Entry tags:

beholder_2012, fic, mundungus fletcher, mundungus/pettigrew, peter pettigrew, rating:pg13, slash

FIC: "The Magpie and the Rat" for alwaysasnapefan.
Recipient:
Author: wwmrsweasleydo
Title: The Magpie and the Rat
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Peter Pettigrew/Mundungus Fletcher
Word Count: 5,700
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *Swear words*.
Summary: ...Peter looked across the room again, to the short, dark man in the grubby raincoat sitting alone at the table there, and caught him watching their group again. The man looked away quickly...
Author's Notes: These characters and settings belong to the wonderful mind of JK Rowling and none other.
Many thanks to E for all her help as a beta, and for her suggestions and encouragement.

---

"Which one of us do you think it is?" Sirius asked lazily, leaning back on his low stool and displaying his long, lean torso.

"It's probably nothing like that," Remus muttered, staring into his pint like he wished he hadn't said anything.

Peter would have been much more comfortable in the Broomsticks, or even in Madame Puddifoot's tea-room. His mates thought the Hog's Head was exciting, though. They thought it was a laugh. Everything was to them, even the scary serious stuff like Remus being a werewolf and Dark magic.

"He sells things," James said vaguely. "Maybe he thinks we want to buy something."

Sirius sat upright then, with that dangerous glint to his eye. "Like drugs?" he asked.

James blinked and then frowned. "Not Muggle stuff. Well, I don't think so."

"What kind of stuff then?" Peter asked because nobody else was going to. They all knew everything anyway and it was always him who had to ask, who was slow to catch up.

As he had known that he would, James rolled his eyes before answering, "You know."

Peter didn't. Not at all. So he waited.

"Like stolen things, or things that aren't exactly stolen, but they're... you know. Grey Market."

James said the last two words like it was a phrase with which they were all familiar, one which covered everything. Peter's eyes darted between the faces of his friends, trying to work out whether the rest of them did know and it was only him in the dark. As usual. Sirius was looking bored and handsome, trailing a finger in the froth of his pint and staring up at the ceiling. Remus was still looking down, more at his hands now, though, than his drink, and Peter spotted the new, deep scratch along the inside of the left thumb. It was healing.

That would be three days' worth of healing because it had been three days since the full moon. It still scared Peter, the idea that he had been out running with a werewolf, but James and Sirius had always been so focused on supporting Remus that it had seemed unkind to mention his fear. A rat was really a rather small animal, though, all things considered.

Peter looked across the room again, to the short, dark man in the grubby raincoat sitting alone at the table there, and caught him watching their group again. The man looked away quickly.

"He's stopped looking at us," Remus said.

"How do you know him?" Peter asked James.

"I don't!" James answered sharply, appalled. "My father warned me to keep away from him, that's all. He said that the Ministry was onto Fletcher and that I wasn't to buy anything he offered me."

"He might be able to get us some useful ingredients," Remus muttered. "He might actually be rather a handy wizard to know."

"Fletcher what?" Peter asked, feeling the man's gaze on them again, tempted to look over again so that he would panic and pretend that he wasn't again.

James laughed. "No, it's his surname. His first name is the rather wonderfully dreadful Mundungus." James ran his tongue over every ridiculous syllable.

"Mundungus Fletcher," Peter said.

The others bestowed upon him their patronising looks because he was stating the obvious again.

"He's looking this way!" Sirius said. "Do you suppose that he wants me?" He ran a stretched finger provocatively down the buttons of his robe.

"Everyone does, darling," James replied with a shrug.

They all laughed, Peter getting the joke and joining in the laughter just a little later than his friends.

"Why don't we find out who it is he's got his eye on?" Remus suggested. "It probably is Sirius, if it's a sex thing. It usually is. What do you say, Pads, d'you fancy that?"

Sirius glanced sideways at the man and pulled a face. "Eww. Can you imagine?"

