Fic: "Underground," 1/11
Title: Underground
Author: acidpop25
Rating: Soft R this chapter
Warning(s): None.
Pairing(s): Theodore/Tracey, Blaise/Daphne
Summary: In a wizarding world where homosexuality is not only abhorred, but illegal, not everything is quite as it seems. Set in 6th year.
A/N: Since she's the one who lodged this idea in my head, this fic is dedicated to sandra_lanimil. Wench. ♥
I. All is fair in love (and we’re in love).
“Ugh, no. No one wants to watch that, Draco, spin again.”
Theodore’s gaze flicks up briefly from his charms textbook; several of the other Slytherins are sitting in a circle on the floor, playing Spin The Wand, a game which Theodore himself would not play on pain of death. Draco’s wand is pointing squarely at Blaise.
“It’s the rules,” Daphne points out. “Just close your eyes, Pansy.”
Well. This was an interesting wrinkle.
“There’s no way,” Tracey mutters disbelievingly; she is curled up next to Theodore on the couch, her head on his shoulder.
Draco looks faintly trepidatious, his gaze flicking quickly between Blaise and Pansy, and Theodore can almost hear him calculating which of the two options is more likely to make his life a living hell.
“There’s no rule on how long of a kiss,” Draco says, “technically.” And before anyone can reply, he leans across the circle and kisses Blaise, very quickly and pointedly closemouthed, on the lips.
Titters break out in the circle, and Theodore returns his attention to his book. Tracey is still watching the others, though, and at length she says quietly, “There’s no one in your dorm right now, you realise.” Her fingers hook into his belt loop; Theodore casts another quick glance at his year mates. She’s right; Draco, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle are all ensconced in the circle. Theodore shuts his book and sets it aside.
“Silly to waste the opportunity,” he murmurs, “come on.”
“Bet you ten galleons they’re just sitting up there talking,” Malcolm says scornfully, glancing in the direction of the dorms.
“Pffft. Talking would be the last thing on my mind if I was dating Theo,” Pansy retorts. “That arse, those lips. I’m still not sure how Tracey got so lucky.”
“Mmm,” Daphne agrees. “Such pretty eyes, too.”
Malcolm stares at them. “You have got to be kidding me. Nott?”
“Beautiful, beautiful boy,” Daphne says. “I’d shag him.”
Malcolm cringes.
“What would you know, you’re a bloke,” says Pansy. “Not like you’re any fit judge.” She pauses for a moment. “I could use ten galleons. You’re on, Mal.”
“Fine.” They both stand, and after a moment’s pause, so do several of the others, and the group creeps quietly up the stairs.
“There’s no way,” Blaise mutters to Draco.
The dormitory door is shut. Pansy and Malcolm both press their ears against it.
“Theo, would you- mmm, oh, ohh.”
“You were saying?”
“Never mind.” Tracey’s voice sounds breathy, and Pansy smirks and mouths ‘Pay up,’ to Mal, who shakes his head. With a quick, sudden motion, he pushes the door open.
Theodore’s shirt is lying crumpled on the ground not far from the door; his back is to them, but his trousers are slouching around his narrow hips in a way that can only mean his belt is undone, and Tracey’s hands look to be at the button. Her blouse is open, one of Theodore’s hands splayed on her stomach; the other is slid up her skirt, and she has one leg hooked around his, still in her knee socks.
Theodore lifts his head and glances over them, arching one dark brow derisively. “Do you mind?” he growls, and Malcolm slams the door shut.
“You owe me,” Pansy singsongs, as the group retreats back down the stairs. “He had his hand up her skirt, that’s definitely not sitting and talking.” She sounds inordinately gleeful, and Blaise finds himself resisting the impulse to roll his eyes.
They’re good, he has to give them that. No one could have planned it better. But there’s no way in hell they’re shagging. No way in hell.
Blaise wonders who is covering for whom. It’s difficult to say for certain, really; Theo and Tracey both have intensely reserved, standoffish personalities, so it’s no surprise to anybody that the pair never talk about their assumed relationship. They play their parts well, very well, sitting cuddled together on the common room couch, pecking one another briefly on the lips between classes, mysterious absences in evenings. He carries her books, buys her things in Hogsmeade, smirks at her just the right way; she writes him notes in class, steals food off his plate at meals, flushes a little when he catches her watching him.
There’s no sexual spark between them at all, Blaise can tell it at a glance.
Daphne flops down next to him on the couch and leans in to prop her chin on his shoulder. “Knut for your thoughts?”
“No, I think not.”
She bats her lashes at him. “Tell me anyway?”
“Just pondering the sexual politics of Slytherin, pet.”
Daphne grins. “I’ve got all the sexual politics you could possibly want right here,” she says, scooting closer.
“You’ve a refreshingly direct approach, Queenie.”
“Cyril says I’m a shameless slut,” she answers, “but he’s my older brother, it’s his job to be a prick.”
“You are a shameless slut,” Blaise points out; she laughs and drapes herself across his lap. “It’s more fun. I am a liberated woman, Blaise.”
“I’m sure that argument goes a long way to reassuring your brother.”
“Not at all, but it makes him splutter rather amusingly.” Daphne tilts her head and looks up at him. “So?”
“I do think the practical approach is always best for sorting out one’s thoughts,” Blaise says; there is a sly look in his eyes, and Daphne smirks.
“Race you upstairs.”
“Undignified, pet,” he says, and has scooped her up and stood before she can retort.
He carries her up the stairs, and she is laughing.
