InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Teen Titans! And coffee."

3 March 2010

Rita Skeeter
Assistant Editor
Obscurus Books
18a Diagon Alley, London

Dear Rita,

Here is my draft of Chapter Twenty-Eight, with corrections and notes. I fear it may be too tame for your tastes, but, as always, I await your editorial suggestions and promise to do what I can to improve my narrative. We are in firm agreement that one is never too old for correction. With this in mind, I do hope your important work will not keep you from visiting us at your regular time on Sunday next. Beatrice was disappointed to have missed you this past weekend, and one must attend to one's needs first if one is to be of use to others, I always say.

I have changed the title of my manuscript. I will not make you wait that long to publish it, of course, but a little white lie is a saving thing, I believe, and my darling man, having been so long out of public life, has no longer any desire for publicity, as I am certain you will understand.

Yours in truth,

Adelaide Alderton
Proprietress
Alderton House ♥ Phoenix Feathers ♥
Village of Alderton, Suffolk

Doxies Do More than Bite: The Memoirs of this Wizard's World's Most Accomplished Lady of Leisure, Now Retired and in Hiding Deceased

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Wand and His Inspiration
Wizards have ever led with their wands; that is the way of things. Because of this universal truth, this chapter is not so much a fairytale as it is a cautionary one, for wizards, surrounded as they are by so much that is magical and having so near to hand a tool which they place anywhere warm in which they place so much of their trust, tend to forget that magic, itself, is not a panacea. Indeed, the application of magic to life's ills in an attempt to ease them a great expenditure of magic upon life's ills in an attempt to ease them is often costly, thank Merlin, but rather more often than not requires a costlier remedy. For the purposes of this chapter, that remedy is love, not the foolish, wand-waving sort of love that most wizards of my acquaintance get up to prefer, mind you, but love of the storybook sort, love that, as astonishing as it may seem, may be found amidst the doxies.

[Rita, regarding your note about the various marriages for which I am responsible, I shall be discussing those in Chapters Thirty-Four to Forty. —Laide]

He came to me first as a young man, all nose and, as I discovered, more wand than one might have imagined at first glance. (This is saying something because I have known more wands in my day than has John Ollivander.) He had rather nice tastes, and, as I run a sophisticated establishment, I am pleased to relate that I found it no trouble at all to satisfy his hunger, up to a point. (Honestly, these young men so in love, what do they expect? Red hair, green eyes, sylph-like form—these I can cater; that said, I am never going to be the particular flower whose petals they desire to pluck! But I digress.) He came to me, my "Mr Wand," bitter and chagrined and innocent (after a fashion), and I did what I could to relieve him of these burdens, one after another. I will not lie; I enjoyed his scenarios (they were always so disturbing damning detailed), but it soon became clear that his tastes were rather more perverted perverse than I had envisioned. That is when I enlarged my staff and doubled my supply of the Phoenix Draught, and, truth be told, I believe this forward-thinking on my part is why my establishment continues to be such a profitable gratifying enterprise, despite the increasingly rigid competition amidst hospitality houses. In any case, it was no trouble for me to provide him, by virtue of my transformed person, the dark, unruly hair and masculine attributes he also craved, no matter that it was still her name he cried when he came. (I admit that, upon occasion, this trifling circumstance wounded my amour-propre, but I never remember such slights long.)

What is the Phoenix Draft, you ask? Why it is the happy result of my brilliance in the brewing room and has allowed my doxies to prick themselves out for our guests' pleasure, as it were, a small thing of no consequence, really, as the masters of the Guild refuse to publish, that is, upon which I have built my business and for which I have never sought fame, for I am a retiring lady and would not seek to prostitute myself in such a tawdry manner naught but a glamour in a bottle, one which allows its drinker to assume the form present in his or her mind at the time of its drinking. It is better than Polyjuice, even if I, its creator, do say so myself (and I do). True, the flame-burst of transformation is something to which one never grows used and the feathers are a nuisance, but it lasts longer than Polyjuice and comes in three delightful flavours: mint, chocolate mint, and banana cream. Our guests have always seemed to enjoy best the banana cream flavour, especially my Mr Wand, who proved to be a gourmand of singular appetite.

