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yule_balls_mod (yule_balls_mod) wrote in hp_yule_balls, @ 2008-12-27 12:07:00

Fic: Almost Crimes, 1/3 (Charlie/Draco, NC-17) for the community
Author: magnus_leo
Recipient: The Community
Title: Almost Crimes
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Charlie/Draco, Charlie/OMC, Charlie/Fleur
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Summary: The war is over and Charlie is left languishing in Romania. Like every good veteran he's haunted by the things he's left behind, the people whose shapes are filled with the ruddy flesh of escapism. Just as the spiral reaches its end, Charlie stumbles on a half-familiar face from home. A story with too much vodka.
Warnings: mild D/s, spanking, rimming, orgasm denial, power play, racial slurs, lots of swearing, heavy alcohol use, dark themes, the palest whiff of incest, self-pity.
Word Count: 28,035
Author's Notes: I really hope you like this fic. I was really walking on thin ice with this one. For reference's sake, major inspiration came from Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union and Sondheim's Company. A million and a half thanks to T for guiding me through this one when I thought it would eat me whole. You are a very good muse, it must be said.




Charlie woke with a start, with a familiar name on his lips and that half-panic of the sudden unknown, to burst gasping from his lake of sleep naked and cold and hungover in some shit bedroom by the Black Sea.

The morning light was impartial and grey behind thin curtains, pooling unevenly through this foreign bedroom, mullioned by thick black clouds churning like a sickness over the rusty harbour, raw with the rush of sharp December air and the cloying perfume of diesel and the sea.

Wincing awake, Charlie slowly realised his body as a catalogue of pain: the hard springs rough in his ribs, irritating the bruises that marked his body like a blue-and-purple constellation. His calves overdrawn and sore with exertion. His head ached like the collapsed suspension of a car, spraying sparks as it dragged broken along the tarmac.

Charlie leaned up to his elbows, drew his naked chest from the uncomfortable bed with a few heavy breaths and rolled to his back. He couldn't remember this room, or how he got here. A small space, covered in books, spines with names in gold like Gogol and Baudelaire and Rimbaud, serious medical textbooks all in strict Romanian; a chair piled with clothes, bras and knickers; a near-empty bottle of vodka cold and digging into his hip like a gunslinger's six-shooter; an unfamiliar dark-haired woman asleep on her stomach beside him, her face turned away and breathing softly. She was described in the rounded curves of her figure, obviously Romanian, and the mole on her inner thigh, (and the sudden wet of her tongue on the cleft of Charlie's arse, the taste of her cunt,) and the vodka, her tempered beauty in sharp contrast to the angular mistakes of Charlie's nudity, made all of slender muscle, tattoos, freckles, bones, and burns.

The taste of sick was strong in Charlie's mouth. He unscrewed the top of the vodka and sucked down the last inch and a half, the gasoline-stink of it raw in his mouth. He drank it with the wretched daily duty of cod liver oil, a necessary medicine taken liberally in the morning.

Charlie couldn't find his shirt, but pulled on his boxers and jeans, got up and stood for a moment by the window, peeling-paint frame propped open with a hardback copy of Ulysses. Charlie's body radiated with goosepimples, from shadowed hips to tight nipples, flesh paling under the dark pepper of freckles and drawn taut in the white winter wind. He was by the sea, down near the Medieval district of old Constanţa, on the top floor of a low-rent apartment building with a high-rent view. From here, he could see the familiar minaret of the Great Mahmudiye Mosque, could see the froth of waves as they crashed against the tall stormbreakers by the rough-rock beach. Gulls, taxis, trams. Slouch-shouldered teenagers, boys with long hair and baggy jeans and rip-off designer t-shirts, walking the streets to school and putting Charlie quietly to mind of the off-hand rebellion of his youngest brother.

The nameless girl's phone was off the hook. Charlie replaced it on the cradle.

Shrugging away from the bedroom, Charlie pulled on his ragged black parka, plastic fabric clinging to his damp skin like polyester seaweed. He tucked his bare feet into his worn jackboots and worried the cold metal of his keys in one hand, with the other scratching quickly the top knot of his spine. He glanced back to the Romanian woman – still sleeping, thank Christ – and then closed the door behind him.

It wasn't the airy rush of alcohol, or the lofty hangover that made Charlie stumble, but rather a kind of terrified realisation: another escape from another room, another cold morning hungover at work. Another reason not to move, another vodka stinger. He glanced back down the sterile white cavern of fluorescent light. Just another one of those girls that he scattered through his life like disposable cameras, another vivid and guilty picture for the vodka-addled picturebook that chronicled his time behind the rusty Iron Curtain.

He staggered to the lift, jabbing the button with his forefinger, leaning heavily against the metal doorframe to wait for a machine that wouldn't come. He took the stairs instead, half-stumbling and shivering down eight floors, bare-chested underneath his parka and slick with a cold, drunk sweat. The lobby gave way and Charlie was outside, thrust into the busy Thursday morning traffic of Romania's busiest harbour, into the trembling rush of steel-grey clouds and honking horns that composed the symphony of paralytic Constanţa.

Another wave of nausea rushed past Charlie, like an errant train, like a swarm of hard-winged birds buffeting his naked body, making his transparent-pale chest swell with sudden, choked breath, the distant pulsing of his heart almost visible through paper-thin skin, a ragged red pulse that throbbed in the notches of his ribs. And then he puked in a garbage can.

It was an unseasonably cold December, well below freezing. Romanians and tourists alike were dressed in Arctic gear, inflated with overstuffed parkas and dense fur collars, knee-high boots and knit hats. Breath steamed in clouds of diesel exhaust, cigarette smoke. The puckered zip of Charlie's parka was broken, and so he shoved his hands in the shallow pockets and walked with his head bowed to the chill wind blowing off the Black Sea. His lungs reacted poorly to the cold, and his bare chest grew tight with winter, flesh taut over lean muscle and raw pink burns, the sprayed ink of freckles in sharp contrast to the fish-belly white of his body, his temperature falling by degrees.

Charlie lit a cigarette, a flattened fag from his back pocket: sucked once, and flicked it away as a taxi swung into view, a beat up old Merc that might once have been white. He fell in the car heavily, exhausted against the worn leather and said: "Klausenberg."

