Fic: Discombobulation (Albus/Viktor Krum), NC-17 (Part 3 of 3)
Recipient: femmequixotic
Title: Discombobulation (Part 3 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.
~*~
SATURDAY
~*~
When Al properly awoke, the bedside clock said 11:56. His heart flipped over nastily, like a suicidal Plimpie on the shore, before he remembered that it was Saturday. He sighed deeply and got out of bed, pulling off his pants and shirt on the way to the bathroom. Having pissed with all the grace of a Hippogriff, Al spread his shirt across the tiled floor instead of bothering to find the rag. He'd hopelessly ruined the shirt by letting it come in close contact with something like a cheburek the day before, and then sleeping in it. Its final deed would be helping Al fight his eternally leaking shower.
When he got under the hot spray, warmth spreading through him deliciously, Al remembered that this was the shirt he'd been wearing that night with Viktor. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, soaping and cleaning himself as best as he could.
When he opened his eyes, the water had a brownish tinge again, the usual reminder of the rusty pipes that filled the bowels of this city. Al tried not to think how alike they were, the city and he: all neat and supposedly decent on the outside, and full of shit on the inside. Thinking things like that made him feel like a brooding wanker, or like his father, which was more or less the same.
He found a tall paper cup of coffee under a stasis charm in the kitchen and couldn't help snorting. He picked up the note propped up against the cup, skimming over Gabrielle's slanted handwriting.
9h -
P'tit salaud, tu dormes!
Faut parler.
Le déj est dans le frigo.
Bisous,
G.
Al realised he had grabbed the Cup of Temptation unconsciously and had already drunk half the coffee. Swearing through his teeth, he poured the vicious liquid into the kitchen sink and went for the fridge, fishing out Gabrielle's sandwiches and a lonely orange. The conversation he kind of dreaded; not because he thought Gabrielle would be judgmental, but because now that the raw hurt was aired out, he wanted to lock it up again and keep ignoring it. But Gabrielle was likely going to make him deal with the issue, or worse, actually think about what had happened, and Al wasn't sure he was ready for that yet.
~*~
He needn't have worried.
"You did what?"
Gabrielle stared back defiantly, but Al noticed that she also kept her arms crossed and was standing at a protective distance from him. Not such an innocent lamb, after all.
"Well, we did have a bit too much to drink, and you were miserable! You should have seen yourself! And we haven't even got to that part, but you are so inexperienced and fucked up about people, so I -"
"So you thought going to Viktor and hexing him was the thing to do?"
"D'accord, peut-être c'était une erreur, mais pas une faute!"
Al halted at that. Gabrielle stared back, flushed and refusing to back down a notch. Details from the previous night flashed through his mind. The way Gabrielle was shaking her head furiously as she poured him another shot at the bar, telling Al that it wasn't his fault his heart was broken. That maybe he had made a mistake, but he was not at fault.
Come to think of it, Fleur and Gabrielle always took the responsibility, but never the blame for anything...
His musings were cut off by the sound of a kettle being put on. Gabrielle was standing with her back towards him, busying herself with the mismatched cups.
"Anyway, he's coming here."
"What?" Al's mind was suddenly a blank slate, his lunch feeling like lead in his stomach. "When?"
Gabrielle shrugged and turned to the cheap yellow kitchen clock. Its two hands were triumphantly pointing at 'Surprise'.
Hastily, Al gabbed a jacket from the rack and pulled it over his t-shirt, lashing out at Gabrielle's 'you need to talk' ('Who said that I want to talk to him?!') and 'c'est pas sérieux' ('Why the fuck did you do that?!'). He all but ran away from his own apartment.
He didn't slam the door shut, though, so he could congratulate himself on that.
~*~
Al was walking down the street, looking up at the dilapidated houses and sleeping lampposts that stood slightly askew. The afternoon was a bit chilly, and he pulled the jacket tighter over his threadbare t-shirt. Fuck, he had grabbed Gabrielle's jacket, he realised, only now noticing that the black was trimmed with purple and that the buttons were gold instead of black. And he had wondered why it suddenly felt so small.
Vasjka, the obligatory local mad Kneazle, meowed loudly and blocked Al's path, demanding a treat. Al spread his hands apologetically, trying to convey that he had nothing to give. Vasjka hissed, unimpressed. Cursing through his teeth, Al stood in the middle of the empty street, debating whether he should turn back and walk around the block before Vasjka had his rogue reinforcements arrive. That Kneazle was dangerous.
Al thought he heard a sound coming from behind; he turned his head and froze, the pounding of blood in his ears drowning out all other sounds.
There, on Al's quiet, ramshackle street, stood Viktor Krum, and he had the utter gall to look like Al owed him something.
Al's nostrils flared and he looked back where Vasjka now stood flanked by six or seven large ne'er-do-well Kneazles.
Out of the cauldron, into the fire.
~*~
Of course Al turned around and went to Krum. To talk. What was he supposed to do, after all, swoon? Whip out his wand and Disapparate dramatically in the middle of the street? Flutter his eyelashes and run like a virgin damsel chased by bloody dragon?
He wasn't that much of a drama queen.
Talk, however, would have been an overstatement. Krum seemed to want to offer Al his hand, then changed his mind and just jerked his head, indicating Al should follow. Which he did, rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw when the sick dark feeling in his stomach was back. Al's heart was beating erratically as they walked in silence, and it did a little flip-flop when, having made two left turns, they found themselves in front of a shabby tavern owned by a Bulgarian couple. Viktor paused for a second in front of the dark and heavy wooden door. Al watched him and saw something else entirely.
Viktor in front of the hotel room door, his face glowing and smiling. Ljubica resting her weight on his broad back, laughing and undulating slightly. The sequins of her dress catching on Viktor's white silk shirt. Al's hands on Ljubica's hips, Al's eyes on Viktor's thick fingers holding a polished wand.
Soft, butter yellow light. Husky, broken voices echoing off the corridor walls.
They are making an agreement. They are setting the rules.
The hotel room is simple and impersonal.
The music was what brought Al back to his senses. There was a band on the tiny, barely lit stage at the back of the bar, and four or five men with serious, wide faces played something mournful. Something that brought to mind green forests and babbling brooks, and a strange kind of loneliness under the stars. A girl of about fourteen stood a little to the side, swaying with the melody her uncles - or maybe cousins - weaved with astounding, breath-taking skill. Al felt as if he had somehow slipped into a different world, even more so than he normally did around Viktor.
They sat at a sturdy table, the wood singed with stubbed out cigarettes around the edges. Al couldn't stop himself from staring at Krum, who somehow managed to look gorgeous and forbidding even in this dirty, strange, god-forsaken place, like a fairy-tale king in exile. And then there was the hunch. Merlin, Al loved that hunch.
Fuck.
The buxom waitress offered coffee and Krum nodded, refusing. Al had a childish urge to stomp his feet and get himself a fat latte, just to prove they had nothing in common. It was too early to drink but damn, he needed something strong.
Krum's shoulders looked tense, the smooth dark fabric of his jacket stretched tightly across them. Al couldn't see his face well in the dim light, and the uncertainty made him fidget. He squinted, trying to imagine what he couldn't discern, the crows feet that got to him every single time, the hard lines around the mouth.
"I want to apologise."
What, Gabrielle beat some sense into you? Al wanted to bite out. Or snarl. Or hiss, if he could manage it with three sibilants in a phrase. The other-worldly melody cut him open and Al couldn't control the words that were tumbling out of his mouth.
"You punched me." Krum looked up, meeting his eyes for a moment, and then continued staring dourly at the polished tabletop. "We were having sex, and you almost broke my jaw." Al let his fingers slide slowly along his jaw line, once again relishing the haunted look in Krum's eyes when he brought up that particular memory.
"We weren't having sex with each other." Krum seemed so intent on enunciating his words carefully that it took Al a moment to realise what had been said. He gaped in disbelief.
"Yes, we were."
"No, Albus. We weren't."
Ljubica straddling Viktor's hard thighs, her lipstick leaving blood-red smears on the collar of his shirt. Al's fingers tangled in Ljubica's long, dirty blond hair.
Viktor's dark, liquid gaze sending a new rush of excitement through Al's body. His eyes looking at Al as if they are equals, as if they need and crave the same thing. As if they are in this stifling room for the same kind of delicious pleasure. There's no way to describe how strangely relaxed and open Viktor looks slipping the flimsy dress off Ljubica's shoulders.
They will share. That is how they play.
Al's and Viktor's arms wrap around Ljubica's writhing body. Their breath is equally laboured and hot. They share the taste of alcohol and easy lust on Ljubica's breath.
And then Al breathes the strong, musky scent of Viktor's sweat and he forgets, forgets, forgets…
Al hadn't noticed when the waitress had come with their drinks, but he reached for his shot and drained it. Pieces of the puzzle were suddenly falling into place, and the picture wasn't what he had expected it to be. Al chewed on a pickle, his unblinking eyes fixed on the veined sliver of Viktor's wrist that was visible in the sleeve of his jacket.
A nasty headache hit him full force and Al had to squeeze his eyes shut against his own stupidity.
"Bring the bottle."
~*~
Three fucking years of being too overwhelmed and humiliated to think. Al sucked the vodka in through his teeth and waited for the burning sensation on his tongue. The self-righteous obliviousness, it must be genetic.
He looked at Viktor, not really needing him to say anything, but just making sure he was actually there and not a figment of Al's imagination. Viktor had taken off his jacket and was now smoking leisurely, fluffy grey little puffs escaping his lips as he began to sing along with the teenage girl on the stage. Al felt himself slipping to that eerie, dream-like place again. The girl's voice was loud and strong, carrying far. Like a song of the mountains, or that of the angels.
Al watched Viktor, mesmerized by the way his voice blended with that of the girl on stage. The deep, open, edgy sound seemed to come from the most secret depths of the soul: raw and real, yet somehow incredible. And magical. It touched Al to the core, leaving him shivering, shaking. There was such deep sadness in that song, such pure strength.
Al didn't know why he felt like weeping all of a sudden. He dug around in his pockets in search of a pack of cigarettes and pulled out a thin, colourful box of slims. Of course. Gabrielle's jacket, Gabrielle's cigarettes. He cast a spell, taking the chance that it would go unnoticed in the darkness, and relished the ridiculously sweet, sinful taste.
