Fic: Discombobulation (Albus/Viktor Krum), NC-17 (Part 2 of 3)
Recipient: femmequixotic
Title: Discombobulation (Part 2 of 3)
Pairing(s): Albus Severus Potter/Viktor Krum, other pairings (beware of spoilers): Ginny Weasley-Potter/Anthony Goldstein, James Potter/Cormac McLaggen, James Potter/Scorpius Malfoy, Albus Severus Potter/Scorpius Malfoy, Severus Snape/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: ADW: 54/25(26), murder (victim: Cormac McLaggen)
Summary: A man has passed away, and a man has come back. Distraught and confused, Al Potter reaches a new understanding of his life and himself.
Word Count: 25,000+
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's notes: Dear femmequixotic, I was very excited to have you as my recipient. You are one of my favourite authors, both in original fiction and fan fiction, and it is thrilling to have a chance to thank you for all the wonderful moments your writing has given me. This story wouldn't have seen the light of day without N, who held my hand and showed the greatest kindness and support when most of the Writing Obstacles of Doom decided to happen. The words are not enough to thank B3, my lovely, thoughtful, attentive, brilliant beta reader, who patiently stayed with me even when I exceeded my planned word count by 200%. And, last but not least, I'd like to thank BB: like a paladin of reason, she gave me priceless strategic advice without actually reading this and saved the story at the last moment. Dear femmequixotic, I hope you find it to your liking.
~*~
THURSDAY
~*~
Al overslept.
He stood in a full share taxi, squeezed in between a schoolgirl with headphones so large they looked like Kneazle ears and a guy about ten years older than Al, who had obviously spent the previous night consuming similar quantities of alcohol. The vehicle - that only stayed in one piece on an honest word and a prayer - jumped when they drove over a hole in the asphalt and Al bumped his head against the too-low roof. The salon stank of sweat, booze, and mint chewing gum.
The taxi lurched again and Al grabbed the back of passenger seat his hip was pressed into. Perfect. He overslept, he'd barely had the time to shower and cast a sloppy Drying Charm. Now his shirt felt all but glued to his tense back. But never mind all the bloody effort: he was going to reek of cheap alcohol that someone else had drunk.
"Fucking Merlin on a fucking broomstick," Al muttered.
Other passengers delicately scrunched up their noses as the pale-and-woozy guy winced and apologised for tripping over someone's stuck-out boot every five seconds. Al bit his lip. For all his bloodshot eyes and pallor, Al knew he looked nowhere near as hungover. Which was a good thing, he mused, taking shallow breaths and arching his back impossibly to allow an elderly lady push and kick her way to the exit. He doubted he could avoid the ICW grapevine strangling him as it was. Showing up looking like he'd drunk a bucket of Hippogriff piss right after Krum was appointed was certainly suspicious.
But luckily, Al didn't really feel hungover no matter how much he indulged. He did feel as if his gyri were heavily ironed, but slow and silly didn't equal hungover. Hugo always envied him that; he called it queer metabolism.
The engine made a rather weird sound. Al hunched and looked out of the window, then prepared to extract himself from the share taxi's bowels.
He was already four minutes late, very thirsty, and slightly sweaty.
He had a bad feeling about Thursday, too.
~*~
Al felt his cheeks and neck grow warm as he sprinted down the brightly lit corridor. He'd bumped into the Investigator in the lift. It wasn't much of a conversation, though, unpleasant as it was.
Who benefited from Commissioner McLaggen's death? Who might wish him dead?
Al didn't know. His better brain, the one in his spine, whispered that he didn't need to know.
But there was something new, Al was sure he wasn't imagining it: the slight shift in the Investigator's stance. Careful. Alert. Like a dog smelling a rotten bone underground.
Is there someone you suspect, Mr Potter?
Al had excused himself the moment the lift's doors had slid open.
Now, panting slightly from the run, he turned around the corner and saw two Commissioners, one of them his own formidable boss, engaged in what appeared to be agreeable conversation. The fuck?
Krum's eyes locked with his and Al stopped dead in his tracks. He was dimly aware of the two Commissioners exchanging one last something under their breath, but the tentative sun rays touched Krum's face just so and his eyelashes were perfectly black. Al couldn't move.
Krum's gaze was entirely too penetrating and intense. Probing, like he knew Al was hiding something, or hiding something to hide something else. Or like he was counter-attacking to protect his own secrets. Anxiety slithered down Al's spine and he itched to push his hands inside his pockets or something equally childish and defensive.
Fuck. The magically chilled air prickled his suddenly too hot skin. They don't think I killed him, do they?
"Commissioner Krum has requested your presence this morning, but you seem to have failed to attend, Mr Potter."
Krum was standing between the other Commissioner and Al. The distance between them was so small it was negligible. But Krum looked neither like a prisoner nor a middle-man. He wore the official attire today, and the colour and cut made him rather imposing. Elegant, too.
Al swallowed. He just realised how indecent his own appearance was: clothes clinging to his body that was still slightly damp from the shower and now, sweat. A blush crept in his face.
"I apologise, sir." Al spoke to his boss, which made him break eye contact with Krum. He felt stranded. "It was the business I referred to yesterday."
"Yes, I imagine that was a bothersome distraction."
Al appreciated the final tone in the man's voice. No need to say anything. Anyway, telling Krum how he plotted to ship James to Switzerland bound and gagged was not something Al planned to do.
The FARD Commissioner gave Al a pointed look. "Well, now that you're here, it might as well get done."
The man turned on his heel and Al was about to do the same to follow Krum to the MGS office. Again. But Krum was quicker than Al's brain, definitely. He clearly had more than simple Quidditch reflexes - he anticipated. Al could swear the other man knew exactly where Al would be before Al even got there, snatching Al by the forearm and successfully locking him in place.
The touch burned sweetly even through his shirt and outer robe.
"Just a second." Krum's voice was a soft rumble. "I want to make a wish."
It really was just a second, Krum standing exactly between the two of them, Al's hair standing up where Krum was touching him. Then it was over.
But it was objectively the longest second in the whole bloody universe.
~*~
It must have been a little after two o'clock in the afternoon that it happened.
It seemed incredible that after five bleeding hours of being so close to Krum's body that somehow turned up the heat level in the room, of being excruciatingly aware of how Krum's muscles rippled underneath his dazzling white shirt, and of analysing the financial reports with the paranoid meticulousness of a high-class hooker giving a blow-job, that after five hours of all that Al could still sit straight in that damn hard chair. Besides, all the warm wood and earthy colours in Krum's office made Al feel a bit claustrophobic.
Al read the notes Krum had made in the margins. It was worrying that he could easily read the man's scrawl even upside down. Al licked his lips. His brain seemed to be Krum-programmed. These five hours, every new detail sank in his mind. The way Krum's breathing slowed down when he was thinking carefully. The way Krum looked down his nose and to the left when he thought something was idiotic but didn't mean to say it. The way Krum's little finger twitched when he was getting impatient. Some things were new, some things Al remembered from the time they had worked together three years ago.
Anyway, it happened a little after two o'clock.
The figures blurred and formed kaleidoscopic patterns in front of Al's eyes when he leaned against Krum's desk and massaged his temples. His hand slid down his cheek then - damn, it must have looked like he hadn't even bothered to shave. Al grazed his jaw with his fingertips, the gesture perfectly innocent.
Krum's shoulders went rigid and he stared at Al's face.
He remembered, then.
Krum's dark eyes were fixed on Al's jaw as he sat back in his chair. The heavy silence stung and Al could almost feel the phantom ache again. He had no idea what Krum was thinking about, his chest rising and falling as he did that slow, almost imperceptive breathing thing again. It made Al feel angry. Defiant.
With one hand, Al turned a page of the report, not looking down. With the other, he stroked his jaw, this time deliberately. Remember how you hit me? He smiled slowly and was almost sure that Krum's gaze became hotter and darker before he looked away and called the secretary.
Now, Al knew he was an imaginative idiot. In case he ever needed a reminder, he didn't need to look farther than that ICW fundraiser turned opera gala turned afterparty turned stumbling into a hotel room with Ljubica and Viktor, all three of them pissed out of their minds. Only a smitten idiot with an overactive imagination would have thought that a drunken threesome with the gorgeous, inaccessible, too-good-to-be-true man he'd been crushing on for ages was a good idea. No matter how good his teeth were, Al obviously couldn't compete with a tall, blonde, flexible, cock-sucking girl.
Pissed or not, the fact that he had honestly thought that Viktor would want him over Ljubica just proved that he had read The Tales of Beedle the Bard too many times as a child.
The door banged open and Al heard the secretary's heels clicking against the polished floor. Her perfume was too sweet, and there was too much of it. Al lost the scent of vetiver and Viktor that had been teasing him all day.
"Tea or coffee, Mr Krum?"
She really needed to learn how to stop stretching her vowels.
Krum's right hand lay very still on the dark, gleaming wood of the desk. There was this large, protruding vein that sort of bisected it. Al wanted to touch it with his mouth.
"Tea?"
Krum was looking out the window over his left shoulder. He shook his head, then caught himself and nodded. Bulgarians nodded for 'no' and shook their heads for 'yes'. Al smirked.
He learned that the hard way, too.
The secretary's heels clicked away and out of the office. Al was nervous; even more, he was angry that he was nervous. He shut the folder and pushed the papers across the desk. All right, he was damn furious because now he had to think about Ljubica with her fat lips around Viktor's dick, and wasn't that a happy memory.
"Curiously, everyone seems to think that your appointment means that Bulgaria is going to win the competition." Krum looked at him and caught Al biting his lower lip.
Actually, Al didn't call her Ljubica in his head now. He preferred to think of her as 'that Slovenian trainee'. Whatever, it's not like Viktor had even asked her name that night.
Krum reached for his wand. "Indeed. There are many worthy competitors."
"Indeed." Al smirked again before he could stop himself. "The most obvious and expected candidate is not necessarily the best one." Damn, he sounded like his godfather.
All Al could think about was Viktor getting his dick sucked that night, how the tanned fingers that now held a hornbeam wand had been buried in the girl's messy hair. About Al pushing his cock in that wide mouth alongside Viktor's, the sticky, wet slide of flesh against flesh, glorious and hot...