Now, Mr Wand came continually for years, I am proud to say (not that it ever did much to improve his disposition for very long), always paid promptly expressed liberal gratitude (although he never did tip, the ungrateful bastard), never requested another doxy (even though I was a woman of a certain age already upon his first visit to the house, bless the dear boy), and kept his surliness to a minimum once I had coaxed him into an intimate chamber, unless, of course, his chosen scenario called for surliness, but, on those (frequently Quidditch-costumed) occasions, I was often called upon to discipline him and bore his ill-temper as well as he bore my flogger (I am a deft hand at it, even now, I do not mind admitting), so I was sorry to see the reports of Mr Wand's death in The Daily Prophet after his long absence from my establishment. I called my doxies together (I used to call them my "girls," but, as I said, I am most forward in my thinking {and not everyone enjoys Potions-work, you know, the silly twits}, and I have never understood why one should not apply an appellation to wizards that witches in our profession have sweated under for years), and we toasted Mr Wand most thoroughly. The Ogden's proved motivating, and it was a good night for everyone's bottom line.

It was not even the top of the morning, however, when I awoke the next day to find Mr Wand bleeding all over my favourite silk coverlet! He was a right mess in a state, and "surly" does not even come close to describing his disposition at that moment. It took three of my doxies to hold him down whilst I saw to his throat and dosed him with a rather potent nutritional draught. (If I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times: Death Eating is not a profitable enterprise; but then, young men will do it, will they not?) Not long after, it was vexing to find Mr Wand retching up some of my best Potions work, but, once I had the story from him, I could hardly blame him for having swallowed that bezoar. It was a mercy that he brought with him his own antivenin, however, as I abhor serpents in all their forms and do not care how much my guests beseech me for the privilege of being buggered entertained by them. Give me a wingéd near-fairy any day over something cold and scaly, I always say. Doxies, at least, can be trained to deal with one's difficult more demanding spirited guests.

But coming nearer to the point of the matter, I found myself in possession of a Wand who no longer felt up to waving and, for old times' sake, kept him safe whilst he recovered from the results of his own idiocy his unfortunate experience. He was not an ideal patient, and, once he was feeling well enough to mind his boredom, he found his way into my brewing room and utterly destroyed my perfectly sound organisational scheme made a nuisance of himself. I admit that I almost threw the "late" hero out on his arse buttocks person when he reorganised everything and brewed Doxycide, of all dreadful things, but I am a tender-hearted soul and would not have it in the end. (Oddly enough, for such a desperate pleasure-hound, neither would Mr Wand, come to think of it, which I often do and never fail to find strange, given the gratifications he might have enjoyed at my hand. Why, if I were not writing my memoirs, I could easily write a manual on the finer points of prostate manipulation!)
[Which I am willing to do, Rita, if you believe that you could market it. —Laide]

Now then, after our duel altercation discussion about Mr Wand's not being welcome in my brewing room (it pained me to be so inhospitable, dear readers, but there are some intimate chambers in which even an accomplished lady of leisure, such as myself, is unwilling to entertain a gentleman), it fell to me to suggest a means by which he might pass his time. Having no thought as to where he might go, he did not seem eager to quit my establishment (so few of us plan for the future, even now, and a sad thing this is, too). What is more, his hunger had begun to stir once again. Regretfully, I could not find it within myself to indulge his taste for me as I had recently rekindled a relationship with a man ill-disposed towards sharing and had been feeling poorly for weeks. I was feeling so unwell, in fact, that running my establishment had begun to take a toll (I am ill-disposed to pay for anything, you know, so you may well imagine my distress). With this in mind, I suggested to Mr Wand that what he needed was a new occupation.

