Title: Advantage, in Auburn or Blonde
Author: purplefluffycat
Characters: *deep breath* Albus/Rufus, Horace/Gilderoy, Rufus/Percy. Mentions of Albus/Arthur, Albus/Percy and Gilderoy/Draco
Rating NC-17
Warnings: Chan (but all characters depicted are over 16), somewhat non-linear...
Themes/kinks chosen: Catamite (also contains masturbation and voyeurism)
Word Count: About 3750
Summary: A fine Professorial tradition, traced over several decades.

Author's notes: This is my first fic for daily_deviant; I hope it pleases!
This started out merely as something suitably naughty, but I was pleased when it seemed to develop a story of sorts. Please don't let the rare-pairs put you off! ;-)




"When was your first, Albus?"

"Oh, I don't know... about ten years after I started teaching, I suppose."

"Mmmm, fair enough. But which was the first you really remember?"


*****

He liked red-heads the best. Nothing could beat a crackling blaze in the grate and the heat of a young man in his bed. No; Albus held that there could never be too much fire in any one room. Besides which - he could never look at another blonde as long as he were to live, and black-haired boys were always trouble.

Red-heads, however, were passionate, lippy and worth every inch of the fight - a prickly dance that Albus relished as each new crop grew ripe for the picking; just old enough to be curious and blood running hot with feelings that had no outlet. - No outlet, that is, until their dashing House Master were to suggest tea and a chat and balm to those troublesome urges.

He knew that it was wrong, of course. Or, at least, he knew that he was supposed to find it wrong. But with all the evil and corruption in the world, Albus could never bring himself to condemn the loving of boys. Indeed, as his russet beard grew longer and the days of his own foolish youth began to fade, Albus rather fancied himself as the elder party in those pederastic relationships of yore - enjoyed by wizards and Muggles alike before the world schismed and so many fruitful pleasures were cast into the shade.

This latest love he considered quite a treasure. Rufus was scraggy but strong, his long back splashed with freckles and narrow hips curving into taut buttocks that parted automatically now, at Albus' touch. Gone was the petulance born of his pureblood upbringing, that jut of the jaw that said Scrimgeours yielded to no-one. As now, yield he did, head bowed and back arched as Albus slid home, clutching the young man's tight balls and applying his teeth to the ludicrously smooth skin at the nape of his neck.

Oh yes, this one had definitely been worth the fight.

The boy hadn't been easy to win, but Albus preferred it that way. Prickly with his teachers even though he had been named Head Boy, Rufus was difficult to engage in conversation, difficult to ask of his opinions and difficult to offer a drink.

Luckily, he was very easy to kiss...

After a month of so of unsuccessful courtship, Albus invited his favourite Gryffindor to his rooms:

"What do you want, sir?" The plucky lad wasted no time in asking.

Insouciance - that was what was needed. Albus shrugged gracefully. "Oh, just to pass the time, dear boy." He had stood deliberately away from Rufus, leaving the youth close to his open office door, unpressured. "You just slip away whenever you want to, no questions asked."

Rufus shot him a defiant look. Ah yes, that was a good start.

"You asked what I want," Albus continued, unperturbed, "Well, dear boy - I want you."

Still nothing - except perhaps a widening of the eyes. Albus smiled to himself, and inched closer, as approaching a wild animal and attempting not to startle.

Still closer, still no retreat. Slowly, meticulously, he reached out to part Rufus' outer robes, strong hands caressing lean sides. A gasp from the boy, then Albus captured those tempting lips in his own as they parted in surprise.

A few seconds later, a stroppy young tongue met his own. He was home.

That was quite a few months ago, and things had definitely blossomed since. Now Rufus came to him almost every night and they played and laughed and dined and talked together as well as rutting until they saw stars. How wonderful if was when a young lover became also a friend.

Sadly, however, as the buds broke and spring wore on into summer, Albus knew that their time was coming to an end.

"Will you have another boy, when I'm gone?" Rufus asked, draped only in a linen sheet and a flaming halo of dishevelled hair.

Albus shifted. "Come, my friend. Would you believe me if I were to say, 'no'?" He spread his hands wide in appeasement.

An unsteady pause and a set of the jaw. "No, I wouldn't."

"Then how can I possibly answer you?" Albus captured Rufus' pouting lips in his own and began to coax him for the third time that evening, the boy's moans purring in his mouth. There was never a finer way to change the subject.


*****

"And who was next?"

"Oh, a Weasley, I think. Soft around the middle; quite delicious. Dreadfully staid at first, too, and then all of a sudden - bam! Like a beast unleashed."

"Sounds like terribly hard work, to me."

"Delightful. A certain piquancy, but I relish that."

"I know you do! But I prefer mine as sweet as caramel..."