"Klausenberg?"

Charlie mumbled in the affirmative, closed his eyes to sleep against the cool glass of the passenger window, sagging deeply into the leather seat. The taxi driver spoke in a rapid Romanian that went easily ignored, something about the weather, and Charlie replied in half-hearted English.

"Român?" the taxi driver asked.

"Britanic," Charlie replied.

"Ah, ah, yes," the taxi driver attempted, "I very much in love your musics, yes?"

Charlie squinted at him.

The taxi driver gave a wide, yellow-toothed grin. "The Beatles. Cannot buy my love."

"Yeah," Charlie replied wearily. "Sure."

"I would like your hand," the driver continued.

"Yeah," Charlie added. "Brilliant."

"Help."

"Help," Charlie agreed.

They rushed on in silence, nudging through the wedge of impossible traffic as the grey and gold landscape of the town ran by in a hesitant blur. Inevitably, the sky opened up and rain pelted the car, melted the thin layer of snow and rendered the whole of the city slick, black, and bleak.

"Klausenberg," the driver finally declared, and Charlie opened his eyes. He paid with a handful of coins and staggered out of the cab; the driver waved cheerfully before merging back into the stream of traffic to disappear into the billowing curtains of rain.

The Klausenberg was a run-down kind of bar, something out of an East German rip-off Chandler novel, where the people were silent and the slivovitz was homemade and strong. Charlie suspected it of being some kind of front – for the mafia, or the Jewish bankers, or the Black Hand – the bar being such an impossibly small room set like a jewel into an immense brick and steel complex. To Charlie, every closed iron door promised a honeycomb of locked rooms and hideaways and kilos of cocaine, an arsenal of black market Kalashnikovs and M-16s bristling with that gunpowder smell of revolution. True or not, it leant itself to the atmosphere of wanton romanticism, that bleak and sinister kind of beauty the Balkan nations were known for. Only here could a vampire rise in the hierarchy of National Heroes.

It was the kind of dive that was busy at eight in the morning, mostly down-on-their-luck Romanians in makeshift winter clothes, toes sticking out of leather sandals with the slick black of bin liners worn like a headscarf. A boy with white-gold hair sat in a dark corner wrapped in black linen; a grey-haired woman rocked gently in her chair; a tall, thin man like a Bohemian rock star was pissing or puking in a corner – everyone was somehow both familiar and foreign, as a lonely tourist mistakes strangers for the smiling faces of friends and family. Much as he could help it, every red head was a Weasley searching him out, every blonde woman Fleur's haughty twin.

"Drink?" the bartender asked in Romanian, a thick, dirty man covered in matted black hair, his eyes peeking out from beneath bushy eyebrows and over a thick Jewish beard.

"Slivovitz," Charlie mumbled, holding up two fingers. "And a coffee."

The bartender uncorked an unlabelled bottle of Romanian water, poured two shots full and slid them over to Charlie. This was followed by a small, dense cup of coffee, slick layer of oil coating the surface like a gasoline rainbow.

Charlie swallowed one of the shots, knocked it back without a thought, without a grimace as the plum brandy seared his throat and settled burning in his stomach, a sick replacement for food. The coffee was rancid, but with enough cream and sugar he drank it, easing slowly the rough churn of his belly. Halfway through the cup of black, Charlie finished his breakfast with another shot of Romanian water and overturned it quietly on the bar. He left a bill on the counter, stuffed his hands again in the mouldy pockets of his jacket and left for home without a word.

As he crossed the busy roads, Charlie licked his thumb and counted his bills, the last of the Romanian lei tucked neatly into his wallet. It numbered no more than fifteen quid's worth. He swore in Romanian, and once in English for good luck.

The apartment was a flop, a real fleabag, just three small dark Soviet rooms joined by narrow arches carved through the drywall with all the skill and talent of an axe murderer. Charlie wandered from one extreme to the other: a kitchen-living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and shower; all of it a chaos of dirty dishes, torn clothes, ancient magazines, broken furniture, and outdated electronics. Dirty, stained carpet covered every room, even the bathroom, an awful orange colour left over from the sixties and a nest of mould and stink. True to form, the walls were covered in fake wood panelling, chipped in places by Charlie's drunken fingers and boredom, or else completely ripped off, huge chunks revealing stained drywall beneath. It was the anachronistic decor of an old Russian pornography, a tacky impression of idealized American suburbia, pastel-coloured furniture supporting the unwilling fruits of underage Russian labour.

Charlie stripped off his parka, tossed it onto the couch. His jackboots landed in a leather heap by the broken vent, and he wriggled out of his dirty jeans, peeling them off and dumping them on the kitchen table. Tugging a torn black jumper from one of the hangers he pulled it on, rolled up the ribbed sleeves and snapped off a couple of the loose strings at the cuff. Charlie stumbled to find a new pair of trousers, fingering the mess of dirty clothes to uncover ugly acid-washed jeans, ripped at the knees and the thigh. He put them on, jumping from one foot to the other and buckling it low around his waist.

Already late for work, Charlie made a cup of coffee. His cupboards revealed a clean mug and a half-empty bottle of vodka. He tipped a measure of spirit into his coffee, drank another half-inch and filled it again. He drained the cup and yawned, running his hands over his stomach up to pinch, bored, at his soft nipples. He scratched his rough stubble with dirty nails and flattened down his hair, a dark-red mop, an ear-length ginger mess that he brushed irritably from his face. The daze, the fluff of Russian water collecting like cotton in his mind grew warm and full.

It was only then he noticed the envelope on the carpet by the door, dirty with the tread of his boot. Charlie picked it up, scanned the return address. He tore it open.

Charlie,

This is beginning to feel like a monologue. Please, send a letter.

Fleur's pregnant.

So you were right. And now you're the first one to know. I'm telling mum and dad tonight, but I needed to tell you first. She's only a couple months along, but she's got a bit of a tummy. It's mad, I wish you were here. Everyone's going to go mental. Fleur invited her parents over for the next few months, to help out around the house. Things are getting back to normal.

I know you hate writing, so why not come back for a visit? You can stay here again. I've got contacts in the ministry (i.e. dad) who can get you a portkey for cheap.