Oh, I wish I were authoress enough to describe the expression upon his face! Suffice it to say that "shocked" will serve, and I was liberally favoured with a taste of his characteristic, pre-coital surliness. It was then that Beatrice, one of my redheads, fell loudly afoul of a poorly screened guest, and, at once, Mr Wand went brilliantly to her rescue! He had been secreting himself for weeks, indeed, but, only thinking of her, he issued forth to Beatrice's chamber and dealt with the intractable client spirited witch, an individual with a penchant for pink and a fetish for what some of my Muggleborn doxies call "pet play." (I am not one to judge, mind you, but I have never liked pussies. They will shed something awful, you know, and the Phoenix Draught was not formulated for that sort of fantasy.) After he had Obliviated my soon-to-be-banned guest, Beatrice offered her profuse thanks to Mr Wand, but he would have none of her. By then, his tastes, or so I had gathered from his most recent request of me, had become fixed, and he wanted a rooster, not a hen (even though he might have had his poultry in any semblance he liked, thanks to the Phoenix Draught). An honourable man, and kind, in his way, he did persuade me to take to my bed, but only because it was clear to him that I was ill, and so it was that Mr Wand became the manager of my establishment.

[I may take the screening titbit out, Rita, as I have Feathers' reputation to protect. —Laide]

His first act, I am sorry to say, was to invade my brewing room and use it for the purposes of examining my doxies. He did not understand, at that time, the nature of my illness, and a man such as Mr Wand despises ignorance, especially in himself. A Healer of my acquaintance was summoned, and those doxies deemed healthy were permitted by Mr Wand to return to their entertainments. Of course, the time it took to have my staff examined cost me dearly, but I did agree that suspending hospitable congress in order to prevent the ruination of my establishment was a necessary step. I put my foot down, however, when Mr Wand attempted to remove my pets from the house.

Eccentricity is a selling point encourages conversation, and my house is widely reputed to be a seat of vigorous discourse. Living puns that they are, my darling Doxies have always been adept at promoting intercourse, in spite of any inconveniences I have encountered in their keeping (people who shake the drapery get what they deserve, I always say). What is more, Doxies keep the dust and feathers down, as well, and that is no trifling consideration when one is not a deft hand at cleaning charms.

[Rita, as you well know, "shake the drapery" is one of our little euphemisms at Feathers; ought I to discuss that here, or should I include its description as part of Chapters Eighteen to Twenty-Two, in which I detail our other specialties? —Laide]

Once Mr Wand's duties were sorted out—maintaining our financial ledgers (I am not usually so trusting, I am sad to say {no one is perfect, mind you}, but Mr Wand's primary focus was upon shielding his privacy, and he was, therefore, in no position to fleece me not likely to make any mistakes in his accounting), approving new clients, hiring additional staff, and serving as host of the many exclusive and energetic social gatherings for which my establishment has long been known, business flourished anew. Although my symptoms were mild and my illness passed quickly (as it did for those on staff who suffered the same malady), I found that I liked having someone else attending to matters on my behalf. Why, only three months into this new arrangement, I was free to see my sister for the first time in years! I did not, of course, for I have always hated that dried up, judgmental old cow, but a certain personage (and say what you will about politicians, they tip well) of my fond acquaintance happened to live just down the lane from Mary, and I spent a lovely holiday with my Fudgie (who assured me that his plaguesome marital concerns would soon be less of an issue, the dear fellow, if what his solicitors had told him was true). I returned refreshed, with no one the wiser as to what had been my true destination, but quite unprepared for the change in my Mr Wand.

He had made use of the Phoenix Draught, you see, to provide himself a uniform, I suppose one could have called it, and I quite liked the look of it (even if it was rather disrespectful of its inspiration). But business is business, and Mr Wand had the knob knack for it, I daresay. Beatrice informed me in short order that so did several of our more comely male guests, and she took great delight in relating to me Mr Wand's amorous adventures with them in his guise as the famous (then) Auror-in-Training. Now, my house is and always has been an establishment heralded for its discretion, but doxies are, by their nature, cheeky devils curious sorts, and there are no secrets amidst them, which is why politicians are some of our best tippers, as I earlier noted.

