Title: Up to So Much
Pairing: This is a little complicated. Harry's involved, and there are mentions of Charlie, Percy, Ginny, Snape, Kingsley, McGonagall, George, Hermione...
Warnings: faux, or possibly real, sibling incest; anonymous sex
Rating: Quite NC17
A/N: Pay no attention to the clock behind the curtain. It's totally still the 7th. *nods*
Up to So Much No Good
The invitations are engraved and sparkly, and in order to open them, you have to say, and mean, that you're so
willing to be up to no good.
Everyone who is familiar, by personal experience or by rumor mill, with the general content of George Weasley's parties, is pretty clear on the notion that anything could happen; it's widely accepted that even in the worst case scenario, where you see your boss fucking your mother or something, what happens at a Weasley Wheeze Wingding stays at a Weasley Wheeze Wingding.
Except for the gossip, but people are sort of circumspect. They talk about their own perceptions, or in generalities. They say they saw a teacher blowing someone from the Auror service, maybe, but they don't say they saw McGonagall on her knees with Kingsley's dick in her mouth.
Not that Harry thinks Minerva McGonagall wouldn't turn that scenario around in a heartbeat and have the man asking, very politely, whether he might do anything which would encourage her cunt to contract.
God, and the fact that he was even thinking about that without exploding probably meant he was fully sick enough for that mother/boss thing to play out without him even flinching.
Even if the mother in question were his nearest surrogate, and the boss in question were Bill's boss, Griphook.
He decides never to share that particular line of consideration with Ron.
Ron would definitely flinch.
But Ron's not here, and doesn't have an invitation. He's occasionally up for quite a bit of no good, but not the kind where the cloak room determines, based on recent fantasies you've entertained (while you entertained yourself), how you're to proceed.
He slides his invitation into the slot as directed, and the room goes dark. Two minutes later, he and a dozen others are dumped out into the party, costumed and ready to play.
With a glance at his hands, he shoves up the glasses he knows will be on his face despite that the face isn't his, because of course, he's dressed as Percy. The particular brand of no good to which this evening's attendees are …up, maybe, though the grammar somewhat defeats him, is to allow oneself to be dressed as a recent object of fantasy, and Harry's jerked himself off over Percy half a dozen times in the last week, so this is no surprise.
He feels like Harry, still, his body comfortable on him, but his fingers are longer. He's taller. He has faded freckles on the backs of his hands. He's dressed in formal robes. Of course he is. George's products are high-end and detail-oriented, and they get the little things right.
Harry smiles and shifts, the weight of a rather unconventional accessory that is certainly not traditional under one's robes making him gasp.
He's never thought of Percy wearing anything constricting around his testicles to allow a weight to pull at them (he will be now; good lord), and he wonders how many people in the room, all dressed as their own wet-dream material, are experiencing similar surprises.
He looks around.
There are six of his own face here (creepy, but kind of flattering, but mostly creepy), and he spends a few minutes surreptitiously listening to other people use his voice to proposition each other. He has no idea who's in each Harry suit; it could be anyone. It could be Luna, or Neville (the fact that Neville mentioned having received an invitation is still a bit surprising to Harry, but of course now he's biting his lip and wondering whether Neville wanks over him). It could be that Minerva McGonagall actually is here, wearing Harry's body and face.
It's difficult to know how to begin.
Not that difficult, apparently; he's peripherally aware of two of the Harry's moving toward a corner, hands busy and tangled in fronts of haphazardly fastened robes. Another of the Harrys is openly touching himself as he watches them grope one another.
"I wonder, if one arranged them in a circle, if they'd all jerk themselves watching themselves jerk themselves," says a vaguely familiar voice in Harry's ear.
He turns and looks down at Charlie Weasley. It feels odd for him to look down; in his own body he's just a bit shorter than Charlie, so it's like he's seeing him from a new angle. He shrugs. "Maybe, though I guess that's a hazard of this game. Or something." He feels like he's stammering; there's a chance that's because if he'd not turned out to be Percy, he'd probably be Charlie. Someone else who fantasizes about him is playing the role, and it belatedly occurs to Harry that he ought to be making a better effort to sound like Percy. To choose the right vocabulary and tone. He shrugs. "I expect George considered the potential and arrived at a solution."
"Probably did," says Charlie. He waggles his eyebrows in a way that Harry's seen Charlie do it a hundred times, and leans closer. "So, I want to suck your dick."
This is the point of the party: easy, unjudging sex. This is why they're there, every one of them, in this case unknown (there are a few he can maybe guess) and unknowing (which is definitely part of the fun). And still, Harry's cock is startled by the directness.
Or Percy's cock.
Hard to say, since Harry can only imagine how Percy's is different from his own. He's never seen him hard, so all he has to go on is the occasional restroom glimpse of fiery red curls surrounding an unaroused rosy cock.
It doesn't matter; he's watching Charlie sink to his knees, and his long careful fingers are begging to open the formal robe. Harry forces himself to be Percy, to be deliberate as he undoes one button at a time. Charlie's practically drooling, and when he folds back the fabric and allows his cock, red and slender and iron-hard under the skin, to fall forward, Charlie's on him in an instant. He takes Harry's (Percy's) cock deep into his throat, and Harry knows he's going to want to return the favor. A couple of people gather nearby, watching Charlie blow his next-younger brother, watching with eyes dilated, some of them panting open-mouthed. At least one of the watchers is a man in Ginny's body; his hands keep looking for a dick he doesn't have until a Snape (weird, but there it is) knocks him to the floor and buries that great nose against his (her?) clit.
Harry glances back and forth from Charlie's mouth to Ginny thrashing (the costume fails in this regard; Ginny's never that gaspy when she comes. At least, not with him) and he can't hold on. He grunts something out, something which can't be actual words, but which Charlie correctly interprets, then whimpers when Charlie pulls away at the last second, replacing his mouth with his hand and pumping the come out of Percy's cock onto his face and into his hair.
Harry groans; the weight thing makes it really fucking difficult to come, but really fucking worth it.
Snape glances up from where he's got Ginny arching up off the floor, staring at the dripping come, then crawls forward and drives into her.
Harry watches Snape fuck his sometime-girlfriend for a second, then asks. "Good for you?"
"Fuck, yes," Charlie says.
When Harry pushes Charlie onto a nearby couch and straddles his lap, sliding down onto his thick cock with a sigh, Ginny's one of three bystanders that comes.
It's nearly two o'clock in the morning when the bell finally sounds, sending everyone into the dark anonymity of the cloak room once again. Harry's lost track entirely of who all he's fucked (the faces, not the names; he knows that part isn't likely to be revealed), but he's exhausted. He'd glad to feel Percy's body come off and his own return to normal, sore and naked (like everyone else) as the lights come up.
He glances around as everyone dresses in their own clothes, wondering who guesses whom, and wondering whether any of his own thoughts on the matter are correct. No one asks, but the gossip this week will be a lot of fun.
He watches Hermione pull on her cloak over the matted mess of her hair, then wraps his own around him and heads for home.