emiime

"I'm not sure I like this idea, Harry. The opera's not really my thing in the first place—" Neville huffed a little and sped his steps to catch up with Harry "—and besides, you know I don't like heights."

Harry only grinned as they reached the top of the stairs. "Here we are." He had stopped in front of a black door with an ornate silver B worked into it.

Neville frowned. He wasn’t certain he was particularly excited to be entering a place the Blacks had once occupied.

Harry took his hand. "Come on, Nev, it's just a place. Nobody's in there, and besides, it's ours now."

"Well, it's yours, and—"

"—And what's mine is yours, and you know that. Come on." Harry tugged on Neville's hand and turned to the door.

"Toujours Pur," he said officiously, and the door opened, swinging smoothly on hinges that hadn't moved in decades. Harry entered as if he owned the place—well, really, he did—and Neville drew a readying breath and followed him.

"We've go to do something about that password, if we can," Harry commented, surveying the box, "and quite possibly about these hangings." He frowned and tugged on one of the ancient, heavy black velvet curtains that cloaked the walls.

Neville was only half-listening to Harry's musings. He stared out of the box at the opera hall below them, which was ornately decorated in rich reds and golds and occupied by hundreds—no, thousands of well-dressed wizards and witches who filled the hall with an excited buzz of anticipation.

"This is amazing," he breathed finally, when he was able to tear his eyes away from the spectacle before him.

Harry grinned. "Still feeling bad?"

"No," Neville said honestly. "I don't think anyone could feel bad up here. I don't even mind the height so much." He turned back to survey the crowd again, taking in the enormous stage curtain underneath the elaborately carved proscenium arch. One of the pixies carved along the arch noticed Neville staring and stuck out its wooden tongue at him.

Neville laughed softly. "Amazing," he said again, and he smiled as Harry's arms went around his waist. "What's this opera about, Harry?"

"Hmm," Harry mused, nuzzling Neville's ear, "It's what the Muggles think magic is like. And it's a love story."

"A magic love story?"

"Mmm-hmm. I think. With revenge and misunderstandings and funny bits, too. And a bird man."

"Like an animagus?"

"I'm not actually sure."

"Well, that sounds all right, I guess."

"Nev," Harry murmured, "I didn't only bring you here to see the opera."

"No?"

"No." Harry nestled his chin into Neville's shoulder. "I thought we might try something."

"Try what?"

Neville was completely unprepared for Harry's response.

"Don't try to tell me this isn't your fantasy."

"My—what?"

But before Harry could respond, there came a soft knocking on the door.

"Come in," Harry sighed, not moving away from Neville.

"Master Harry Potter is most welcome to the Barkwith Opera Hall," came a squeaky voice from behind them, and both men turned. There, in the doorway, was the tiniest house-elf either of them had ever seen, bowing so deeply that her long nose brushed the floor.

"Er…thank you," said Harry. "You don't have to bow like that, really." The house-elf straightened up and beamed.

"Timpsy is pleased to meet you, Harry Potter, sir, and wishes to know if there is anything she can bring to you tonight. Anything at all, sir, anything," she said eagerly, practically bouncing in anticipation.

"I…I don't think so, er, Timpsy. We've eaten already, and I can't think of anything we might need. Thank you, though."

Timpsy wilted a little, and she stared at the floor. "All right, Harry Potter, sir, if you are not needing Timpsy, she will go back downstairs, sir."

She looked so dejected at not being able to bring Harry anything that Neville stepped forward and knelt before her. Timpsy didn't seem to notice him until he spoke.

"I think we might like something to drink, actually, Timpsy." At Neville's soft words, the house-elf jumped, her round eyes growing large.

"Oh, excuse Timpsy, please, Harry Potter's companion, sir, Timpsy did not see you there. Yes, we have many things to drink, sir, anything at all you might like! Pumpkin juice, or butterbeer, or champagne, or wine, or—"

Neville cut off what promised to be an extensive list with a smile and a gentle wave of his hand. "Whatever you think is the best, I'm sure we'll like. Thank you." The house-elf nodded and disappeared.

Neville stayed where he was for a moment, then stood and turned, his brow creased and his mouth turned down.

"Nev?"

"Forget it." Neville stood at the front of the box and stared down at the crowd again, his hands deep in the pockets of his dress robes.

"Come on, don't do this."

Neville only shrugged.

"She was a house-elf, Neville! And I don't care what Hermione would say if she heard that. It's not as if—"

"Forget it, Harry, really. It's what I should expect. It's what anyone who's with the Saviour of the Wizarding World should expect. I'll get used to it." There was no trace of bitterness in Neville's voice, and none in his sentiment. He knew Harry hated it when he talked like this, but he wasn't feeling sorry for himself. It was what it was. Harry and Neville at home, Harry and…some round-faced man, what's-his-name, in public.

"No, you won't get used to it." Harry said, taking Neville's face in his hands and kissing him gently, "You won't. Everyone needs to start seeing you for you. Listen, I never asked to be famous, and you know that. Sometimes I think I'd rather be invisible—"

"Like me." A trace of self-pity had crept into Neville's tone before he could stop it.