Glowing, and, it seems, copious reports of Mr Wand's "uniform" reached the ear of the one who had inspired it not long after "The Row," which, of course, The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, and Witch Weekly all covered in so much excruciating and welcome detail (forgive an old a mature lady for enjoying her gossip, do), and, not long after that story began circulating, "Mr Inspiration," as to him I shall discreetly refer, Floo'd in for an unexpected visit to the house. I was there to receive him, as was Mr Wand, and, oh, it was a delight to see them, the near-twins (I say "near" because, obviously, no potion save Polyjuice can provide Metamorphmagus-specificity to any sort of Transfigurative exercise), gaping at enthralled by each other! Mr Inspiration was well and truly pissed rather inebriated, and he and Mr Wand came almost immediately to blows, and then, or so Beatrice, by virtue of her trusty Extendable Ears, was able to relate, they came together against the wall of the back kitchen stair. (As Mr Wand dragged Mr Inspiration off, I was compelled to remain with my other guests, you see.) I am sorry to have missed that, I do not mind admitting, for urgent frottage has always been something of a weakness of mine, especially when conducted against a wall.

Here it would be fair to note that I believe Mr Wand's use in the drawing room of one of our favourite glamours upon Mr Inspiration may have precipitated their lusty discourse, as not everyone enjoys experiencing the attributes of the opposite sex, and Mr Inspiration, looking down at his un-sampled unexampled décolleté, was, I feel certain, thoroughly nonplussed until Mr Wand was thoughtful enough to take hold of Mr Inspiration's prick person to demonstrate to him that he had not been altered truly; however, I fear that Mr Wand's reassuring gesture came too late to put Mr Inspiration's mind at ease on this point, and I apologise for the lapse in his hospitable judgment. Indeed, for it, I would take the full measure of responsibility if such were desired.

"It was awful, madam," Beatrice told me, as I found her on the stair. "They shouted such horrid things!"

You may imagine how I disbelieved Beatrice's protestations about the "awfulness" of the situation, particularly after she, the appalling little liar, spent so much time recounting precisely what was said. I shall spare you the sordid details in favour of sharing the most interesting one, which was that Mr Inspiration felt it necessary to demand, given the insult he had sustained by Mr Wand's impersonation of him, amidst other things, that my manager take on the likeness of a person of his, Mr Inspiration's, choosing. Oh, the delicious irony, for whom do you suppose that Mr Inspiration desired? Why, it was none other than Mr Wand, himself! (At this point, I shooed Beatrice back to the drawing room and climbed into the walls to take the back passage to Mr Wand's rooms. Some discourse is simply too good to miss, especially, as I said, when the vigorous use of a wall may be employed to further it.)

Opening the eye-hole through which I could see into Mr Wand's bedchamber (one likes to be of support to one's staff however one can, you know, so one must undertake the necessary duty of understanding the comings and goings in one's establishment), I saw nothing, but the grunts and groans emanating from somewhere within were enthusiastic and loud; it took no time at all to find the sitting room's eye-hole, and there they were: Mr Inspiration pressed into the wall by the fire, his legs wrapped around Mr Wand's waist, his arms raised high as he grasped the tapestry into which he was being "discussed" buggered. Mr Wand, trousers down around his ankles, his excellent buttocks clenching and unclenching with every thrust (and may I say, that man also has thighs like the veriest tree trunks; you would not think it to look at him, but, as I have always known, he has meat on him where it counts, and I count everything).

[Rita, see how I abide by your strictures against coyness? —Laide]

I was just in time to hear this charming portion of their conversation:

"Snape—Snape, you bastard! Fu—fuck . . . me!"

"Shut that insolent mouth of yours, Potter! I am . . . I am fu—oh, FUCK!"

From the sound of it, Mr Wand came rather harder than I had ever heard him (that said, I certainly did not begrudge him his release at someone else's urging), and he slumped forward into Mr Inspiration's shoulder, biting it, I believe, which sent the delectable young man into such a paroxysm of pleasure that speech left him, and then they slid down the wall, gasping for breath and clinging to one another as if for dear life. I had arrived too late, it seemed, to see the beginning of things, but I did, of course, attend to my own ending.

