Title: To Encourage the Others
Author: inamac
Characters/Pairings: Albus/Gellert, Tom Riddle, Abelard Black
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: essayeurs, love potions
Other Warnings: fellatio, snowballing, cocks up arses.
Word Count: 1220
Summary/Description: Albus Dumbledore is not the only one who collects the memories of his enemies.
Author's Notes: I've twisted the prompts a bit. And I may have got carried away with research (though at the moment researching the 1908 London Olympics is annoyingly easy). I have fettled this down from something that wanted to be much longer (and with no smut), so apologise for its brevity.





"I suppose you could think of them as a sort of love potion." Abelard Black unlocked the glass-fronted cupboard behind the desk in his office and ran a tobacco-stained finger along the row of phials before selecting one and lifting it from its place. He set it down on the blotter.

His guest leaned forward to inspect it, his unbound black hair, swinging with the motion, did not obscure the eagerness in his eyes.

"But I like to think of them as essayures Black continued.

The other man curled his fingers around the bottle. He lifted it delicately and his pale eyes met Abelard's. There was curiosity there, but not about Abelard's choice of words to describe what he was selling. Whoever he was (and Abelard had his suspicions, there was little that happened in London of which he was not aware), his knowledge of magic, and the Dark Arts, and, most of all, of the ways in which people might be coerced and manipulated, was comprehensive.

"So," he asked, "do the people whose memories of their sexual encounters in this house are drawn into these bottles know that you use them to titillate others?"

Abelard met the steady gaze. He refused to be intimidated, especially by someone who had presented himself as a customer, though the man's actions had made it clear that he had not gained access to the Box of Tricks inner sanctum solely to purchase Abelard's usual human wares. "This is a discrete establishment," he said. "And if you have viewed that particular memory you will be aware that the participants are not clients. Or staff."

"No," he said. "I have not yet viewed it. But my informant has used it several times. And his report of it interested me." He turned the bottle so that the candlelight flickered over the faceted crystal. "This is not the memory of one of your 'customers'. It is much older than this establishment. And the participants much younger than your clients. A blond and a redhead. Do you know who they are? Or, rather, were?"

Abelard shrugged. "Does it matter? You know my price. If it is beyond your means then I will have that back. It is one of my more popular titillations." He reached out his hand to take the bottle, but the other man was either too quick, or better skilled in magic. He found his fingers closing on a heavy purse.

"Your price," he said. "In full. But I will sample the goods first to make sure that you have not switched bottles on me." He rose and crossed the room to where a row of Pensieve bowls stood, ready to be distributed to those patrons who required an essayure. With no apparent preparation he simply unstoppered the bottle, poured the contents into the nearest bowl, and, as soon as the memory inside had swirled out to fill the surface, plunged into the past.

+++

The first thing he noticed was the grey pallor of the air that indicated magical tampering with the memory. A moment's consideration identified it as a silencing charm – Abelard, or whoever had gathered this memory, had clearly not wanted any observer to do more than watch the proceedings. With a gesture he dispelled it, and examined his surroundings.

The room in which he found himself was a complete contrast to Abelard's office. The walls were painted a plain white, and the furnishings were equally simple, an iron-framed bed, a tallboy and desk of pale varnished wood, and a marble-topped washstand. It looked like a Muggle hotel room from the early part of the Twentieth Century. The curtains, which bore a sinuous pattern of vines and full-blown roses in Art Nouveau style, were drawn back to reveal the curved wall of a gigantic stadium, and the domes and towers of fantastic whitewashed buildings that looked incongruous under the dull English sky. A scatter of magazines, both Muggle and magic, on the desk bore advertisements that fixed both date and location.

The IV Olympiad – London 1908 , 673rd Wizard Olympic Games..

The watcher nodded, his speculation apparently confirmed, though it is doubtful that anyone else who had seen this would have understood the implications. Their concern would have been wholly for the two young men who occupied the room.

Although the setting was a Muggle one, the two men were obviously wizards. The blond was standing, naked as a competitor in the original Greek Olympics, save for the wide ribbon around his neck bearing a gold medal that glinted with the rise and fall of his well-muscled chest. The reason for his heavy breathing was the red-headed wizard who knelt before him, scarlet robes bearing golden embroidered lions pooled over the polished floor, the silver medal around his own neck swinging with the motion as he sucked and licked at the standing man's cock.

The cry, when the blond man came, was quickly muted as the other man drew back, lips swollen and red as his robes closed firmly over what they now held. He did not swallow or spit, but rose to his feet, grasped the gold medallion in one fist to pull the other man close, and crushed their open mouths together in something more than a kiss.

It was shocking, filthy and arousing. The watcher understood now why this memory was so popular – and so expensive. His own hand strayed to his crotch before his iron control halted it. This was not what he had paid to see.

The two wizards were now locked in an embrace, gold and scarlet silk swirling around them as they shared, and swallowed, the most intimate of essences.

The redhead had the initiative now, and used it, touching, fondling, nibbling, biting, all the blond's most sensitive places, hands and lips never still, until, aroused again, his partner pushed off the robes. (The watcher's informant had described them as 'Gryffindor colours', not recognising the red of St. George and the lions of England that marked their wearer as much as the medal around his neck as the warlock who had represented his country in the final of the Duelling of the Wizard's Olympic Games – and who had lost. It was not an award that was commonly recalled when people these days enumerated Albus Dumbledore's career highlights. Few remember who comes second.)

Though if this memory was a true one, it seemed that his erstwhile opponent had been as surprised by the result as the spectators.

"Are you sure," he panted, as he pushed his now naked partner down onto the bed, "that you did not misfire that last hex deliberately?"

Albus's eyes twinkled. "Now why would I do that, Gel?" he asked.

"So you could get fucked," the other replied, positioning himself ready to do exactly that.

Albus laughed, then drew breath sharply as Gellert's hands pulled his arsecheeks apart, and he pressed forward, impaling his partner.

"Now who is the best wand-wielder in Europe?" he asked, as he began to move slowly and rhythmically. "Was it worth losing the Gold for this, Albie?"

The watcher had to lean closer to hear Dumbledore's reply. It was not intended for anyone to hear.

"You will never know," he whispered. "But if I did, it was for the greater good."

The End