The song came to an end and Viktor sighed. He lit a new cigarette with the smoking tip of the old one and looked back at Al.
There, in Viktor's eyes, was an entire world that Al wanted to know. More so now than when he was younger and even more stupid.
But still, Al had to ask. He understood that he had broken their agreement back then. That he had disrespected the rules when Viktor had let himself be vulnerable and just fucking relaxed. That he had had no right to expect that the urgency of his heart's desire would be understood when countless hours of work and sleepless nights had been washed away by a river of champagne, leaving nothing but a giddy wish to let go. He understood why Viktor had been angry.
It was simple - Al had wanted him, and he had been punished for that. Right?
But something that Viktor had said this time didn't make sense. Al filled his lungs with smoke and thought four - no, five shots back. Something about Viktor's conversation with Gabrielle and boys and girls sleeping with their superiors. About really wanting... Al shook his head. He didn't understand why Viktor had decided that Al hadn't been sincere.
So Al asked, and when Viktor answered, he asked again. And again.
Al gaped at him like a fucking Plimpie. "You thought I was whoring myself for promotion?"
Merlin's filthy beard. Al dropped his cigarette and burned his fingers trying to catch it as it rolled towards the edge of the table. If there was one wizard in the world who shouldn't have complexes about being truly desirable...
Viktor looked uncomfortable and stuck his half-smoked fag back into his mouth. "I wasn't thinking straight."
Al sneered. "Yes, I gathered that much."
When Viktor smiled, even the tiniest bit, one could see a little dimple in his left cheek.
Al took another drag of his slightly broken cigarette. Rolled the smooth, almost candied smoke in his mouth. Exhaled.
"Are you thinking straight now?"
Al's heart clenched painfully, afraid to make another beat. He waited.
Viktor breathed out the smoke through his nose. The tendrils twined with the half-dissolved ones from Al's own cigarette. "Do you want me to?"
Oh sweet fucking Merlin. Al dumped the cigarette in the full ashtray and raised both hands in a pacifying gesture. "Just do what you want. I'm done taking the initiative."
Viktor's eyes searched Al's face. Al tried to stop holding back and let his emotions show, to let Viktor see whatever he needed to see. However, after living with a poker face for years Al wasn't sure he could ever fully manage that.
Viktor rose, the heavy chair scraping against the floor loudly, and dropped his fag in the ashtray without even putting it out. He glanced at the exit and pulled on his jacket.
Al slipped his mask back on.
He stared at the table, glad that his heart somehow wouldn't resume beating normally. Maybe he would drop dead and spare himself the melodrama. Then Al felt rather than saw Viktor walking around the table and past him.
And then he knew that Viktor was standing behind his seat, so close, so very, very close.
Still here. Still here.
Behind you.
Large hands wrapped around him. Al was lost in the familiar, forbidden scent, smoke and skin and vetiver. Viktor was holding him tightly, pressing Al's back against his wide, hard chest, and Al fancied he could actually feel a heartbeat against his spine.
Al's eyes itched in a funny, inexplicable way. He gazed at the ashtray where Viktor's thick, burning fag had landed on top of Al's countless stubbed out slims. They darkened, smoked, and were suddenly ablaze.
Viktor's breath was hot against his ear. "Take me home."
~*~
Al was sure that Viktor could have Apparated them both, regardless of the amount of alcohol that they had consumed. But instead, they walked, Viktor's larger hand brushing casually against Al's, the prickling heat of Viktor's body washing over Al despite the evening chill and the clothes that still kept them apart. Al was not anxious, though. He knew that Viktor wasn't one to change his mind at the last moment.
So even though he wasn't exactly sure about what was coming, Al accepted it.
They walked, the dirty streets opening up and swallowing them whole. Then, after a couple of minutes in the grim darkness filled with strange sounds, the streets were spitting them out at brightly lit and empty crossroads. It wasn't the road Al would have normally taken, but every step of the way, he felt like he was coming closer to home.
He just was a little distracted.
For all the sweet warmth that was spreading from within his heart, Al couldn't help craving more: something raw and physical that he knew would come once Viktor really touched him, something real and wonderful that he had always known he was missing. Al stumbled a little and Viktor caught him around the waist, a little unsteady himself. Al breathed in his sharp, heady scent. He knew that it wasn't Viktor that he had really been missing; it was something about Al, some inexplicable understanding of the world that he could almost taste on his tongue right now.
But it didn't matter, really. Because Viktor made him feel something, this. And he wanted Viktor.
And Viktor wanted him.
Viktor's arms were wrapped around him, and Al let go and closed his eyes. Just like this, not fighting himself, not fighting what was happening. Just living the moment the way it was. Dark and hot with a promise of a hard hot body against his back.
Merlin, how he wanted.
When they finally reached Al's house, Al had a proper look at Viktor's face in the bleak light of a streetlamp. The stern lines of his face, beautiful in a way Al couldn't explain, the tendons of his neck, the outline of powerful muscles - shoulders, chest, everywhere.
The bulge in Viktor's trousers.
The pure, honest lust in Viktor's eyes.
Fuck, how could Al have missed it?
He stepped closer and tilted his head upwards, watching Viktor's lips part ever so slightly.
"Well, I've taken you home," Al murmured. "What now?"
When Al came back to his senses, they were inside, shuddering against each other in the pitch dark nook under the stairwell. The night chill crept inside through the entrance door they hadn't bothered to shut.
Viktor's heavy body pressed Al into the filthy, faintly stinking wall. Al's hands were under Viktor's shirt and Viktor's hands were on Al's arse.
Al's head swam with all the hard grinding and pushing, and the feel of Viktor's sweaty bare back under his fingers.
"Not here," Al gasped when Viktor mouthed kisses along his stubbled jaw.
"Here," Viktor said into his neck. "Now." His cock rubbed against Al's through their trousers and Al felt it throbbing as surely as he felt his own. "Fucking little prick-tease."
Al shivered, clutching Viktor's shoulders and hooking a leg around Viktor's hip.
"When have I teased you?" His laugh was entirely too breathless, but given what Viktor's hands were doing to him, Al thought he could be forgiven.
Viktor just groaned and bit into his neck. Al's breath hitched.
"I was offering."
Roughly, Viktor grabbed Al's thigh and hooked Al's other leg around his waist. Al raked his fingernails down Viktor's spine, dizzy now that Viktor's hands on his arse were the only thing holding him up.
"Come fuck me now." He could feel Viktor's forehead, damp with sweat, pressing hard into his cheek. Al dug his fingernails in the small of Viktor's back. "Third floor."
Al nearly came in his pants at the rush of magic as Viktor Apparated them. Silently. Wandlessly. Practically fucking Al through the Apparition, dick to dick as they were.
Viktor slammed Al against the cool metal door and reached for his zipper with one hand.
"Open up." Fuck, Al didn't know if he meant the jeans or his body or the fucking door or his bloody soul - he pressed his hand against the door and hot magic licked at his fingers.
The locks clicked open and the next moment they were inside. Al's head banged against the corridor wall. He tightened his legs around Viktor and tried to straighten up, his jacket catching on the rugged wallpaper.
Viktor's calloused hand was in his jeans, palming the wet patch on Al's pants.
Al's fingers made their way in the short coarse hair on the back of Viktor's head. "I need to close the door." Al pulled his wand out of his sleeve, the slide of polished wood against his skin making him think at least a dozen dirty thoughts.
Viktor grunted and flicked a thumbnail over the leaking head of Al's cock. And if that meant that Viktor was using Legilimency on him - because that flick of nail was what Al had just thought of - then Al honestly didn't mind.
Al pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Viktor's temple and spelled the door shut.
~*~
Al was lying underneath Viktor's heavy body, warm and sticky in all kinds of places. He needed no words to describe what he felt: he just knew. They both knew.
Al's fingers stroked briefly over Viktor's sharp shoulder blades, then skimmed his ribs and wandered across his damp chest, unable to choose a nipple to tweak. In pursuit of universal justice, he played with them both.
Viktor's thumb brushed Al's balls again and a new wave of want ran from the top of Al's head to the tips of his toes.
"You can't possibly want to go again," Al groaned, only half-joking. His jaw ached and he winced when Viktor pressed a kiss to his puffy lips.
"You're twenty-five," Viktor scolded before craning his head back down and kissing Al harder.
Al reached blindly and groped around the bedside table for his watch. The almost non-existent starlight made the time easier to guess than to see.
But it had to be past midnight, because a little after eleven Al's head was buried in the pillows to muffle his moans as Viktor's thick fingers circled his stretched hole and spread thick, sticky come all over Al's crack. And that had been ages ago.
"Twenty-six." Al spoke right into Viktor's mouth and licked at his teeth. His spine arched when Viktor began nuzzling his throbbing pulse point with his scratchy, stubbled chin.
"Old man. I've been sold damaged goods."
Al had no snappy comeback for this because Viktor rested his entire weight on him, crushing Al and pressing him into the mattress in a way that made him feel fucked all over. Al reached and pressed the cold dial of his watch just below the small of Viktor's back. It slipped on the sweat-slick skin and got closer to the heat. So did the tips of Al's fingers.
Viktor hissed and pushed his arse back against Al's hand, which was incredibly hot. Especially combined with the filthy, leisurely way Viktor sucked on Al's earlobe.
The spit on Al's dick had sufficiently cooled, and, with his nose buried in Viktor's hair, Al began to think that a fourth round was indeed a definite possibility.
~*~
SUNDAY
~*~
Al was happy to spend the entire Sunday in bed, now that it meant that he could have hours of licking the edges of Viktor's mouth and the sensitive skin around his heavy, massive balls. Or he could just lie on his side, those balls resting snugly against Al's arse as Viktor traced patterns on his sweat-slick back and told him the funny bits about the Bulgarian Quidditch Youth Initiative that he had started.
But for some reason, Viktor insisted that since it was Al's birthday, they had to get up.
Al saw no logic in that. He was having the best birthday ever, stealing wet and filthy kisses from Viktor's sinfully clever mouth. And he didn't mind the absence of cumbersome clothes, either.
There was cherry pie on the kitchen table. Al had no idea where that had come from, unless Gabrielle stayed the previous night to bake him something to calm his nerves after his conversation with Viktor.
Or something for the morning after.