*****

He liked blondes the best. Silvery, sandy or golden, all were smooth and smiling and looked so beautiful against his dark green bedclothes. Pert, pretty and yielding was Horace's preference - he never had understood why Albus liked them to fight a little, first.

And what an absolute treat was this latest boy! Gilderoy Lockhart - cherubic curls, gorgeous when tousled, tight little muscles knotting across his stomach and spectacularly endowed even though he as still only sixteen. Certainly the best Horace had acquired for years.

What's more, the lad was so willing and eager to please! It was almost as if he would do anything for good favour and the appropriate introductions - and that suited Horace to a 't' as he thrust upward into Gilderoy's hot young mouth, giant belly quivering with every stroke and chubby fingers catching in the curls that rested so sinfully between his legs. When he came, he came hard, and the boy swallowed every drop. Definitely fifty points to Slytherin for that.

The world swum back into view, and Horace lolled, bone-deep in satisfaction yet still greedy for more. He absent-mindedly picked up some sweets from the bedside table and began to graze. "Stand by the mirror, m'boy. That's it. And stretch. Oh yes, very nice! Now, stroke yourself."

Gilderoy did as he was told, and with gusto. Ringlets fell softly about his ears and the pale afternoon light infused his skin with an almost luminescent glow, accentuating the shape of each limb and curve. His splendid cock stood proudly upwards and he attended to it with expertise, smiling indulgently at his reflection and every so often catching his Professor's eye in the mirror as he pleasured himself. Horace was giddy at the sight, feeling himself harden again as he licked the sticky remains of candied fruit from his fingers and propped himself up on a pile of silken cushions.

"Now come here, lad." Gilderoy sashayed back to the bed and hopped aboard, kneeling up and presenting his cock to Horace as if it were a gift. Greedily, Horace took the boy in hand, relishing his quiet hiss at being held - the hormones in those youths were truly fantastic! He relished the smooth, unblemished skin, running his other hand across sculpted hips and a tight young stomach before settling into the serious business of bequeathing orgasms. Horace was yet to meet anyone he reckoned as skilled as himself in such regard; he considered the pleasuring of his boys a matter of pride.

Gilderoy's eyes fluttered shut and he purred unabashedly, flush and moisture gathering as he strained forward, bucking his hips in frustration as Horace's leisurely pace. Smirking to himself, Horace encouraged Gilderoy to part his legs as he shifted... just enough to slip his other hand between those splendid thighs and coax a slippery digit home as he continued to stroke.

The boy was so gloriously tight and hot - and so game! He moaned needily and pushed down further, automatically rocking into Horace's touch and seeking a deeper connection - which was happily provided by a second fat finger.

"Yes, Professor... love me, Professor," Gilderoy murmured as he thrust to and fro, and Horace thought that he might do just that. There was not an introduction he would not make, nor a path to fame he would leave unsigned for this particular golden Ganymede.


*****

"Saucy stuff, my friend!"

"Well, yes, I like to think so. But I daresay he was a natural."

"Not such a natural when it came to the other side of proceedings, though! It's rather good when they keep up the tradition-"

"-I'll say!"

"-but some such colleagues don't quite know what they're doing these days."

*****

There were a number of things that enthused Gilderoy to take the position at Hogwarts, but knowing exactly how much candy there was to choose from, was one of the most compelling. - And he should know exactly what a teacher could get up to, shouldn't he? Dear old Professor Slughorn; so kind and generous. He still counted himself lucky to have received such special attention in his rise to fame. But now he was older, and the wand was in the other hand, so to speak. Gilderoy intended to waste no time bringing a boy to nestle between his sheets of lilac satin; someone sweet and pretty to mirror his own good looks - and naturally, from his own house.

It was unfortunate, then, that those fair of face are not always fair of temper.

Hands were pushed away rashly, the glass of violet liqueur spilled across the tabletop and the bed still depressingly in full array. "I'll tell my father about you, you pervert! And he'll tell the Headmaster in no time! You just wait!"

"Draco, stop! I didn't mean... that is, I did, but..."

The boy spat on the floor and stalked toward the door. Gilderoy fumbled for his wand, forming the spell just in time.

"Obliviate!"

A bright flash subsumed the room, then Master Malfoy continued calmly into the corridor, blinking and with a ponderous crease set across his brow. Gilderoy breathed a sigh of relief, and reflexively went to the mirror to adjust his hair. All, thankfully, was safe. - Or at least, so he thought.

Unfortunately, the boy's threats of informing the Headmaster seemed to have rung true in an very short space of time, for who should enter the room just then, but Professor Dumbledore.

"Ah, Gilderoy," he said, mild and beaming, "Fair choice, but - tush, tush - you must be more careful!"

"Headmaster, I..." Eyes downcast, fingers fiddling with an embroidered hem.