I've told my owl to stay there until she gets a reply. But I need her back soon, so hurry the fuck up.

Fleur says hi,
Don't drink the water,
Love you,
Bill

Charlie read it twice, ripped it into quarters and tossed it into the bin. The room was empty of owls, and the windows closed. Charlie sat and poured himself another coffee and drank it slowly, flexing his hands as they tingled with renewed pins and needles. Did the air seem thin, or was that the blood vessels dilating, the vodka thrumming chemically through his body? He tipped the last half-inch of burning wine into the empty coffee cup and finished it hastily.

The phone rang. Charlie dug it out from under a pile of clothes and take-out rubbish, cradling the receiver between his shoulder and ear.

"Yeah?"

"Shar-lee?" A delicate French accent, slightly hesitant but mostly kind, and even in a Department of International Magical Co-Operation full of Frogs it was unmistakably Théo. "You are very late."

"I know," Charlie said. "I'm on my way."

"You will be in trouble again. You will call in sick, maybe?"

"I'm not sick. I'm coming," Charlie said, screwing the cap back on the vodka bottle and pushing the tea cup into the sink. "I'll be at the office soon. Does anyone know I'm late?"

"Non." A pause. "But I cannot wait much longer without Delacroix – um – expecting my suspicion."

"I appreciate it," Charlie said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'll meet you in fifteen."

"Fifteen. I am counting. One."

"Okay, okay."

"Two."

"That wasn't a minute, Théo."

"Three," Théo continued.

"I'm hanging up." And Charlie hung up.

He rummaged through the dirty laundry until he found his abandoned wand, tucked the magic splinter into the waist of his jeans and stumbled over his laundry and into the bathroom. His hair was a mess, short and dense and now stuck-up at odd angles from sleep and grease, but already late he just pushed it back, false wind-blown sailor. His eyes were painted in their usual sleep-bruised purple, the whites shocked with blood. A two day's growth of coppery beard dusted his jaw and upper lip, and he scratched at it absently.

Charlie brushed his teeth and washed his face with freezing water, cupping his hands to take two mouthfuls. He took off his shirt. New, raw bruises blossomed along his ribs, back down to the soft curve at the top of his arse. He winced with that kind of pleasurable-pain as he prodded the blue mark with a calloused finger, roughly examined the broken blood pooling under his skin. He pulled his jumper back on.

Stepping back into his boots and dressing again in his broken parka, Charlie took a hesitant step forward, hips twisting as he absently fingered his wand – with a crack, he Disapparated violently, choking a gasp as the magic squeezed his bruised chest, reappearing suddenly in the car park of his Departmental office, teetering on the extreme border of the building's magical boundary, somewhere now just outside the rusty sprawl of dirty Bucharest.

Charlie wandered through his empty Department, the fluorescent hallways lifeless, a building-block level of unused cubicles and closed offices. The Dragon Tamers, that misnomer of a profession, were known for their isolation, dotting the Carpathian, the Pindus, the Rhodope Mountains like signal box operators on an invisible Alpine route, their connect-the-dots outposts stretching from the Ukraine to Turkey. Apart from the small knot of middle-management who manned the Department like fat Colonels in Napoleon's Army, the Dragon Tamers lived a life of perpetual duty, mountain-faring sailors all, flitting restlessly between the booze and whores of Romanian city-centres and the isolated fantasy of Dragons, that world of mountain peaks and hollow caverns, deep magic and ancient hoards. There was no patience for profit margins or blackboard presentations or standards of health and safety, there was only that unfathomable lust, that near-zoophilic attraction to the Great Lizards, a Draconic siren song that obsessed overeager young men and sent them crashing to their deaths.

The door to Charlie's office, shared with Théo, was ajar. A broken pocket-watch on a table, and a note from Théo marking the time of departure. Charlie wheeled one of the office chairs over and sat watching the portkey, fiddling with the frayed hem of his jumper in his boredom. At ten to nine, the watch glowed a deep, insistent blue; Charlie held it in his palm, and somewhere near his navel an invisible fishhook cut painlessly into his belly and tugged him out of the office –

– and into the arms of a blizzard.

"FUCK –" Charlie gave a strangled gasp, curling instinctively in shock, immediately dropped the watch and span wildly like a red-headed Catherine wheel, his broken parka ripped open by a razor wind, his eyes stinging with sudden ice and fear. He bumped straight into Théo, a fur-clad man like some Siberian inmate: Russian fur hat with flaps tucked down over his ears, long black wool jacket, knee-high dragon-hide boots, scarf wrapped tight over his mouth.

Théo dutifully dragged Charlie into the waiting cabin, a specially-constructed mountain retreat decorated with taxidermy and a bulletin board of Ministry notices, a rough-hewn table and a half-empty pot of coffee steaming impatiently. A large fire murmured in one corner, every so often sparking suddenly green out of Ministerial duty as employees rushed through in a flash of colour and ash.

Théo pulled off his fur hat, tugged down his heavy scarf. He was a beautiful man – boy, really, only nineteen – Algerian-French, with full, dark lips and the bone structure of some Arabian prince or gypsy child. Cheekbones as sharp as paring knives; dark, almost pupilless eyes liquid with warmth. "Coffee," he said, motioning to a chair. He had shoulder-length black hair that he pushed behind large ears, serving only to accentuate his youth. His normally smooth, tan cheeks were pricked with a pink flush of cold as he huffed with hot breath into his head. He undid his mittens and drew Charlie into a hug, kissing him traditionally on each cheek.

"You smell of vodka," Théo said matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his jacket. "Sit, drink."

Charlie sat, poured himself a steaming mug-full of liquid tar. It was much better than the coffee at the Klausenberg, or even his own, and Charlie drank it quickly, pouring himself another mug. "Cheers."

"You have come dressed for summer, yes?" Théo said, shedding his overcoat and sitting across from Charlie. Under the winter-wear, Théo was dressed, as usual, as a business dandy: black pinstripe waistcoat over white Oxford cotton shirt, square of purple kerchief peeking out of one pocket, black slacks tucked under the Russian military-standard knee-high boots. As Dragon Tamers went, he was unusual: clean, friendly, not a criminal. "You will freeze, it is certain."