So breakfast was tea and cherry pie, and then Viktor licked the crumbles off Al's hand and they had slow, uncomfortable, brilliant sex on the kitchen table. The kind of sex that was worth any backache or bruised wrists.
Al wouldn't have noticed the glowing spine of his notebook a couple of hours later if it hadn't been practically in his face. The upper half of his body was hanging off the bed almost entirely - he had slid to the floor along with the cheap and threadbare cotton sheets as Viktor's hands kneaded his buttocks. Something that was called Quidditch massage, apparently. Oh, the delicious perversion of professional sports.
The notebook spine glowed blue. And he didn't have friends who wrote to him - except Gabrielle.
Al pushed himself further and snatched the notebook from the floor. Viktor snorted when it took Al almost a minute to pry his underpants off it. Well, they were stuck. Al flipped the notebook open.
Viktor's hands squeezed his hips and he pulled Al back, then pressed a kiss to the small of his back.
Al stared at the entry for a minute or so, not sure which was more alarming: Gabrielle's sharp, careful handwriting, what she wrote, or the fact that for once, she wrote in English.
Al turned around and sat up, handing Viktor the notebook. He had to grab Viktor's wrist and clamp down on it firmly to stop him from rubbing those distracting circles on the inside of Al's thigh.
Viktor squinted slightly and brought the notebook closer to his eyes to read through the entry.
"Oh, now they think Gabrielle killed Cormac?" Viktor rolled his eyes, tossed the notebook aside and dragged Al back up.
"What the fuck is this? What does it mean, 'evidence'?" Al tried to free himself from Viktor's embrace. "They can't - I have to -"
"My English is quite good, just so you know." Viktor wrapped his large, warm hand around the back of Al's head and whispered in his ear. "She says that she is arrested, and you are not to worry." Viktor's breath against the shell of his ear sent a wicked shiver down Al's spine.
"But - "
"Keep out of it. You'll only interfere."
Al tried to voice his objections against Viktor's bare shoulder, but was distracted by teeth marks on it. He traced the reddish indentations with a finger. Apparently, Al had malocclusion.
"Don't you think that if there really weren't anyone already dealing with, she would have told you?"
Viktor was right, of course. Again. Al's godparents were practically inseparable these days. A quarter of a century was enough for two people who hated babies with a passion to bind over a child that they were more or less handed to build bridges. Still, he couldn't just wait and let the situation unravel, could he?
Viktor's fingers rubbed soothingly at the juncture of Al's right thigh. "It will be fine. It's not like she did it. What could she have had to fight with him over?"
~*~
In the end, Al had almost gone.
He had got up and dressed, and made a half-arsed plan about what to do, the kind of plan that screamed Gryffindor and that he should have been deeply ashamed of. Viktor had got up, too, and Al was warmed and light-headed with the knowledge that Viktor wasn't about to baby-sit him or make his decisions, but that he was simply there.
But luckily, his ICW experience finally kicked in, closely followed by everything he knew of Gabrielle. He examined the situation to the best of his ability, and, since there was no real and immediate danger, he drew the only possible conclusion.
The best way he could help was by staying the fuck out of it.
However, it didn't mean that he didn't want to run around and scream and save something, so Al sat down and smoked the last of Gabrielle's thin, chokingly sweet cigarettes to quell the urge.
"Gabrielle has left you a birthday present," came Viktor's voice from the other room.
"Is it a broom?"
"No."
"Then I trust you to open it."
A pause.
"Why wouldn't you trust me with a broom?"
"Because I hate competition!"
At Viktor's short, sharp laugh, Al picked up his notebook again, absent-mindedly scrubbing at the long-suffering cover with a fingernail. He was never getting that stain out.
He left a short entry for his godfather and the ink was still wet and bright when an answer appeared in small, cramped handwriting.
Delightful to know that someone out there has a brain.
Al swore under his breath. Looking up, he met Viktor's questioning glance and shrugged. "Someone is being way too smug."
"I wrote to him, you know." Viktor's tone was light, but Al caught the hidden meaning before he continued. "To know if you would be amenable."
Al watched Viktor lean against the doorframe, all muscle and controlled energy. He looked good here, in Al's empty little apartment. Then again, he looked good everywhere.
"Before or after you took the position?"
A minute ago, Al would have thought it impossible, but now he respected Viktor even more: for not hesitating even for a second before his answer. "Before."
Al was surprised and flattered. He felt a blush coming on and searched his mind for something to say to cover it. Not that he was fooling anyone, but still, keeping up appearances was important.
"So you planned to fuck me on your big, wide, wonderfully obscene desk, Commissioner?" A genuine grin split Al's face at the image, so perfect that he felt some of the nervous tension leave his shoulders and the back of skull, making him giddy.
Viktor made a show of looking him over, as if he was a wizard at a bazaar and Al was a flying carpet. "I could fuck you on my desk."
"Really?" Al's voice sounded ridiculously pleased. Perhaps because, after all the wank fantasies this week, he needed some closure. Well, maybe more like three years' worth of fantasies.
The smile that lurked in the corners of Viktor's mouth just begged to be kissed off. "On one condition."
Al began walking towards Viktor who suddenly threw at him a small bundle of... something. Al caught it and tore off the soft paper wrapping.
"You get to wear Gabrielle's birthday present."
Al stared at the rather unexpected black frilly, lacy knickers in his hands.
When Viktor's proprietary hands rested on his hips and pulled him in, Al gave a resigned sigh.
At least, unlike the jacket and the cigarettes, those weren't Gabrielle's cast-offs.
~*~
Al had to go and pick the evening paper, and then walked around the block to cool off.
The local wizarding paper - as well as most of the foreign ones and the special ICW news bulletin - showed a single photo of a slim, blond person bent over McLaggen's battered dead body. Well, maybe on a drunken sleepless night Al might have mistaken the blond head for Gabrielle's. But, fortunately or not, he was far too well acquainted with the small arse attached to the blond person to err in any way.
He was looking at a security picture of Scorpius Malfoy in the office of the MGS Commissioner.
Seven walks around the block did the trick, and Al had regained enough of his composure to remember to go back and buy something to eat. He stumbled all the way to the small, dusty shop around the corner that strongly smelled of vegetables and decay. By the time he went back, it was completely dark. The streets were empty and Al could actually hear the echoing of his footsteps in the shimmering starry night.
The homeless guy was back at the entranceway, working his way through a paper cup of steamy broth when Al returned. Al dropped a pack of cigarettes in his lap on his way in.
Al ran up the pitch-black stairs, every step so familiar he wouldn't have fallen with his eyes closed. Actually, he needed to move. This place was quite a dung heap, really.
Viktor showed him the two freshly inked entries in his notebook and Al breathed a huge sigh of relief. He reached into the string bag for an apple, wiped it with the hem of his t-shirt and bit into the hard green fruit, heedless of the juice dribbling down his chin. Al watched Viktor out of the corner of his eye. He was absurdly pleased every time he caught Viktor surreptitiously glancing at his lips, moist and probably glistening with juice.
Viktor read through the papers methodically, even though he had probably received a special Commissioner-level update or something. He looked vaguely displeased the whole time, and Al knew it had nothing to do with the take-away salads he had got from the only late-hours shop in the neighbourhood. Viktor, who had worked all his life and fought with all he had to become what he was, couldn't stomach the fact that some stupid kid cocked up his perfectly normal life.
"See," Viktor said at last, sending his chipped plate flying to the sink. "This whole thing had absolutely nothing to do with you."
Al shook his head. "It probably did." He got up to brew some fresh tea. "I bet he did it because of some deep and dark and unrequited crush on James." Al turned around when he got nothing but disbelieving silence in return. "Trust me, he's quite weird. Ingenious, maybe, but rather disturbing as a person."
"I trust you."
Al put a generous amount of Ceylon loose leaf in the tea pot. "Are you staying tonight?" he asked quietly.
Viktor appeared to have taken the question at face value, addressing the practical issues. Which, Al supposed, was reasonable. "We could go to mine," Viktor said. "I have food." Very funny. "And sheets." Even better. "And lube."
Al chuckled. "Well, I can't beat that."
Viktor picked up the whistling kettle and poured the boiling water in the open tea-pot. "Don't expect much, though, my place is quite a dung heap." Al raised an eyebrow. "I'm saving the funds! That's what you guys are always telling us to do!"
"And here I thought you were independently wealthy. I'm happy to know that you can at least buy yourself lube."
Viktor laughed, but his hand pouring the boiling water didn't even shake. Amazing control of the body.
Viktor rolled his shoulders and sat back down. "Gundersen will take over in May. But anyway, I think I should get a new place until then."
"I should, too." Al looked into the pantry for a stale cookie or two. When he came back to the table, Viktor looked like he had just said something terribly funny. "What?"
Viktor picked a Semilune from a plate and licked the lemon icing. "Then I guess we should."
Right. Oh Merlin. This was very, very good.
Al watched Viktor chew on the little half-moon cookie. "So we're not giving Bulgaria any money, are we?"
Viktor looked at him like he was mad.
Al began pouring tea - like a proper little housewife, honestly. He began to laugh and couldn't stop.
"I knew it."
~*~
MONDAY (again)
~*~
Al's step was reasonably springy when he walked to the familiar, massive door. He checked his reflection in the gleaming surface of the plaque that said, Funds Allocation and Regional Development, Commissioner, and unsuccessfully tried to wipe the grin off his face. He scowled at himself, trying to get in the mood, but the toothy smile refused to go away. He looked like a happy moron, and that probably was going to be pointed out.
Admitting defeat, Al placed his hand against the wood and felt it warm under his palm, the magic of the security spell tickling his skin. The door slid sideways, and Al briskly entered the room that normal ICW workers were admitted to by special invitation or express permission, and even then with an Are you sure you need to be here? thrown at them as soon as they set one foot over the threshold. He nodded at the secretary, a short, balding Italian wizard who squinted myopically and ushered him in, closing the door with a swift flick of his wand.
'Very pissed off,' Don Giovanni mouthed silently at him, and then the balding head disappeared behind the towering stacks of papers on his desk. Al noted the latest addition to the pleasantly sombre lounge, a large painting where the Little Hunchbacked Horse was bathing in a cauldron full of boiling water. The mischievous animal winked at Al with one red eye and jumped out of the cauldron, landing on a poetically misty hill in the background as a tall, long-legged stallion. It shook its gorgeous black mane and disappeared somewhere outside the frame.