[Rita, I realise that I have used their given names above and perhaps should alter them, but "Wand—Wand, you bastard!" for one, does not have quite the same ring to it. About this, what would you suggest that I do? —Laide]

Now, here is the most pressing point about my Mr Wand: he is not one for confession (despite myriad attempts on my part to coax him into it, for I have always found the habit rewarding in its own way and dearly would have liked to have seen him in a collar. But I digress). I have known Mr Wand for many years and in almost every way, and I know less about him than I do about cleaning charms. To my amazement, however, when it seemed he could breathe regularly again, he whispered to Mr Inspiration, "I think of you," and young Mr Inspiration replied, "Never can stop . . . thinking of you." I swear, it felt as if they were declaring their undying love, and a tender scene it was, too, until Mr Wand, great surly prat that he is, ruined everything hastened his guest's departure by declaring their visit over, and the price of it, ten Galleons.

Rage, I suppose, yes, it would be fair to say that Mr Inspiration flew into a RAGE. Mr Inspiration was not remiss in showing his appreciation for Mr Wand's display of calculated gyration.

When he had gone and I had let myself into the room to see to Mr Wand's torn cheek (Mr Inspiration knows how to throw his Galleons around, I shall give him that), what astonished me most was the fact that Mr Wand did not protest my ministrations; he just sat there, mute and redolent of masculine enterprise, as if someone had Stunned him. I put him to bed, and he remained there for three days. It took, in fact, a small, deliberate Doxy infestation of his drapery to force him to return to his duties, but, from that point on, he appeared as himself. (This may not have been wise of Mr Wand, but we allowed our guests to assume that he was having a laugh at the expense of a "celebrated" war hero, and it was good for business discourse, so I permitted it.)

[Rita, the above usage of "Doxy infestation" is not euphemistic. —Laide]

Just as articles about "The Row" ceased being published, "The Reconciliation" made the papers. This was not good for business, truthfulness compels me to admit, and Mr Wand became an absolute terror for months, particularly as several of our guests began to display signs of the malady from which I and some of my doxies had previously suffered, only their symptoms were ever so much worse than our own had been. Because of this, it pains me to discuss the period in question in any great detail, but I began these memoirs in the spirit of honesty and will honour that spirit to the end of my career.

Experimentation is the spice of life, I always say, and, in my brewing, one of the things with which I have experimented assiduously is Doxy venom. (And why not? Doxies are such maligned, misunderstood creatures, after all.) Doxy venom has a pleasant warming effect in small doses, and I find that "warm" guests tip rather well enjoy themselves that much more. The erotical hospitable magic employed in an establishment such as mine (as if there were houses to equal mine) is a major part of the success such a house may expect to enjoy, and, much to my great embarrassment, it seems that our wand-work had affected my pets in an entirely unforeseeable manner; the Doxies absorbed enough magical energy to transmute their venom, thus upsetting my calculations with regard to its use and allowing the Doxies to become rather more dangerous than they might otherwise have been. In short, when combined with that "warming" potion to which I previously alluded (which I liberally add to the selection of fine wines and soothing bowls of pot pourri that I am proud to provide, free of charge, mind you, as I am a generous woman and not too proud to note it), the bite of my darling pets had some minor, unexpected consequences: several of my guests found themselves burning with fever feverish; that feverishness became a rash; that rash sprouted silky black tufts of hair; and that hair, if not shaved off, tended to burst (briefly!) into flame. (Mr Wand did suspect the use of my Phoenix Draught of being a part of these "difficulties," but that in no way could have been true. I had the best of my Potions master as a girl while at Lickton's Finishing Academy for Intractable Witches, and I assure you that Master Horne would never have permitted me to quit his tutelage were I deficient in any respect. Oh, what tutelage was had at the Acadamknee Academy! But I digress.)

The complaints to which Mr Wand had to attend were decidedly numerous and veritably unceasing, and, ultimately, some ungrateful bastards of our concerned, now former guests, in whom I had placed such trust, violated my hospitality and sent the Aurors after us to visit my establishment. To Suffolk! Can you imagine? Nothing happens here in Alderton that requires the attention of the Aurors (well, except when payment is due). Ah, but worse, the Auror leading the investigation was, as I'm sure you can surmise, none other than Mr Inspiration! Imagine how embarrassed my Mr Wand was, poor dear. He had performed well in all respects as my house manager, and I am sure he felt the threat to our reputation keenly. In any case, Mr Inspiration stormed out of the Floo, furious, pointing his fine example of wooden suspicion at Mr Wand's throat. Doxies (both employees and pets) scattered everywhere with Aurors in pursuit of them. (Brave soul that I am, I made use of the drapery to screen myself whilst monitoring the situation from a position of responsible safety.)