Krum cast a spell and the strong rush of magic wrenched Al out of his disturbing memories. A dozen scrolls floated towards them from Merlin knew where and landed on the desk. The large wax seals marked them all as confidential.
"Quite right. The choice largely depends on the circumstances."
Fuck, it took Al way too long to remember what they were talking about. His skin still prickled, awash with Krum's magic, powerful and rough. As Krum broke the seal, the secretary came back, Levitating a laden tea-tray.
Well, Al had thought that Krum wasn't looking forward to letting the money be sucked out by those Ministry leeches, never mind that they were his compatriots. There were better choices. Those people needed to stop acting like Krum's appointment was some freaky lobbying plot.
Krum casually flicked his wand and the teapot poured them tea.
It wasn't a plot. Too obvious. Right?
Al stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. When Krum handed him the classified parchment, Al nearly choked on his boiling hot tea.
He gives me classified information.
Al gaped. He was not supposed to see that. Junior Undersecretaries weren't trusted with that level of information, yet Krum, who wasn't even Al's Commissioner, suddenly trusted him. It was a fucking ICW equivalent of a diplomatic marriage proposal.
What kind of game was Krum playing?
Al finally took the parchment. Krum's fingers twitched and almost brushed his as he did so.
Al sat back and forced himself to look at Krum. The bleak sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on Krum's dark hair. He sipped his equally scalding tea, holding his cup in one hand and unbuttoning his shirt at the collar with the other. Well, it was rather hot in the room, and the tension was nerve-racking.
Al had no idea what he was supposed to say.
"Thank you," Al said, his voice unexpectedly low and husky. "Commissioner," he added as an afterthought.
Krum looked somewhere down and to the left, not quite smiled, and picked another scroll. The two of them kept going through the top secret reports from Defence and General Co-operation in relative peace.
Because really, a little after two o'clock in the afternoon, nothing happened.
They didn't talk about how they had stuck their pricks in the same big mouth, they didn't talk about how Al had turned and touched Krum's perfect, wide, sweat-slick chest, they didn't talk about how Krum had gripped Al's wrist tightly and nodded. They didn't talk about how Al had beamed, his heart pounding in his chest, and reached to wrap his fingers around Krum's spit-covered dick, fresh out of a swollen mouth of a girl who'd sucked her way through three ICW departments. They certainly didn't talk about how Krum's eyes had narrowed, the too-much-champagne-and-opera fog halfway cleared, and how Krum's hard fist made sickening contact with Al's jaw.
Then they didn't talk about Krum showing him Commissioner-only documents and asking for Al's opinion.
And they definitely didn't do anything, like Al spelling off his clothes and straddling Krum, shirtless, right there in the Commissioner's chair. Or Krum bending Al over the desk and shagging the shit out of him. Nothing of the sort, no matter how insistently Al's brain conjured these images.
He hated Krum for unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his throat to Al - it didn't make him look vulnerable, exactly, but it implied openness, whereas Al knew that there was nothing of the sort involved here. He tried to retaliate and unsettle Krum by little things of his own, like rolling up his sleeves to show off his forearms (everybody liked his forearms, that much Al knew) or grasping the scrolls like he had grasped Krum's cock. Because now Al knew that Krum had to remember. They had never discussed that night, hadn't even talked until now, when Krum came back in the office. But Krum had just given himself away, and Al wasn't letting the opportunity pass. Too bad it wasn't working.
Whatever Al did, Krum just frowned and didn't give a damn.
Al had a really weird feeling that he was being played, and it drove him mad that he didn't know the rules of the game.
~*~
The working day was over.
The moment Al sent the last batch of documents to Gabrielle, the other part of his brain kicked in. It was like they were taking shifts. One moment he was thinking about Krum, the other he was thinking about James. The only omnipresent thought was, 'We're all going to die.'
Fuck, maybe he needed a place in that Swiss therapeutic resort. Not that Al was used to being the centre of attention. He was probably going to die from shock.
Al stared into space, wondering about death and love like a pathetic sidekick in a Malecrit play. When the time finally came for his scheduled Firecall, Al took a pinch of Floo powder, stuck his head in the fireplace, and shouted, "Magische Klinik Appenzell!"
Everything went green and shiny. There were no random fireplaces to peep into along the way; these days, everyone used security grates. As if anyone cared about their privacy, Merlin's arse. Those grates sure weren't going to help in case the ICW - or anyone else with a Technocauldron and decent magic skills - really wanted to look into their homes.
Which was why Al never had a fireplace installed at home.
"Well, well, well." Al heard the familiar tight voice as the room spun into focus. "Ain't that my special someone with a BDSM and abduction kink."
Everything stilled and Al looked around. White walls. Magical windows. A bed. Blue ceiling. Green floor. James.
James.
"I admit, I'm even a little impressed. All this secrecy and effort, just for me. Wizards in black snatching me from my favourite club. Well, it was a crap party, so no offence, but I began to wonder when they cast an Incarcerous and dumped me in this snowy weirdo haven. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, YOU FUCKER?!"
Al wasn't really listening. He did what had to be done. Instead, he looked at James, his heart sinking because yes, James looked awful. His normally messy hair stood up at insane angles, his face was drawn and ashen, his eyes were bloodshot and looked like they were about to fall out of their sockets. The bandaged wrists and hospital shirt were the most normal things about his appearance.
"I missed you." Best to disarm James at once. Al could never talk his way through to him, so he was going to need all the tricks there were.
"I didn't miss you, stupid tosser. If I had known you'd be playing fairy godmother, I'd have hexed your fucking guts to jelly at mum's wedding and eaten them with my pudding."
Al wondered what drugs they had given James to make him so docile.
"I wrote to Lily," Al said softly. "She knows, she'll cover it up."
James' eyes were immediately aglow. "She'll get me out of here."
"She doesn't know where you are."
"Since when is it any of your fucking business how I live, or not live, my own fucking life?! Nobody asked you anything. You have no fucking right. You're nobody. SINCE WHEN DO YOU MEDDLE WITH MY LIFE?"
"Since when do you act like your bloody life isn't worth living?!"
James jumped forward and slapped Al across the mouth, splitting his lip. Al staggered and barely managed to keep his head in the fireplace.
"I'm not going away, James. And I'm not letting you go."
James squatted down in front of the fireplace. Up close, Al could see the scratches on his face and hands. Of course he knew James would fight tooth and nail if anyone tried to help him.
Just as James knew that Al was the only one who had the guts to even try.
"So, my little bureaucratic minion. What dour-faced git did you have to rim to pull off this cloak-and-dagger operation?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Right, you're a fan boy. You and dad should hook up, he's having another guilt crisis. Must be his second ulcer this year, stupid old sod."
All right, let James talk. Al really didn't care about their daddy's daddy issues, but as long as it kept James talking... Which it didn't. James looked him over, spiteful and conceited. Al leaned further into the room, resting his folded arms on the iron grate. A different route, then.
"Do mum and dad know?"
James rolled his eyes. "Mum and dad know what they want to know, just like everybody else." He sneered. "They walk around Teddy's weed greenhouse and think he's studying to be a Herbologist."
"We'll get you through this." Al reached and touched James' arm lightly.
"DON'T TOUCH ME! Don't you dare fucking touch me!"
Swift and strong, James grabbed Al's offensive arm and pushed him hard, then reached for the grate and slammed it against Al's chest. The pain was so sharp and intense that for a moment Al thought that his heart had burst on impact.
"Are you - trying - to kill me?" Al groaned. This was going to bruise like hell.
"If I tried, you'd be dead."
James let go of the grate and sat back, watching Al cough and breathe heavily. Fuck, this was almost like their childhood, only with fewer broken bones.
"You think you're so smart?" James' voice was mocking, digging into Al's brain like a claw. "Think that you're going to do better than mummy and daddy? Well, I have news for you, you pretentious bugger: I don't need you dealing with my shit. My shit is mine. And if I fuck up, then I FUCK UP. That's how I live, that's how we've always lived, and I won't have you change it just because you suddenly decide you need a nominal male sibling, you selfish wanker!" Suddenly James gave him a brilliant, public-image-issue smile. "Now tell them to let me go."
Al gritted his teeth. "No."
"Come on, Al. You've proved you're a big man. You've done your noble deed. Now piss the fuck off and let me be. I don't need anyone."
"No." Al regained control of his breathing, and with it most of his composure. "You won't talk to anyone. You won't let anyone near you -"
"The fuck, I live at home, you bastard!"
"- Dad will notice something's wrong only when you're already in the coffin, unless you come up in Auror investigation or something. Mother's in Venezuela..."
"Yes, she timed her wedding just to be out of the picture and let her son kick the bucket. Oh the horror! No wonder our perfect boy can't stand her."
Al's anger flared up. "I love our mother."
James eyes glinted dangerously. "Yes. But you don't respect her, do you?"
Merlin, this was sick. "You know I'm doing this because I love you, James."
"Said Dumbledore to Grindelwald."
"Lily would have done the same."
"One: I don't care about Lily; two: no, she would have let me do my thing."
"Which she has already done. And now this happens the way I say it."
James tilted his head. "Don't bullshit me. I know why you're doing this."
Yeah, right. James Potter knows everything, does everything, fucks everything. Welcome to next generation philosophy.
"You can't control your life, so you're trying to control mine, you fucking imbecile. Well, it won't work that way. I won't let you."
Nobody's asking you, suicidal slut.
"Lost in thoughts, are we?" James' voice was loud and harsh. "Of course. You're the thoughtful one. You care." James moved closer, slowly, dangerously. "I bet you thought a lot about it. How you were going to lock up your sick, twisted brother, who is a total failure, so he doesn't embarrass you."
"James, stop it. You know I care. I need to... You have to do what's good for you."
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I HAVE TO DO!"
There was light and the room shook. The next moment, Al blinked against the sparkling dust and saw James on the floor, splinters and rags scattered everywhere. And there was no bed.
Al looked at him pleadingly, earning himself a glare in return.
"James."