"I didn't know it'd be so bloody cold," Charlie said, cradling the cup of coffee in both hands, hunched over the towers of steam.

"We are in the Carpathians in winter, my friend, of course we will be so bloody cold," Théo said, repeating with the English curse with a certain note of mockery. "But I have brought another coat, as I thought you might not be truly prepared."

"You're gorgeous, Théo," Charlie said, giving him a wan smile. Pulling off his torn parka and draping it over the back of his chair, Charlie scratched his hips, fidgeting the thin line of red hair that coiled from his navel to locked belt.

"It is nothing," Théo waved off, smiling, his winter flush swelling. "Now, you know of why we are here?"

Charlie coughed hesitantly into his fist. "Uh."

"How silly of me. Of course you do not," Théo murmured. "We are finding eggs again. Two eggs, this time, I am told."

Charlie, already pale, lost his colour, and his voice was drained to a mirthless monotone. "From here? From a mother?"

Théo pursed his lips slightly. "I am wondering why I am writing these reports. The mother was – how is it, poached. The dragon's skin."

"No way the eggs are alive, then," Charlie said quietly. "It's too cold."

Théo offered a short shrug, lacing his fingers over the table. "We are told they are alive. We must retrieve."

"It's a goose chase," Charlie said, closing his eyes tightly. "It's just busy work. Again." He drained his coffee. "They're neutering me, you know."

"They are not," Théo said smoothly, flattening his hands on the table top.

"What else is it?" Charlie's voice had no colour, no texture, like a bad actor in the fifteenth season of the same show, well-rehearsed lines forced through the lips of an unwilling thespian. "What is it, other than cutting my bollocks off?"

Théo shrugged. "It is merely something to do for us. Now that your Dark Lord is dead, there is not much for any of us to do, you know."

"Exactly. It's pointless. We should be with dragons."

"That – is a possibility," Théo said stiffly, observing Charlie with a kind of hesitation, a trainer watching his lion pace the cage. "But it is our job to do what they ask."

"I used to fly our dragons," Charlie said, all pale and wounded. "Before my – I mean, when's the last time you touched a lizard? When's the last time we did something – anything, with a dragon?" Charlie shrugged, not quite trusting himself with anything else. He stood up, stepped aimlessly towards the fire. "I really hate this."

"I know," Théo said softly. "But I do it with you, hm? We shall do it quickly."

Charlie deflated. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's cause of me. I don't want you to be stuck with –"

"There is no stuck," Théo said, waving him off quickly. Deftly, Théo caught Charlie's cheek in his hand, cupped it softly. "We work together." They were close enough that Charlie could smell the cool breath mint melting on Théo's tongue. Charlie blinked once, twice, looked away. Théo observed him critically, as a jeweller might examine fool's gold, or an ignorant stone of cubic zirconium. "You are looking sick."

Charlie gave the hint of a wince. "Cold."

Théo's voice dropped suddenly. "You are behaving oddly. This is not my Charlie. You come back from the war very different."

"You worry too much." Charlie tried to shrug away but Théo caught his wrist, kept him close.

"I know it, you are being very stupid." Théo's expression – so delicate, so familiar – made Charlie's stomach lurch. "Why is this?"

"You're being overdramatic," Charlie murmured.

Théo watched him for a moment, blinking occasionally his long eyelashes, cow-eyed beauty of Grecian myth. "Yes, of course." He turned to the floor. "I am being a dramatist." He looked up to consider Charlie again. "Molière, perhaps?"

They held the moment for a long, quiet pause. And then Charlie pulled away. "Where's that jacket?"

Théo seemed startled, like from a dream, shaken from his afterglow. "It is here." He moved to the fire, picked a black overcoat from a peg near the hearth. "It is with a heating charm," Théo explained. "We will be warm."

"You care too much, mate," Charlie said briskly, pulling on the warm, overly warm coat, buttoning it to his throat and shoving his hands in the deep pockets. "You shouldn't care."

"I think, one of us has to," Théo replied, extinguishing the fire.

*

Charlie sat waiting in his empty office, waiting with a cold cup of coffee, running his hands nervously through his dirty hair, glancing obliquely once or twice to catch the slender glimpse of Théo through rippled glass of the office door, an obscured figure with hands on hips, a mumble of fast French. The room was warm, and Charlie's too-large jumper was stretched over one bare shoulder, skin ripple-red with old burns and cuts that he scratched with absent anxiety.

Théo opened the door and closed it softly behind him. His head was bowed, dark hair a mourner's veil before his face, fast hands unbuttoning his waistcoat. "He would like to see you."

"What?"

"Our boss," Théo said tightly, shrugging the waistcoat from his shoulders and to the ground. "Delacroix. He would like to see you." He caught Charlie's glance, his eyes strained and wet. "Please, Charlie. Do not be a rebel." His lip twitched. "I think this is important."

Charlie stood up, swaggered on the spot. Théo was pale, very pale, and he tugged the overdrawn collar of Charlie's jumper to cover the round muscle of his shoulder, brushing invisible lint from the haggard shirt. He left a short kiss in the air near Charlie's cheek and turned quickly away, falling into his office chair and turning to an unopened stack of letters to steady his trembling hands.

Delacroix was a balding French middle-management type, arrogant with no reason, reigning over the Department as a man who had not had an honest fuck for fifteen years. He wore deep purple robes and Italian leather boots, busied his hands constantly with a nervous tick, smoothing down his moustache obsessively and curling the tips with tobacco stained fingers. He was fat, smelled of condensed milk, and was single-handedly blocking the hallway outside Charlie's shared office, smoking a thin cigarette with little pleasure.

"Charlie." Pronounced not with the effeminate delicacy of Théo, but rather a German guttural "ch," as if clearing his throat of something unpleasant. "If you please."

In the main office, Delacroix explained what Charlie already knew. The eggs were dead. Cold for too long, without the volcanic heat of the mother's skin to keep them warm. The pictures Delacroix handed to Charlie showed dragon embryos locked in a frozen yolk, the shattered pottery-fragile shell in an ugly pile.

"This has been many months of missteps and mistakes, Charlie." Delacroix withdrew his wand from an interior pocket, flicked it at the door. It locked, and the blinds rattled closed. "At first, you disappear for six months telling only Théo –"

"Family leave," Charlie said darkly, biting the nail of his pinky finger. "I'm sure you must have heard about the Dark Lord. In the papers."