Show-off, Al smirked, and, with a sharp knock, he opened the door to the FARD Commissioner's private office.
Surprise-surprise, Senior Undersecretary was already there, looking a bit harried and dishevelled. She was pacing in the centre of the room, and the fact that her clothes were slightly wrinkled told Al that Gabrielle was in a too agitated state to think twice about her appearance. That finally dimmed Al's smile and made his heart twinge with worry. Seeing Al, she wrung her hands, exclaiming, "Ils m'ont insultée!"
Al closed the door and leaned against the doorframe. Their boss was sitting behind his desk, or rather, lounging in a black leather armchair. The older man's usual black turtleneck and his matte ebony desk sucked up what little light there was, and so the only colourful accent in that corner of the room was the man's pale face with its intensely displeased expression.
"Let me guess," Al began, steadily meeting the deathly glare from the shadows. "'He didn't mean to, he's so confused, he needs help, he's not well, please save his arse, my love, please, please, please.'" He added a bit of a whine towards the end, judging that since he wasn't hexed into silence after the first two seconds, then it was fair game.
His godfather scowled at him, but said nothing, which Al took to mean that he was voicing the opinion of the wise.
Al shrugged. He peeled himself off the doorframe and walked to the ottoman, giving irate Gabrielle wide berth. Pushing aside a bunch of grainy security photos of Scorpius, he plopped down on the seat and stretched his legs.
Gabrielle had apparently rediscovered her voice. "Impossible! I can't believe they mistook this hair," she grabbed a strand of her now slightly lank, but still fabulous hair and shook the fistful in the air. "This is veela hair! How can there be misunderstandings?! We shine, you stupid bastards!"
While she ranted ("That feeble makeshift! Ice blond, my arse! Laisse béton!"), Al engaged in a staring contest with the paper press on the desk, a gigantic snake's shrivelled head. When Gabrielle finally ran out of breath, he resumed his one-sided conversation with the other man.
"I always told you he was a psychopath."
Again, Al found himself on the receiving end of a glare and hastened to raise both hands in apology. "Hey, I'm not saying it's his father's fault. Anyone exposed to James and recreational potions at an early age was doomed from the start."
An arched eyebrow this time, and Al had to roll his eyes. "I'm special." He turned to Gabrielle; she was combing her hair with her fingers and looking at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Al shrugged and let himself sprawl on the ottoman; he could feel the negative vibe from the shadows weaken as the Commissioner crossed his arms over his chest and pretended he didn't find his godson amusing in the least.
When Gabrielle finally lowered her precious and deeply insulted self in a high-backed chair, the shadow from a heavy book-case immediately plunged half of her face and body in darkness. The effect was so glamorous and theatrical Al decided it was another customised add-on in the office's interior design. He glanced at his godfather, then back at Gabrielle. Having to look at two partially shadowed, dour faces certainly was a bit intimidating. Classy. And now it looked like they were about to have a dramatic pause. Al decided to indulge them.
Al picked up a photo that had captured Scorpius bent over McLaggen's body, hair falling in his face. Noticing that Al was staring, photo-Scorpius jerked and turned his back to him. Al sighed and dropped the picture.
After a couple of minutes of silence, the air was so loud that it was practically ringing with thoughts. His godfather's lip slowly curled in disgust.
"Alas, there is nothing I can do there," he finally began in his low voice, and Al rolled his eyes, because yeah, right. "Even if I were to use my position to in some way help the cause of an unfortunate acquaintance," here they both heard Gabrielle snort, but ignored it, "there is a crime and there will be punishment. Especially when the crime is sheer utter idiocy," the man spat out, brushing a salt and pepper strand off his face. It fell right back, as always. "But obviously, I would never even think of using my rank or reputation for any personal favours."
No, of course not. Never. Al nodded solemnly as the man shot him another glare, pulled his hair back in a pony-tail and primmed his lips. If Al ever decided he had a death wish, he would admit out loud that he thought it looked cute.
Gabrielle took out her wand and charmed them all some wine. Al held the stem of his glass and took a quick whiff of something cheerful, berries and oak. His godfather stared in his own glass, rocking it and making the translucent ruby liquid swirl.
"Of course, I can imagine there could be some possibilities, were someone to take an interest in the boy's case." He took a small sip, and Gabrielle and Al made vague gestures, because, naturally, none of the three was even remotely interested. It was just idle speculation. "It could be arranged for him to stand for trial in Norway. The prison conditions there are excellent, not to mention the fact that the climate would do wonders for his stupid head."
"I see." Al nodded and put his glass on the black wood. "But you don't happen to have any contacts in Norway, do you? Gundersen, perchance?"
The FARD Commissioner frowned, but Al could tell that his eyes were smiling - well, as much as it was possible. He remained silent until Al began to fidget, then said flatly, "I told him you would be easy."
Well, Al was already rising and turning to the door, but he knew the grin spreading across his face had been spotted anyway. "Oh, please, Severus. As if you would know."
~*~
The End.
~*~
Footnotes:
Notes on culture:
1 Kishinev, the capital of Moldavia, is now officially called Chişinău. However, it is still often referred to as Kishinev in English, and I consciously chose the spelling that most foreign readers would find easier to read and pronounce.
2 The share taxi, aka route taxi, aka jitney, aka marshrutka, etc., is the most popular means of transport in Kishinev. The standard fare is 3 Moldavian leus. (That's inexpensive.) Share taxis are owned by private companies. There are plans to ban share taxis from the city centre, thus allowing them to maintain only the communication among other districts, but the share taxis are still proud and about at present time.
3 Astra is a real brand of Moldavian cigarettes. They are cheap and are often smuggled to other Eastern European countries, for example, Ukraine. They are told to be quite nasty, but I cannot provide first-hand testimony.
4 The Firebird is a folk-tale character, often the object of a quest. The main character - usually a bit hapless prince or the youngest son - is supposed to find or catch her, which can be attempted by grabbing her long tail. If it strikes her fancy, she can then fulfil the catcher's wildest dreams, but she can also unleash all kinds of evil forces of doom upon him. The Firebird's shining fire feathers can blind a person. Her diet consists of apples of immortality, and she is reported to be a good singer.
5 The vodka brands that Al apparently prefers shall remain anonymous. However, both troika (a traditional Russian driving harness combination of three horses abreast) and heraldic elements (either stylised or accurate) are indeed often used on vodka labels, for example, Sibirskaya and Smirnoff. (This work of fiction does not promote alcohol consumption.)
6 When Viktor says he wants to make a wish, he is referring to a popular superstition according to which, if you stand between two namesakes, you can wish for something rather like on a shooting star. The superstition is mostly popular with persons under the age of twelve.
7 Bulgarians really shake their heads for 'yes' and nod for 'no'. Al is not mistaken.
8 Appenzell is a popular skiing resort in Switzerland. Rumours about the location of a wizarding mental health clinic remain unconfirmed.
9 The Alkonost is a mythological bird, generally described as brightly coloured and associated with good luck. The other birds of a feather are Gamayun (a prophetic bird) and Sirin (more of a dark side player). Note that the symbolic meanings associated with these birds kept changing dramatically over the centuries. They also have women's heads and breasts, so theoretically they could give the veelas of the Potterverse a run for their money at any wizarding beauty pageant.
10 When Al and Viktor arrive at the Bulgarian bar, the band is playing a song about malka moma (a little girl). They don't sing, but Viktor knows the lyrics:
A little girl prayed to God:
"God, give me eyes of a dove,
God, give me wings of a falcon,
So I can fly over the Danube,
So I can find the boy I love."
And God gave her wings of a falcon,
And she found the boy she loved.
11 At the Bulgarian bar, Viktor is singing Radina mama dumashe, a traditional song:
Rada's mother spoke to her:
"Rada, darling child,
Come outside, Rada, have a look
At the star that has risen,
A purple, blood-red star.
Is it a sign of good or evil?
Is it a sign of wicked times?"
Rada spoke to her mother:
"Mother, the star has risen
And I have fallen ill."
12 Sex in a podyezd, or a house's shared entrance, is such a cliché that it is practically a classic. Podyezdi have a tendency to being dark, dirty, and littered with fags and junk - apparently, when they are clean and decorated with flowers, they lose their sex appeal. Al and Viktor are paying homage to a real life phenomenon immortalised in countless books and films.
13 Semilune is a popular Moldavian cookie. It consists of two cookies shaped like little half-moons, stuck together with marmalade and covered in lemon icing.
14 The Little Hunchbacked Horse is a folk-tale character. It is little and hunchbacked, and generally thought to be quite ugly. Its colour is defined as indescribable, or a mix of all colours. However, when it bathes in boiling water, it turns into a gorgeous super stallion and saves the prince he is currently serving from gruesome trials and life-and-death situations, and also secures a princess for a happily ever after in the process. The LHH made me think of Severus Snape.
Notes on language:
1 Viktor's grumpy clock is saying, 'Don't stare at the clock, get to work!'
2
Monday:
"Tiens, c'est quoi ce visage triste? ..." - "Why the sad face? One would think you haven't had a nice week-end, darling."
"Tais-toi..." - "Shut up."
Friday:
"...mon p'tit chou." - "...my darling."
"chéri" - same as previous.
"Mais c'est dingue, ça... n'est-ce pas?" - "Oh, but that's lame... [Goods and Substances have finally gone 'round the twist,] haven't they?"
"Mais tu ne m'as rien dit." - "But you haven't told me anything."
"C'est rien... C'est pas grave. C'était ma propre faute, ça." -"It's nothing. No big deal. That was my own fault."
Saturday:
9h - P'tit salaud, tu dormes! etc. - 9 o'clock - You're asleep, little rascal! Need to talk. Breakfast in the fridge. Love, G.
"D'accord, peut-être c'était une erreur, mais pas une faute!" - "All right, maybe I made a mistake, but it's not my fault!" (Both 'faute' and 'erreur' can be translated as 'mistake'. However, 'faute' is more like something fundamentally, morally wrong, sometimes implying malicious intent. One does not usually admit to a 'faute' - even if one screws up badly, it is said to be an 'erreur'.)
'c'est pas sérieux' - it's not serious.
Monday (again):
"Ils m'ont insultée!" - "They have insulted me!"
