by Marc Tremaine
Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.
DISCLAIMER: These characters don't belong to me. The copyrights belong to J.K. Rowling, and the movie folks, and the book publisher folks, and the DVD folks, and the CD soundtrack folks, and whatever other folks out there have a legal and financial finger or three in the HP pie(s). This is just for fun. Mine, definitely, yours hopefully.
TRADITIONAL WARNING: This story is a product of imagination; it is not a depiction of real life. It involves sexual acts between two or more males of the human species. If you are offended by that idea or its explicit description, regardless of whether it's the act that offends you, or the age or relationship of the participants, don't read this story. If writing about any type of sex between males is illegal in your nation, or in your particular municipality, county, state, province, or other political subdivision, don't read this story. If your age makes it illegal to read this story, don't read this story.
1. The spell
He didn't look. He wouldn't look. He couldn't look. That's why his eyes were tightly scrunched.
He had to look! They'd be back any minute and he'd look like a right git if they found him half naked in front of, well, an odd looking mirror (yet another spell he couldn't quite get right), with his eyes closed.
This would have been so much easier if the damned Room of Requirement had opened up again so he could do it there. But nooooo, not with his luck. Sure, a door had appeared right between him and the urinal he'd been peeing in, okay, actually, not really peeing, that was done, he was just sort of playing with himself, and he was sure lots of boys did that when they were where he was, all alone in the huge boys' toilet so he wasn't doing anything wrong and besides the main door always creaked so he'd have plenty of warning to stop and get tucked in and buttoned up.
He'd been so shocked he'd jumped back, grateful he wasn't spraying pee everywhere, and looked around to see if someone else was in the toilet. There had to be. Magic doors just didn't appear for him. Harry, for sure, and Professor Snape, and Headmaster Dumbledore, whenever they flicked a wand. Probably even that bastard prick Draco. Only, he hadn't flicked a wand. He hadn't been flicking anything, well, except, perhaps, his dick. But not serious flicking. Not under the covers, keep the grunts soft, lick your hand clean afterwards flicking. More like—casual flicking. Yes, that had been it. Casual flicking. And, well, wishing.
And when he'd realized he was still the only one in the toilet, he'd looked back at the door.
He'd never seen an impatient door, before. Never even heard of one. Of course, if he mentioned the impatient door to Hermione, without mentioning just where he'd seen it, she'd be sure to tell him the entire, fascinating, hour long history of magical doors, impatient and otherwise, that she'd researched in her spare time. And then she'd grill him until she got him even more confused than usual and he'd probably blurt out the whole thing, flicking and all. No, much better not to say anything to Hermione. Or anyone, really.
Besides, what was there to tell? He'd seen a magic door (almost pissing on it, he'd say with a smirk if he said anything which he wouldn't), then he'd tucked in, buttoned up and walked away. Nonchalant like. Magic doors in the boys' toilet. Been there, done that, no big deal. Only it hadn't worked that way. He'd been on the verge of tucking and buttoning, really, when the door moved. Forward. And nudged his dick. Which had gotten hard and he hadn't noticed and he always noticed when he got a hardon because it happened so often and so often at the wrong time. Or place. Or both.
So there he'd been, his pee slit right up against the smooth wood and bloody hell, he'd been leaking! He had a woodie because of wood? How weird (sick?) was that? He'd have tilted his head to look at the woodie/wood connection, but that connection meant the door was really, really close, like just beyond the tip of his nose so any tilt would have meant bashing his forehead, and while his hair was thick, it wasn't that thick. Then he'd done something he'd just decided had been, well, stupid, and silly, and as usual not quite bright.
And it had all been the door's fault. Bloody impatient door. More like annoyed, though, by that point. He couldn't tell how he could tell, but he definitely could tell. And not having experience with magic doors, especially upset magic doors that were up close and very, very personal, he figured he had to do something. So, well, fair was fair. The door had nudged him. He nudged the door back. Not hard, of course. Well, he was hard but he didn't move his hips hard, just a little nudge, kind of gentle like. With his dick.
The door opened.