Delacroix narrowed his glance. "And then you return from this - this little English war, and you are making a mess of yourself. It is now our December and you have done nothing to help my Department, you have lost important, expensive eggs, and there is simply nothing you seem capable of –"

"It isn't my fault," Charlie said darkly. "I want a dragon again."

Delacroix puffed his chest like a startled pigeon, the whites of his pale eyes gleaning with building anger. "Maybe if you were not late for every shift, maybe if you would do any job with a miniscule ability. This is not easy Charlie, but you are no good. You are hopeless, I think. With the eggs, and with the dragons, with anything I give you, really." Delacroix shook his head, an action that seemed to shake from him the failure of these missions, the failure of Charlie Weasley. "You have no talent, and now – now you have no passion, it is simply intolerable."

An embarrassed flush rose with a fury to Charlie's face, his chest tightening with mingled horror and shame, the veil of his vacant stare breaking behind the trembling of his hands. "The years I've put in to this, years living in fucking, fucking Romania to work for your shite Department –"

Delacroix's face went steely, his lips closed tight, his eyes just a sliver of anger. "You are gone. C'est fini. That is that, Charlie, it cannot be done any longer." He shuffled absently through his papers, gathering them to tap resolutely on the desk. "Your father cannot force us to keep you now, not after this."

Charlie stared in a blind kind of disbelief, staring through Delacroix, seemingly to the mountains beyond, the countries, distant, to his father's office in London, gilt nameplate and hardwood desk."My dad – what?"

A slow, wolfish grin crept across Delacroix's face, a grin that saw great personal pleasure. "You do not know?" His smile faltered, covered then by a cold granite stare. "Your father is the only reason you have not been fired months ago. Your father has kept you employed, Charlie, for better or worse. Surely you do not think you have a talent, yes?" He paused, maybe relishing Charlie's pale shock. "But this – behaviour – is not allowable in the Ministry. It cannot be helped, I am afraid."

Charlie swallowed heavily, willing away the selfish tears that beaded unwanted at the corner of his eyes. "My – my dad was –" He paused, and the tension fell from him like an unbuttoned his shirt, his emotions suddenly firming, resolute. "Right."

"Charlie, Charlie. Surely this is no surprise. If it was not for Théo, there would be nothing done from you. I know it is not easy to know you have failed at your passion. But you are hopeless." Delacroix softened, just slightly, as he lit a new cigarette. "Go excuse yourself. I am sure your father can make a job for you in England."

Charlie stood up stiffly, fixing the wayward shoulder of his ragged jumper. The brutal magic of his wand seemed to call, asking to be used on this toad of a man, warming excitedly in its place tucked in the band of Charlie's jeans, and Charlie's hand flicked towards it like an old west gunslinger. "Of course."

"And get some help for yourself," Delacroix said sharply, turning his wheeled chair away from Charlie to stare out the immense plate glass window behind his desk, to the steel-grey skies full of cold rain, the jagged Bucharest skyline arranged like a row of bottles on a liquor store shelf. "Your final cheque will be in the post."

Hesitating for a moment, Charlie drew his wand from its snug holster. Maybe it was the old vodka slow-running through his veins turning the insistent fear into sudden freedom, or maybe just plain ol' hate, but Charlie was struck by a moment of madness. He imagined in a cinematic dream sequence: the window exploding with a deafening crack, disintegrating into a single gust of razor sharp powder exhaled into the winter air and into a curlicue of wind, sucking Delacroix into the void like the broken airlock from a sci-fi movie. He could do it. He could kill him. It would feel good. Very good.

The moment lingered; a hand on the door, a hand on his wand, the magic like an itch to release.

And he couldn't do it. All at once, the passion that enflamed his hatred gave way to the ache and shame of losing his Dragons, his Lizards, his cold-blooded horror-loves; a pain that emerged as cryptic shivers coursing from arse to neck, cripplingly cold and empty. That sudden freedom sublimated back into fear solid in his veins, all of it now begging for distance, for the familiar pins-and-needles supplication of vodka.

So Charlie closed the door and wandered down the halls, unwritten.

Théo was standing bare-chested in their office, lingering in changing his shirt. Charlie shrugged his way in, laughing once or twice the kind of twisted laugh that comes at the worst times, stifled behind a hand at a funeral.

"What happened?" Théo said, looking up, crossing his arms over his slender chest, the soft blisters of his nipples.

"Let's go," Charlie said suddenly. "Come on, I'm going now –"

"What did you do?" Théo asked, gathering waistcoat and shirt into his arms, pulling the overcoat over his warm, dark skin.

"Nothing," Charlie said, threading his arms through the torn parka, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Hurry up, let's go."

The sun was setting cold to the west as Charlie and Théo walked from the International Department of Magic Creatures, Charlie grinning with a kind of ridiculous humour, glancing over his shoulder once or twice, the howl of wind flattening his hair and forcing salty tears from his eyes. "I'm done," Charlie said, grabbing Théo's soft palm, lacing their hard-skinned fingers, "so let's go get something to drink."

Théo froze, his eyes widening with childlike awe. "You – Charlie, you cannot be –" he grew quickly mute, quickening his pace to match Charlie. "But did you act insolently?"

"Might have."

"You are not actually leaving, are you –"

"Might do."

Théo huffed to catch up with Charlie's jog, and the words emerged as if through a muffler. "So you are terminated?"

"Might be."

"Let us go," Théo said, nodding with a kind of defiance. He pulled out his wand as they crossed the magical barrier that surrounded the building, readying their Disapparition. "We will be drinking together tonight, I think."

Charlie gave a bark of a laugh, and took Théo's hand tight."If you want."

The Disapparition was quick, a short snap and the unpleasant squeeze, tumbling them out in a dark, rainy park across town from Charlie's apartment, but still close enough to the harbour to smell of fish guts and salt water.

"Where will we go?"

"The Klausenberg is near my place," Charlie said, shrugging on his parka as it slipped from his shoulders. "It's cheap."

Théo wrinkled his nose. "You will come with me."