"Laisse béton!" - "Drop it!"
Title: Discombobulation (Part 3 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.
~*~
SATURDAY
~*~
When Al properly awoke, the bedside clock said 11:56. His heart flipped over nastily, like a suicidal Plimpie on the shore, before he remembered that it was Saturday. He sighed deeply and got out of bed, pulling off his pants and shirt on the way to the bathroom. Having pissed with all the grace of a Hippogriff, Al spread his shirt across the tiled floor instead of bothering to find the rag. He'd hopelessly ruined the shirt by letting it come in close contact with something like a cheburek the day before, and then sleeping in it. Its final deed would be helping Al fight his eternally leaking shower.
When he got under the hot spray, warmth spreading through him deliciously, Al remembered that this was the shirt he'd been wearing that night with Viktor. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, soaping and cleaning himself as best as he could.
When he opened his eyes, the water had a brownish tinge again, the usual reminder of the rusty pipes that filled the bowels of this city. Al tried not to think how alike they were, the city and he: all neat and supposedly decent on the outside, and full of shit on the inside. Thinking things like that made him feel like a brooding wanker, or like his father, which was more or less the same.
He found a tall paper cup of coffee under a stasis charm in the kitchen and couldn't help snorting. He picked up the note propped up against the cup, skimming over Gabrielle's slanted handwriting.
9h -
P'tit salaud, tu dormes!
Faut parler.
Le déj est dans le frigo.
Bisous,
G.
Al realised he had grabbed the Cup of Temptation unconsciously and had already drunk half the coffee. Swearing through his teeth, he poured the vicious liquid into the kitchen sink and went for the fridge, fishing out Gabrielle's sandwiches and a lonely orange. The conversation he kind of dreaded; not because he thought Gabrielle would be judgmental, but because now that the raw hurt was aired out, he wanted to lock it up again and keep ignoring it. But Gabrielle was likely going to make him deal with the issue, or worse, actually think about what had happened, and Al wasn't sure he was ready for that yet.
~*~
He needn't have worried.
"You did what?"
Gabrielle stared back defiantly, but Al noticed that she also kept her arms crossed and was standing at a protective distance from him. Not such an innocent lamb, after all.
"Well, we did have a bit too much to drink, and you were miserable! You should have seen yourself! And we haven't even got to that part, but you are so inexperienced and fucked up about people, so I -"
"So you thought going to Viktor and hexing him was the thing to do?"
"D'accord, peut-être c'était une erreur, mais pas une faute!"
Al halted at that. Gabrielle stared back, flushed and refusing to back down a notch. Details from the previous night flashed through his mind. The way Gabrielle was shaking her head furiously as she poured him another shot at the bar, telling Al that it wasn't his fault his heart was broken. That maybe he had made a mistake, but he was not at fault.
Come to think of it, Fleur and Gabrielle always took the responsibility, but never the blame for anything...
His musings were cut off by the sound of a kettle being put on. Gabrielle was standing with her back towards him, busying herself with the mismatched cups.
"Anyway, he's coming here."
"What?" Al's mind was suddenly a blank slate, his lunch feeling like lead in his stomach. "When?"
Gabrielle shrugged and turned to the cheap yellow kitchen clock. Its two hands were triumphantly pointing at 'Surprise'.
Hastily, Al gabbed a jacket from the rack and pulled it over his t-shirt, lashing out at Gabrielle's 'you need to talk' ('Who said that I want to talk to him?!') and 'c'est pas sérieux' ('Why the fuck did you do that?!'). He all but ran away from his own apartment.
He didn't slam the door shut, though, so he could congratulate himself on that.
~*~
Al was walking down the street, looking up at the dilapidated houses and sleeping lampposts that stood slightly askew. The afternoon was a bit chilly, and he pulled the jacket tighter over his threadbare t-shirt. Fuck, he had grabbed Gabrielle's jacket, he realised, only now noticing that the black was trimmed with purple and that the buttons were gold instead of black. And he had wondered why it suddenly felt so small.
Vasjka, the obligatory local mad Kneazle, meowed loudly and blocked Al's path, demanding a treat. Al spread his hands apologetically, trying to convey that he had nothing to give. Vasjka hissed, unimpressed. Cursing through his teeth, Al stood in the middle of the empty street, debating whether he should turn back and walk around the block before Vasjka had his rogue reinforcements arrive. That Kneazle was dangerous.
Al thought he heard a sound coming from behind; he turned his head and froze, the pounding of blood in his ears drowning out all other sounds.
There, on Al's quiet, ramshackle street, stood Viktor Krum, and he had the utter gall to look like Al owed him something.
Al's nostrils flared and he looked back where Vasjka now stood flanked by six or seven large ne'er-do-well Kneazles.
Out of the cauldron, into the fire.
~*~
Of course Al turned around and went to Krum. To talk. What was he supposed to do, after all, swoon? Whip out his wand and Disapparate dramatically in the middle of the street? Flutter his eyelashes and run like a virgin damsel chased by bloody dragon?
He wasn't that much of a drama queen.
Talk, however, would have been an overstatement. Krum seemed to want to offer Al his hand, then changed his mind and just jerked his head, indicating Al should follow. Which he did, rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw when the sick dark feeling in his stomach was back. Al's heart was beating erratically as they walked in silence, and it did a little flip-flop when, having made two left turns, they found themselves in front of a shabby tavern owned by a Bulgarian couple. Viktor paused for a second in front of the dark and heavy wooden door. Al watched him and saw something else entirely.
Viktor in front of the hotel room door, his face glowing and smiling. Ljubica resting her weight on his broad back, laughing and undulating slightly. The sequins of her dress catching on Viktor's white silk shirt. Al's hands on Ljubica's hips, Al's eyes on Viktor's thick fingers holding a polished wand.
Soft, butter yellow light. Husky, broken voices echoing off the corridor walls.
They are making an agreement. They are setting the rules.
The hotel room is simple and impersonal.
The music was what brought Al back to his senses. There was a band on the tiny, barely lit stage at the back of the bar, and four or five men with serious, wide faces played something mournful. Something that brought to mind green forests and babbling brooks, and a strange kind of loneliness under the stars. A girl of about fourteen stood a little to the side, swaying with the melody her uncles - or maybe cousins - weaved with astounding, breath-taking skill. Al felt as if he had somehow slipped into a different world, even more so than he normally did around Viktor.
They sat at a sturdy table, the wood singed with stubbed out cigarettes around the edges. Al couldn't stop himself from staring at Krum, who somehow managed to look gorgeous and forbidding even in this dirty, strange, god-forsaken place, like a fairy-tale king in exile. And then there was the hunch. Merlin, Al loved that hunch.
Fuck.
The buxom waitress offered coffee and Krum nodded, refusing. Al had a childish urge to stomp his feet and get himself a fat latte, just to prove they had nothing in common. It was too early to drink but damn, he needed something strong.
Krum's shoulders looked tense, the smooth dark fabric of his jacket stretched tightly across them. Al couldn't see his face well in the dim light, and the uncertainty made him fidget. He squinted, trying to imagine what he couldn't discern, the crows feet that got to him every single time, the hard lines around the mouth.
"I want to apologise."
What, Gabrielle beat some sense into you? Al wanted to bite out. Or snarl. Or hiss, if he could manage it with three sibilants in a phrase. The other-worldly melody cut him open and Al couldn't control the words that were tumbling out of his mouth.
"You punched me." Krum looked up, meeting his eyes for a moment, and then continued staring dourly at the polished tabletop. "We were having sex, and you almost broke my jaw." Al let his fingers slide slowly along his jaw line, once again relishing the haunted look in Krum's eyes when he brought up that particular memory.
"We weren't having sex with each other." Krum seemed so intent on enunciating his words carefully that it took Al a moment to realise what had been said. He gaped in disbelief.
"Yes, we were."
"No, Albus. We weren't."
Ljubica straddling Viktor's hard thighs, her lipstick leaving blood-red smears on the collar of his shirt. Al's fingers tangled in Ljubica's long, dirty blond hair.
Viktor's dark, liquid gaze sending a new rush of excitement through Al's body. His eyes looking at Al as if they are equals, as if they need and crave the same thing. As if they are in this stifling room for the same kind of delicious pleasure. There's no way to describe how strangely relaxed and open Viktor looks slipping the flimsy dress off Ljubica's shoulders.
They will share. That is how they play.
Al's and Viktor's arms wrap around Ljubica's writhing body. Their breath is equally laboured and hot. They share the taste of alcohol and easy lust on Ljubica's breath.
And then Al breathes the strong, musky scent of Viktor's sweat and he forgets, forgets, forgets…
Al hadn't noticed when the waitress had come with their drinks, but he reached for his shot and drained it. Pieces of the puzzle were suddenly falling into place, and the picture wasn't what he had expected it to be. Al chewed on a pickle, his unblinking eyes fixed on the veined sliver of Viktor's wrist that was visible in the sleeve of his jacket.
A nasty headache hit him full force and Al had to squeeze his eyes shut against his own stupidity.
"Bring the bottle."
~*~
Three fucking years of being too overwhelmed and humiliated to think. Al sucked the vodka in through his teeth and waited for the burning sensation on his tongue. The self-righteous obliviousness, it must be genetic.
He looked at Viktor, not really needing him to say anything, but just making sure he was actually there and not a figment of Al's imagination. Viktor had taken off his jacket and was now smoking leisurely, fluffy grey little puffs escaping his lips as he began to sing along with the teenage girl on the stage. Al felt himself slipping to that eerie, dream-like place again. The girl's voice was loud and strong, carrying far. Like a song of the mountains, or that of the angels.
Al watched Viktor, mesmerized by the way his voice blended with that of the girl on stage. The deep, open, edgy sound seemed to come from the most secret depths of the soul: raw and real, yet somehow incredible. And magical. It touched Al to the core, leaving him shivering, shaking. There was such deep sadness in that song, such pure strength.
Al didn't know why he felt like weeping all of a sudden. He dug around in his pockets in search of a pack of cigarettes and pulled out a thin, colourful box of slims. Of course. Gabrielle's jacket, Gabrielle's cigarettes. He cast a spell, taking the chance that it would go unnoticed in the darkness, and relished the ridiculously sweet, sinful taste.