"Cut it out." But Harry didn't really have anything to say to that, and Neville knew it. In fact, Neville had, on more than one occasion, wanted to take out a full-page ad that screamed at the readers, told them that the Chosen One had chosen, and it was he, Neville Longbottom, an ordinary, round-faced, sandy-haired nobody who he was currently (and would be, for a very long time, if Neville had anything to say about it) shagging roundly on a regular basis.

But then, he always rationalised, the page would only have fish wrapped in it the next day, so really, what was the point?

And besides, though Harry always said that they shared everything, Neville could hardly afford a full-page Prophet ad on his salary, and he wasn't going to ask Harry for the money.

It was a ridiculous idea anyway. And Neville's innate shyness always prevailed before the idea became anything more than just an idea.

Neville sighed quietly. "Sorry, Harry. I don't mean to. This is really nice."

Harry gave a little smile and shrugged. "Well, there's no point in having an inheritance if I don't take advantage of it." He stepped closer to Neville and took his hand. "Come on. Let's sit down."

Harry transfigured the two chairs in the front of the box into an elegant and rather comfortable-looking settee, and he cuddled close to Neville as the orchestra began to tune up. He pressed kisses along Neville's neck and ran his hand up Neville's thigh, and Neville knew he was blushing badly.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Harry whispered against Neville's skin. "Wouldn't you love to fuck me here, with half the wizarding world at our feet?" Neville squirmed in his seat but couldn't deny that he was completely turned on. Of course he wanted this; they'd talked about it a hundred times, but Neville had always insisted it was only a fantasy, something he wanted to talk about but not necessarily to actually do. There were so very many things that could go wrong with public sex, and Neville was aware of them, having played out every scenario he could think of over and over again.

Harry's hand moved onto Neville's crotch, and under the rumble of the audience's voices, Neville let out a moan. Oh god, it felt good. He pulled Harry's face to his and kissed him, revelling in the feeling of Harry's hand on his cock and the unexpected fulfilment of a fantasy he hadn't ever expected to have fulfilled.

"I want you," Neville moaned, just as a tiny surprised squeak came from the doorway.

"Timpsy is so sorry, Master Harry Potter, sir!" yelped the house-elf, trembling so hard she nearly dropped the tray she carried. Neville, who had shoved Harry away at her appearance, smoothed his robes and pressed his thighs together, willing his erection to go down.

"It's all right, Timpsy," said Harry calmly (and exactly how he could be so calm at a time like this, Neville couldn't fathom but it was undoubtedly Harry, who was calmer under pressure than Neville would ever be) as the overture began. Neville stared, face ablaze, at the stage curtain and pretended to listen to the orchestra as Harry took the champagne and glasses that Timpsy was carrying. He placed them on the little table next to the settee and turned again to the house-elf.

"Listen, Timpsy," he said, gesturing towards Neville, "This is my…this is Neville. We're going to be coming here often, I think, and so I need you to just…well, don't worry about what goes on in this box, all right? Neville and I love each other, and, well…" Harry turned and smiled at Neville. "Right. We're in love. And we don't care who knows it. So thank you for the champagne, Timpsy, and don't worry about what you saw here. In fact, you can tell anyone you like." Harry gave a satisfied little nod and folded his arms over his chest as Timpsy gave a hesitant smile.

"Timpsy is glad for Master Harry Potter, sir, and for Master Neville, too, sir." The house-elf gave a little bow and a more genuine smile. Neville shifted uncomfortably in his seat, though whether it was from embarrassment at being caught by a sodding house-elf or the raging pressure of his erection, Neville wasn't entirely sure. (Though he suspected it might be mostly the latter.)

"Thank you, Timpsy. You can go now; I think we’re all set here."

"Yes, sir, and if Timpsy can do anything else for you, sir, you will call?" She looked hopeful.

"Sure. We'll call. Thanks."

When the house-elf was finally gone, Harry settled back down on the settee.

"Why did you do that, Harry?"

Harry grinned and picked up where he had left off kissing Neville's neck. "Still feeling invisible?"

"Well, no, but you didn't have to—Harry, stop, the opera's starting," Neville protested weakly as Harry's hand began its journey up his thigh once again. He wanted this—oh god, he wanted this—but something was holding him back.

"I thought opera wasn't your thing," Harry murmured against Neville's throat.

"It's not—" Harry's hand cupped Neville's erection. "It's just that—" Harry unbuttoned Neville's trousers. "We should—" Harry's hand was in his pants. "Respect the—" Harry swiped a thumb through the precome that was rapidly pooling at Neville's slit. "Per-for-mers! Ahh!" Neville gasped loudly just as the lead tenor began to sing.

"Oh, well, if that's the way you feel…" Harry gave a little smirk and took his hand from Neville's trousers, wiping it on his dress robes. He settled back on the settee, reached for the champagne, and opened it with his wand.