The Hotel Zamenhof was nearby, down near the port in one the nouveau-riche neighbourhoods that lined the coast like a thick fur collar. The hotel-bar was renowned for its 50's Hollywood charm – or rather, its Romanian interpretation of 50's Hollywood charm, what with its waiters in band-leader livery and patrons in misplaced smoking jackets, its walls covered in the dotted lines of gold marquees, each surrounding a Marilyn Monroe or a Clark Gable, speakers piping out obnoxiously loud big band nonsense. The drinks were badly mixed and overly expensive, the tables polished to a copper glean and the seats in gaudy crushed red velvet. Of course, everyone loved it.

"It is fun," Théo said, touching Charlie's elbow slightly and guiding him through the blinding opulence of gold and pearl.

"It's ridiculous," Charlie said, sliding into the rounded booth seat, Théo slipping in next to him. "All I needed was vodka and a chair."

"If you are having a vice," Théo said, lighting two cigarettes from the glowing tip of his wand, "you must be doing it right."

"That's the way my brother used to light them," Charlie said, accepting the cigarette.

"What?" Théo asked, smiling and leaning in.

"My brother. Like Now, Voyager."

"Your brother? William?"

Charlie shook his head quickly. "Never mind."

"We will drink wine?" Théo asked, flipping open the drinks menu.

"Anything," Charlie said quickly. "Just get me drunk."

Théo, with a fist full of Romanian lei, ordered from their waiter and Charlie resigned himself to an evening of sticky, sweet vino. Maybe it was his being French, but Théo chose with a kind of preternatural precision, like a finely cooked ten-course meal, each wine building on the next, the flavours mingling like paints on a pallet; a simple white to whet the appetite, followed by a complex Bordeaux, joined later by glasses of darker, dense stuff, wines from remote cellars with layers of sediment coating the bottom, wines older than Charlie, older than his parents, older than his grandparents, ancient things that cluttered the mind with indulgent thoughts of chocolate and woodfire.

And the wine was a necessity. In a world of complicated heterosexuality and bleak futures, the hot pump of it through Charlie's veins was enough to transmute Théo's hand on the inside of his thigh into natural desire, the wine-sour pulse of Théo breath on Charlie's neck to simplicity, their shared warmth to comfortable replacement for the striking curves and rounded beauty of a woman.

"I guess it's inevitable," Charlie said, his head light with new wine and old vodka, his hands playing on the warm fabric by Théo's waist, fingers grasping the fabric flourish of boxer shorts that puffed above the lip of Théo's trousers, fingers teasing the soft catch of his button.

"What is?" Théo said, swilling the last drop of wine around his glass, leaning peaceably into Charlie's shoulder.

"Your sucking me off." Charlie suppressed a smile, pleased with the gerund.

Théo's gave a shy smile, forcing his eyes to the buffed tabletop, wriggling slightly under Charlie's strong hands. "You said – you said we were not."

Charlie frowned. That promise, almost two years old, felt so distant as to be insignificant. It was a promise from the first of many times he had rebuffed Théo, back when the lad was only seventeen and smitten with Charlie, this broad-shouldered ginger Lancelot astride a Welsh Green, a half-cocked St. George who touched ground only long enough for a blowjob and a beer. Charlie made all sorts of false claims: to his disinterest in men, to his fraternal love for Théo, to his reluctance to shit where he ate. It was clear that Théo was just another sibling to add to his growing collection, the Weasleys seemingly adopting every wayward youth to cross their path. And against all odds, the months passed and the promise held, and Charlie refused a cheap fuck, maybe the first time in his life.

But now. Now the wine and the hotel and the lost memories of dragons moved Charlie's calloused fingers to explore the soft skin and the brush of coarse hair that hid beneath the buckle of Théo's trousers, their virginal promise forgotten in that hot-bellied lust that grew within like a Californian wildfire. Or maybe it wasn't any of those symptoms – missing a brother, losing his job, falling to his knees and submitting to the world – that led Charlie to choose Théo's young, hard cock. Maybe there was no reason at all. It all gave too easily to a Freudian eye, amateur psychology picking apart the bruises of his life until his memories lay before him like a categorized autopsy of cause-and-effect, all of it ultimately meaningless, his motivations as superficial as the glean of sweat that licked Théo's smooth upper lip.

Maybe he had no reason at all. But probably not.

"We can come to my place," Théo said quickly, pouring the last of the bottle between their glasses, downing his own like a simple shot. "This is okay?"

Charlie blinked, and he felt the need, the familiar need to say no. This was the line he promised himself he would not cross, would not lead this boy along, would not betray whatever knot kept him tied to sweet Théo, his last anchor in a cold Balkan world stripped of dragons, money, and family. Fuck it.

"All right." His hand lingered over the bulge in Théo's trousers, nail striking dull against the metal button. "Where do you live?"

Incidentally, or maybe not, Théo lived in one of the permanent upper-floor apartments of the Zamenhof Hotel. It was a room no bigger than Charlie's, but the differences were significant; meticulously clean ,well-organised, painted in simple whites and reds. It smelled of carpet cleaner, satsuma, and that unplaceable smell of a boy. It spoke of simplicity, and a clean mind; couch, table, wireless, chair, fridge, cassette player. A kitchen. A bedroom. A floor.

The rest was a mechanical affair, a million things Charlie had done with a million other people. He thought maybe it would different this time, held by those warm hands of his transplanted-brother, but it was no more special for the lips wrapped around his cock.

Charlie pulled off his shirt and Théo bit Charlie's lips, crashing in to him with unusual force, clawing at Charlie's back to kiss him suddenly deeper. Théo fell quickly to his knees, dextrously unbuckling Charlie's jeans, unzipping the flies and easing out his swollen cock. He fell on it with the energy of youth, sucking and licking with fair skill and little patience.

Charlie dug his fingers into the soft hair, nudged Théo's head forward, enough that he could hear the boy's small gasps as he swallowed Charlie, wet by inches. Théo's hands grasped fitfully at Charlie's arse, squeezing and holding, gripping tight his jeans in an attempt to take it all at once.

A chemical reaction happened, deep in Charlie's gut. A process of sublimation as Théo shifted from false-sibling to lover, trust ignored for plying fingers and a slippery tongue around his cock. Charlie winced at the shear of teeth, and the sick twist of guilt in his stomach, ignored it all for the cottonball drunkenness in his head and that easy excuse of wine.