"Don't tell me what's good for me. You have no idea, none of you have any idea of what's. Good. For me."
Al was going to argue, but the lights began to flicker and he shut up.
James' problems with accidental magic were legendary. When he was fifteen he spelled the pants off their new Quidditch coach in the middle of flying practice. Talk about wishful thinking.
When he was sixteen he locked himself in the bathroom, turned the water in the bath into Firewhisky, drank himself stupid, and set the bath on fire. Then he wished for a cookie and Apparated into the kitchen.
All things considered, he could probably dive into dragon dung and dig himself out all clean and squeaky.
James was lying on the green hospital floor, staring into Al's eyes, smiling that wicked smile again. Ever so slowly, he raised his hand and pointed a finger at Al, and for a moment Al wondered if James could kill him with some freaky wandless, silent, not-so-accidental Curse.
"You," James croaked, "are so full of shit. You think that because you got a job and ran away from our merry little asylum, you are better than the rest of us. You're not. You're just the only blathering idiot who didn't get the memo that nothing's ever going to change. There is no war. There is no evil. There's just this shitty life that we're forced to live because our father couldn't keep his dick in his pants, and we'd better get the most out of it, dammit! We just want to have fun."
James was panting, an ugly flush creeping in his face. He sat on his haunches and craned his neck to stare at the ceiling.
Al's chest really hurt where the iron grate was digging into it. "Did you have fun, James?"
James turned back to Al, looking mutinous. "Why don't you ask what you want to ask, you fucking jerk?!" He crawled towards the fireplace. "Was it worth it? Did I like it? Why, yes, I fucking liked it, you obnoxious little bitch! I liked that he didn't talk. I liked that he didn't pretend to care. I liked to know that I could do anything I wanted, fuck anyone I wanted, and then he would come and give it to me so hard and good I'd want him to get stuck in my sore arse and fucking live in me!"
Al couldn't breathe. James' face was beet red and his hands were shaking violently. James let out an incoherent sound and his spittle landed on Al's cheek.
"Someone took him away from me." James reached and clawed at Al's neck. "They always take everything away from me. They always - take - everything - away -"
Fuck everything. Al hugged James fiercely, not caring that it might mean that he was getting killed. James' body shook with silent sobs, and damn, Al knew it was going to be like that. How did it end up being so fucked?
Abruptly, James stilled. His body went rigid, and Al shivered when James buried his nose in Al's neck and took a deep breath.
"You've been drinking." James' voice was quiet, and after all the shouting Al felt like he had gone deaf.
"Are you drinking to make your problems shut the fuck up, little brother?" James pulled back and Al watched his blotchy face, morbidly fascinated by all the raw emotion. "Ickle Sev has a problem, huh? Well, let me tell you something." James' mouth curved into a smile, hard and shark-like. "Get. Yourself. Laid."
Al's hands fell away from James' back and James seized the chance to grab them and squeeze until Al's fingers turned white.
"I'm serious." James went on, obviously pleased that Al was getting numb fingers in addition to the split lip and bruised chest. "Get yourself laid. It always helps. Nobody loves you? Get a dick up your ass. Your family's shit? Get a dick up your ass! You're blue, you're through, your life is so pointless - the answer is, dick, dick, dick! Hot butt sex, the universal magical remedy. It's what I'd be doing if I wasn't stuck in this fancy brainwash studio. But you know that. You brought me here."
James let go of his hands and patted Al's cheek. "Good boy."
And then James did something that made Al forget everything else. James brought his hands to his own face and nuzzled his bandaged wrists. He caught the end of one with his teeth and tugged, so that the greyish bloody tissue unravelled and slipped off. He turned the cursed wrist towards Al and showed him the appalling, raised marks.
Blood trickled down James' forearm, a thin angry line that disappeared from view somewhere in the crook of James' elbow.
Al felt tears running down his face.
Blood spread across the sleeve of James' white hospital shirt. Al's eyes were glued to it, a fiery, moist flower that screamed pain and anguish.
His brother was hurting.
"Oh, I'm hurting?" James laughed, a creepy, high-pitched sound. "I'M HURTING? No shit, you don't say. So that's what it is? Well, thanks for telling me. Because, you know, when I popped my veins open and watched those pretty little fountains of blood, I thought, 'Oh dear, why did I do that? Feeling a little under the weather?'"
"James, come on," Al pleaded. "They'll help you. They're good. You need someone to look after you. You need help."
"Do I really? Well, let them look after me. Thank Merlin you're not offering to look after me yourself, you two-faced piece of shit! Last time you tried to play one big happy family I nearly puked my soul out, you self-righteous cretin! Now, when was that? Oh, I remember, you were what, sixteen? Playing puppy love with Malfoy and getting Lily to study oh-so-hard for her OWLs?" James was wheezing, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest. "Well, good job, because she sure learned a lot in those tutoring sessions and study groups, on her knees for nerdy, saggy-balled Ravenclaws. And I fucked your little Malfoy up every wall in that stinking castle, by the way. He's still grovelling to eat my arse out anywhere I go."
James' shirt and hands were stained with blood. Several stray droplets landed on the floor. Al had to call the mediwizards. He had to make James stop hurting himself. He just didn't know if it was actually possible.
James smiled sharply, the same smile Lily favoured to get her way. "All right, let them look after me. I'll see how they look after me, and if they're good, I might actually invite you to my funeral, asshole!"
Al groaned getting his arm back on the other side of the grate to get his wand. He cast a spell, forcing the words past his lips. The alarm Fwoopers began to sing immediately. Merlin, they kept Fwoopers in a mad house. Maybe it wasn't such a great place after all.
James rocked slightly and laved his wrist with his tongue. He looked furious, haughty. But he didn't look afraid.
James' mouth was smeared with blood. "Get the fuck out," he snarled at Al. "You're going to shut it all out, aren't you? You're going to try to forget. Well, I WON'T, you hear me? I won't forget! I'll never forget!"
The mediwizards burst in and the Fwoopers finally shut up. Al didn't wait; he felt like he had just had a heart attack, or was stripped of his magic, or... He just felt.
Al pulled his head out of the fireplace and blinked against the familiarity of his office. This was home. This was safe. Al crawled away from the fireplace and lay on the carpet, much like James had done.
Mother and father were blind. Lily was an idiot. The others didn't even bear mentioning.
Al curled up in a ball and closed his eyes. It was like plunging his head in a Pensieve. All the worst memories of his family - the prejudice, the conceit, the feeling of being the star of the drama of the universe - came back to haunt him. Only these weren't memories. It was the life they all lived and how they felt.
Al felt that way too, sometimes, and he loathed it. He fought so hard to be someone he could actually respect. He never stopped fighting.
It was 6:23 p.m., the door to his office was spelled shut, and Al allowed himself to crack up and cry for James.
Well, maybe a little bit for himself, too.
~*~
FRIDAY
~*~
Thank God it was Friday.
It did not take Al long to realise that, sometime between fantasising about Viktor Krum on top of him and James' 'Let me die in peace, asshole' speech, Al had misplaced his brain.
It was the only explanation that could survive in the cold, steady light of a Friday morning when Al asked himself why he had gone to a vampire bar the previous night and had his cock sucked by a dark and handsome Czech upir. A very needy, greedy Czech upir called Kazimir. If they hadn't had a three hundred years age gap, Al might have actually considered settling down with him. Although that could have been the lure talking.
Now, after the harsh, mind-numbing experience of having his soul fucked by his brother and his dick worshipped by a stranger, Al's hot morning shower felt inexplicably soothing and sensual. The strange feeling of hope and promise at the back of his skull refused to go away, even when Al's neighbours' washing machine began roaring and the cold water suddenly stopped running, scalding Al's back like hell.
Thank God it was Friday. Albus felt like he was losing his grip on reality.
Just as Al was stuffing a sandwich in his mouth, an Owl's claws scraped against the kitchen window. Appenzell clearly upheld the traditions. Apprehensive, Al broke the intricate seal.
The Healers were saying that James had taken to the treatment well. Which, in Al's opinion, could have meant either that the medicine was working, or that James managed to get stoned on medical potions. Hoping that it was the former, Al left an entry in the notebook for Lily and did exactly what James had accused him of doing. He tried to forget everything and went to work.
For a while, he actually managed to lose himself in something blissful that dangerously approached normalcy. There were documents to peruse, not one of them related to the still rather distant World Cup. No one mentioned McLaggen in Al's presence. Not one security wizard crossed his path.
Al could almost believe that his life had not been shaken, and that nothing was as disturbingly different as it really was.
Gabrielle saw through him at once, of course. She appeared in his office, not really trying to pretend it was about the documents from the day before, and just gave him this Look.
"You can't save everyone."
"Don't ascribe to me my father's complexes. I think I've managed to acquire quite a few of my own."
A small smile played on Gabrielle's face, like a flicker of light. "It's been a tough week for you. But there's nothing you can do, mon p'tit chou." She sat on the edge of Al's desk and caught his eye. "Just live on."
Al squirmed a little under her gaze and began re-arranging the papers on his desk. Which was not a defensive gesture at all; it was really rather cluttered.
"I am living on," he said to a pile of accounts concerning hemp trade.
"No." She waited for him to look up again. "You're looking for things to blame yourself for." Al scoffed. "You are, chéri."
"Maybe it makes my life more interesting."
Gabrielle's smile became brighter and Al couldn't help grinning back. "Maybe it's time to realise that there are other interesting things to do in Kishinev." Mercifully, Gabrielle let him off the hook with that. She grabbed a proposal from Al's hands and shook her head. "Mais c'est dingue, ça... Goods and Substances have finally gone 'round the twist, n'est-ce pas?"
Al hummed. "Must be all the substances."
~*~
Midday was truly a time of madness. Al regretted sticking his nose out of the office.
It seemed to Al that the security wizards were everywhere, skulking in the corridors like a pack of hungry werewolves. Some of them had papers in their hands, others had photographs. Once again, Al found himself in the lift with the Investigator. The man was engrossed in the contents of a heavy file, but his and Al's glances met for a moment in the silvery reflection of the lift walls. The Investigator's eyes were strangely determined, making his resemblance to Uncle Bill even more pronounced. McLaggen may have been buried, but the dogs clearly weren't letting go of the juicy bone. Whoever had done it, they were probably at their throat already.