And kind of, sucked him right in. Not the kind of sucking he liked. Well, maybe if there'd been a big knothole...okay, okay, okay! A not very big knothole. But one he could have put his dick through, with a nice mouth on the other side. Or maybe he could be the mouth. Wow. What a glorious hole that would be. He was just starting to wonder whether he could figure out a way to put one of those, those glorious holes, in the wall of his favorite stall in the boys' room, the one where he went to wank if he just absolutely, positively, had to during the day, like the usual two or three times, when the room coughed at him.
Or cleared its throat. Or something. He'd jerked his hand away from his peter. Hmmm, Peter. He remembered Peter. A nice boy. Friend of Percy, actually, which made his being nice kind of a surprise, considering what a wanker his older brother was. He closed his eyes so he could remember Peter's peter better, from when he'd, ah, accidentally walked in on him in the bathroom when he was on a visit, though Percy hadn't been there, just Fred and George and him. Nice peter, Peter had. Long and thin and uncut and peeing really hard. Wow. He hadn't wanked to that memory before.
He was just starting to, when the door opened behind him. He could tell the door had moved beyond impatience, beyond annoyance, into really, thoroughly, royally pissedoffedness. So much so he'd been about to be sucked right back out of wherever he was without knowing where he was. Of course, that might have been because he'd kept his eyes shut, but he did want to know. He wasn't a magic door virgin any more, but he didn't want just a quickie. He wanted the whole thing.
He'd lifted his left hand in the air in the traditional "I give up" gesture. He even said so. Out loud. The room (?) the door (?) did its own version of a foot tapping on the floor. The door slammed three times. So fast it almost seemed magical that a door could open and shut that fast that many times in a row, and so loud, too. At least inside the room. He'd be in even deeper shit than usual if anyone came to investigate the weirdness of loud door slamming sounds inside the boys' bathroom.
Oh. That was the problem. Reluctantly, he'd let go of his peter, and Peter's peter, too (in his mind's eye), and opened his eyes.
He was in a small room. Or a middle-sized room. Or maybe a very large room. The walls seemed to be moving back and forth. On forth they seemed to be receding a little more each time. On back they were getting closer. Perhaps he should hurry to get done whatever he was supposed to get done, if he could figure out what that was. Harry, he was sure, would have known right away. Hermione, too. He suspected even Neville might have figured it out already.
At least he was alone. He'd blushed at the realization someone could have been in there, watching him wank. And he'd still been stiff. Still sticking out of his trousers, which seemed like a somewhat fun thing under the circumstances. He left his dick where it was, taking the air so to speak, and walked over to the old-fashioned desk and high stool that were the only furniture in the room. A very large, very ornate book lay open on the top of the desk. Next to it was a sheet of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill standing upright in the inkwell. The quill had, well, waved at him. Gently at first, and then more vigorously when he just stood there gaping. And then the pen was pissed.
He definitely hadn't needed a pissed pen, not when he had a pissed door and a possibly pissed room, so he quickly got up on the stool and looked at the book. Gasped and coughed, too, when he inhaled. Wonderful, just bloody wonderful, one of those positively ancient books smelling of, of, ancient, that Hermione adored. A grimmer or something with positively ancient spells in languages no one had ever heard of, much less understood, with the possible exception of, well, Hermione, and Harry and Dumbledore, and probably Snape, and.... He stopped making the list when his eyes settled on the left hand page and read what was written there. In relatively plain English barring some odd spellings.
Why, that was precisely what he was wishing while he was pissing. Well, not really, not formal like, a prayer or something, or specific details, just a general sort of bloody hell it would be nice if kind of a thing. But what good would it do him? It was an awfully complicated spell and he couldn't memorize it before the walls came back from way, way, way faraway forth and smooshed him all up. The agitated pen caught the corner of his eye, literally. Oh. He could copy it. On the parchment the room had provided. With the ink the room had provided. Nice thing, the Room of Requirement (for that was all it could be unless Harry or someone was just having him on), providing him with just what he needed. Well, perhaps not needed, but certainly most fervently wanted.