Next
Author: acidpop25
Rating: Soft R this chapter
Warning(s): None.
Pairing(s): Theodore/Tracey, Blaise/Daphne
Summary: In a wizarding world where homosexuality is not only abhorred, but illegal, not everything is quite as it seems. Set in 6th year.
A/N: Since she's the one who lodged this idea in my head, this fic is dedicated to sandra_lanimil. Wench. ♥
I. All is fair in love (and we’re in love).
“Ugh, no. No one wants to watch that, Draco, spin again.”
Theodore’s gaze flicks up briefly from his charms textbook; several of the other Slytherins are sitting in a circle on the floor, playing Spin The Wand, a game which Theodore himself would not play on pain of death. Draco’s wand is pointing squarely at Blaise.
“It’s the rules,” Daphne points out. “Just close your eyes, Pansy.”
Well. This was an interesting wrinkle.
“There’s no way,” Tracey mutters disbelievingly; she is curled up next to Theodore on the couch, her head on his shoulder.
Draco looks faintly trepidatious, his gaze flicking quickly between Blaise and Pansy, and Theodore can almost hear him calculating which of the two options is more likely to make his life a living hell.
“There’s no rule on how long of a kiss,” Draco says, “technically.” And before anyone can reply, he leans across the circle and kisses Blaise, very quickly and pointedly closemouthed, on the lips.
Titters break out in the circle, and Theodore returns his attention to his book. Tracey is still watching the others, though, and at length she says quietly, “There’s no one in your dorm right now, you realise.” Her fingers hook into his belt loop; Theodore casts another quick glance at his year mates. She’s right; Draco, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle are all ensconced in the circle. Theodore shuts his book and sets it aside.
“Silly to waste the opportunity,” he murmurs, “come on.”
“Bet you ten galleons they’re just sitting up there talking,” Malcolm says scornfully, glancing in the direction of the dorms.
“Pffft. Talking would be the last thing on my mind if I was dating Theo,” Pansy retorts. “That arse, those lips. I’m still not sure how Tracey got so lucky.”
“Mmm,” Daphne agrees. “Such pretty eyes, too.”
Malcolm stares at them. “You have got to be kidding me. Nott?”
“Beautiful, beautiful boy,” Daphne says. “I’d shag him.”
Malcolm cringes.
“What would you know, you’re a bloke,” says Pansy. “Not like you’re any fit judge.” She pauses for a moment. “I could use ten galleons. You’re on, Mal.”
“Fine.” They both stand, and after a moment’s pause, so do several of the others, and the group creeps quietly up the stairs.
“There’s no way,” Blaise mutters to Draco.
The dormitory door is shut. Pansy and Malcolm both press their ears against it.
“Theo, would you- mmm, oh, ohh.”
“You were saying?”
“Never mind.” Tracey’s voice sounds breathy, and Pansy smirks and mouths ‘Pay up,’ to Mal, who shakes his head. With a quick, sudden motion, he pushes the door open.
Theodore’s shirt is lying crumpled on the ground not far from the door; his back is to them, but his trousers are slouching around his narrow hips in a way that can only mean his belt is undone, and Tracey’s hands look to be at the button. Her blouse is open, one of Theodore’s hands splayed on her stomach; the other is slid up her skirt, and she has one leg hooked around his, still in her knee socks.
Theodore lifts his head and glances over them, arching one dark brow derisively. “Do you mind?” he growls, and Malcolm slams the door shut.
“You owe me,” Pansy singsongs, as the group retreats back down the stairs. “He had his hand up her skirt, that’s definitely not sitting and talking.” She sounds inordinately gleeful, and Blaise finds himself resisting the impulse to roll his eyes.
They’re good, he has to give them that. No one could have planned it better. But there’s no way in hell they’re shagging. No way in hell.
Blaise wonders who is covering for whom. It’s difficult to say for certain, really; Theo and Tracey both have intensely reserved, standoffish personalities, so it’s no surprise to anybody that the pair never talk about their assumed relationship. They play their parts well, very well, sitting cuddled together on the common room couch, pecking one another briefly on the lips between classes, mysterious absences in evenings. He carries her books, buys her things in Hogsmeade, smirks at her just the right way; she writes him notes in class, steals food off his plate at meals, flushes a little when he catches her watching him.
There’s no sexual spark between them at all, Blaise can tell it at a glance.
Daphne flops down next to him on the couch and leans in to prop her chin on his shoulder. “Knut for your thoughts?”
“No, I think not.”
She bats her lashes at him. “Tell me anyway?”
“Just pondering the sexual politics of Slytherin, pet.”
Daphne grins. “I’ve got all the sexual politics you could possibly want right here,” she says, scooting closer.
“You’ve a refreshingly direct approach, Queenie.”
“Cyril says I’m a shameless slut,” she answers, “but he’s my older brother, it’s his job to be a prick.”
“You are a shameless slut,” Blaise points out; she laughs and drapes herself across his lap. “It’s more fun. I am a liberated woman, Blaise.”
“I’m sure that argument goes a long way to reassuring your brother.”
“Not at all, but it makes him splutter rather amusingly.” Daphne tilts her head and looks up at him. “So?”
“I do think the practical approach is always best for sorting out one’s thoughts,” Blaise says; there is a sly look in his eyes, and Daphne smirks.
“Race you upstairs.”
“Undignified, pet,” he says, and has scooped her up and stood before she can retort.
He carries her up the stairs, and she is laughing.
Next