Halfway down the Glass Corridor, Al stifled a gasp of pain at a sudden flash of pain. He stopped and breathed. The soreness was real, even if the daggers digging into his flesh right then were imaginary. Al's chest was bruised beyond magical help, but, well, too bad. Kazimir certainly hadn't minded the previous night.
On the one hand, it felt good to be hurting if James was hurting. On the other hand, the smarting and the swelling distracted him from useless dreams. It wasn't just that he had imagined Viktor's tight lips around his cock as the vampire pleasured him in the dusty backroom of that dark bar. He had been thinking - he was thinking - he imagined he recognised patterns in Viktor's behaviour the previous day. And the day before that. He thought he saw signs.
The way Viktor moved, as if intentionally trying to accentuate his amazing muscles. (And when had he become Viktor again? Krum, dammit. Commissioner.) The gorgeous, fluid way he moved, as if trying to drive Al insane. Had he been looking at Al when Al had been looking the other way? Or had Al dreamed the searing heat of his gaze on Al's over-sensitised skin?
It was madness, and Al was thankful for the pain to chase those frenzied fancies away.
Taking several deep breaths, Al calmed himself and walked into Magical Games and Sports.
The secretary - who had terrorised him with six memo aeroplanes today demanding he come for no good reason (not that Al was counting) - was perched on the edge of her desk with her nose in the Daily Prophet, of all things. The front page screamed about McLaggen's lavish funeral. Al couldn't help looking at the secretary again: with a large flower in her loose hair and a colourful, flower-print dress, she looked like an oversized Alkonost bird.
Not that Al believed in good omens - her shrill voice could be anything but a portent of good luck.
She bounced on the table, shaking the open newspaper in her hands. "Well, go on, he's waiting for you!"
Al, however, remained where he was, his eyes glued to the last page, where several photographs of Krum were printed. Well, photo-Krums were scowling and mostly looking somewhere outside the frames with a bored and resigned expression, but other gentlemen looked rather cheerful. In fact, way too cheerful for gentlemen too scantily clad even for the beaches of Cyprus.
What. The. Fuck.
A sudden wave of rage rose and covered Al, drowning out everything but the hurt and indignation now that he knew. There was no way those strange, anonymous men were in any way better than he was. (Well, maybe not so anonymous, Al was rather sure he saw Azerbaijan's star Seeker and the drummer from The Hardcore Pogrebins, but that was beside the point.)
Maybe he should have read more gossip rags. Al cursed the angry flush that he could feel on his face as he finally walked into Krum's office.
Krum, damn him, looked cool as a cucumber, as if what little of his private life that had still remained private hadn't just been dragged into the spotlight by the notorious British newspaper. But yes, he was a Commissioner again, so the shit just wouldn't stick to him.
Krum nodded and smiled at him - it was a smile, not a trick of light, Al was absolutely sure of it - then gestured at the visitor's chair. Al remained standing.
Krum's dark eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. He shrugged and walked around his desk, leaning on it so that they stood exactly opposite each other, with nothing, not even a fucking chair in between.
Al felt terribly exposed.
The next ten minutes of Al's life consisted of discussing the most boring revolutionary idea to cut Kazakhstani money even further. That is, Al was intellectually aware that it was perhaps the most boring discussion he had ever had in his life - and Al was the nephew of Percival Weasley. But Al couldn't fully appreciate the excruciating dullness of it because of all the furious, ugly feelings that clawed at his heart. Suddenly his eyes noticed all the little things that were supposed to exist only in his imagination. Like how carefully Krum's eyes watched him, even when he seemed to be looking the other way. Or the rich, soft tone of Krum's voice. It was this velvety, unapologetic, my-only-voice-is-my-bedroom-voice kind that made Al want to bolt out of the room and take his clothes off at the same time. He did neither, of course, he was a big boy, not a hormonal teenager. But Merlin, was he tempted.
Krum had to know how beautiful, how exquisitely powerful he looked. Al was a red-blooded young wizard, and, Slytherin or not, he couldn't hide everything that he felt. Krum had to know what he was doing to Al, and that was about ten kinds of heartless.
It was flirting. Maybe subtle, but every bit as real as the blatant come-hither looks from pale and hungry vampires Al had felt on himself the previous night.
By the time Krum was finished, Al was so enraged that he wanted to murder Krum just as much as he wanted him.
Al shifted his weight from one foot to the other and crossed his arms over his chest. His petty, vindictive side took over and decided to play on whatever his own body had to offer. Al saw Krum's shoulders tense the tiniest bit.
"Forgive me if I'm being a little forward here, Commissioner, but I find it rather difficult to understand why you have called for me." As if you're trying to make me feel needed and important, you ruthless teasing son of a bitch.
Krum opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself, apparently taken aback by Al's demeanour. Al pressed on.
"Though I am sure the tax-payers would be thrilled to know about the sudden close co-operation between ICW departments, I must admit that, given the circumstances, the objective reasons for this co-operation somehow escape me." Or you just think you can come back and fuck me over, like nothing happened? "Could it be that you simply wish to see me in your office?"
For a second, Krum looked like he had been slapped. As if his advances had been brutally rejected. As if he had hoped, and been given reason to hope, only to be cast aside as undesirable. Then his face hardened, and once again, Al couldn't understand anything at all.
Al's mouth kept talking. "You don't want to see me?"
Krum scowled, something he might have done when surrounded by nosy journalists. It was enough of a no to make Al grind his teeth.
Al jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Then tell your cow to stop calling me to your office."
Al turned around and walked to the door, eager to put some distance between himself and Krum. His confusing behaviour and electrifying presence made Al's blood boil. Instead of chasing a dream, Al was now fighting shadows.
With his hand already on the cool brass door handle, Al looked over his shoulder and watched Krum's vague facial expression. The lazy, dim daylight all but flowed through the windows; the air was thick and charged. Krum remained silent, restrained. As if he was about to say something, or maybe not. And he was still sexy as hell, damn him to the frontline in a Goblin war, and Al was hard pressed to find his coldest voice to say one last thing.
"And by the way, the feeling's mutual."
~*~
The canteen had seemed ghastly and a little unsanitary to Al when he had first come to work here, and he had thought the tile-and-metal interior and sickly yellow lights a symptom of the lowest point of civilisation. Now, however, he let the rookies shudder in this mausoleum of Eastern European industrial design as he masterly handled the aluminium cutlery and cheerless service.
Al shook his head. "No coffee, thank you." When he turned around, Gabrielle was rolling her eyes.
"Don't tell me you're still supporting that ban."
"I like to believe I am making a difference," Al said with as much dignity as the vile taste of oregano infusion in his mouth would allow.
Though of course, he wasn't making any damn difference. When it first became known that Kenya was using Restricted Spells to magically improve their coffee beans, thus putting other exporting countries at a disadvantage, the ICW was outraged and threatened all kinds of sanctions. But of course, higher lobbying forces played their cards, and, despite the media coverage, Kenya was still pushing its beans everywhere. Some people refused to drink the coffee supplied to the ICW facilities by the unscrupulous monopolist, and Al wholeheartedly agreed. Much to their dismay, Kenya got away with a symbolic fine. People grumbled and moved on, as usual. Now, eight months later, it felt a bit ridiculous to keep refusing a bloody cup of coffee.
But there was such thing as principles.
As Gabrielle delivered some non-confidential gossip from International Relations, sipping her macchiato a little too demonstratively, Al mulled over the fact that he wasn't making any difference lately. He was decent at his job, but he certainly wasn't irreplaceable. He'd already given up hopes of his good example convincing his parasitic siblings and cousins that there were other ways to live a life than merely off their parents' fame and fortune. His mouth twisted. Maybe he was missing something crucial here. They certainly looked like they were enjoying themselves, whatever the consequences, while he...
Gabrielle waved a hand in front of his face, clicking her fingers. "You look like you've been dumped and spat on."
He must have let something show on his face because Gabrielle sat back, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "Mais tu ne m'as rien dit," she murmured incredulously, clearly dismissing his feeble protestations. Al felt his face heat up. Gabrielle's cool hand covered his, her touch calming and grounding him in a way his mother's never had.
Al tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat and ended up coughing. When he managed to look in Gabrielle's eyes, he almost crumbled and told her everything. Almost.
"C'est rien." Al shook his head to clear his thoughts. "C'est pas grave. C'était ma propre faute, ça."
Gabrielle's lips pressed together in a thin line and Al knew with unexpected certainty that they wouldn't be going back to the office.
~*~
When they stumbled back into Al's flat that night, Al was mostly conscious. He did remember the half-full vodka bottle he was clutching to his chest, the three reckless horses on the label caught in a never-ending run. He also remembered how he - or was it Gabrielle? - had sent the bottle's empty twin rolling down the stairs, laughing at the way it clanked all the way down, proudly refusing to break from such a trifle as contact with cold, unforgiving stone. Then Gabrielle must have tucked him in somehow, because now Al's face was pressed into fresh-smelling pillows. She had probably cast a Refreshing Charm on the bed, too.
He did tell her almost everything, after all. It wasn't that hard; he never had problems trusting Gabrielle. She wasn't like his parents, who were worse than a Crup with a bone, eager to get the truth out of him with some benevolent parental sadism. Not that they normally cared two shits about him unless he needed saving.
Still, if it hadn't been for the vodka, Al would never have got into such details about him and his skin and lips and touching and that fucking Slovenian trainee...
Fuck. He had told her everything, and she let him cry on her shoulder while she smoked her impossibly thin, sweet-smelling cigarettes in the cold park. He remembered asking to try one and choking on the sweet velvety smoke.
And he remembered Gabrielle's eyes, liquid and burning dangerously. Al hiccupped. When Aunt Fleur was enraged, she shrieked and snarled, lashing out like a mad animal. Gabrielle was different. She was one of those who would jump and rip someone's throat out without as much as warning sound. Al liked that. He burrowed deeper under the heavy bedclothes.
