looking at him sadly and saying, “That’s all right, sweetheart. We were just having fun. I’ll let you get back to it.” And then Theo felt really, really scared.

Now Theo climbed into the scalding water with Charlie, and Charlie aggressively scrubbed him until Theo yanked the washcloth from him and threw it across the room, and then Charlie accioed it back, and then they got quite a lot of water on the floor. They were still wet when they tumbled into bed.

Theo kissed down Charlie’s neck and chest—his skin hot and pink from the bath, mottled with the bruises coming in from the match. He kissed Charlie’s stomach and licked the shaft of his cock and took the head into his mouth.

Charlie’s cock was warm and hard and tasted faintly of soap and pre-come. Theo could focus all of his energies on it. Block out all his questions about what he felt and what he should do and what would happen to him, and let his world become sucking Charlie’s cock.

He took Charlie deeper, swirling his tongue. Pulled up, tongued the head. Looked up at Charlie—watching him, his eyes heavy-lidded. Charlie smiled lazily at him.

Fuck.

Theo knew how he felt.

He was in love with Charlie.

Charlie was going to make a mess of him.

SUNDAY

It was Sunday. Charlie would be going back to the preserve today—he already had a portkey enchanted. But, for now, he lay in bed with Theo, kissing him like he had all the time in the world.

Over breakfast, Charlie had asked Bina what she’d thought about the match the day before, listening and nodding along. Theo had wondered how the boys were doing in the guest wing. Probably sleeping off their hangovers, smoking in bed, slipping in and out of one another’s rooms. The guest wing wasn’t that big. They had to be sleeping on floors and conjured cots, sharing beds. They seemed happy enough, for lack of a better word. They seemed to be surviving, anyway.

Bina had told Charlie she’d liked seeing the boys cheering on their friends, and Theo had felt a pang. Bina still liked people. She’d been lonely, here with only him. Maybe Theo didn’t mind having the lads in the house.

When she’d gone, Charlie had pulled Theo back into bed and they’d had slow, leisurely sex and fallen asleep. Now they kissed while Charlie idly touched Theo, in no rush. So different from Theo’s listless mornings in bed alone. He didn’t want Charlie to ever leave.

But then, suddenly, it was time. They’d cleaned up and dressed. Charlie had left his toothbrush by the sink. He stood facing Theo, plucking at his shirt, saying goodbye.

“I love you,” he said, his hazel eyes playing over Theo’s face.

“Me too,” said Theo.

Charlie grinned and pecked him on the lips. He stepped back and said, “I’ll see you next time.” A little jerk of his chin as his hand slipped into his pocket—and then he winked out of Theo’s bedroom.

It was like a physical pain in Theo’s chest. He missed Charlie already.

Maybe it wasn’t easier, missing him. Maybe he wanted Charlie here.

Next time.

Next time Theo would say it back. He would.

I love you.

Theo ran the words through his head.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

He ran the words through his head, trying to get used to them.