Peter took a long gulp of his beer as cover and examined the man over the rim of his glass. He could imagine it, actually, and he wouldn't mind. Not that any adult man was ever going to notice him in that way. It was difficult to tell as they were both sitting down, but he would have said that he and Mundungus must have been about the same height. It was hard to tell the man's shape in that long coat, too. Certainly no chubbier than Peter. Puppy fat his mother called it, but he did think that at nearly eighteen years old puppy fat should have started to resolve itself into muscle; it showed no signs of doing that. While he was still growing there was still time, though.

"Or James, maybe, if he prefers someone more refined," Remus teased.

"Just because Prongs has got weak eyesight, that doesn't make him an intellectual!" Sirius protested.

James held the arms of his glasses where they rested on his ears and waggled them comically so that the lenses bounced up and down on his nose. Peter laughed because that was still funny. Sirius just pulled a bored face and Remus muttered, "I take back the description refined."

Peter thought that the specs did add to James' handsomeness, though. They did make him look clever and distinguished. He resented and was attracted by his best friends' good looks in equal measure. He had fantasised about all three of them at different times, and even about all of them at once sometimes. They must never know. It wasn't that they despised homosexuals in general, indeed they often flirted with each other, but the idea that Peter might consider himself worthy of their sexual attentions would make them pity, feel superior to and be disgusted by him even more than they already did. Peter's mind wandered to the man in the dark corner, to being pressed down onto the sticky pub table by his large, grimy hands.

Before his imagination could remove the raincoat, though, Peter was brought back to reality by Remus saying, "One by one, we'll go to the loo. That way we can see who he watches."

"He might even follow someone in there," James said with faux excitement.

"My goodness, I fear for my honour," Sirius protested in a high voice with a flap of his hands.

"What honour's that?" Remus asked drily.

They all laughed again. Because to them everything was a joke.

*

They had just about lost interest in the game by the time it was Peter's turn. Their prey didn't seem to be taking any of the bait. Indeed, he had cast Tempus a few times as though he were expecting someone who was late, and he probably wasn't actually interested in the table full of schoolboys after all. Sirius had slunk across the room in a ridiculously sexy fashion but it had produced no reaction in the squat man with the dark eyes.

When Sirius had been gone a few minutes, James followed him, doing a parody of sultry for his friends' benefits. Fletcher had been fiddling about in a leather pouch and had failed to look up. When Sirius returned and received his report, he had nodded in a disappointed way at Peter and said, "Go on, then."

Peter didn't know how to effect a provocative walk, so he had just finished his drink, wiped his hand over his mouth and then felt self-conscious as he stood and crossed the room. He looked back once, but Remus and Sirius had their heads together and were once again interested only in each other. He was at the bottom of the stairs before he heard their suppressed gulping giggles of excitement.

The loos were at the top of the stairs, at the mouth of a long, dark corridor. Peter had never had the nerve to find out what there was further in. He doubted that the Witches' loo got much use; it wasn't that sort of pub. Just as he got to the door of the loo, James emerged from it. He grinned at Peter then looked at something behind him which made him raise his eyebrows and then wink. Peter looked round. Mundungus Fletcher was standing at the bottom of the stairs, fiddling with a loose banister as though he might be interested in removing and pocketing it. James patted Peter on the upper arm as he passed him to bound down the stairs like a gazelle. Well, like a deer really, of course.

Peter told himself not to be stupidly hopeful, even as the blood thundered around his body. His face would be blushing beneath his acne. He pushed forward and into the toilet.

There was no way that he was going to have enough self-control to piss, so Peter just turned on the taps and fiddled about with the soap in a parody of washing his hands. His mouth had completely dried up.

The pocked mirror in front of him showed him when Mundungus entered the room. Peter caught his reflected eye and then wished that he hadn't.

"Bunch of jokers, your friends," the man said in a deep voice with a London accent.

Peter just nodded.

"Don't take anything seriously." It wasn't a question, this stranger was actually telling Peter what his best friends were like. "Don't take you seriously enough."

Peter looked down into the soapy water. Why would anyone take him seriously?

He felt that the man's body had moved closer to his. He didn't look up or turn round, but he could feel his blood heating. His heart sped up as he anticipated touch. But it didn't come.