The song came to an end and Viktor sighed. He lit a new cigarette with the smoking tip of the old one and looked back at Al.
There, in Viktor's eyes, was an entire world that Al wanted to know. More so now than when he was younger and even more stupid.
But still, Al had to ask. He understood that he had broken their agreement back then. That he had disrespected the rules when Viktor had let himself be vulnerable and just fucking relaxed. That he had had no right to expect that the urgency of his heart's desire would be understood when countless hours of work and sleepless nights had been washed away by a river of champagne, leaving nothing but a giddy wish to let go. He understood why Viktor had been angry.
It was simple - Al had wanted him, and he had been punished for that. Right?
But something that Viktor had said this time didn't make sense. Al filled his lungs with smoke and thought four - no, five shots back. Something about Viktor's conversation with Gabrielle and boys and girls sleeping with their superiors. About really wanting... Al shook his head. He didn't understand why Viktor had decided that Al hadn't been sincere.
So Al asked, and when Viktor answered, he asked again. And again.
Al gaped at him like a fucking Plimpie. "You thought I was whoring myself for promotion?"
Merlin's filthy beard. Al dropped his cigarette and burned his fingers trying to catch it as it rolled towards the edge of the table. If there was one wizard in the world who shouldn't have complexes about being truly desirable...
Viktor looked uncomfortable and stuck his half-smoked fag back into his mouth. "I wasn't thinking straight."
Al sneered. "Yes, I gathered that much."
When Viktor smiled, even the tiniest bit, one could see a little dimple in his left cheek.
Al took another drag of his slightly broken cigarette. Rolled the smooth, almost candied smoke in his mouth. Exhaled.
"Are you thinking straight now?"
Al's heart clenched painfully, afraid to make another beat. He waited.
Viktor breathed out the smoke through his nose. The tendrils twined with the half-dissolved ones from Al's own cigarette. "Do you want me to?"
Oh sweet fucking Merlin. Al dumped the cigarette in the full ashtray and raised both hands in a pacifying gesture. "Just do what you want. I'm done taking the initiative."
Viktor's eyes searched Al's face. Al tried to stop holding back and let his emotions show, to let Viktor see whatever he needed to see. However, after living with a poker face for years Al wasn't sure he could ever fully manage that.
Viktor rose, the heavy chair scraping against the floor loudly, and dropped his fag in the ashtray without even putting it out. He glanced at the exit and pulled on his jacket.
Al slipped his mask back on.
He stared at the table, glad that his heart somehow wouldn't resume beating normally. Maybe he would drop dead and spare himself the melodrama. Then Al felt rather than saw Viktor walking around the table and past him.
And then he knew that Viktor was standing behind his seat, so close, so very, very close.
Still here. Still here.
Behind you.
Large hands wrapped around him. Al was lost in the familiar, forbidden scent, smoke and skin and vetiver. Viktor was holding him tightly, pressing Al's back against his wide, hard chest, and Al fancied he could actually feel a heartbeat against his spine.
Al's eyes itched in a funny, inexplicable way. He gazed at the ashtray where Viktor's thick, burning fag had landed on top of Al's countless stubbed out slims. They darkened, smoked, and were suddenly ablaze.
Viktor's breath was hot against his ear. "Take me home."
~*~
Al was sure that Viktor could have Apparated them both, regardless of the amount of alcohol that they had consumed. But instead, they walked, Viktor's larger hand brushing casually against Al's, the prickling heat of Viktor's body washing over Al despite the evening chill and the clothes that still kept them apart. Al was not anxious, though. He knew that Viktor wasn't one to change his mind at the last moment.
So even though he wasn't exactly sure about what was coming, Al accepted it.
They walked, the dirty streets opening up and swallowing them whole. Then, after a couple of minutes in the grim darkness filled with strange sounds, the streets were spitting them out at brightly lit and empty crossroads. It wasn't the road Al would have normally taken, but every step of the way, he felt like he was coming closer to home.
He just was a little distracted.
For all the sweet warmth that was spreading from within his heart, Al couldn't help craving more: something raw and physical that he knew would come once Viktor really touched him, something real and wonderful that he had always known he was missing. Al stumbled a little and Viktor caught him around the waist, a little unsteady himself. Al breathed in his sharp, heady scent. He knew that it wasn't Viktor that he had really been missing; it was something about Al, some inexplicable understanding of the world that he could almost taste on his tongue right now.
But it didn't matter, really. Because Viktor made him feel something, this. And he wanted Viktor.
And Viktor wanted him.
Viktor's arms were wrapped around him, and Al let go and closed his eyes. Just like this, not fighting himself, not fighting what was happening. Just living the moment the way it was. Dark and hot with a promise of a hard hot body against his back.
Merlin, how he wanted.
When they finally reached Al's house, Al had a proper look at Viktor's face in the bleak light of a streetlamp. The stern lines of his face, beautiful in a way Al couldn't explain, the tendons of his neck, the outline of powerful muscles - shoulders, chest, everywhere.
The bulge in Viktor's trousers.
The pure, honest lust in Viktor's eyes.
Fuck, how could Al have missed it?
He stepped closer and tilted his head upwards, watching Viktor's lips part ever so slightly.
"Well, I've taken you home," Al murmured. "What now?"
When Al came back to his senses, they were inside, shuddering against each other in the pitch dark nook under the stairwell. The night chill crept inside through the entrance door they hadn't bothered to shut.
Viktor's heavy body pressed Al into the filthy, faintly stinking wall. Al's hands were under Viktor's shirt and Viktor's hands were on Al's arse.
Al's head swam with all the hard grinding and pushing, and the feel of Viktor's sweaty bare back under his fingers.
"Not here," Al gasped when Viktor mouthed kisses along his stubbled jaw.
"Here," Viktor said into his neck. "Now." His cock rubbed against Al's through their trousers and Al felt it throbbing as surely as he felt his own. "Fucking little prick-tease."
Al shivered, clutching Viktor's shoulders and hooking a leg around Viktor's hip.
"When have I teased you?" His laugh was entirely too breathless, but given what Viktor's hands were doing to him, Al thought he could be forgiven.
Viktor just groaned and bit into his neck. Al's breath hitched.
"I was offering."
Roughly, Viktor grabbed Al's thigh and hooked Al's other leg around his waist. Al raked his fingernails down Viktor's spine, dizzy now that Viktor's hands on his arse were the only thing holding him up.
"Come fuck me now." He could feel Viktor's forehead, damp with sweat, pressing hard into his cheek. Al dug his fingernails in the small of Viktor's back. "Third floor."
Al nearly came in his pants at the rush of magic as Viktor Apparated them. Silently. Wandlessly. Practically fucking Al through the Apparition, dick to dick as they were.
Viktor slammed Al against the cool metal door and reached for his zipper with one hand.
"Open up." Fuck, Al didn't know if he meant the jeans or his body or the fucking door or his bloody soul - he pressed his hand against the door and hot magic licked at his fingers.
The locks clicked open and the next moment they were inside. Al's head banged against the corridor wall. He tightened his legs around Viktor and tried to straighten up, his jacket catching on the rugged wallpaper.
Viktor's calloused hand was in his jeans, palming the wet patch on Al's pants.
Al's fingers made their way in the short coarse hair on the back of Viktor's head. "I need to close the door." Al pulled his wand out of his sleeve, the slide of polished wood against his skin making him think at least a dozen dirty thoughts.
Viktor grunted and flicked a thumbnail over the leaking head of Al's cock. And if that meant that Viktor was using Legilimency on him - because that flick of nail was what Al had just thought of - then Al honestly didn't mind.
Al pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Viktor's temple and spelled the door shut.
~*~
Al was lying underneath Viktor's heavy body, warm and sticky in all kinds of places. He needed no words to describe what he felt: he just knew. They both knew.
Al's fingers stroked briefly over Viktor's sharp shoulder blades, then skimmed his ribs and wandered across his damp chest, unable to choose a nipple to tweak. In pursuit of universal justice, he played with them both.
Viktor's thumb brushed Al's balls again and a new wave of want ran from the top of Al's head to the tips of his toes.
"You can't possibly want to go again," Al groaned, only half-joking. His jaw ached and he winced when Viktor pressed a kiss to his puffy lips.
"You're twenty-five," Viktor scolded before craning his head back down and kissing Al harder.
Al reached blindly and groped around the bedside table for his watch. The almost non-existent starlight made the time easier to guess than to see.
But it had to be past midnight, because a little after eleven Al's head was buried in the pillows to muffle his moans as Viktor's thick fingers circled his stretched hole and spread thick, sticky come all over Al's crack. And that had been ages ago.
"Twenty-six." Al spoke right into Viktor's mouth and licked at his teeth. His spine arched when Viktor began nuzzling his throbbing pulse point with his scratchy, stubbled chin.
"Old man. I've been sold damaged goods."
Al had no snappy comeback for this because Viktor rested his entire weight on him, crushing Al and pressing him into the mattress in a way that made him feel fucked all over. Al reached and pressed the cold dial of his watch just below the small of Viktor's back. It slipped on the sweat-slick skin and got closer to the heat. So did the tips of Al's fingers.
Viktor hissed and pushed his arse back against Al's hand, which was incredibly hot. Especially combined with the filthy, leisurely way Viktor sucked on Al's earlobe.
The spit on Al's dick had sufficiently cooled, and, with his nose buried in Viktor's hair, Al began to think that a fourth round was indeed a definite possibility.
~*~
SUNDAY
~*~
Al was happy to spend the entire Sunday in bed, now that it meant that he could have hours of licking the edges of Viktor's mouth and the sensitive skin around his heavy, massive balls. Or he could just lie on his side, those balls resting snugly against Al's arse as Viktor traced patterns on his sweat-slick back and told him the funny bits about the Bulgarian Quidditch Youth Initiative that he had started.
But for some reason, Viktor insisted that since it was Al's birthday, they had to get up.
Al saw no logic in that. He was having the best birthday ever, stealing wet and filthy kisses from Viktor's sinfully clever mouth. And he didn't mind the absence of cumbersome clothes, either.
There was cherry pie on the kitchen table. Al had no idea where that had come from, unless Gabrielle stayed the previous night to bake him something to calm his nerves after his conversation with Viktor.
Or something for the morning after.
