#raffish cavorting

[brumousventers]

“That was a hard hit,” David says softly. “Of course I’m going to worry about it.” He breaks off, suddenly, and presses a hand over his eyes.“Jesus, I thought they weren’t going to let me see you. I thought they weren’t going to let me see my boy.”

His hand is shaking. Ilya is shaking too, on a level that he barely understands. My boy. He can’t remember if his father ever referred to him as such. Surely not—it was always the youngest with Grigori, or that one, or you. His father wanted to keep him at as much a distance as possible. 

And here is David Hollander, closing the gap like it’s—easy. Like calling Ilya his boy is nothing shameful or difficult or something upon which rests a thousand different conditions. Ilya experiences a pang of jealousy so visceral it feels like he’s going to throw up. No, not jealousy—envy. This nameless, gnawing want.  

Something of what he’s feeling must show on his face, because David takes a step closer to him. “Is it a concussion?”

“No,” Ilya croaks out. “Not as bad as that.”

 “Still.” David takes yet another step closer, now so near that Ilya could reach out and grasp his hand like a child. If he wanted. “Let me see.”

[brumousventers]

“And if he asks you to share the job?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing in a way that made Severus vaguely proud.

“Then I share it,” Severus said, without relish but with a pragmatic acceptance. “For a month. Sharing is a polite word for watching. A month is long enough for the castle to remember my voice and short enough for pride to survive resigning.”

Harry nodded, satisfied. “And if he, by some miracle, says ‘No thank you’?”

“Then the Wizengamot will enjoy seeing Lord Regius rise the next morning to inquire publicly why the nation’s children are being denied competent instruction in volatile sciences during an era when explosions are likely to become fashionable,” Severus said, and the quiet, dangerous pleasure in his voice turned the afternoon air a degree cooler.

Harry blinked, thrilled. “Remind me never to be your enemy.”

“Impossible,” Severus said, so matter-of-fact that Harry had to look down to hide the way his ribcage tried to become an instrument.

[brumousventers]

‘I don’t think the vision’s real. I mean, it looked real enough, and I was in his body, but my Wall was still there, so I kind of knew at the same time that he wasn’t me. The weird thing is that, according to the vision, Padfoot was just meant to march into the Ministry, for whatever reason, and... no one recognised him? Of course, I don’t want him to be killed, but...’

Severus stares at him. His face remains impassive, but an incredulous laugh twitches inside him. Fueled by the flash of unexpected clarity from Potter that even that irritating ramble can’t entirely erase, and strengthened by that utterly inappropriate, but fascinating, ‘but’.

It’s entirely plausible that Black would throw all precautions to the wind—the ones meant to ensure his mangy head stays on his shoulders—to prove just how closely heroism and stupidity are linked... but the boy is right. That repellent face has marred the walls of Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and the Ministry for so long that it’s nearly impossible he could have wandered about unnoticed.

[brumousventers]

Paul ran his hands along her bare shoulders, as if to assure himself of his words, that if he could feel the smoothness of her skin beneath his palms than he would be there with her in the blue lagoon, and not wading up to his ankles in emerald algae in the inky black pools of Feyd-Rautha’s eyes.

[brumousventers]

His knuckles met the door in a single sharp rap—just enough. Just loud enough to break the silence, to give Bellini a moment to put himself together. He did not wait. He did not hesitate. The time for either had long passed. Instead, he moved with the kind of certainty that left no room for refusal. His hand pressed against the heavy wooden door, the weight of it yielding beneath his touch—not a push, not a polite request for entry, but a strong, measured shove. A forced intrusion, as if the very act of opening it could erase the barrier that had ever existed between them.

[brumousventers]

Rolling nausea crests again, but Daniel leans into the memory. He knows that voice. A velvet ooze just like the honey in the song that trudges along in his ears. It stirs impossible warmth in his gut, the tips of his fingers and toes, and nostalgia overtakes his queasiness. He wishes, suddenly, to disappear into the memory. 

[brumousventers]

He hits the ground before he feels the sting of the fangs, Armand crouched over him, just like Louis on the night that apparently really happened. It hurts the whole time, but it only matters for the first moment, quick like the sting of a needle. Then everything else is washed away by how good it is to be so pierced and held. He shoves at Armand’s shoulders, panicked, and then drags him closer. Daniel is dizzy, and high, and filled with the best pulsing light of all: I was right, I was right, I was right.

[brumousventers]

“You wanted the blood. I wanted — if we were to come together like that, I wanted us without the question of your immortality hanging over us. You were too like me, in that regard. Asking, asking, no sense of when to stop, pushing at my history and power like it was something you could eat, consume along with —” Armand stops short. Composes himself. Turns on the lights with a gesture too fast for Daniel to follow. There he is. His praying mantis love, one hand still creeping up Daniel’s thigh, like he thinks Daniel’s too dense to notice.