"I could get you something for that."

Peter did look up then and noticed the direction of the man's gaze. The ugly red scale of eczema crawled up the back of his hands and arms.

"That soap won't do it any good. Dries the skin. I know this person who makes lotions for St Mungo's. Not meant to be sold outside. You know, they have these daft regulations. Better than anything Poppy could give you. I've tried to sell her some but she won't deal with me. Stuck up bitch."

"How much?" Peter found himself asking, instead of defending the honour of the witch who'd done so much to help Remus.

"Tell you what I'll do, I'll send you a free sample. You see if it don't do the business. You like it, we'll work out terms."

Peter pictured all sorts of delicious sexual scenarios at once where his body was used in payment for the goods. That was very unlikely, though. "Thanks," he said.

"What name shall I put on the address, then?"

"Oh. Peter Pettigrew. Gryffindor."

Mundungus stuck out his hand. "Mundungus Fletcher. Pleased to meet you Peter."

Peter didn't like to say that he already knew the man's name. He was glad that he did, though, because it meant that he didn't react with rude giggles or anything like that. Instead, he busied himself with drying his hands on his trousers before shaking back. Mundungus' grip was strong but brief.

"Anything else I can help you with, you just get in touch." Mundungus handed Peter a small card. "Not them rowdy mates of yours, though. I don't fancy doing any favours for them." With that he walked into a cubicle and Peter heard the lock slide shut.

He cast a drying charm on his hands and trousers, cursing himself for his ability to forget that he was full wizard now and he could do things like that instead of using his clothes.

He returned to the table to a chorus of catcalls and whistles.

"Take a seat, Peter, my love. If you can still sit down!" James jeered.

The others laughed.

"So what happened with old short-dark-and-ugly, then?" Sirius asked.

"Don't be stupid," Peter muttered, sitting down.

"You took your time up there. Did he give you a good seeing-to?" Sirius leaned in with a leer.

"Just wanted to sell me something." Peter took a drink and tried to think of a change of subject. "Gave me his card. For if we want to buy things."

Remus held out his hand, but Peter pretended he hadn't seen that. He pulled the card from his pocket and held it up for them, but he had no intention of letting go of it.

*

The eczema lotion arrived the next morning. For a free sample it was a big pot. Peter wondered whether Mundungus actually had fancied him a little. It was more likely to be a sales tactic, though. The stuff worked well, countering the itch immediately, and melting away the rash within hours. That night, he applied it to his whole body in a locked shower cubicle. That involved touching himself, massaging and caressing himself, and as he did so, he thought about Mundungus Fletcher.

By morning his skin was clear and comfortable. He used it every night and the pot lasted for weeks. Peter wondered whether Fletcher had anything for acne, or for puppy fat, even. None of his friends remarked on the lack of eczema.

He was always the fourth to find out about prank plans. That meant that he was ahead of most of the school, of course, which was something. This one involved invisible stink bombs with a delayed detonation and they were going to use them in the Slytherin dungeons, of course. Sirius came to Peter with a list of ingredients.

"These ones are actually, technically, illegal," he said. "We could use something else but these will be harder to trace back to us. And we might as well make use of your underworld contact." He winked. There was still some sexual implication in that wink, but only a joking one. "So, if you give me his card--"

"I'll Owl him," Peter said quickly. He wasn't about to let anyone minimise his role here. "Give me the list." He firmly took the parchment from Sirius' fingers.

Sirius looked doubtful. "Destroy that afterwards," he said. "If someone finds that on you we'll all be in shit."

"Thanks for your faith in me," Peter muttered.

*

The alleyway where Mundungus had instructed Peter to meet him was dark and worrying. Peter had never been to this part of Hogsmeade before. He'd snuck out through the tunnel which came out in Honeydukes. It was the first time that he'd done that on his own. A rat was a useful animal to be sometimes. Peter's heart had sped to deafen him with a mixture of terror and anticipation as he'd scampered along the icy night time streets. Nobody noticed him, though. They would have made a fuss about a stag.