"What did you do to me?" shouted Mr Inspiration, who sported the red, itchy looking patches of flesh that indicated he had known the love bites of my pets. (The condition took some time to develop, you see, so how, by Merlin's short hairs in Merlin's name, could it have been seen as such a problem? I ask you. I paid every bill for new robes that I was sent, too, but the bills for burn salve went unpaid, as anybody who reaches the age of consent without knowing how to brew a simple burn salve is a hopeless case, and I have never thought it right to reward negligence.)

To Mr Inspiration's question, Mr Wand replied, "Shagged you breathless, as I recall." (Such brevity was always typical of Mr Wand, dear readers.)

Happily enough, I soon learnt that Mr Inspiration's predicament, known as it was by that time to be a sign of one having patronised my establishment (although I think the "Doxy Damn" was a hard appellation for such a trifling inconvenience), had caused what would soon come to be reported as "The Rift" (Beatrice excepted, I never have liked redheads much, to tell you the truth, and, if you have read this far, you know I always do), and the gentlemen once again came to blows. Inasmuch as they had their wands drawn, it was odd, the fact that they resorted to blows, but, for Mr Wand and Mr Inspiration, fisticuffs were not sufficient; soon enough, they were blowing each other engaged in a rather complicated erotical practice exercise in hospitality, complicated because they had not seen fit to rip off each other's clothing completely put one another at their ease, and this circumstance was getting in the way (well, in my way, at least, and at the worst possible moments, too) of gratifying behaviour. I felt it wise, at this point, to ward the room against intrusion. War heroes (even ones who would never consort with a doxy, and ones who are, by most accounts, dead) have their reputations to consider as well as do ladies of leisure, and, as I have noted, my establishment is famous for its discretion. (Did I mention that most of my guests tip well? It is not only the politicians who do, you know.) But I was speaking of the sucking that complicated exercise in hospitality.

When the maddening strips of rent clothing were not obstructing my view, I had a clear line of sight to Mr Wand's greedy, sucking mouth, his lips sliding over and up and down Mr Inspiration's prime example of a wand. It was thick, of a respectable length, and smooth, and it glistened most delightfully in the intimate lighting of the room. Mr Inspiration, through growled and wand-muffled exhortations, had attached himself to Mr Wand's knob person and essentially inhaled him. (And I do not wonder about that; there always was, and I say this nostalgically, a lovely masculine musk scent air to my Mr Wand that, whenever I had found myself in Mr Inspiration's position in the past, had made me feel willing to please, no matter the form I had taken for him by virtue of the Phoenix Draught. But I digress.) Mr Wand's person was impressive, and Mr Inspiration had swallowed it whole. (Phoenix Draught be praised, I have learnt to appreciate such accommodating young men as Mr Inspiration!) He did not finish Mr Wand before his own completion shook him, however, and, while he moaned through it most prettily, my Mr Wand took that opportunity to render him nude, arrange him over the back of the sofa, and begin to lave his fundament with his tongue. It was at this point that I remembered to cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door. (Mr Inspiration was a screamer an enthusiast of the hospitable arts, to be sure, and it did such things to me to hear him, things I had thought that only my dear Fudgie could do to me at this point in my life, but that is love for you.) Drawing the drapery around myself, the better not to disturb the gentlemen (the better to bite it, as well), I stood there (well, perhaps swayed, wriggled a bit, even), transfixed by the scene.

To my great excitement, I next learnt that Mr Inspiration spoke a foreign tongue:

"Please, please, just sssslsissshsss!" (I cannot translate this, I am afraid, and it is as best a representation as I can provide of Mr Inspiration's diction.)