"Wha—no, I—I mean, I—what we talked about, I mean, it was a fantasy, Harry, I dunno if I—well, maybe I—" Neville was babbling, too afraid to admit what he really wanted and too turned on to deny it.

"Champagne?" Harry asked innocently, handing Neville a glass.

"Er. Thanks." Neville hurriedly buttoned his trousers before taking the drink. Harry casually sipped his own champagne, showing what Neville thought was a remarkably sudden interest in the goings-on onstage.

Neville made it through two glasses of champagne and most of the opening scene before he finally had to admit that his erection wasn't going to go away anytime soon. He cupped himself and squeezed to relieve a little of the pressure, drained his glass, and nuzzled up to Harry.

"Nev, not now!" gasped Harry in mock-surprise, "Not in front of all these people!" Neville smiled and ignored him, preferring instead to graze his teeth gently along the sensitive skin of Harry's neck.

"I want this," Neville finally admitted, mustering courage he knew he shouldn't need to muster around Harry, "I want you."

"Hmm," muttered Harry as Neville took the glass from his hand, "What about respecting the performers?"

"Oh, sod the performers," laughed Neville, his fingers flying down the fastenings of Harry's dress robes, "They've got a whole hall just full of people doing nothing but sitting there respecting them." He pushed Harry's robes off his shoulders, then pressed him down onto the settee, covering his neck with kisses and undoing his tie.

"Or," panted Harry as Neville unbuttoned his shirt, "They might take it as the ultimate sign of respect."

Neville sank to his knees on the floor before Harry and opened Harry's trousers. "You're right, you know. We should write and thank them." He took Harry's cock out and began to stroke the underside of it gently.

"'Dear Performers, we were so'—god, Nev, just like that—'so very moved by your singing that we just had to'—oh—"

"'That we had to fuck right here in our box,'" Neville finished, and he took Harry in his mouth.

"It'll be in all the papers," gasped Harry, shoving his trousers down around his ankles and spreading his legs even wider. "Invisible no more, Nev. Not when you fuck the Boy Who Lived in a box at the oper—ahh!"

Neville smiled around Harry's cock and stoked practised fingers over his balls. Harry exhaled and moved forward, giving Neville better access.

Neville took his mouth from Harry's cock and stroked it with the fingers of his right hand as he fumbled for his wand with his left. As he moved the wand towards Harry's hole, Harry grabbed his wrist, stilling his movement.

"Floor," Harry panted, "Wanna do it on the floor."

He moved down to where Neville knelt, capturing his mouth in an intense kiss and wrapping his arms tightly around Neville, nearly knocking him over.

"Over here," Neville managed, manoeuvring Harry to the very front of the box so that, kneeling, they could both look out over the audience and, beyond them, at the stage, where someone whom Neville assumed must be the bird man Harry had mentioned was doing a funny sort of dance with a set of bells in hand

Not that Neville cared one whit about what was happening on the stage. He and Harry were creating their own show, one with a lot more magic and a lot more love (and, thankfully, fewer bird men) than any which the performers could attempt to portray on the stage.

Harry knelt at the edge of the box, and Neville once again took up his wand and pressed it to Harry's hole. Harry gave a familiar little gasp of pleasure as he was readied for Neville.

"Now," he whispered, turning his head over his shoulder to look at Neville, "Do it now."

Neville nodded, freeing his trapped erection and entering Harry slowly, revelling in the closeness of their bodies and the familiar tight heat of his Harry. He pressed kisses to Harry's damp-shirted back as he fucked him, watching out over the rapt audience all the while.

"If they all turned around," Neville whispered, bending close to Harry's ear, all initial reticence forgotten, "If even one person turned around…can you imagine?" He increased the speed of his thrusts, nearing orgasm, and grabbed for Harry's cock, only to find Harry's hand already on it, pumping frantically, smearing fluid all over the shaft. Harry gasped as Neville covered Harry's smaller hand with his own.

"Gonna come, Nev," Harry panted, grasping the edge of the box with his free hand, his knuckles going white. Want you to come, too."

It wasn't a difficult request to comply with, as Neville was on the brink of orgasm anyway. He thrust again and again into Harry and finally, oh god finally, spilled into him, muffling his shout on Harry's shoulder and going absolutely limp just before Harry came, all over Neville's hand and his own. The two collapsed onto the floor, panting, and not a word passed between then until the roar of the audience signifying the end of the act sent then both into fits of hysterical laughter.

"Let's go home," said Neville, when he was finally calm enough to speak. He rolled over and smiled down at Harry, whose eyes were half-lidded as they always were after sex.

"Let's," agreed Harry. He yawned and stretched and gathered his clothes as Neville tucked himself back into his trousers and took out his wand to clean the carpet.

"Don't," Harry said, catching Neville's hand just before he cast Scourgify.

Neville gave Harry a puzzled look.

"Leave it," Harry directed, fastening his robes and smoothing the front, "Let's let Timpsy know just how much we enjoyed ourselves tonight."

And two Disapparition cracks and two operatic acts later, she did.