He liked people who looked after their own.
~*~
Part Three
Title: Discombobulation (Part 2 of 3)
Pairing(s): Albus Severus Potter/Viktor Krum, other pairings (beware of spoilers): Ginny Weasley-Potter/Anthony Goldstein, James Potter/Cormac McLaggen, James Potter/Scorpius Malfoy, Albus Severus Potter/Scorpius Malfoy, Severus Snape/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: ADW: 54/25(26), murder (victim: Cormac McLaggen)
Summary: A man has passed away, and a man has come back. Distraught and confused, Al Potter reaches a new understanding of his life and himself.
Word Count: 25,000+
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's notes: Dear femmequixotic, I was very excited to have you as my recipient. You are one of my favourite authors, both in original fiction and fan fiction, and it is thrilling to have a chance to thank you for all the wonderful moments your writing has given me. This story wouldn't have seen the light of day without N, who held my hand and showed the greatest kindness and support when most of the Writing Obstacles of Doom decided to happen. The words are not enough to thank B3, my lovely, thoughtful, attentive, brilliant beta reader, who patiently stayed with me even when I exceeded my planned word count by 200%. And, last but not least, I'd like to thank BB: like a paladin of reason, she gave me priceless strategic advice without actually reading this and saved the story at the last moment. Dear femmequixotic, I hope you find it to your liking.
~*~
THURSDAY
~*~
Al overslept.
He stood in a full share taxi, squeezed in between a schoolgirl with headphones so large they looked like Kneazle ears and a guy about ten years older than Al, who had obviously spent the previous night consuming similar quantities of alcohol. The vehicle - that only stayed in one piece on an honest word and a prayer - jumped when they drove over a hole in the asphalt and Al bumped his head against the too-low roof. The salon stank of sweat, booze, and mint chewing gum.
The taxi lurched again and Al grabbed the back of passenger seat his hip was pressed into. Perfect. He overslept, he'd barely had the time to shower and cast a sloppy Drying Charm. Now his shirt felt all but glued to his tense back. But never mind all the bloody effort: he was going to reek of cheap alcohol that someone else had drunk.
"Fucking Merlin on a fucking broomstick," Al muttered.
Other passengers delicately scrunched up their noses as the pale-and-woozy guy winced and apologised for tripping over someone's stuck-out boot every five seconds. Al bit his lip. For all his bloodshot eyes and pallor, Al knew he looked nowhere near as hungover. Which was a good thing, he mused, taking shallow breaths and arching his back impossibly to allow an elderly lady push and kick her way to the exit. He doubted he could avoid the ICW grapevine strangling him as it was. Showing up looking like he'd drunk a bucket of Hippogriff piss right after Krum was appointed was certainly suspicious.
But luckily, Al didn't really feel hungover no matter how much he indulged. He did feel as if his gyri were heavily ironed, but slow and silly didn't equal hungover. Hugo always envied him that; he called it queer metabolism.
The engine made a rather weird sound. Al hunched and looked out of the window, then prepared to extract himself from the share taxi's bowels.
He was already four minutes late, very thirsty, and slightly sweaty.
He had a bad feeling about Thursday, too.
~*~
Al felt his cheeks and neck grow warm as he sprinted down the brightly lit corridor. He'd bumped into the Investigator in the lift. It wasn't much of a conversation, though, unpleasant as it was.
Who benefited from Commissioner McLaggen's death? Who might wish him dead?
Al didn't know. His better brain, the one in his spine, whispered that he didn't need to know.
But there was something new, Al was sure he wasn't imagining it: the slight shift in the Investigator's stance. Careful. Alert. Like a dog smelling a rotten bone underground.
Is there someone you suspect, Mr Potter?
Al had excused himself the moment the lift's doors had slid open.
Now, panting slightly from the run, he turned around the corner and saw two Commissioners, one of them his own formidable boss, engaged in what appeared to be agreeable conversation. The fuck?
Krum's eyes locked with his and Al stopped dead in his tracks. He was dimly aware of the two Commissioners exchanging one last something under their breath, but the tentative sun rays touched Krum's face just so and his eyelashes were perfectly black. Al couldn't move.
Krum's gaze was entirely too penetrating and intense. Probing, like he knew Al was hiding something, or hiding something to hide something else. Or like he was counter-attacking to protect his own secrets. Anxiety slithered down Al's spine and he itched to push his hands inside his pockets or something equally childish and defensive.
Fuck. The magically chilled air prickled his suddenly too hot skin. They don't think I killed him, do they?
"Commissioner Krum has requested your presence this morning, but you seem to have failed to attend, Mr Potter."
Krum was standing between the other Commissioner and Al. The distance between them was so small it was negligible. But Krum looked neither like a prisoner nor a middle-man. He wore the official attire today, and the colour and cut made him rather imposing. Elegant, too.
Al swallowed. He just realised how indecent his own appearance was: clothes clinging to his body that was still slightly damp from the shower and now, sweat. A blush crept in his face.
"I apologise, sir." Al spoke to his boss, which made him break eye contact with Krum. He felt stranded. "It was the business I referred to yesterday."
"Yes, I imagine that was a bothersome distraction."
Al appreciated the final tone in the man's voice. No need to say anything. Anyway, telling Krum how he plotted to ship James to Switzerland bound and gagged was not something Al planned to do.
The FARD Commissioner gave Al a pointed look. "Well, now that you're here, it might as well get done."
The man turned on his heel and Al was about to do the same to follow Krum to the MGS office. Again. But Krum was quicker than Al's brain, definitely. He clearly had more than simple Quidditch reflexes - he anticipated. Al could swear the other man knew exactly where Al would be before Al even got there, snatching Al by the forearm and successfully locking him in place.
The touch burned sweetly even through his shirt and outer robe.
"Just a second." Krum's voice was a soft rumble. "I want to make a wish."
It really was just a second, Krum standing exactly between the two of them, Al's hair standing up where Krum was touching him. Then it was over.
But it was objectively the longest second in the whole bloody universe.
~*~
It must have been a little after two o'clock in the afternoon that it happened.
It seemed incredible that after five bleeding hours of being so close to Krum's body that somehow turned up the heat level in the room, of being excruciatingly aware of how Krum's muscles rippled underneath his dazzling white shirt, and of analysing the financial reports with the paranoid meticulousness of a high-class hooker giving a blow-job, that after five hours of all that Al could still sit straight in that damn hard chair. Besides, all the warm wood and earthy colours in Krum's office made Al feel a bit claustrophobic.
Al read the notes Krum had made in the margins. It was worrying that he could easily read the man's scrawl even upside down. Al licked his lips. His brain seemed to be Krum-programmed. These five hours, every new detail sank in his mind. The way Krum's breathing slowed down when he was thinking carefully. The way Krum looked down his nose and to the left when he thought something was idiotic but didn't mean to say it. The way Krum's little finger twitched when he was getting impatient. Some things were new, some things Al remembered from the time they had worked together three years ago.
Anyway, it happened a little after two o'clock.
The figures blurred and formed kaleidoscopic patterns in front of Al's eyes when he leaned against Krum's desk and massaged his temples. His hand slid down his cheek then - damn, it must have looked like he hadn't even bothered to shave. Al grazed his jaw with his fingertips, the gesture perfectly innocent.
Krum's shoulders went rigid and he stared at Al's face.
He remembered, then.
Krum's dark eyes were fixed on Al's jaw as he sat back in his chair. The heavy silence stung and Al could almost feel the phantom ache again. He had no idea what Krum was thinking about, his chest rising and falling as he did that slow, almost imperceptive breathing thing again. It made Al feel angry. Defiant.
With one hand, Al turned a page of the report, not looking down. With the other, he stroked his jaw, this time deliberately. Remember how you hit me? He smiled slowly and was almost sure that Krum's gaze became hotter and darker before he looked away and called the secretary.
Now, Al knew he was an imaginative idiot. In case he ever needed a reminder, he didn't need to look farther than that ICW fundraiser turned opera gala turned afterparty turned stumbling into a hotel room with Ljubica and Viktor, all three of them pissed out of their minds. Only a smitten idiot with an overactive imagination would have thought that a drunken threesome with the gorgeous, inaccessible, too-good-to-be-true man he'd been crushing on for ages was a good idea. No matter how good his teeth were, Al obviously couldn't compete with a tall, blonde, flexible, cock-sucking girl.
Pissed or not, the fact that he had honestly thought that Viktor would want him over Ljubica just proved that he had read The Tales of Beedle the Bard too many times as a child.
The door banged open and Al heard the secretary's heels clicking against the polished floor. Her perfume was too sweet, and there was too much of it. Al lost the scent of vetiver and Viktor that had been teasing him all day.
"Tea or coffee, Mr Krum?"
She really needed to learn how to stop stretching her vowels.
Krum's right hand lay very still on the dark, gleaming wood of the desk. There was this large, protruding vein that sort of bisected it. Al wanted to touch it with his mouth.
"Tea?"
Krum was looking out the window over his left shoulder. He shook his head, then caught himself and nodded. Bulgarians nodded for 'no' and shook their heads for 'yes'. Al smirked.
He learned that the hard way, too.
The secretary's heels clicked away and out of the office. Al was nervous; even more, he was angry that he was nervous. He shut the folder and pushed the papers across the desk. All right, he was damn furious because now he had to think about Ljubica with her fat lips around Viktor's dick, and wasn't that a happy memory.
"Curiously, everyone seems to think that your appointment means that Bulgaria is going to win the competition." Krum looked at him and caught Al biting his lower lip.
Actually, Al didn't call her Ljubica in his head now. He preferred to think of her as 'that Slovenian trainee'. Whatever, it's not like Viktor had even asked her name that night.
Krum reached for his wand. "Indeed. There are many worthy competitors."
"Indeed." Al smirked again before he could stop himself. "The most obvious and expected candidate is not necessarily the best one." Damn, he sounded like his godfather.
All Al could think about was Viktor getting his dick sucked that night, how the tanned fingers that now held a hornbeam wand had been buried in the girl's messy hair. About Al pushing his cock in that wide mouth alongside Viktor's, the sticky, wet slide of flesh against flesh, glorious and hot...