He had transformed back before getting to the rendez-vous, then found that he had got there first and stood shivering from fright and cold for several minutes before remembering about Warming Charms. Even after he'd cast one, he'd had to clench his teeth together to stop them from chattering.

Mundungus appeared silently from the shadows, broader and swarthier than Peter remembered him. He pulled a fist-sized bundle from his sleeve.

"I shrunk them," he said in his deep, uncultured voice.

It sent a shudder through Peter. Peter felt a bit stupid for having carried the bag of gold at its normal size. Nevertheless, he handed it over. Their hands didn't touch during the exchange which was disappointing.

"How's the eczema?" Mundungus asked.

"Brilliant. I mean, it isn't. Not there."

"You want some more lotion for it?"

"I was gonna ask. Yeah. How much?" Peter felt around in the pocket where he'd brought his own coins.

Mundungus stared at him with an unreadable expression for long enough for Peter to feel uncomfortable.

"You've done me a good turn here," he said eventually. "Made me a nice sale. We could call it commission." He pulled a couple of miniaturised pots from a pouch on his belt, then dropped one back in. "Won't see you again until you need the next one, will I?"

"If you want," Peter found himself saying. "Why would you want to see me, though?"

This time Mundungus made sure they touched as he handed over the potion. He took Peter's hand in his and closed the little pot into his palm.

"You're a nice boy," Mundungus growled low. "Quiet, respectful. And good-looking, too."

Peter pulled his hand back then. "Don't take the piss."

"I'm not. Believe me. Why would I joke about a thing like that?" Mundungus gave Peter a steady look, but one which he couldn't read properly in the dark. "Those cocky mates of yours got you thinking you're not good enough, have they? They think they're it, don't they? You don't wanna take so much notice of them, Peter Pettigrew."

Peter rubbed at the hand he'd pulled back, wishing he could get it back into Mundungus' grip without that being odd.

"I'd better let you get back to your warm bed," Mundungus said.

Peter swallowed, and looked down at the cobbles. He didn't want to be alone again and he tried to choose the words which would make the man stay. By the time he looked up again, though, Mundungus' squat form was at the other end of the alleyway.

"'Evening, Rubeus!" he called out, louder than was necessary, when he reached the end.

Peter heard the gamekeeper slurring out a reply. Grateful for the warning, he stuffed his shrunken acquisitions into his pockets, before taking on his rat form to scuttle back to the school.

*

Mundungus Fletcher invaded and occupied his thoughts. The lotion pots continued to arrive, always just after his finger had begun to scrape the glass of the last. He inquired about the prices of acne cures, and was sent a powder to be added to his washing water, wrapped tight in a sheet of parchment on which large, plain, printed letters advised, "Don't take no notice of them mates of yours with their clear complexions. You look fine as you are." The powder worked, though. Peter couldn't help wondering what sort of a debt he was accruing, but the thought excited him more than it frightened him. He told the other Marauders none of this; it was the first of the secrets which he kept from them.

It was not until the Easter holidays that Peter had the nerve to make the suggestion that he might meet up with Mundungus in person again. Sirius had managed to misplace a piece of his heritage – a ring which he had taken with him when he had left home – and he was terrified that it might end up back with his family. If it did then they would be able to trace him with it. He begged Peter for Fletcher's address in the hopes that the "wretched little man" as he called him, might have contacts who would be able to retrieve the ring first.

Peter shook his head. "He won't give you anything," he said. "Leave it to me, I'll ask him for a favour."

"How much do you reckon that favour will cost? James' parents have said they'll--"

"Don't worry about that."

"That sort of man is going to want to be paid for any trouble he takes. And I need to give him enough incentive to stop him from selling the ring, or sneaking off to my folks with it."

"I'll just ask him. It'll be fine."

Sirius raised an eyebrow then. "What exactly did happen in that pub loo?" he asked in a suggestive way. "Something you can blackmail him about?"