So breakfast was tea and cherry pie, and then Viktor licked the crumbles off Al's hand and they had slow, uncomfortable, brilliant sex on the kitchen table. The kind of sex that was worth any backache or bruised wrists.
Al wouldn't have noticed the glowing spine of his notebook a couple of hours later if it hadn't been practically in his face. The upper half of his body was hanging off the bed almost entirely - he had slid to the floor along with the cheap and threadbare cotton sheets as Viktor's hands kneaded his buttocks. Something that was called Quidditch massage, apparently. Oh, the delicious perversion of professional sports.
The notebook spine glowed blue. And he didn't have friends who wrote to him - except Gabrielle.
Al pushed himself further and snatched the notebook from the floor. Viktor snorted when it took Al almost a minute to pry his underpants off it. Well, they were stuck. Al flipped the notebook open.
Viktor's hands squeezed his hips and he pulled Al back, then pressed a kiss to the small of his back.
Al stared at the entry for a minute or so, not sure which was more alarming: Gabrielle's sharp, careful handwriting, what she wrote, or the fact that for once, she wrote in English.
Al turned around and sat up, handing Viktor the notebook. He had to grab Viktor's wrist and clamp down on it firmly to stop him from rubbing those distracting circles on the inside of Al's thigh.
Viktor squinted slightly and brought the notebook closer to his eyes to read through the entry.
"Oh, now they think Gabrielle killed Cormac?" Viktor rolled his eyes, tossed the notebook aside and dragged Al back up.
"What the fuck is this? What does it mean, 'evidence'?" Al tried to free himself from Viktor's embrace. "They can't - I have to -"
"My English is quite good, just so you know." Viktor wrapped his large, warm hand around the back of Al's head and whispered in his ear. "She says that she is arrested, and you are not to worry." Viktor's breath against the shell of his ear sent a wicked shiver down Al's spine.
"But - "
"Keep out of it. You'll only interfere."
Al tried to voice his objections against Viktor's bare shoulder, but was distracted by teeth marks on it. He traced the reddish indentations with a finger. Apparently, Al had malocclusion.
"Don't you think that if there really weren't anyone already dealing with, she would have told you?"
Viktor was right, of course. Again. Al's godparents were practically inseparable these days. A quarter of a century was enough for two people who hated babies with a passion to bind over a child that they were more or less handed to build bridges. Still, he couldn't just wait and let the situation unravel, could he?
Viktor's fingers rubbed soothingly at the juncture of Al's right thigh. "It will be fine. It's not like she did it. What could she have had to fight with him over?"
~*~
In the end, Al had almost gone.
He had got up and dressed, and made a half-arsed plan about what to do, the kind of plan that screamed Gryffindor and that he should have been deeply ashamed of. Viktor had got up, too, and Al was warmed and light-headed with the knowledge that Viktor wasn't about to baby-sit him or make his decisions, but that he was simply there.
But luckily, his ICW experience finally kicked in, closely followed by everything he knew of Gabrielle. He examined the situation to the best of his ability, and, since there was no real and immediate danger, he drew the only possible conclusion.
The best way he could help was by staying the fuck out of it.
However, it didn't mean that he didn't want to run around and scream and save something, so Al sat down and smoked the last of Gabrielle's thin, chokingly sweet cigarettes to quell the urge.
"Gabrielle has left you a birthday present," came Viktor's voice from the other room.
"Is it a broom?"
"No."
"Then I trust you to open it."
A pause.
"Why wouldn't you trust me with a broom?"
"Because I hate competition!"
At Viktor's short, sharp laugh, Al picked up his notebook again, absent-mindedly scrubbing at the long-suffering cover with a fingernail. He was never getting that stain out.
He left a short entry for his godfather and the ink was still wet and bright when an answer appeared in small, cramped handwriting.
Delightful to know that someone out there has a brain.
Al swore under his breath. Looking up, he met Viktor's questioning glance and shrugged. "Someone is being way too smug."
"I wrote to him, you know." Viktor's tone was light, but Al caught the hidden meaning before he continued. "To know if you would be amenable."
Al watched Viktor lean against the doorframe, all muscle and controlled energy. He looked good here, in Al's empty little apartment. Then again, he looked good everywhere.
"Before or after you took the position?"
A minute ago, Al would have thought it impossible, but now he respected Viktor even more: for not hesitating even for a second before his answer. "Before."
Al was surprised and flattered. He felt a blush coming on and searched his mind for something to say to cover it. Not that he was fooling anyone, but still, keeping up appearances was important.
"So you planned to fuck me on your big, wide, wonderfully obscene desk, Commissioner?" A genuine grin split Al's face at the image, so perfect that he felt some of the nervous tension leave his shoulders and the back of skull, making him giddy.
Viktor made a show of looking him over, as if he was a wizard at a bazaar and Al was a flying carpet. "I could fuck you on my desk."
"Really?" Al's voice sounded ridiculously pleased. Perhaps because, after all the wank fantasies this week, he needed some closure. Well, maybe more like three years' worth of fantasies.
The smile that lurked in the corners of Viktor's mouth just begged to be kissed off. "On one condition."
Al began walking towards Viktor who suddenly threw at him a small bundle of... something. Al caught it and tore off the soft paper wrapping.
"You get to wear Gabrielle's birthday present."
Al stared at the rather unexpected black frilly, lacy knickers in his hands.
When Viktor's proprietary hands rested on his hips and pulled him in, Al gave a resigned sigh.
At least, unlike the jacket and the cigarettes, those weren't Gabrielle's cast-offs.
~*~
Al had to go and pick the evening paper, and then walked around the block to cool off.
The local wizarding paper - as well as most of the foreign ones and the special ICW news bulletin - showed a single photo of a slim, blond person bent over McLaggen's battered dead body. Well, maybe on a drunken sleepless night Al might have mistaken the blond head for Gabrielle's. But, fortunately or not, he was far too well acquainted with the small arse attached to the blond person to err in any way.
He was looking at a security picture of Scorpius Malfoy in the office of the MGS Commissioner.
Seven walks around the block did the trick, and Al had regained enough of his composure to remember to go back and buy something to eat. He stumbled all the way to the small, dusty shop around the corner that strongly smelled of vegetables and decay. By the time he went back, it was completely dark. The streets were empty and Al could actually hear the echoing of his footsteps in the shimmering starry night.
The homeless guy was back at the entranceway, working his way through a paper cup of steamy broth when Al returned. Al dropped a pack of cigarettes in his lap on his way in.
Al ran up the pitch-black stairs, every step so familiar he wouldn't have fallen with his eyes closed. Actually, he needed to move. This place was quite a dung heap, really.
Viktor showed him the two freshly inked entries in his notebook and Al breathed a huge sigh of relief. He reached into the string bag for an apple, wiped it with the hem of his t-shirt and bit into the hard green fruit, heedless of the juice dribbling down his chin. Al watched Viktor out of the corner of his eye. He was absurdly pleased every time he caught Viktor surreptitiously glancing at his lips, moist and probably glistening with juice.
Viktor read through the papers methodically, even though he had probably received a special Commissioner-level update or something. He looked vaguely displeased the whole time, and Al knew it had nothing to do with the take-away salads he had got from the only late-hours shop in the neighbourhood. Viktor, who had worked all his life and fought with all he had to become what he was, couldn't stomach the fact that some stupid kid cocked up his perfectly normal life.
"See," Viktor said at last, sending his chipped plate flying to the sink. "This whole thing had absolutely nothing to do with you."
Al shook his head. "It probably did." He got up to brew some fresh tea. "I bet he did it because of some deep and dark and unrequited crush on James." Al turned around when he got nothing but disbelieving silence in return. "Trust me, he's quite weird. Ingenious, maybe, but rather disturbing as a person."
"I trust you."
Al put a generous amount of Ceylon loose leaf in the tea pot. "Are you staying tonight?" he asked quietly.
Viktor appeared to have taken the question at face value, addressing the practical issues. Which, Al supposed, was reasonable. "We could go to mine," Viktor said. "I have food." Very funny. "And sheets." Even better. "And lube."
Al chuckled. "Well, I can't beat that."
Viktor picked up the whistling kettle and poured the boiling water in the open tea-pot. "Don't expect much, though, my place is quite a dung heap." Al raised an eyebrow. "I'm saving the funds! That's what you guys are always telling us to do!"
"And here I thought you were independently wealthy. I'm happy to know that you can at least buy yourself lube."
Viktor laughed, but his hand pouring the boiling water didn't even shake. Amazing control of the body.
Viktor rolled his shoulders and sat back down. "Gundersen will take over in May. But anyway, I think I should get a new place until then."
"I should, too." Al looked into the pantry for a stale cookie or two. When he came back to the table, Viktor looked like he had just said something terribly funny. "What?"
Viktor picked a Semilune from a plate and licked the lemon icing. "Then I guess we should."
Right. Oh Merlin. This was very, very good.
Al watched Viktor chew on the little half-moon cookie. "So we're not giving Bulgaria any money, are we?"
Viktor looked at him like he was mad.
Al began pouring tea - like a proper little housewife, honestly. He began to laugh and couldn't stop.
"I knew it."
~*~
MONDAY (again)
~*~
Al's step was reasonably springy when he walked to the familiar, massive door. He checked his reflection in the gleaming surface of the plaque that said, Funds Allocation and Regional Development, Commissioner, and unsuccessfully tried to wipe the grin off his face. He scowled at himself, trying to get in the mood, but the toothy smile refused to go away. He looked like a happy moron, and that probably was going to be pointed out.
Admitting defeat, Al placed his hand against the wood and felt it warm under his palm, the magic of the security spell tickling his skin. The door slid sideways, and Al briskly entered the room that normal ICW workers were admitted to by special invitation or express permission, and even then with an Are you sure you need to be here? thrown at them as soon as they set one foot over the threshold. He nodded at the secretary, a short, balding Italian wizard who squinted myopically and ushered him in, closing the door with a swift flick of his wand.
'Very pissed off,' Don Giovanni mouthed silently at him, and then the balding head disappeared behind the towering stacks of papers on his desk. Al noted the latest addition to the pleasantly sombre lounge, a large painting where the Little Hunchbacked Horse was bathing in a cauldron full of boiling water. The mischievous animal winked at Al with one red eye and jumped out of the cauldron, landing on a poetically misty hill in the background as a tall, long-legged stallion. It shook its gorgeous black mane and disappeared somewhere outside the frame.