Charlie moaned, not from pleasure, and eased Théo to standing. "Take off your clothes," he said quickly.

Théo complied, pulling his button-up shirt over his head. Charlie fell back on the couch and hummed, disconnected, some tune from The Godfather as Théo undid his trousers and, with one tug, pulled off his boxer shorts, hooking fingers into the elastic of his socks and stripping them off too.

Charlie observed Théo with a medical interest: lean to the point of scrawniness, skin the colour of a crème caramel's baked crust, the small fluff of dark hair that pinioned the centre of his chest, the dark nest around his already-hard cock. His ribs were like the wooden shell of a canoe, each divot inviting the slide of a finger, a tongue, and his thighs were smooth and lighter to the inside, as if the painter had run out of varnish. Charlie guessed he was about seven inches long, and curved to the left. Théo stroked himself indolently, balancing naked on the arm of the couch.

Charlie stripped off his awful acid-washed jeans stepped away from them. Théo said something about how long, how much he wanted this, in English, in French, in layers of magic nonsense Charlie ignored as he removed his boxers, drew closer to Théo, indulging that desire to lace his fingers in the slats of his ribs. "Come on."

"You will fuck me, then?" Théo said quietly, stumbling to turn around in Charlie's grip, leaning slightly over the arm.

Charlie gave a noncommittal shrug.

"I love you."

Charlie gave the same toss of his shoulders. "Yeah?"

"I needed to say."

Charlie hesitated, touching the back of Théo's neck. "All right."

Théo dipped his head. "Okay," he murmured, and ghosted a smile. "Can we make it in my room?"

Charlie nodded.

Théo was pliant, falling on to his stomach and dragging Charlie on top of him. Like a push-up, Charlie hovered over Théo's back, relished the pressure as he pushed first gently, then forcefully against the boy.

The need for Théo was strange, the need to have him naked and wanton was so strong as to be dizzying. The need to fuck him, and the need to bend him, maybe distantly the need to hurt him. The shackles of this cloistered Romania were tied thick around Charlie's wrists, and Charlie had torn his skin to the bone struggling to pull them off. In a world of drunken symbolism, Théo was that domineering Romania, keeping Charlie bound against his will by duty and love in this ramshackle Soviet skeleton of a country. In pushing him down, in owning, in using Théo as a warm fuck to melt the December ice Charlie could almost believe that this was the key to his Balkan prison, a solution made of the angled bone and skin of Théo's French-Algerian body. If he possessed him now, some strange part of him would be free.

"It hurts," Théo said in a gasp.

"It should," Charlie said.

Charlie pushed; the constriction was like nothing else, a furious strain that strung his insides up like a drawn bow, every fibre seemingly taut like a the string of a violin, this communal vibration ringing through him as Théo bucked back against Charlie's cock. Charlie dug his hands into Théo's hips, his thumbs pressing tightly into the divots at his waist. Théo grunted his mixed pleasure, French curses rolling mellifluously off the tongue, each syllable half-swallowed with a needing moan. Charlie pulled Théo closer, deeper, until they were strained and flush together.

Charlie grew rougher, he leant his weight into Théo's back, his knees pressing deeply in the hollow of Théo's legs, one hand lazily gripping the soft sweep of the boy's hair. Théo groaned, little gasps of hitched breath as Charlie sought an ends, somehow, grinding against the boy, their sharp bones striking with sparking pain. Little whimpers became insistent moans, and Théo's hips, those rocking hips, forced a definite resolution.

That Godfather music theme continued in Charlie's head, building from the lilting oboe melody into the choral climax, that bit in the movie when Diane Keaton sees Al Pacino take the place as the new head of the family, the new Godfather, and all her fears made true.

And then Charlie came.

Charlie rolled from Théo, panting next to him in the twin-sized bed. Théo turned easily to curl in next to Charlie. His breath smelled of wine, and he smelled of sex. Their own sex, the guilty damp in the hollows of his neck, his armpits. "Please stay," Théo murmured.

"What?"

"You can stay here. I would like you to stay with me. As long as you would like. You live here."

Charlie felt that familiar billow of dread rise like vomit in his throat. "Théo."

"Yes?"

A pause. "Please, no."

Théo kissed Charlie's shoulder loosely, his breath and speech growing slower, cradled in sleep. "At least stay tonight. You promise?"

Charlie sighed, hot against Théo's face. "I promise."

"I love you very much, Charlie." There was no sign of bashfulness, only that terrible tone of sincerity.

Charlie shrugged. "Yeah."

Théo dozed like that, curled all against him with the innocence of the child he was. Charlie was still, silent until he could feel the dark wine of sleep fully overwhelm Théo, until his heavy breaths grew long and even. The situation was confusing, and desperate, but Charlie could only hear the theme from The Godfather. The muted trumpets over the title card. Violins plucking out a pizzicato fairytale, the accordion wheezing softly. Nino Rota's sinister lullaby to a classic movie. Bill sneaking him in to the theatre, only eleven and fresh with his first semester at Hogwarts.

The strains of Charlie's imaginary symphony died, so too did that initial rush of freedom found in Théo's easy pliancy. Romanian shackles locked tight around his wrists once more, clapped on the hands of a captured criminal found hiding in the wilds by the warden's snarling bloodhounds. He felt locked again, locked in Théo's slender arms, locked in this frozen country of distant dragons, his choices evaporating like so much sweat in summer.

Charlie unknotted gentle Théo, parting their tangled legs, slipping out of his grasp to roll softly off the creaking mattress.

Charlie dressed in the next room, pulling on his jeans and that ugly sweater. He paused by the door and considered his choices, his minimal choices. He fumbled in his pockets for a pen, for a note, for some kind of apology and came up empty.

So he left.

It was only half twelve, and the hotel was still in its jolly uproar. Charlie shrugged away the tackiness and sidled up to the bar, putting up two fingers and pointing at the Cyrillic-lettered bottle of vodka. They went down easily, and the next two. The realisation of what he had done lingered in the background, just a glimpse of the guilt without the punch, curtains easily drawn over that newly painted canvas. Charlie rubbed his hands over his face, filling his lungs with deep breaths of smoky air, that tightness in his chest never ceasing for a minute, a pain somewhere between heart attack and acid reflux.