"Don't be stupid!" Peter snapped back, aware that he was blushing and hating that. "You prick!" He was pretty sure that Mundungus wasn't going to charge him, but now he couldn't let Sirius know that. Anyway, he finally thought, he could do with a bit of Potter gold himself. How come it was only ever Sirius they bent over backwards to help out? "I didn't mean he wasn't going to charge me, you sheep-fucker. I just meant I don't know how much until he tells me, do I?"

"Well look," Sirius said, ignoring the insults and reaching into a deep pocket to pull out a heavy-looking purse, "Don't turn up empty-handed. I need to get to him first. Not that that sort has any kind of loyalty, not even the type one pays for. Give him this lot and tell him there's more where that came from."

Peter's robes didn't include a purse pocket; he had never expected to have enough money to need one. Instead, he used what Mundungus had taught him. Ostentatiously, he performed a shrinking spell and earned a grudging, "Wish I'd thought of that," from Sirius.

Peter headed straight for the Owl office, telling Sirius that he couldn't come in with him. Sirius was as surprised at being ordered around as Peter was that he complied. Inside, Peter chewed his quill for several minutes, trying to think of subtle, secretive phrases and clever innuendoes. In the end he wrote: I need would like to talk to you about something secret if that's ok. Please. Were can should I meet you. From Peter P. It wasn't exactly poetry and it was probably full of spelling mistakes, but he could hardly ask Remus to check it for him like he did with his school scrolls, so it was the best he could do. Mundungus didn't look like a bloke who sat about the place reading poems to himself anyway.

Then Peter took the Potters' Galleons off to Madame Malkin's to get himself something attractive to wear for the meeting.

*

Peter was expecting a lock-up off Knockturn or something like that, but instead he was sent the co-ordinates of a croft in Inverness-shire. It was stuck in a dark cleft between three mountains. He stood on the gravelled front path for a few minutes to get his bearings and settle his stomach. He didn't get the chance to knock on the front door, because it opened when he had his back to it and that deep voice said, "I don't like being overlooked. Neighbours can get interested in things, so I prefer not to have any."

That voice made warmth rush Peter's body. He took a couple of deep, slow breaths of sharp air before turning round. He hoped that the deep colour which had suddenly sprung to his cheeks would be put down to the cold.

"Good idea," he squeaked.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Mundungus said with a twisted half-smile. He swept his arm back to indicate that Peter should enter, then clapped him on the back with it when he did. The man's touch made Peter tingle all over.

"I like the city. Don't get me wrong. This place is just better for business. And everywhere's near when you can Apparate, aint it?"

Peter grinned and nodded, completely bereft of any intelligent reply.

"Cup of tea?"

"Thanks," Peter managed.

There were worn, high-backed armchairs on either side of the fireplace, with a delicate table between them. A silver tea-set was on the table, a plate piled with chocolate biscuits, and two matching china mugs. It looked strangely womanly and domestic.

Mundungus coughed awkwardly. "Thought I might as well make an effort."

For me? Peter thought. There wasn't anyone else around.

"Sit down, then," Mundungus said gruffly.

Peter eyed the two chairs, choosing one suddenly felt agonisingly difficult. He headed towards the nearest and looked back at his host for confirmation. Mundungus' face relaxed into a grin.

"Tell me about this secret then," Mundungus said, as he sat down and started pouring out the tea. "Help yourself to biscuits. You've come to the right man, nobody knows how to keep a secret as well as old Mundungus does."

"You're not old." Peter nibbled the chocolate at the edge of a digestive to stop himself from saying anything even more embarrassing.

"Figure of speech, aint it? Older than you, though. S'pose you're just a kid, really. I don't always think of you like that, though." Mundungus frowned into the fire. "I know it's spring, but I don't get much sun in here," he said suddenly. Then he looked at Peter as though he expected an answer.

Peter shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and nodded.

"Your skin's looking good," Mundungus observed with a soft smile. He gazed at Peter's face. "It's good skin. Soft. I like that. I thought it looked good anyway, but you wanted that zit powder. Looks like it worked."

Peter nodded again. He reached for another biscuit.