Krum cast a spell and the strong rush of magic wrenched Al out of his disturbing memories. A dozen scrolls floated towards them from Merlin knew where and landed on the desk. The large wax seals marked them all as confidential.
"Quite right. The choice largely depends on the circumstances."
Fuck, it took Al way too long to remember what they were talking about. His skin still prickled, awash with Krum's magic, powerful and rough. As Krum broke the seal, the secretary came back, Levitating a laden tea-tray.
Well, Al had thought that Krum wasn't looking forward to letting the money be sucked out by those Ministry leeches, never mind that they were his compatriots. There were better choices. Those people needed to stop acting like Krum's appointment was some freaky lobbying plot.
Krum casually flicked his wand and the teapot poured them tea.
It wasn't a plot. Too obvious. Right?
Al stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. When Krum handed him the classified parchment, Al nearly choked on his boiling hot tea.
He gives me classified information.
Al gaped. He was not supposed to see that. Junior Undersecretaries weren't trusted with that level of information, yet Krum, who wasn't even Al's Commissioner, suddenly trusted him. It was a fucking ICW equivalent of a diplomatic marriage proposal.
What kind of game was Krum playing?
Al finally took the parchment. Krum's fingers twitched and almost brushed his as he did so.
Al sat back and forced himself to look at Krum. The bleak sunlight streamed through the windows, catching on Krum's dark hair. He sipped his equally scalding tea, holding his cup in one hand and unbuttoning his shirt at the collar with the other. Well, it was rather hot in the room, and the tension was nerve-racking.
Al had no idea what he was supposed to say.
"Thank you," Al said, his voice unexpectedly low and husky. "Commissioner," he added as an afterthought.
Krum looked somewhere down and to the left, not quite smiled, and picked another scroll. The two of them kept going through the top secret reports from Defence and General Co-operation in relative peace.
Because really, a little after two o'clock in the afternoon, nothing happened.
They didn't talk about how they had stuck their pricks in the same big mouth, they didn't talk about how Al had turned and touched Krum's perfect, wide, sweat-slick chest, they didn't talk about how Krum had gripped Al's wrist tightly and nodded. They didn't talk about how Al had beamed, his heart pounding in his chest, and reached to wrap his fingers around Krum's spit-covered dick, fresh out of a swollen mouth of a girl who'd sucked her way through three ICW departments. They certainly didn't talk about how Krum's eyes had narrowed, the too-much-champagne-and-opera fog halfway cleared, and how Krum's hard fist made sickening contact with Al's jaw.
Then they didn't talk about Krum showing him Commissioner-only documents and asking for Al's opinion.
And they definitely didn't do anything, like Al spelling off his clothes and straddling Krum, shirtless, right there in the Commissioner's chair. Or Krum bending Al over the desk and shagging the shit out of him. Nothing of the sort, no matter how insistently Al's brain conjured these images.
He hated Krum for unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his throat to Al - it didn't make him look vulnerable, exactly, but it implied openness, whereas Al knew that there was nothing of the sort involved here. He tried to retaliate and unsettle Krum by little things of his own, like rolling up his sleeves to show off his forearms (everybody liked his forearms, that much Al knew) or grasping the scrolls like he had grasped Krum's cock. Because now Al knew that Krum had to remember. They had never discussed that night, hadn't even talked until now, when Krum came back in the office. But Krum had just given himself away, and Al wasn't letting the opportunity pass. Too bad it wasn't working.
Whatever Al did, Krum just frowned and didn't give a damn.
Al had a really weird feeling that he was being played, and it drove him mad that he didn't know the rules of the game.
~*~
The working day was over.
The moment Al sent the last batch of documents to Gabrielle, the other part of his brain kicked in. It was like they were taking shifts. One moment he was thinking about Krum, the other he was thinking about James. The only omnipresent thought was, 'We're all going to die.'
Fuck, maybe he needed a place in that Swiss therapeutic resort. Not that Al was used to being the centre of attention. He was probably going to die from shock.
Al stared into space, wondering about death and love like a pathetic sidekick in a Malecrit play. When the time finally came for his scheduled Firecall, Al took a pinch of Floo powder, stuck his head in the fireplace, and shouted, "Magische Klinik Appenzell!"
Everything went green and shiny. There were no random fireplaces to peep into along the way; these days, everyone used security grates. As if anyone cared about their privacy, Merlin's arse. Those grates sure weren't going to help in case the ICW - or anyone else with a Technocauldron and decent magic skills - really wanted to look into their homes.
Which was why Al never had a fireplace installed at home.
"Well, well, well." Al heard the familiar tight voice as the room spun into focus. "Ain't that my special someone with a BDSM and abduction kink."
Everything stilled and Al looked around. White walls. Magical windows. A bed. Blue ceiling. Green floor. James.
James.
"I admit, I'm even a little impressed. All this secrecy and effort, just for me. Wizards in black snatching me from my favourite club. Well, it was a crap party, so no offence, but I began to wonder when they cast an Incarcerous and dumped me in this snowy weirdo haven. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING, YOU FUCKER?!"
Al wasn't really listening. He did what had to be done. Instead, he looked at James, his heart sinking because yes, James looked awful. His normally messy hair stood up at insane angles, his face was drawn and ashen, his eyes were bloodshot and looked like they were about to fall out of their sockets. The bandaged wrists and hospital shirt were the most normal things about his appearance.
"I missed you." Best to disarm James at once. Al could never talk his way through to him, so he was going to need all the tricks there were.
"I didn't miss you, stupid tosser. If I had known you'd be playing fairy godmother, I'd have hexed your fucking guts to jelly at mum's wedding and eaten them with my pudding."
Al wondered what drugs they had given James to make him so docile.
"I wrote to Lily," Al said softly. "She knows, she'll cover it up."
James' eyes were immediately aglow. "She'll get me out of here."
"She doesn't know where you are."
"Since when is it any of your fucking business how I live, or not live, my own fucking life?! Nobody asked you anything. You have no fucking right. You're nobody. SINCE WHEN DO YOU MEDDLE WITH MY LIFE?"
"Since when do you act like your bloody life isn't worth living?!"
James jumped forward and slapped Al across the mouth, splitting his lip. Al staggered and barely managed to keep his head in the fireplace.
"I'm not going away, James. And I'm not letting you go."
James squatted down in front of the fireplace. Up close, Al could see the scratches on his face and hands. Of course he knew James would fight tooth and nail if anyone tried to help him.
Just as James knew that Al was the only one who had the guts to even try.
"So, my little bureaucratic minion. What dour-faced git did you have to rim to pull off this cloak-and-dagger operation?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Right, you're a fan boy. You and dad should hook up, he's having another guilt crisis. Must be his second ulcer this year, stupid old sod."
All right, let James talk. Al really didn't care about their daddy's daddy issues, but as long as it kept James talking... Which it didn't. James looked him over, spiteful and conceited. Al leaned further into the room, resting his folded arms on the iron grate. A different route, then.
"Do mum and dad know?"
James rolled his eyes. "Mum and dad know what they want to know, just like everybody else." He sneered. "They walk around Teddy's weed greenhouse and think he's studying to be a Herbologist."
"We'll get you through this." Al reached and touched James' arm lightly.
"DON'T TOUCH ME! Don't you dare fucking touch me!"
Swift and strong, James grabbed Al's offensive arm and pushed him hard, then reached for the grate and slammed it against Al's chest. The pain was so sharp and intense that for a moment Al thought that his heart had burst on impact.
"Are you - trying - to kill me?" Al groaned. This was going to bruise like hell.
"If I tried, you'd be dead."
James let go of the grate and sat back, watching Al cough and breathe heavily. Fuck, this was almost like their childhood, only with fewer broken bones.
"You think you're so smart?" James' voice was mocking, digging into Al's brain like a claw. "Think that you're going to do better than mummy and daddy? Well, I have news for you, you pretentious bugger: I don't need you dealing with my shit. My shit is mine. And if I fuck up, then I FUCK UP. That's how I live, that's how we've always lived, and I won't have you change it just because you suddenly decide you need a nominal male sibling, you selfish wanker!" Suddenly James gave him a brilliant, public-image-issue smile. "Now tell them to let me go."
Al gritted his teeth. "No."
"Come on, Al. You've proved you're a big man. You've done your noble deed. Now piss the fuck off and let me be. I don't need anyone."
"No." Al regained control of his breathing, and with it most of his composure. "You won't talk to anyone. You won't let anyone near you -"
"The fuck, I live at home, you bastard!"
"- Dad will notice something's wrong only when you're already in the coffin, unless you come up in Auror investigation or something. Mother's in Venezuela..."
"Yes, she timed her wedding just to be out of the picture and let her son kick the bucket. Oh the horror! No wonder our perfect boy can't stand her."
Al's anger flared up. "I love our mother."
James eyes glinted dangerously. "Yes. But you don't respect her, do you?"
Merlin, this was sick. "You know I'm doing this because I love you, James."
"Said Dumbledore to Grindelwald."
"Lily would have done the same."
"One: I don't care about Lily; two: no, she would have let me do my thing."
"Which she has already done. And now this happens the way I say it."
James tilted his head. "Don't bullshit me. I know why you're doing this."
Yeah, right. James Potter knows everything, does everything, fucks everything. Welcome to next generation philosophy.
"You can't control your life, so you're trying to control mine, you fucking imbecile. Well, it won't work that way. I won't let you."
Nobody's asking you, suicidal slut.
"Lost in thoughts, are we?" James' voice was loud and harsh. "Of course. You're the thoughtful one. You care." James moved closer, slowly, dangerously. "I bet you thought a lot about it. How you were going to lock up your sick, twisted brother, who is a total failure, so he doesn't embarrass you."
"James, stop it. You know I care. I need to... You have to do what's good for you."
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I HAVE TO DO!"
There was light and the room shook. The next moment, Al blinked against the sparkling dust and saw James on the floor, splinters and rags scattered everywhere. And there was no bed.
Al looked at him pleadingly, earning himself a glare in return.
"James."
"Don't tell me what's good for me. You have no idea, none of you have any idea of what's. Good. For me."