As if in answer, Mr Wand began biting that perfect arse those heroic buttocks, raising tooth-shaped welts upon all that firm, flushed flesh and making Mr Inspiration buck and plead and hiss, I suppose one might have called it. (Whatever it was, I found it quite the most erotical sound of my life, and that is saying something, as I have heard things as might curl the toes of the most frigid hag, excluding my sister, which honesty alone compels me to note.)

[Rita, shall I warn delicate readers to leaf ahead past this next bit? And what of the use of names above? You know how much it would distress me to be perceived as indiscreet. —Laide]

"Does she fuck you like this? Do you let her? Can you bring yourself to ask her, Potter? Can you?" Mr Wand demanded, in between biting his way up Mr Inspiration's spine.

"Fffuck, just do it, already!"

"Eloquent as always, I see."

"You're n—not him! OW!"

Mr Inspiration almost threw Mr Wand off himself then, but, honestly, I do not believe that his heart was in it because he was humping the hell out of too involved in testing the stability of the sofa, and, of course, Mr Wand, after applying what we in my profession like to call a "tempering" bite, had the good sense to secure the young man immediately. In fact, Mr Wand grasped Mr Inspiration's wrists together and jerked him back against himself, one hand going white-knuckled as he held Mr Inspiration up straight, and one hand sliding down his torso to tease his prick caress his person. It was too slow, his stroking, and some lovely, grateful-sounding whimpering issued from Mr Inspiration (well, I was grateful for it, at any rate).

"You came here to fuck Severus Snape. Say it."

"You're not Severus Snape, you perverted—"

Mr Inspiration gasped as the hand stroking his prick person clamped down around its base firmly, yes, it would be fair to say that, most firmly, even.

"If I'm not, then why are you here?" Mr Wand snarled.

"Because you're the closest thing to him I can have! Please, Merlin, please. Anything you want, all right? J–just tell me and I'll give it to you! Just please, finish it, finish me—fuck me already!"

"Not good enough," Mr Wand growled, releasing Mr Inspiration's prick wand and spinning him about. "Look at me. Look at me and tell me that I'm. Not. Severus. Snape."

"O."

It was almost a whisper, but there was not enough sound to make it so. I was close enough to see the movement of his mouth, however, and an "O" it was. Mr Inspiration's astonishment was extraordinary. (And they say that Aurors are intelligent; with whom did Mr Inspiration believe he was dealing? I ask you.) He stood, rooted to the spot and trembling, his lovely wand issuing magical proof of the excess of emotion he appeared to be feeling.

"But . . . ."

"You came here, Harry Potter, to fuck Severus Snape. Say. It," Mr Wand ordered. "Say it, or I'll open that door and show you to them like this, hard and desperate and mine. Say it! Tell me you want me. Tell me you came here to—"

"I came here to fuck Severus Snape!"

"And tell me, who am I?" Mr Wand asked, in that chocolate-flowing-over-velvet tone of his of which I had long been fond.

"S—Severus, you're Severus S—Snape, but how?"

Mr Wand's hand returned to that glorious, ambitious prick of Mr Inspiration's ambitious person, and, bending slightly to whisper his answer against those equally inspirational lips, replied, "Do you care 'how', Harry?"

"No."

"You just want me, not her, not anyone else?"

Just when I thought it was impossible for the young man to flush more deeply, he did.

"Want you, not her, only you—I can't, I can't stop thinking of you, feeling you, everywhere."

This reply was sufficient for my Mr Wand: he threw Mr Inspiration down into the cushions so that they were facing each other, invoked a wordless lubrication charm, I believe (unless, of course, Mr Inspiration came prepared, but I cannot imagine that he did, all things considered), and then thrust himself fully inside of him. Mr Inspiration's breath caught; for awhile, the only sounds were of our breathing (although I did try to keep mine quiet so as not to disturb the gentlemen. Never interrupt a good session of hospitality, I always say). Hoarse breathing, ragged sighing, the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh—these things are all I heard for, what was for me, a great dizzying age.

I closed my eyes, to give them their privacy, of course, and Mr Inspiration must have done, too, because the near-silence was broken presently by Mr Wand's fairly desperate-sounding mantra of "Look at me, look at me, look. At. ME!"