"You gonna tell me your secret?"

Peter felt himself blushing again, before he remembered that it was actually only Sirius' secret which Mundungus needed to be told. He swallowed a mouthful of tea and then told Mundungus about the ring.

Mundungus nodded slowly. Then he stood up and left the room. Peter heard his feet on the bare wooden boards of the next room. He was tempted by the biscuits, but held himself back, not knowing what the other man was doing, nor what would come next.

"This it?" Mundungus held out his open hand as he came back into the room. A circle of tarnished silver lay on his palm.

As he picked it up, Peter felt the sparks of Dark magic in his fingertips. He wasn't usually sensitive to that kind of thing, so it must have been strong. There was a triangle of black stone embedded in it, and on that was carved the motto, Toujours Pur. Peter identified the artefact with an "Uh huh." He couldn't think why Sirius would have wanted to take such a thing with him when he had left home.

"So your friend is one of the Blacks, then?" Mundungus asked. "No wonder he's such a cocky little shit," he muttered. "No offence."

Peter realised that he should have been offended by hearing his friend insulted like that. "None taken," he found himself replying.

"The tall one with the long hair?"

Peter nodded.

"Makes sense." Mundungus sighed. "Well, there's his ring then."

"How did you get it?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies."

"Do you want something for it?" Peter wrapped it up in his hankie and pushed it into his jacket pocket so that he wouldn't feel those prickles of Darkness anymore.

Mundungus looked down and muttered, "Just want you to be happy." He sat abruptly and hid his face behind his mug as he took a deep slurp of tea. "Not worth anything anyway. You can't shift cursed shit like that."

"Right. Thanks."

"Alright." Mundungus put his mug on the table and looked at his fingers. "That it then?"

Peter felt disappointed. "S'pose," he squeaked. He wished his voice would stop doing that.

"You can stay for a bit if you want." Mundungus still didn't look at Peter.

"Nowhere else to be."

"Alright, then."

"Alright."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a couple of minutes. Peter chewed at his lip and looked into the flames. He could have taken another biscuit. That would have given him something to do. Only, his stomach was a bit queasy now and his hands were shaking.

"You follow the Quidditch?" Mundungus asked eventually.

Peter shrugged. "Yeah." That should have been a nice, safe topic, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

Evidently, nor could Mundungus. They looked at each other.

"Look, why me?" Peter eventually blurted out. He hadn't meant to ask but the silence was painful.

"Why you?"

"Why are you so nice to me? Giving me stuff, inviting me here, I mean."

"I don't want anything from you!" Mundungus said quickly.

Peter's face must have betrayed his disappointment because Mundungus followed up with, "Not nothing you don't want to give me, I mean." His sallow skin got a little bit pink around the cheekbones. "I mean your company and that." He busied himself with finishing of his tea and then, avoiding Peter's eye, he announced. "Just like you, that's all. No harm in that is there?"

"Never said there was."

"Don't suppose you did."

"Look, I, um..." Peter's throat clogged up with something and he coughed it out of the way. "Think you're alright."

Mundungus' dark eyes locked with his own then and he asked, "Why'd you think that, then?"

"Why wouldn't I? You've been nice to me."

"That it?"

"No. Don't know," Peter added hastily, uncomfortable with the idea of explaining the rest of his feelings for Mundungus. "I'm not queer," he said too loud and too fast.

"Right then." Mundungus looked down at his own feet. He shuffled them slightly against the edge of the rug. "Right then," he repeated before standing up abruptly and muttering to Peter to stay where he was. He stomped off into the next room again.

On a whim, Peter followed him, hoping that room was the bedroom and that maybe they could stop making a mess of talking like this and maybe get down to doing something. He wasn't sure what. The pornographic images of his fantasies felt wrong now and he couldn't pinpoint what that left him with.

There was no bed in the room. All four of its whitewashed walls were lined with wooden cabinets full of drawers of different sizes, with symbols scratched onto them. On top of some of the lower cabinets were baskets and trunks. In the centre of the room stood Mundungus, looking vaguely off into a corner and rubbing at his face.