He almost paused to wonder if the Room had provided any other boys with this spell. Only "almost," though, because the door bumped his butt on one of its back trips and he got the message. He began to write as fast as he could legibly write, and considering his usual penmanship that wasn't really all that fast. But he tried. Fortunately, he only had to lift pen from parchment to have more ink appear, and it was drying, blotches and splotches and all, as soon as he finished each word. And finally he'd finished.
Then he'd looked at the list of ingredients. Bloody hell. He'd never be able to afford that stuff, not on his allowance, which was as near to non-existence as made no never mind, so why had the Room bothered? There was a moderately loud thump behind him. He'd started. Looked over his shoulder. There was a small box on the floor in front of the door. The door went forth, came back, and booted the box a bit toward him. Okay. He could take a hint as well as the next Weasley. He got off the stool, walked over, picked the box up. It was surprisingly light, but when he opened the lid it got remarkably heavy. Perhaps opening had better wait until the box was on something solid. Like his bed. With all the curtains drawn and a privatorius spell not only locking them that way, but showing anyone who was magically sneaking a peek just an empty bed. He knew that spell quite well; it was wonderful for wanking. Closing the lid, he reached for the door's handle.
His hand passed right through it! He reached again. Ditto. The third time was not the charm either. He was trapped. Doomed! The Room of Requirement would keep him there until he withered away to nothing!
There was an irritated rustling sort of crinkly sound behind him. He turned around. Oh. The parchment was rolling itself up. A lit candle appeared above it, and a large drop of bright green wax dripped onto it, sealing it shut. The candle disappeared. He picked up the parchment with his left hand, and with the box in his right, turned back to the reluctant door. It was open. He could see the wall across from the urinals. He stepped up to the door. Listened. No pee sounds. Or other sounds. Fine, just fine. He poked his head out, looked down at the spot where he'd just been standing however long ago it had been. Slow and careful, that's what the situation called for. Ease back into the boys' bathroom, being ready to jump back into the Room if he heard someone coming.
The Room, however, had had other opinions. The door booted his butt, he staggered through, and it slammed behind him as it disappeared. He wobbled a bit during the warning creak! of the main door, but wasn't quite standing erect when Draco sailed in, accompanied as usual by Dumbest-Of-All and Dumber-Than-That.
"Walk much, Weasel?" he sneered. "That tatty broom of yours probably breaks down so often you get a lot of exercise that way."
The trio shoved past, and walked over to the urinals, Draco selecting a middle one, the other two selecting the ones on either side of him. In the silence, he heard the sound of three zippers unzipping. Draco and his cronies were certainly up to date, clothes wise. None of that old-fashioned button fly bit for them. Draco looked over his shoulder. Sneered again. "What's the matter, Weasel? Not the right angle for a good look? C'mon over and you can see what the big boys look like!"
He blushed, a bright, bright all-over-the-body red, and bit back the perfect angry retort. Of course he had had no idea what that was at that moment; he had to wait until later to think of it. He settled for a dignified turn away, marred only by a little wobble, and then stalked away. It wasn't until he was outside that he realized that Draco hadn't noticed the parchment or the box, which was kind of hard to do. Unless they'd been invisible to the three of them. Which had been fine with him.
So here he was, back from the trip down memory lane. His eyes still scrunched. His lower half still naked. It probably hadn't worked. Really, the liquid sludge he'd had to concoct with the ingredients from the box had been the nastiest thing he'd ever tasted. Probably not as nasty as licking out Professor Snape's hairy butthole after he was all hot and sweaty from his daily ten mile run, but a close sec.... Now where had that come from? He shrugged it off.
And the spell. Damn, some of the things he had to say were downright embarrassing. So were the moves. With and without his wand. Okay. Time for the big finish. The final four words from the parchment (he carefully unscrunched one eye just enough to check it, though the words seemed to be fading fast), and then hurriedly said, "Magnificatus Cockalorum Aeterni...ah...um? us? el? oh? Pick-a-number-from-one-to-ten!" Uh. "Ten!"
Nothing. No feelings of lengthening, of growing, of improvement on the home front. No feelings of magic in the air at all, at all. Reluctantly he unscrunched both eyes and actually looked. No bloody change.
But he shouldn't be surprised. He was the family screw-up, any way you looked at it. He looked at "it" again, just to be sure. Right. No change. Another messed up spell, the ingredients used up, and damn if the parchment wasn't blank.