Show-off, Al smirked, and, with a sharp knock, he opened the door to the FARD Commissioner's private office.
Surprise-surprise, Senior Undersecretary was already there, looking a bit harried and dishevelled. She was pacing in the centre of the room, and the fact that her clothes were slightly wrinkled told Al that Gabrielle was in a too agitated state to think twice about her appearance. That finally dimmed Al's smile and made his heart twinge with worry. Seeing Al, she wrung her hands, exclaiming, "Ils m'ont insultée!"
Al closed the door and leaned against the doorframe. Their boss was sitting behind his desk, or rather, lounging in a black leather armchair. The older man's usual black turtleneck and his matte ebony desk sucked up what little light there was, and so the only colourful accent in that corner of the room was the man's pale face with its intensely displeased expression.
"Let me guess," Al began, steadily meeting the deathly glare from the shadows. "'He didn't mean to, he's so confused, he needs help, he's not well, please save his arse, my love, please, please, please.'" He added a bit of a whine towards the end, judging that since he wasn't hexed into silence after the first two seconds, then it was fair game.
His godfather scowled at him, but said nothing, which Al took to mean that he was voicing the opinion of the wise.
Al shrugged. He peeled himself off the doorframe and walked to the ottoman, giving irate Gabrielle wide berth. Pushing aside a bunch of grainy security photos of Scorpius, he plopped down on the seat and stretched his legs.
Gabrielle had apparently rediscovered her voice. "Impossible! I can't believe they mistook this hair," she grabbed a strand of her now slightly lank, but still fabulous hair and shook the fistful in the air. "This is veela hair! How can there be misunderstandings?! We shine, you stupid bastards!"
While she ranted ("That feeble makeshift! Ice blond, my arse! Laisse béton!"), Al engaged in a staring contest with the paper press on the desk, a gigantic snake's shrivelled head. When Gabrielle finally ran out of breath, he resumed his one-sided conversation with the other man.
"I always told you he was a psychopath."
Again, Al found himself on the receiving end of a glare and hastened to raise both hands in apology. "Hey, I'm not saying it's his father's fault. Anyone exposed to James and recreational potions at an early age was doomed from the start."
An arched eyebrow this time, and Al had to roll his eyes. "I'm special." He turned to Gabrielle; she was combing her hair with her fingers and looking at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Al shrugged and let himself sprawl on the ottoman; he could feel the negative vibe from the shadows weaken as the Commissioner crossed his arms over his chest and pretended he didn't find his godson amusing in the least.
When Gabrielle finally lowered her precious and deeply insulted self in a high-backed chair, the shadow from a heavy book-case immediately plunged half of her face and body in darkness. The effect was so glamorous and theatrical Al decided it was another customised add-on in the office's interior design. He glanced at his godfather, then back at Gabrielle. Having to look at two partially shadowed, dour faces certainly was a bit intimidating. Classy. And now it looked like they were about to have a dramatic pause. Al decided to indulge them.
Al picked up a photo that had captured Scorpius bent over McLaggen's body, hair falling in his face. Noticing that Al was staring, photo-Scorpius jerked and turned his back to him. Al sighed and dropped the picture.
After a couple of minutes of silence, the air was so loud that it was practically ringing with thoughts. His godfather's lip slowly curled in disgust.
"Alas, there is nothing I can do there," he finally began in his low voice, and Al rolled his eyes, because yeah, right. "Even if I were to use my position to in some way help the cause of an unfortunate acquaintance," here they both heard Gabrielle snort, but ignored it, "there is a crime and there will be punishment. Especially when the crime is sheer utter idiocy," the man spat out, brushing a salt and pepper strand off his face. It fell right back, as always. "But obviously, I would never even think of using my rank or reputation for any personal favours."
No, of course not. Never. Al nodded solemnly as the man shot him another glare, pulled his hair back in a pony-tail and primmed his lips. If Al ever decided he had a death wish, he would admit out loud that he thought it looked cute.
Gabrielle took out her wand and charmed them all some wine. Al held the stem of his glass and took a quick whiff of something cheerful, berries and oak. His godfather stared in his own glass, rocking it and making the translucent ruby liquid swirl.
"Of course, I can imagine there could be some possibilities, were someone to take an interest in the boy's case." He took a small sip, and Gabrielle and Al made vague gestures, because, naturally, none of the three was even remotely interested. It was just idle speculation. "It could be arranged for him to stand for trial in Norway. The prison conditions there are excellent, not to mention the fact that the climate would do wonders for his stupid head."
"I see." Al nodded and put his glass on the black wood. "But you don't happen to have any contacts in Norway, do you? Gundersen, perchance?"
The FARD Commissioner frowned, but Al could tell that his eyes were smiling - well, as much as it was possible. He remained silent until Al began to fidget, then said flatly, "I told him you would be easy."
Well, Al was already rising and turning to the door, but he knew the grin spreading across his face had been spotted anyway. "Oh, please, Severus. As if you would know."
~*~
The End.
~*~
Footnotes:
Notes on culture:
1 Kishinev, the capital of Moldavia, is now officially called Chişinău. However, it is still often referred to as Kishinev in English, and I consciously chose the spelling that most foreign readers would find easier to read and pronounce.
2 The share taxi, aka route taxi, aka jitney, aka marshrutka, etc., is the most popular means of transport in Kishinev. The standard fare is 3 Moldavian leus. (That's inexpensive.) Share taxis are owned by private companies. There are plans to ban share taxis from the city centre, thus allowing them to maintain only the communication among other districts, but the share taxis are still proud and about at present time.
3 Astra is a real brand of Moldavian cigarettes. They are cheap and are often smuggled to other Eastern European countries, for example, Ukraine. They are told to be quite nasty, but I cannot provide first-hand testimony.
4 The Firebird is a folk-tale character, often the object of a quest. The main character - usually a bit hapless prince or the youngest son - is supposed to find or catch her, which can be attempted by grabbing her long tail. If it strikes her fancy, she can then fulfil the catcher's wildest dreams, but she can also unleash all kinds of evil forces of doom upon him. The Firebird's shining fire feathers can blind a person. Her diet consists of apples of immortality, and she is reported to be a good singer.
5 The vodka brands that Al apparently prefers shall remain anonymous. However, both troika (a traditional Russian driving harness combination of three horses abreast) and heraldic elements (either stylised or accurate) are indeed often used on vodka labels, for example, Sibirskaya and Smirnoff. (This work of fiction does not promote alcohol consumption.)
6 When Viktor says he wants to make a wish, he is referring to a popular superstition according to which, if you stand between two namesakes, you can wish for something rather like on a shooting star. The superstition is mostly popular with persons under the age of twelve.
7 Bulgarians really shake their heads for 'yes' and nod for 'no'. Al is not mistaken.
8 Appenzell is a popular skiing resort in Switzerland. Rumours about the location of a wizarding mental health clinic remain unconfirmed.
9 The Alkonost is a mythological bird, generally described as brightly coloured and associated with good luck. The other birds of a feather are Gamayun (a prophetic bird) and Sirin (more of a dark side player). Note that the symbolic meanings associated with these birds kept changing dramatically over the centuries. They also have women's heads and breasts, so theoretically they could give the veelas of the Potterverse a run for their money at any wizarding beauty pageant.
10 When Al and Viktor arrive at the Bulgarian bar, the band is playing a song about malka moma (a little girl). They don't sing, but Viktor knows the lyrics:
A little girl prayed to God:
"God, give me eyes of a dove,
God, give me wings of a falcon,
So I can fly over the Danube,
So I can find the boy I love."
And God gave her wings of a falcon,
And she found the boy she loved.
11 At the Bulgarian bar, Viktor is singing Radina mama dumashe, a traditional song:
Rada's mother spoke to her:
"Rada, darling child,
Come outside, Rada, have a look
At the star that has risen,
A purple, blood-red star.
Is it a sign of good or evil?
Is it a sign of wicked times?"
Rada spoke to her mother:
"Mother, the star has risen
And I have fallen ill."
12 Sex in a podyezd, or a house's shared entrance, is such a cliché that it is practically a classic. Podyezdi have a tendency to being dark, dirty, and littered with fags and junk - apparently, when they are clean and decorated with flowers, they lose their sex appeal. Al and Viktor are paying homage to a real life phenomenon immortalised in countless books and films.
13 Semilune is a popular Moldavian cookie. It consists of two cookies shaped like little half-moons, stuck together with marmalade and covered in lemon icing.
14 The Little Hunchbacked Horse is a folk-tale character. It is little and hunchbacked, and generally thought to be quite ugly. Its colour is defined as indescribable, or a mix of all colours. However, when it bathes in boiling water, it turns into a gorgeous super stallion and saves the prince he is currently serving from gruesome trials and life-and-death situations, and also secures a princess for a happily ever after in the process. The LHH made me think of Severus Snape.
Notes on language:
1 Viktor's grumpy clock is saying, 'Don't stare at the clock, get to work!'
2
Monday:
"Tiens, c'est quoi ce visage triste? ..." - "Why the sad face? One would think you haven't had a nice week-end, darling."
"Tais-toi..." - "Shut up."
Friday:
"...mon p'tit chou." - "...my darling."
"chéri" - same as previous.
"Mais c'est dingue, ça... n'est-ce pas?" - "Oh, but that's lame... [Goods and Substances have finally gone 'round the twist,] haven't they?"
"Mais tu ne m'as rien dit." - "But you haven't told me anything."
"C'est rien... C'est pas grave. C'était ma propre faute, ça." -"It's nothing. No big deal. That was my own fault."
Saturday:
9h - P'tit salaud, tu dormes! etc. - 9 o'clock - You're asleep, little rascal! Need to talk. Breakfast in the fridge. Love, G.
"D'accord, peut-être c'était une erreur, mais pas une faute!" - "All right, maybe I made a mistake, but it's not my fault!" (Both 'faute' and 'erreur' can be translated as 'mistake'. However, 'faute' is more like something fundamentally, morally wrong, sometimes implying malicious intent. One does not usually admit to a 'faute' - even if one screws up badly, it is said to be an 'erreur'.)
'c'est pas sérieux' - it's not serious.
Monday (again):
"Ils m'ont insultée!" - "They have insulted me!"
"Laisse béton!" - "Drop it!"