"Told you to stay there," he muttered at the sound of Peter's footsteps. He didn't sound cross though; he didn't look at Peter. "Trying to work out what sort of present you might like."

"You've given me enough presents."

Dust and silence swirled in the room for a minute.

"Look, when I said I wasn't queer, I only meant as a general rule. I was only going to say that it's different with you. Somehow." Peter tensed and waited, ready to flee if that had been the wrong thing to say, if Mundungus was straight and disgusted and about to turn on him, if Peter had read everything wrong as he usually did and if he'd let his fantasy life blind him to reality.

"There's nothing much to me," Mundungus protested, looking at Peter at last. "Don't know why I'd be the one you'd want to feel like that about." Then a shy little smile twitched at his mouth. "I would like it, though, if you did."

"Would you?" Peter exhaled. "Why?"

"Well, I dare say I might have taken a bit of a shine to you, too, lad." Mundungus frowned and looked away again. "If that's alright by you."

"Yes." It was a tiny whisper. Peter had no idea why he couldn't manage any more than that nor why his eyeballs were feeling all hot and prickly.

Mundungus turned his whole body to face Peter, then, and he took a step towards him. He shrugged. "I had been thinking. But only if it suits you son. But I had been thinking that your mouth looked very soft, like your skin, and that it might be kind of nice to, you know... If you wanted to." He shrugged again.

"Kiss me?"

Mundungus nodded.

"Kiss me." Peter nodded.

It felt like it took an age for Mundungus to cross the room to him, but Peter's legs were paralysed and he couldn't help to close the distance. Mundungus looked up and licked his lips.

"Well then," he said.

Peter felt his head drifting downwards and in the end it was him who kissed Mundungus. He was terrified that Mundungus would be able to tell that he didn't really know what he was doing. The warmth of the other man's lips on his sent a jolt of lust through him. He wondered whether he should ask for permission to touch, but then found that he had done it anyway and his hands were gripping broad shoulders encased in old tweed. Mundungus angled his head, Peter closed his eyes, he felt a hand in his hair and then he felt the tentative probe of a tongue against his closed lips. He opened his mouth and let Mundungus in.

They stood like that, the only movement at their mouths, for a few minutes. Then Peter felt Mundungus pull back, so he withdrew, too. He let go of Mundungus' shoulders and waited to see what would happen next.

Mundungus gazed at him with awe. "Well, I wasn't expecting that." He swallowed. "Thought it was going to be nice enough just having you here. Never thought I'd get to kiss you."

After more silence, Peter asked, "So, what do you want to do now?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"I'd like to do that again. Maybe we could be sitting down next time, though, because it--" he realised how corny it was going to sound just before he said it. He took a deep breath and said it anyway. "It made my knees go weak."

Mundungus chuckled. "Well, fancy that," he said. "Weak at the knees, eh?" He nodded. "For old Mundungus."

"You're not old."

"Too old for you, son. A schoolboy. Don't know what's wrong with me."

Peter had no idea how old Mundungus actually was; it wasn't the sort of thing he was good at guessing. "I'm of age. I leave school this summer. Doesn't matter anyway."

Mundungus grinned. "Don't matter to us and that's what counts."

Peter nodded. In his dramatic wank fantasies in the shower, Mundungus had overpowered him and pinned him down, he'd been forceful and imposed sexual pleasure on Peter's pliant body. That clearly wasn't going to happen. Mundungus wasn't really like that at all. Peter was glad of it. They seemed to be as shy as each other. It was just as well because actually having a penis forced upon him would have been quite scary. He took hold of Mundungus' fingertips and backed slowly out of the room.

"You got a sofa or a couch or something?"

"I can Transfigure one out of one them chairs."

"Yeah. That'd be good. Then we can kiss some more."

"Yeah. I liked that. Kissing. It's good." Mungundus pulled one of the chairs back then pointed his wand at it. "Did you like that kissing, too?"

"A lot. Come on, get that chair Transfigured and we can do some more."