Albus continued blithely. "Oh yes, you were Horace's, weren't you? He never did get over the texture of your hair on his inner thigh. And apparently, your torso was to die for." A roving gaze crossed his form. "I daresay it still is."

Gilderoy was gobsmacked. "So you're not..."

"Cross? About to show you the door? No such thing, dear boy. There have to be some perks of the job, after all. Just please try to be discreet in future; make sure they're willing before you try anything. I suggest nothing younger than a fifth-year, to be honest."

Gilderoy nodded mutely.

"I know! If fair-haired boys are your thing as well, why don't you try the elder Cuthbert-Tomkins. He was headed to Eton, after all - he's probably pre-trained."

With a cheery wink Albus left Gilderoy's chamber, stunned silence and not a little anticipation in his wake.

Following that dicey incident, Gilderoy had indeed been more careful in his approaches; he was learning that the process took some time to complete properly. Luckily however, someone as beautiful as himself would never have to go without in the stakes of sexual satisfaction. He was older now, but by his own estimation even more lovely. Strong planes of pectoral muscles and rounded biceps had replaced youth's sparse athleticism, but he sported the same flat stomach and an endowment that, if anything, had blossomed as the years went by.

Stripping carefully so as not to damage his robes, Gilderoy strode to his enchanted mirror, the reflection blowing kisses and striking provocative poses before he had even begun. From there it was blissfully familiar; the lavender-scented oil, the rush of blood and anticipation, the heat coiling in his loins until he strained upward into his own hand, desperate to reach that shining edge... and then the tightening; the spilling; the glory. Gilderoy collapsed onto the bed, awash with sensation and happily deaf to the world.

Indeed, if a pair of twinkling blue eyes had spied within that chamber via an enchanted portrait, Gilderoy would never have known.


*****

"But it can hurt, can't it, Albus? When things go wrong."

"By gods, yes."

"So many of my Slytherins have not turned into the men I wanted them to be. All too sad when they just drift away."

"Yes, it is. But even worse when things come to blows. I just wish I could know how he felt; whether he really cared..."


*****

Rufus returned to the office frustrated and angry. The wind and rain that had sliced through his robes had not improved his mood, but worse than anything else, he felt dismissed.

His judgement was sound, he was sure. One simply did not become Minister of Magic, otherwise. And surely, should there not have been a sense of trust, a sense of loyalty? - At which point in the last five decades, exactly, had he ceased being favourite?

It was a different office these days, but Albus' decor had changed remarkably little. Rufus remembered the wall hangings; the scarred old table where they had shared breakfast. He tried not to flush under Albus' penetrating gaze - he was supposed to be there for business.

Albus listened to his requests, but then furrowed his brow, sadly. "I'm sorry, Rufus, but it simply isn't appropriate for me to offer you Mr. Potter's endorsement at this time."

Cutting disappointment. But Professor, don't you remember, I was so enthusiastic...

He cleared his throat and tried to gather his wits. "It is essential for National Security that you agree."

"I'm afraid I must beg to differ." Albus spoke very calmly, but within those soft tones was a resolve of steel.

But you shagged me so brilliantly, Professor. Your auburn beard scratching my back as you thrust and came...

He'd have to try another tack. “The Ministry must appear to be allied with all factions that are regarded... popular. The people's morale needs to be kept high, and-”

“-Potter is not your key to doing so.”

But you let me stay with you afterwards, Professor. Sometimes I was still beneath your eiderdown as sunlight filtered through the leaded-lights...

It was all too much. Every anxious feeling that had been simmering bubbled to the surface and Rufus threw his papers across the Headmaster's desk. "You must listen to reason!"

As ever, Albus remained unruffled at his outburst. "The answer's 'no,' Rufus. Unmovably 'no'."

Rufus tore himself away from his thoughts with a scowl as his secretary noisily shuffled papers. He regarded the young man for a moment, then reached a decision. "Weasley?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Put simply, I require sexual gratification. You would serve the purpose adequately, if you were to agree to such duties?"

The boy swallowed hard and then nodded vigorously. "Errr... I mean... yes. Yes, sir. Certainly, sir!"

"Good. Then lock the door, remove your trousers and bend over this desk."

Percy did exactly as he was told, wearing nothing save a perfectly-pressed pinstripe under-robe and the air of one who had just been granted a promotion. As Rufus eyed his inferior, he couldn't deny it - the Weasley boy was good. Indeed – as he spread his legs to an ideal angle and tipped his rear upwards for Rufus' convenience - almost suspiciously so...

Grabbing slender hips, Rufus muttered a spell then pushed inside, giving the boy minimal time to adjust before establishing a punishing rhythm that spoke volumes of his frustrations. It proved to be reasonable therapy for his afflictions, and he soon found himself breathless and holding on to the boy's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. Percy obligingly bore backwards, tightening just so around the head of his cock at the optimum point of each thrust. As receptacles go, thought Rufus, this one was exemplary.

