Happy Springsmut, venturous! Author:thehangedwoman Recipient:venturous Title: Welcome, Ghosts Rating: NC-17 Pairing(s): Harry/Charlie Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: Harry can't get rid of the ghosts of his past, so he runs away. Warnings: Slight self-harm, very mild masochism, hurt/comfort Word Count: 1,238 Author's Notes: Title taken from Explosions in the Sky. Many thanks to P. for betaing.
Fire was the only thing that chased the ghosts away. He heard them whenever he was alone, saw them whenever he closed his eyes - his parents, Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Hedwig, Moody, Remus, Fred; all of the people he loved who had died in the wars. Sometimes he even caught a glimpse of Snape's sneering face, or heard the sound of his drawl from the end of a long hallway.
Number twelve, Grimmauld Place was full of ghosts. He wasn't entirely sure how he found himself in Sirius's old bedchamber in front of a pile of pictures and notes and newspaper clippings – all the leavings of the ghosts. His parents waved at him from happier days long ago, Sirius glared at him from a mug shot, Dumbledore winked at him from a famous wizards card.
He lifted his wand and murmured the word – "Incendio." The papers and photos went up in flames, and he reveled in the heat. For a few moments, the ghosts left him and all he felt was fire. But the fire died, like so many things before, and Harry was left shivering in the dark. He lifted up his pack and walked out, knowing he would never return.
They followed him wherever he went. He had tea with Dumbledore in Prague, played chess with Cedric in Paris, toured the Vatican with Remus in Rome. A part of Harry didn't mind. So much of his life had been spent alone that the constant companionship was almost welcome. But another part of him knew that he was going mad. These weren't ordinary ghosts, they were his ghosts. No one else could see them or hear them.
His only weapon was fire, but fire was so difficult to control. He didn't want to be found by the living, and fire was a beacon. A conflagration of any kind was bound to draw crowds, and crowds would recognize the scarred boy. So, he kept to small fires. He took to carrying a lighter, so easy to click open to keep the ghosts at bay for a few precious hours. He would light pieces of paper, bits of hair, napkins, leaves – anything that would burn. His hands were covered in half-healed burns. They hurt, but they reminded him of the fire, so he kept them.
It was inevitable, really, that he would end up with the dragons. He spent a night with Sirius in the wizarding quarter of Deva, Romania, where he heard talk of dragons. They breathe fire, Sirius had whispered over the table. Harry left the next morning for a small town in the Carpathian Mountains.
He found the dragons easily enough, though a Muggle would have had trouble. Three of them were housed in a huge, fireproof enclosure. He watched them all day, conversing with his mother as he did. There was a Hungarian Horntail which looked suspiciously familiar. As the sun began to set, she breathed fire. He could feel the warmth through the walls, and it chased the ghosts away. He leaned into it, wishing he could burn.
He stayed that way for hours, plastered against the wall as all warmth seeped from it. The sun set and the moon rose. He heard footsteps, and turned to see which ghost would keep him company tonight. He saw the vague outline of a man with fiery red hair. Fred, he thought to himself. Fred could always make him laugh. As the man drew closer, however, he seemed far too large and muscular to be Fred. Charlie Weasley was coming to see him.
"Are you dead now, too?" Harry asked when Charlie reached him.
"No," Charlie answered, giving Harry a strange look. "Are you?"
"I don't know," was the only response Harry could think of.
"What happened to your hands?" the freckled man asked, reaching out to touch them. Harry pulled back from the touch. His ghosts never touched him. He hadn't been touched since he left a pile of ashes in London.
"I burnt them," he answered quietly, staring at his hands.
"I can heal them for you." Charlie slowly reached for his wand, looking at Harry the way he looked at skittish dragons.
"No," Harry said quietly. "I need to feel the fire." He wasn't sure if he said it aloud. He raised his eyes to Charlie's face, defiant. He would not let Charlie take this away from him.
"There are other ways to feel, Harry," Charlie said softly, cupping a hand over Harry's cheek. His cheek was wet, and he didn't know how that had happened. He was afraid, but Charlie was warm and his hair was fire.
"Show me." Quietly, he turned his face into the other man's hand. Charlie looked deep into his eyes, searching for something, which he must have found. Nodding, he brought his lips to Harry's.
Warmth flooded Harry's body. A new kind of fire pumped through all of his veins and he knew that if he opened his eyes he would see them glowing through his skin. He wrapped his arms around Charlie, deepening the kiss and pressing himself against the other man's warmth. Charlie moved his mouth to Harry's neck, kissing, licking, and biting. Harry groaned and in his mind it sounded like a dragon roaring. Charlie peeled their articles of clothing off one by one – robes, shirts, trousers, pants. The night was warm and Charlie was fire and Harry couldn't get enough.
Suddenly he was on the ground, and Charlie was on top of him, biting and licking his way down Harry's chest, stopping to thoroughly tease Harry's nipples as he slid a finger between his cheeks. Then the finger was inside of Harry and he cried out because that was the kind of fire that burnt. Charlie lifted his eyes to Harry's face, a question implicit there. Harry took a deep breath and nodded, and Charlie began to work his finger in and out until the pain stopped and was replaced by a curious sort of pleasure.
The first finger was followed by a second, and Harry adjusted more quickly this time, still reveling in the burning feeling that came at first. Charlie moved his fingers, stretching Harry and bumping against places that made him cry out in pleasure. He could feel his climax building and building when Charlie removed the fingers, making Harry whimper. But Charlie only smiled and positioned himself over Harry, his cock bumping against Harry's entrance. He waited until Harry murmured, "Please."
Then he pushed himself inside, and it hurt and it burned but it felt so good, and then the pain wore off and it felt good in an entirely different way. Charlie moved over him, pushing himself in and out, hitting that spot with each thrust. His breaths came quicker while Harry felt like he couldn't even breathe, and then Charlie's hand was on him, pulling and coaxing until Harry came.
He could feel it all pouring out of him then — all the pain, the regret, the words left unsaid and the words that shouldn't have been said — but most of all the ghosts. They left him in a rush, flowing away into the night, and Harry was on fire, but it didn't hurt. The sky lit up and he turned to see his dragon roar and spill out fire like he had spilled his ghosts.