Bloody, bloody hell.
The Room of Requirement certainly wasn't going to open up for him again. And all he'd wanted was the Weasley dick. Was that too much to ask for?
His father had it. Fred and George certainly had it. Bill had it. And he ought to know. He'd had each of them in his mouth or his arse often enough, though Bill only when he came home for a visit these days. They liked his tight slut bottom they told him. And the way his throat opened up so they could bury their cocks right up to their thick, bushy pubes. Hell, even Percy probably had the Weasley dick, although it was currently being wasted since he was saving himself for marriage. Hah! As if anyone would marry a stuffy prig like him.
Bill had said he'd had most of the Weasley dick by the time he was his age. Dad had never said. But Fred and George had eagerly showed him the growth pattern of the Weasley dick over a good number of years, helped by Dad, of course. Well, not that Dad's dick was growing during those years, well, other than getting hard a lot when looking at or playing with his boy body; Dad was more the "after" example with Fred's and George's and Bill's "befores." By this time he should have had a good start on an impressive Weasley dick. But no, not Ron the failure.
He took one more disgusted look in the mirror at his oh-so-un-Weasley crotch, the small uncut dick with the long foreskin that looked like it belonged on someone years younger, the small balls in their tight little sack, the few reddish pubic hairs. He bent over, and pulled up his briefs and his trousers, tucking, rebuttoning, getting himself back to oh-so-puny-normal. He waved at the mirror, watched it struggle mightily, and briefly in vain, to disappear, and then it finally gave this little wiggle and disappeared.
Depressed, he got onto the bed, yanked the curtains closed as a clear sign to stay the hell away and not bother him. Just in time. Harry and several others, he thought he recognized Neville's voice among them, almost tumbled into the room, laughing and chattering.
"Hey, Ron, c'mon, mate. Time to eat," said Harry.
"Go away." He knew his voice sounded shaky, but he couldn't help that. And he definitely didn't want them to know he was crying.
They heard the shakiness but leaped to the wrong conclusion. "Hey, guys!" one of them said, "Ron's in there wanking!"
"Bloody right!" "That what you're doing, Ronny m'boy?" "C'mon, give us a look see!" were all jumbled together. It was Neville's "Yeah, Ron, open up and give us a little show!" that sounded loud and clear over all the rest.
There was a moment's silence as they all realized Neville had, all unintentionally but not completely unexpectedly, gone too far. A great deal too far. And then the curtains around Ron's bed exploded open, he leaped out, his face red, his clothes a mess and his wand waving as he glared around at his fellow Gryffindors. Until he spotted Neville. The wand slashed down. "Stupefy!"
Neville froze, his mouth open in shock, and toppled to the carpet.
"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" Three more boys fell to the floor. Only Harry and Ron were left standing. Ron began to turn.
"Sorry, Ron," Harry said, and pointed his wand. "Expeliarmus!"
Ron's wand flipped end over end as it went across the room.
Harry walked over to Ron, put his arm around his shoulders, hugged him just a little. "Sorry, mate. But you know Neville was just joking. He didn't mean anything by it."
Ron shrugged Harry away. "Yeah, right," he said bitterly. Stepped over a boy. Picked up his wand. Stepped over a boy. Left the room.
Harry sighed. "Ennervate," he said with each point and flick of his wand. With much gentle head-shaking (a stupefied collapse on the floor, sometimes with a head bounce or three, tends to make the mind muzzy, and the only known non-spell recipe for un-muzzification is gentle head-shaking until all the muzziness is sloshed out of the skull), and a good start on a nice round of righteous indignation, the four of them staggered to their feet.
When they began looking around with that "Where the fuck is that tosser Ron" look, Harry sighed again, and said, "Guys?" They looked at him. "Look, just let it go, hmmm? No harm done? He's, uh, had a bad day, and, uh, he's really sorry."
Neville agreed immediately. He was too nice not to. Two thought a moment and nodded, although their faces were a cross between "I'm only doing this because you asked, Harry," and "You owe me big time for this, Harry." The last finally just shrugged. The five left for supper, where Ron didn't appear.