Al was going to argue, but the lights began to flicker and he shut up.
James' problems with accidental magic were legendary. When he was fifteen he spelled the pants off their new Quidditch coach in the middle of flying practice. Talk about wishful thinking.
When he was sixteen he locked himself in the bathroom, turned the water in the bath into Firewhisky, drank himself stupid, and set the bath on fire. Then he wished for a cookie and Apparated into the kitchen.
All things considered, he could probably dive into dragon dung and dig himself out all clean and squeaky.
James was lying on the green hospital floor, staring into Al's eyes, smiling that wicked smile again. Ever so slowly, he raised his hand and pointed a finger at Al, and for a moment Al wondered if James could kill him with some freaky wandless, silent, not-so-accidental Curse.
"You," James croaked, "are so full of shit. You think that because you got a job and ran away from our merry little asylum, you are better than the rest of us. You're not. You're just the only blathering idiot who didn't get the memo that nothing's ever going to change. There is no war. There is no evil. There's just this shitty life that we're forced to live because our father couldn't keep his dick in his pants, and we'd better get the most out of it, dammit! We just want to have fun."
James was panting, an ugly flush creeping in his face. He sat on his haunches and craned his neck to stare at the ceiling.
Al's chest really hurt where the iron grate was digging into it. "Did you have fun, James?"
James turned back to Al, looking mutinous. "Why don't you ask what you want to ask, you fucking jerk?!" He crawled towards the fireplace. "Was it worth it? Did I like it? Why, yes, I fucking liked it, you obnoxious little bitch! I liked that he didn't talk. I liked that he didn't pretend to care. I liked to know that I could do anything I wanted, fuck anyone I wanted, and then he would come and give it to me so hard and good I'd want him to get stuck in my sore arse and fucking live in me!"
Al couldn't breathe. James' face was beet red and his hands were shaking violently. James let out an incoherent sound and his spittle landed on Al's cheek.
"Someone took him away from me." James reached and clawed at Al's neck. "They always take everything away from me. They always - take - everything - away -"
Fuck everything. Al hugged James fiercely, not caring that it might mean that he was getting killed. James' body shook with silent sobs, and damn, Al knew it was going to be like that. How did it end up being so fucked?
Abruptly, James stilled. His body went rigid, and Al shivered when James buried his nose in Al's neck and took a deep breath.
"You've been drinking." James' voice was quiet, and after all the shouting Al felt like he had gone deaf.
"Are you drinking to make your problems shut the fuck up, little brother?" James pulled back and Al watched his blotchy face, morbidly fascinated by all the raw emotion. "Ickle Sev has a problem, huh? Well, let me tell you something." James' mouth curved into a smile, hard and shark-like. "Get. Yourself. Laid."
Al's hands fell away from James' back and James seized the chance to grab them and squeeze until Al's fingers turned white.
"I'm serious." James went on, obviously pleased that Al was getting numb fingers in addition to the split lip and bruised chest. "Get yourself laid. It always helps. Nobody loves you? Get a dick up your ass. Your family's shit? Get a dick up your ass! You're blue, you're through, your life is so pointless - the answer is, dick, dick, dick! Hot butt sex, the universal magical remedy. It's what I'd be doing if I wasn't stuck in this fancy brainwash studio. But you know that. You brought me here."
James let go of his hands and patted Al's cheek. "Good boy."
And then James did something that made Al forget everything else. James brought his hands to his own face and nuzzled his bandaged wrists. He caught the end of one with his teeth and tugged, so that the greyish bloody tissue unravelled and slipped off. He turned the cursed wrist towards Al and showed him the appalling, raised marks.
Blood trickled down James' forearm, a thin angry line that disappeared from view somewhere in the crook of James' elbow.
Al felt tears running down his face.
Blood spread across the sleeve of James' white hospital shirt. Al's eyes were glued to it, a fiery, moist flower that screamed pain and anguish.
His brother was hurting.
"Oh, I'm hurting?" James laughed, a creepy, high-pitched sound. "I'M HURTING? No shit, you don't say. So that's what it is? Well, thanks for telling me. Because, you know, when I popped my veins open and watched those pretty little fountains of blood, I thought, 'Oh dear, why did I do that? Feeling a little under the weather?'"
"James, come on," Al pleaded. "They'll help you. They're good. You need someone to look after you. You need help."
"Do I really? Well, let them look after me. Thank Merlin you're not offering to look after me yourself, you two-faced piece of shit! Last time you tried to play one big happy family I nearly puked my soul out, you self-righteous cretin! Now, when was that? Oh, I remember, you were what, sixteen? Playing puppy love with Malfoy and getting Lily to study oh-so-hard for her OWLs?" James was wheezing, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest. "Well, good job, because she sure learned a lot in those tutoring sessions and study groups, on her knees for nerdy, saggy-balled Ravenclaws. And I fucked your little Malfoy up every wall in that stinking castle, by the way. He's still grovelling to eat my arse out anywhere I go."
James' shirt and hands were stained with blood. Several stray droplets landed on the floor. Al had to call the mediwizards. He had to make James stop hurting himself. He just didn't know if it was actually possible.
James smiled sharply, the same smile Lily favoured to get her way. "All right, let them look after me. I'll see how they look after me, and if they're good, I might actually invite you to my funeral, asshole!"
Al groaned getting his arm back on the other side of the grate to get his wand. He cast a spell, forcing the words past his lips. The alarm Fwoopers began to sing immediately. Merlin, they kept Fwoopers in a mad house. Maybe it wasn't such a great place after all.
James rocked slightly and laved his wrist with his tongue. He looked furious, haughty. But he didn't look afraid.
James' mouth was smeared with blood. "Get the fuck out," he snarled at Al. "You're going to shut it all out, aren't you? You're going to try to forget. Well, I WON'T, you hear me? I won't forget! I'll never forget!"
The mediwizards burst in and the Fwoopers finally shut up. Al didn't wait; he felt like he had just had a heart attack, or was stripped of his magic, or... He just felt.
Al pulled his head out of the fireplace and blinked against the familiarity of his office. This was home. This was safe. Al crawled away from the fireplace and lay on the carpet, much like James had done.
Mother and father were blind. Lily was an idiot. The others didn't even bear mentioning.
Al curled up in a ball and closed his eyes. It was like plunging his head in a Pensieve. All the worst memories of his family - the prejudice, the conceit, the feeling of being the star of the drama of the universe - came back to haunt him. Only these weren't memories. It was the life they all lived and how they felt.
Al felt that way too, sometimes, and he loathed it. He fought so hard to be someone he could actually respect. He never stopped fighting.
It was 6:23 p.m., the door to his office was spelled shut, and Al allowed himself to crack up and cry for James.
Well, maybe a little bit for himself, too.
~*~
FRIDAY
~*~
Thank God it was Friday.
It did not take Al long to realise that, sometime between fantasising about Viktor Krum on top of him and James' 'Let me die in peace, asshole' speech, Al had misplaced his brain.
It was the only explanation that could survive in the cold, steady light of a Friday morning when Al asked himself why he had gone to a vampire bar the previous night and had his cock sucked by a dark and handsome Czech upir. A very needy, greedy Czech upir called Kazimir. If they hadn't had a three hundred years age gap, Al might have actually considered settling down with him. Although that could have been the lure talking.
Now, after the harsh, mind-numbing experience of having his soul fucked by his brother and his dick worshipped by a stranger, Al's hot morning shower felt inexplicably soothing and sensual. The strange feeling of hope and promise at the back of his skull refused to go away, even when Al's neighbours' washing machine began roaring and the cold water suddenly stopped running, scalding Al's back like hell.
Thank God it was Friday. Albus felt like he was losing his grip on reality.
Just as Al was stuffing a sandwich in his mouth, an Owl's claws scraped against the kitchen window. Appenzell clearly upheld the traditions. Apprehensive, Al broke the intricate seal.
The Healers were saying that James had taken to the treatment well. Which, in Al's opinion, could have meant either that the medicine was working, or that James managed to get stoned on medical potions. Hoping that it was the former, Al left an entry in the notebook for Lily and did exactly what James had accused him of doing. He tried to forget everything and went to work.
For a while, he actually managed to lose himself in something blissful that dangerously approached normalcy. There were documents to peruse, not one of them related to the still rather distant World Cup. No one mentioned McLaggen in Al's presence. Not one security wizard crossed his path.
Al could almost believe that his life had not been shaken, and that nothing was as disturbingly different as it really was.
Gabrielle saw through him at once, of course. She appeared in his office, not really trying to pretend it was about the documents from the day before, and just gave him this Look.
"You can't save everyone."
"Don't ascribe to me my father's complexes. I think I've managed to acquire quite a few of my own."
A small smile played on Gabrielle's face, like a flicker of light. "It's been a tough week for you. But there's nothing you can do, mon p'tit chou." She sat on the edge of Al's desk and caught his eye. "Just live on."
Al squirmed a little under her gaze and began re-arranging the papers on his desk. Which was not a defensive gesture at all; it was really rather cluttered.
"I am living on," he said to a pile of accounts concerning hemp trade.
"No." She waited for him to look up again. "You're looking for things to blame yourself for." Al scoffed. "You are, chéri."
"Maybe it makes my life more interesting."
Gabrielle's smile became brighter and Al couldn't help grinning back. "Maybe it's time to realise that there are other interesting things to do in Kishinev." Mercifully, Gabrielle let him off the hook with that. She grabbed a proposal from Al's hands and shook her head. "Mais c'est dingue, ça... Goods and Substances have finally gone 'round the twist, n'est-ce pas?"
Al hummed. "Must be all the substances."
~*~
Midday was truly a time of madness. Al regretted sticking his nose out of the office.
It seemed to Al that the security wizards were everywhere, skulking in the corridors like a pack of hungry werewolves. Some of them had papers in their hands, others had photographs. Once again, Al found himself in the lift with the Investigator. The man was engrossed in the contents of a heavy file, but his and Al's glances met for a moment in the silvery reflection of the lift walls. The Investigator's eyes were strangely determined, making his resemblance to Uncle Bill even more pronounced. McLaggen may have been buried, but the dogs clearly weren't letting go of the juicy bone. Whoever had done it, they were probably at their throat already.
