Still, where did the lighter fluid come from? (emiime) wrote in percy_ficathon, @ 2008-06-25 10:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic, nc-17, percy/harry, slash |
A gift for analretentive!
Author: ???
Giftee: analretentive
Title: Courtship of the Blind
Pairing/Characters: Percy/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5200ish (5205, to be precise, Percy says)
Warnings: wanking, snogging, happily-ever-after-ing
Disclaimer: None of the characters, places, concepts, etc. belong to me – it's all the intellectual property of JKR, and I make no profit from playing with her characters.
Summary: "There are none so blind as those that will not see."
Notes: Thanks to N, A and R for the beta and hand-holding, to I for the idea that started it all, to analretentive for the lovely prompt, and to the mod for running such a lovely fest! <3
The Aurors had caught the Murderer of Manchester (just a Muggle, but he'd killed twenty people with his great-aunt Bertha's old wand, a revolver, and delusions of grandeur). It was Harry Potter's first big case – it made every headline, and rumours went around the Ministry like Fiendfyre when he brought in the suspect.
Percy had stayed late to finish drafting a memo for the Minister. He had just settled into the peace of the late-night Ministry, the quiet of the empty corridors and the routine of his work, when Harry stumbled out of the Floo, covered in soot and coughing. He whacked at his clothing, beating the soot out of his robes, and then he looked up, straight at Percy.
Harry's glasses were askew – just there, crooked on the bridge of his nose. Percy took a sharp breath.
Percy's hands were full of scrolls, and his feet were slow to move. He wanted to take a step forward and reach out to adjust Harry's glasses. He wanted to brush the soot from Harry's robes, smoothing out the wrinkles as he touched him.
He didn't move. Clearing his throat and clutching his scrolls, Percy said, "I think that you've Flooed to the wrong fireplace again, Mr. Potter. The Aurors are up on the fifth floor, in the round conference room."
"R-right," Harry said, scuffing his feet on the floor to shake off the ashes. His face was flushed from the fire, and the tips of his ears had turned pink. "I'm still pants at Flooing, I suppose … never been able to get the hang of it."
"I'm sure that you'll improve with practice," Percy said.
It was still there – the skew of Harry's glasses on his nose, and Percy's strange desire to straighten them. He itched to do it. Before he could take a step forward and come close to touching Harry, he took a step back.
He wouldn't do it. He couldn't.
Harry was still staring at him, still fidgeting with his clothing and sending tiny showers of soot to the floor, and Percy held his scrolls up like a shield. "I've got to get these filed for the Minister. He has a very busy day tomorrow," Percy said. "You'll be wanting to help the other Aurors question the Murderer, I presume? Fifth floor, round conference room."
"Right," Harry said again, shuffling his feet as he headed for the door. "Right, thanks."
He turned back to look at Percy, opened his mouth as if to say something – and then he closed his mouth, letting himself out of the office. The door closed behind him with a soft snick, and the scrolls in Percy's hands fell like jackstraws, scattering on the floor.
The room seemed cold, with the Floo closed and the fire dead. Percy flexed his fingers – they were numb, and he chafed them together to bring the feeling back into them before bending down to gather up his scrolls.
Harry shouldn't have been there. He should have been upstairs all along, questioning the Murderer. It was one of his own cases, after all – he'd been in charge of the investigation, he'd been the one to solve the case. Every headline, every rumour – none of it explained why he would have been in Percy's office at a quarter past ten in the evening, shaking soot onto Percy's clean floor and standing there with his glasses askew. None of it explained why he had smiled at Percy.
Percy shoved the scrolls into his in-tray and grabbed his cloak off the peg by the door. He'd have a drink at the Leaky Cauldron before he went home – that would wipe the image of Harry's crooked glasses out of his mind.