His breathing was ragged with exertion, but he managed to voice the question that was nagging at his mind. "Have you... have you done this before, Weasley?"

"Yes, sir!" Percy replied proudly, over one shoulder. "Professor Dumbledore prefers his Head Boys to possess certain talents."

Well, that was it. The mere mention of Albus caused dual spikes of rage and lust to shoot through every nerve that he possessed. Blast the man! thought Rufus as he came, hard, into Percy's obligingly tight young arse.


*****

"Tough stuff, you know, Albus, old thing."

"Indeed it is."

"Luckily however, there are always others."

"So there are! There are even a couple I have my eye on right this moment..."

"Luckily enough, I daresay I shan't want to fight you for them. What's that saying? 'Gentlemen prefer blondes.'"

"That may be so, Horace. But I've never claimed to be a gentleman."

"Ha! There we have it, then. And so, a solemn oath, my friend: Never to give up. To the death?"

"Mmm! - To the death!"


*****

It didn't become a Chief Auror to cry.

Rufus hotly reminded himself of that fact as he watched the giant bring forth a fragile bundle and place it upon the white stone, impaling overly-long fingernails into his own palms as distraction. His throat was dry; his heart was beating somewhere else.

It seemed a ridiculous notion, but Albus was supposed to have been immortal. One's mentors didn't simply die; one's lovers didn't just... cease to exist. Foolishly, Rufus had never contemplated such a world, and then he castigated himself more than ever for so great a failing. Furthermore, he lamented all of those lost years; years when another - wholly undeserving - youth must have been warming those ruby sheets. He could have gone back; he should have claimed his rightful place.

The young boy within him had been jealous; still was jealous. No-one, not even the famous Boy Who Lived should be granted Albus' favour in preference to him, that small voice said. The ghosts of loving scratches and salacious kisses tingled on his skin and he wondered who would be remembered in the will, sickening green while still willing himself to be sensible.

Unfortunately, 'sensible' had never been one of Rufus' stronger suits. It was not a sensible man who thrilled from the chase of enemies, who went back even when he was half-crippled and sometimes shook so badly he couldn't hold a pen. It was not a sensible man who would hotly guard an affection from decades before, then exert his influence over some recent, lesser love - partly because it was for The Cause, but mainly because it appeased his sour old heart to know he could.

Rufus spied Potter across the crowd and decided to make his approach.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he breathed, "but I love you still."


*****

They said he had a visitor, which was exciting, because that hadn't happened for a very long time. At least, not since the war had been over, whatever that meant.

They said he might be able to remember who the man was because he had known him years ago, and sometimes those memories come back first. He was starting to remember some things, after all, like his favourite colours, and that song his mother used to sing...

When the man arrived, Gilderoy wasn't sure who he was, but he was old and fat and friendly, and also seemed quite sad. They talked for a little while, about the weather and the fact that it was nearly summer and about the drawings that Gilderoy had made that afternoon. The man said that they were good drawings, and that made Gilderoy happy.

After a while, the man smiled and said, "Gilderoy? Gilderoy, my boy. Come home with me." He held out a large hand.

"It's all arranged, dear," the nurse said, "Professor Slughorn's going to look after you now. That will be far nicer than being stuck here, won't it, now?"

Gilderoy nodded. Maybe it would be nicer. He got dressed into his going-outside clothes, and very soon they were on their way, through a chimney-breast and out again, the other side.

When they arrived wherever it was they were going, they seemed to be in some sort of castle. It was large and solid and welcoming, just like the old man. The rooms had lots of snuggly cushions and were warm and smelt like sweets. Gilderoy thought that he'd like it there. He even had his own room, which was very nice indeed.

They had something good to eat, and soon it was bedtime. Gilderoy changed into his pyjamas, just like the kind nurses had taught him to, and got into bed. Then the old man came in wearing his dressing gown – maybe to tell him a bedtime story.

- And he did, sort of. He talked about something that had happened once-upon-a-time, to someone that Gilderoy thought sounded a bit like himself, but he couldn't quite remember. Whoever it was about, they sounded really fun, and very pretty. Gilderoy found himself wishing he could meet the nice boy in the story with the blonde hair.

When he had finished telling the tale, the old man looked down at his hands and sighed, "I hope I didn't do anything wrong by you, m'boy." He rubbed his eyes a bit, as if they were leaking. Then he looked up, and whispered, "Come back to me, Gilderoy. From a whole lifetime, you were by far the best."

And then, before he left, the man did a funny thing. He kissed the top of Gilderoy's head and whispered words that sounded like, "Goodnight, my Ganymede."

With that, Gilderoy gasped as a memory - bright, clear and breathtaking - shot through his mind. "Goodnight... Professor!"