Charlie's options fluttered and folded in front of him, rising like a house of cards to collapse under the smallest scrutiny. He had no real reason to stay in Romania, no real means, but going home was just as hopeless. Not with Bill and Fleur, with parents who love and disapprove, with brothers he gradually forgot over the years, faded redhead memories from cloying summers at the Burrow. What would they think of this broad, wasted Tamer who gave his life, health, wealth to the pursuit of fairytales and dragons? And even Théo, asleep and used in some bedroom upstairs, was just another collection of cinders from a beautifully burned bridge.

"Fuck, I can't ever get away."

Charlie turned. Narrowed his gaze slightly. Even in the fog of vodka and self-pity, the familiarity was overwhelming. "What?"

"I suppose you must be the one with dragons, then."

Charlie frowned. "What's your name?"

"Ah, and drunk, of course."

And then it all clicked, those puzzle pieces of ancient conversation and letters from home falling in to place. If Lucius Malfoy lost thirty years. "You're Draco Malfoy."

"Good guess."

"You look like your father," Charlie said with the easy cruelty of a Gryffindor. "He was ugly too."

Draco gave an untamed half-snarl, suppressing it quickly. "And you people seem to be spreading like vermin. Is there a Weasley in every port of the world?"

"Ron did mention you were a bit of a wanker," Charlie said. He paused for a moment, considering his empty shot glass. "Do I need to ask why you're here?"

"And why would I tell you."

Charlie shrugged. "Because I'm asking."

Draco considered him for a moment. "Family," he finally grunted.

"You're Romanian?"

"No."

The conversation ended like that. Draco stood up, and for the first time in his life Charlie saw the youngest Malfoy in full light. Draco was tall, and his clothes simple and well-fitting. A black shirt with rolled sleeves and tucked into pinstripe trousers, matte-black leather shoes with intricate stitching, expensive and plain. His face was gaunt, the cheekbones sharp enough to cast the ghost of a shadow. His hair was light, closer to white than gold, slicked neatly and parted along his hairline like a Jazz Age mobster. His eyes were an ugly, dull grey. White hands pulled on a long black wool overcoat, fastening the tortoise-shell buttons quickly. And despite all this, despite the double-breasted nature of his get-up, he looked young. Younger than his eighteen years, younger than the long-limbed adult he impersonated with his pinstripes and pearl cufflinks.

"Want a cigarette?" Charlie suddenly asked.

Draco narrowed those silver eyes. "Not with you."

The small heel on Draco's shoe gave each step a satisfying noise, bringing to mind those Schutzstaffel wardens from the concentration camps in war films. Charlie followed Draco at a distance, knocking two cigarettes out of his carton, pressing one between his lips and one behind his ear, weaving through the tables to keep an eye on Draco's back, Draco's sleek head ducking between groups of rowdy Europeans.

Charlie stumbled outside. Draco, sharply beautiful amongst the dark-haired Romanians and rain-slick parkas, was standing on the kerb of the Zamenhof Hotel, trying unsuccessfully to flag a taxi, his irritation visibly growing through the lines of his pale, pointed face. Charlie sat on a nearby stoop and watched Draco's personal theatre calmly, sucking down a fresh burn, smoke pouring from his nostrils in twin streams like a bull from the cartoons.

"Don't you have a wand?" Charlie asked quietly.

"Fuck off," Draco said. "And fuck you."

"Just trying to help," Charlie said.

"I don't need your fucking help."

Charlie shrugged.

A clot of Romanian men, burly guys like weightlifting Olympians and Mafia wreckers, were stationed nearby and privy to Draco's public school accent and bitter sneer, his broad-handed attempts to flag down unwilling taxi drivers. Their voices grew rowdy and rough; they turned to Draco – so unique, so Aryan to the dark-matted hair of Romania – and shouted obscenities, suddenly sparked into violence like mishandled nitroglycerin exploding unfairly in the hands of its inventor. Their Romanian was cluttered and rural, thick enough that Charlie could only pick out the curse words like a favourite candy. Fucker. Cocksucker. Dirty English bastard. The fluid poetry of swearing remained similar in every language.

"Futui Britanic," the largest said, shoving Draco by the shoulder.

"Fuck off, you fucking Hun," Draco said, shouldering through the men, his hand fumbling in his coat pocket for –

– the punch was raw and wild, half-slapping Draco across the face and scattering him to the floor, blood spurting from the new gash under his right eye. A kick followed, stiff toe in Draco's ribs, blood dribbling from Draco's mouth as he gasped with the pain of it. From vicar-like composure to writhing urchin, Draco's transformation was instant, another kick to the belly, the groin, and tears forced silent from the corners of Draco's eye. The senselessness of it was more shocking than the actual blows, the time between misspoken insult to blood-soaked whimper less than a minute, from king to martyr in a twitch of the lips.

Charlie took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette and exhaled sharply, breath coloured with blue smoke.

The kicks came quick and constant, and Draco's meticulous manner was unravelled easily: blood and spittle dribbling from his mouth, snot-nosed, and hair stained with his own gore, hands twitching for a missing wand, groaning with new-bruises and broken ribs.

Charlie watched quietly, sucking absently at his cigarette, huffing out thin clouds of smoke and watching Draco's beating with the indifference of cricket, traffic, a school lecture.

With a last and bitter kick, the men spat on Draco, their Romanian snarl something about tourists, foreigners, that indolent kind of racism propagated by historical centuries of ingrained Balkan subservience. At their feet, Draco was silent and unmoving, eyes seemingly closed to the brutality of his beatings, his coat opened from his body like a freshly flayed skin, his hair a slick mess, splayed on wet pavement like the crest of a ridiculous bird. The men spat again on his face and walked away, hands tucked in heavy jackets.

A few Romanians, cold and quiet individuals, watched Draco with great hesitation, uncertain and afraid. Their hands hovered by their sides, but they made no move, still shocked by the spark of sudden violence, that sick radiation that lingered over Draco's bloody body.

Charlie stood up, straightening his sweater over his shoulders. He dropped his cigarette on the ground, and crushed it under his heel.


Part Two