"'O'," indeed.

I confess I opened my eyes at this point, and I do not believe I have ever seen two wizards share such an incandescent moment, even when I was one of the wizards, but that is love for you, as well, dear readers, and it was love of a sort, no doubt in my mind.

"Looking, looking, looking!"

Mr Inspiration was practically babbling through his pleasure, while my Mr Wand shuddered and cursed, never once closing his eyes. Oh, my! It was only then that I saw the resemblance to the flower and the Quidditch player into whom for him Mr Wand had been wont to request that I transform; to have found both reflections of his desire in the person of Mr Inspiration, why, how must Mr Wand have felt? (Admittedly, I felt a fleeting sense of unease, but then, I have always been of a maternal disposition and tend to worry about, what are for many others, mere trifles of circumstance. But I digress.)

I tell you, it is not often that one is privileged to witness such a madefying moment, but, out of respect for the memory of it that I carry with me still, I shall not relate anything further about Messrs Wand and Inspiration, except to say that it was then I knew: I was about to lose the manager of my establishment (and Mr Wand had never been mine). This loss led to the reports of, as by now you must all realise, "The Disappearance," and, no, I cannot tell you where they have been these past ten years. I can only assure you that, wherever it is, none of you nosy parkers dunderheads concerned readers shall ever find them. When they quit my view, it was in a state of desire that they should secure their privacy as soon as they might, but, if I were inclined to surmise their whereabouts, and I suppose that I am, I should posit that the gentlemen elected to hide in plain sight, for no one pays attention to things as they ought, these days, and it was true in those, as well. Ah, but I cannot miss them, the dear boys, for, as I said, I keep the memory of them intimately, and treasure it frequently, as it were.

I do miss my pets, however, for recently I found it prudent to remove them to a good home for the sake of Beatrice; the care of animals, as I earlier intimated, has never been her forté, and I have decided, once my memoirs are complete, to turn the keeping of my establishment over to her. You see, witch that I am, I intend to lead with my heart and marry my darling Fudgie, who at long last has seen the sense of choosing love over duty. Confident as I am that Beatrice has it within her power to do me proud and now free of any familial obligations (Mary's funeral was last Thursday), I can no longer neglect my vault at Gringotts deny myself the gift of a retirement. My doxies will simply have to manage without me, I fear, for the feathers do not all fall out after sustained usage of the Phoenix Draught, and I grow tired of plucking myself, for all proper ladies marry. That is the way of things, I always say.

~*~
31 March 2011

Mrs Cornelius Fudge
Lickton House
Felixstowe, Suffolk

Dear Adelaide,

Congratulations to you upon the completion of your manuscript, and happy six-months' anniversary! I'm amazed by how well wedded bliss suits you. Further, it was charming to discover that you and your husband have begun to refurbish Lickton House at such an already fulfilling time in your lives. Have you any plans to reopen the Academy? If so, perhaps I'll apply to you to supply me with my next assistant; my past few girls have been such disappointments! Either way, I do hope that you'll permit yourself some leisure time, in spite of your feelings about the dangers of idle hands.

I have exciting news, myself. Obscurus Books has been sold, and we're expecting several alterations to the business, one of which will soon be a new name. In light of our present owner's strictures against autobiographies and his desire that we focus on the publication of "texts which serve to advance the understanding of magic, with particular regard to potions-making and Mind-Healing," I'm afraid that your memoirs no longer meet our needs and won't be published at this time. Having purchased your memoirs, however, we will retain all rights to them against the day that they might prove saleable.

Before you begin sending me a shout of Howlers, do look at the cheque. If it isn't sufficient proof of the honour and kindness of our new owner, who certainly wasn't required to remunerate you for any imagined and future royalties you might have received upon the publication of Amidst the Doxies, then consult your contract; note well that the penalty with respect to premature publication is dire. I'm sure you'll agree that the sensible thing to do would be to accept matters as they are and continue to enjoy your safe retirement.

Yours most sincerely,

Rita Skeeter
Assistant Editor
Obscurus Books Phoenix Publishing
18a Diagon Alley, London