Halfway down the Glass Corridor, Al stifled a gasp of pain at a sudden flash of pain. He stopped and breathed. The soreness was real, even if the daggers digging into his flesh right then were imaginary. Al's chest was bruised beyond magical help, but, well, too bad. Kazimir certainly hadn't minded the previous night.
On the one hand, it felt good to be hurting if James was hurting. On the other hand, the smarting and the swelling distracted him from useless dreams. It wasn't just that he had imagined Viktor's tight lips around his cock as the vampire pleasured him in the dusty backroom of that dark bar. He had been thinking - he was thinking - he imagined he recognised patterns in Viktor's behaviour the previous day. And the day before that. He thought he saw signs.
The way Viktor moved, as if intentionally trying to accentuate his amazing muscles. (And when had he become Viktor again? Krum, dammit. Commissioner.) The gorgeous, fluid way he moved, as if trying to drive Al insane. Had he been looking at Al when Al had been looking the other way? Or had Al dreamed the searing heat of his gaze on Al's over-sensitised skin?
It was madness, and Al was thankful for the pain to chase those frenzied fancies away.
Taking several deep breaths, Al calmed himself and walked into Magical Games and Sports.
The secretary - who had terrorised him with six memo aeroplanes today demanding he come for no good reason (not that Al was counting) - was perched on the edge of her desk with her nose in the Daily Prophet, of all things. The front page screamed about McLaggen's lavish funeral. Al couldn't help looking at the secretary again: with a large flower in her loose hair and a colourful, flower-print dress, she looked like an oversized Alkonost bird.
Not that Al believed in good omens - her shrill voice could be anything but a portent of good luck.
She bounced on the table, shaking the open newspaper in her hands. "Well, go on, he's waiting for you!"
Al, however, remained where he was, his eyes glued to the last page, where several photographs of Krum were printed. Well, photo-Krums were scowling and mostly looking somewhere outside the frames with a bored and resigned expression, but other gentlemen looked rather cheerful. In fact, way too cheerful for gentlemen too scantily clad even for the beaches of Cyprus.
What. The. Fuck.
A sudden wave of rage rose and covered Al, drowning out everything but the hurt and indignation now that he knew. There was no way those strange, anonymous men were in any way better than he was. (Well, maybe not so anonymous, Al was rather sure he saw Azerbaijan's star Seeker and the drummer from The Hardcore Pogrebins, but that was beside the point.)
Maybe he should have read more gossip rags. Al cursed the angry flush that he could feel on his face as he finally walked into Krum's office.
Krum, damn him, looked cool as a cucumber, as if what little of his private life that had still remained private hadn't just been dragged into the spotlight by the notorious British newspaper. But yes, he was a Commissioner again, so the shit just wouldn't stick to him.
Krum nodded and smiled at him - it was a smile, not a trick of light, Al was absolutely sure of it - then gestured at the visitor's chair. Al remained standing.
Krum's dark eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. He shrugged and walked around his desk, leaning on it so that they stood exactly opposite each other, with nothing, not even a fucking chair in between.
Al felt terribly exposed.
The next ten minutes of Al's life consisted of discussing the most boring revolutionary idea to cut Kazakhstani money even further. That is, Al was intellectually aware that it was perhaps the most boring discussion he had ever had in his life - and Al was the nephew of Percival Weasley. But Al couldn't fully appreciate the excruciating dullness of it because of all the furious, ugly feelings that clawed at his heart. Suddenly his eyes noticed all the little things that were supposed to exist only in his imagination. Like how carefully Krum's eyes watched him, even when he seemed to be looking the other way. Or the rich, soft tone of Krum's voice. It was this velvety, unapologetic, my-only-voice-is-my-bedroom-voice kind that made Al want to bolt out of the room and take his clothes off at the same time. He did neither, of course, he was a big boy, not a hormonal teenager. But Merlin, was he tempted.
Krum had to know how beautiful, how exquisitely powerful he looked. Al was a red-blooded young wizard, and, Slytherin or not, he couldn't hide everything that he felt. Krum had to know what he was doing to Al, and that was about ten kinds of heartless.
It was flirting. Maybe subtle, but every bit as real as the blatant come-hither looks from pale and hungry vampires Al had felt on himself the previous night.
By the time Krum was finished, Al was so enraged that he wanted to murder Krum just as much as he wanted him.
Al shifted his weight from one foot to the other and crossed his arms over his chest. His petty, vindictive side took over and decided to play on whatever his own body had to offer. Al saw Krum's shoulders tense the tiniest bit.
"Forgive me if I'm being a little forward here, Commissioner, but I find it rather difficult to understand why you have called for me." As if you're trying to make me feel needed and important, you ruthless teasing son of a bitch.
Krum opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself, apparently taken aback by Al's demeanour. Al pressed on.
"Though I am sure the tax-payers would be thrilled to know about the sudden close co-operation between ICW departments, I must admit that, given the circumstances, the objective reasons for this co-operation somehow escape me." Or you just think you can come back and fuck me over, like nothing happened? "Could it be that you simply wish to see me in your office?"
For a second, Krum looked like he had been slapped. As if his advances had been brutally rejected. As if he had hoped, and been given reason to hope, only to be cast aside as undesirable. Then his face hardened, and once again, Al couldn't understand anything at all.
Al's mouth kept talking. "You don't want to see me?"
Krum scowled, something he might have done when surrounded by nosy journalists. It was enough of a no to make Al grind his teeth.
Al jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Then tell your cow to stop calling me to your office."
Al turned around and walked to the door, eager to put some distance between himself and Krum. His confusing behaviour and electrifying presence made Al's blood boil. Instead of chasing a dream, Al was now fighting shadows.
With his hand already on the cool brass door handle, Al looked over his shoulder and watched Krum's vague facial expression. The lazy, dim daylight all but flowed through the windows; the air was thick and charged. Krum remained silent, restrained. As if he was about to say something, or maybe not. And he was still sexy as hell, damn him to the frontline in a Goblin war, and Al was hard pressed to find his coldest voice to say one last thing.
"And by the way, the feeling's mutual."
~*~
The canteen had seemed ghastly and a little unsanitary to Al when he had first come to work here, and he had thought the tile-and-metal interior and sickly yellow lights a symptom of the lowest point of civilisation. Now, however, he let the rookies shudder in this mausoleum of Eastern European industrial design as he masterly handled the aluminium cutlery and cheerless service.
Al shook his head. "No coffee, thank you." When he turned around, Gabrielle was rolling her eyes.
"Don't tell me you're still supporting that ban."
"I like to believe I am making a difference," Al said with as much dignity as the vile taste of oregano infusion in his mouth would allow.
Though of course, he wasn't making any damn difference. When it first became known that Kenya was using Restricted Spells to magically improve their coffee beans, thus putting other exporting countries at a disadvantage, the ICW was outraged and threatened all kinds of sanctions. But of course, higher lobbying forces played their cards, and, despite the media coverage, Kenya was still pushing its beans everywhere. Some people refused to drink the coffee supplied to the ICW facilities by the unscrupulous monopolist, and Al wholeheartedly agreed. Much to their dismay, Kenya got away with a symbolic fine. People grumbled and moved on, as usual. Now, eight months later, it felt a bit ridiculous to keep refusing a bloody cup of coffee.
But there was such thing as principles.
As Gabrielle delivered some non-confidential gossip from International Relations, sipping her macchiato a little too demonstratively, Al mulled over the fact that he wasn't making any difference lately. He was decent at his job, but he certainly wasn't irreplaceable. He'd already given up hopes of his good example convincing his parasitic siblings and cousins that there were other ways to live a life than merely off their parents' fame and fortune. His mouth twisted. Maybe he was missing something crucial here. They certainly looked like they were enjoying themselves, whatever the consequences, while he...
Gabrielle waved a hand in front of his face, clicking her fingers. "You look like you've been dumped and spat on."
He must have let something show on his face because Gabrielle sat back, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "Mais tu ne m'as rien dit," she murmured incredulously, clearly dismissing his feeble protestations. Al felt his face heat up. Gabrielle's cool hand covered his, her touch calming and grounding him in a way his mother's never had.
Al tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat and ended up coughing. When he managed to look in Gabrielle's eyes, he almost crumbled and told her everything. Almost.
"C'est rien." Al shook his head to clear his thoughts. "C'est pas grave. C'était ma propre faute, ça."
Gabrielle's lips pressed together in a thin line and Al knew with unexpected certainty that they wouldn't be going back to the office.
~*~
When they stumbled back into Al's flat that night, Al was mostly conscious. He did remember the half-full vodka bottle he was clutching to his chest, the three reckless horses on the label caught in a never-ending run. He also remembered how he - or was it Gabrielle? - had sent the bottle's empty twin rolling down the stairs, laughing at the way it clanked all the way down, proudly refusing to break from such a trifle as contact with cold, unforgiving stone. Then Gabrielle must have tucked him in somehow, because now Al's face was pressed into fresh-smelling pillows. She had probably cast a Refreshing Charm on the bed, too.
He did tell her almost everything, after all. It wasn't that hard; he never had problems trusting Gabrielle. She wasn't like his parents, who were worse than a Crup with a bone, eager to get the truth out of him with some benevolent parental sadism. Not that they normally cared two shits about him unless he needed saving.
Still, if it hadn't been for the vodka, Al would never have got into such details about him and his skin and lips and touching and that fucking Slovenian trainee...
Fuck. He had told her everything, and she let him cry on her shoulder while she smoked her impossibly thin, sweet-smelling cigarettes in the cold park. He remembered asking to try one and choking on the sweet velvety smoke.
And he remembered Gabrielle's eyes, liquid and burning dangerously. Al hiccupped. When Aunt Fleur was enraged, she shrieked and snarled, lashing out like a mad animal. Gabrielle was different. She was one of those who would jump and rip someone's throat out without as much as warning sound. Al liked that. He burrowed deeper under the heavy bedclothes.
He liked people who looked after their own.
~*~
Part Three