He was going to kill Hermione.
Shifting uncomfortably at the corner of the stage, Harry nervously played with his tie, plotting various ways he could get revenge on one Hermione Granger-Weasley. It wasn’t his fault at all that he couldn’t tell her no. He’d been conditioned, after all, during a decade and a half of friendship to always listen to Hermione and to always agree with her. If she said the sky was purple, he’d nod and say it was a lovely shade of violet. It was far easier that way, he’d learned years ago. Personally, he didn’t quite know how Charlie handled being married to the bossy bint. Friend or not, he couldn’t even fathom the idea of having her constantly controlling everything. Charlie probably even had a schedule telling him when he could go to the loo, color coded and alphabetical.
An amused grin crossed his lips as he imagined Charlie and Hermione having sex, with her bossing and Charlie smiling that sexy smirk he always got when looking at his wife, the one that she always returned as they’d seemingly drift into their own perfect world of two. His amusement was replaced with an envious affection. He really did love Hermione and thought of Charlie as a brother so he was pleased they were happy. However, at the moment, he would have happily cursed them both since they were the reason he was in this current situation.
A fundraiser for the dragons and other magical creatures who had been injured during the War several years ago. It was Hermione’s latest pet project; her position as a Junior Assistant for the Department of Magical Creatures allowing her the freedom to constantly increase awareness and bring attention to those creatures not able to lobby for themselves. It had been easy to refuse her request. He’d simply offered to donate a few galleons, his standard reply when she was having a fundraiser, and given her his best boyishly handsome smile, going so far as pushing his glasses up his nose and letting his hair fall across his forehead in the way she’d always say she found so adorable. It hadn’t bloody worked.
So now he was standing at the side of the stage in some fancy new wizarding hotel wearing this constricting suit, dress robes, and getting ready to be paraded around for silly witches to bid on. There were various problems with this entire ordeal. First and foremost was the fact that he hated attention. He’d have happily changed his name, colored his hair blond, and never been treated like a hero for the rest of his life if he honestly thought he could get away with it, which he couldn’t because he’d tried using the name Jay and coloring his hair for two months after he’d defeated Voldemort and everyone still knew it was him.
Second was the entire idea of having to go on a bloody date with some chit who ‘won’ him for the evening. He’d known he was gay since sixth year, a fact that he wasn’t ashamed of but that wasn’t exactly public knowledge since he kept all of his private life exactly that: private. Hermione had shrugged away his objections, informing him matter-of-factly that they were not running an escort service to raise money but simply offering a casual and friendly evening with ‘bachelor’. His sexual preferences had nothing to do with the amount of money she could raise by having the Harry Potter as one of her bachelors. And he couldn’t tell her no.
“Don’t tell me the great Harry Potter is nervous.”
And that was the third problem. Blaise Zabini. Former Slytherin spy turned successful wine maker. Curly black hair, dark blue eyes, crooked nose, sharp cheekbones, and lips that were so full it was all Harry could do to not nibble on their plumpness. Zabini had been the subject of many a wank, both in school and out. He wasn’t even that bloody handsome, his nose too big, his face too long, and his lips always curved in this amused ‘I’m laughing at the world and, yes, that includes you’ smirk, but Harry tended to overlook that to focus on the elegant hands and charming confidence the quiet man possessed.
Blaise Zabini also happened to have an interest in magical creatures, which meant he was always in attendance whenever Hermione had another fundraiser, which meant Harry saw him every few months. Always attending alone, watching the festivities with that bemused smirk, rarely speaking to anyone except Hermione and a few polite words to a few others, and always managing to make Harry have to seek privacy in the loo to wank fiercely even before the party was over.
Not that Harry made it a habit to stare. It wasn’t an obsession at all. Certainly not. He had scoffed at the very idea that he fancied Blaise Zabini when Hermione had brought it up last year. It wasn’t his fault most of the blokes he ended up shagging were tall, thin, and had curly black hair. It was merely coincidence. Or he had a ‘type’, which he had heard several girls discussing before so he was able to smugly combat Hermione’s question by mentioning that her type seemed to be muscular redheads of average height, reminding her of two previous blokes she’d dated as she’d waited for Charlie to notice her, not that she’d ever admit, even now after five years with the man she’d fancied she was seventeen (if Harry’s guess was accurate). That had made her change the subject, but she still brought it up on occasion. He suspected it was her idea of torturing him for daring to speak back to her all those months ago by making him work closely with Zabini the past few weeks.
“Potter, are you awake?”
Harry was pulled from his ‘God, please don’t let me make a fool of myself’ thoughts by Blaise’s voice right in his ear. His heart started racing, his palms started sweating, and he was certain he was blushing from feeling the warm breath on his neck.
“Sorry, mate,” he said without his usual stammer that seemed to accompany any conversation with Blaise. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he glanced at the dark-haired man standing beside him. Blaise wasn’t participating in the auction; instead acting as Hermione’s assistant for the benefit. Harry’s eyes took in the snug black trousers and dark blue shirt that was perfectly set off by olive skin. When he looked up and noticed Blaise watching him with a knowing smirk, he blushed, coughing and turning his head quickly. “Uh, well, almost my time. Have to get ready to charm them all since Hermione will have my bollocks if I don’t bring in enough galleons to help the cause.”
“Actually,” Blaise drawled in a lazy tone that Harry couldn’t help comparing with honey for some reason, “she’s given me authority over your bollocks, Potter. I’ve been instructed to make sure you don’t run off before your turn or she‘ll have mine.”
Harry hadn’t paid attention from the time Blaise mentioned bullocks, the crude word sounding beautifully obscene when Blaise said it. He’d turned to gawk at the other man, distracted from his nerves by thoughts of Blaise and bullocks and full lips wrapped around his length as his fingers tangled in curly black hair.
“Of course, I don’t dare face a furious Hermione Granger-Weasley,” Blaise continued languidly, shuddering as if the very idea frightened him more than facing Voldemort (which Harry had to admit was true in his case; Hermione was a force when her ire was up). Blue eyes suddenly met his as Blaise smirked. “So you’d better get out there before she hexes us both, Potter.”
“Huh?” Harry reluctantly looked towards the stage, flustered when he heard them calling for bids for the bloke who was ahead of him. “I really don‘t want to do this,” he muttered as he awkwardly straightened his suit.
“You need to relax or you won’t make any money, then Hermione will have both our bollocks.”
Before Harry could reply, he found himself pushed against the wall, full lips moving over his and elegant fingers gripping his messy black hair. Groaning softly, he returned the kiss, hands moving over dark blue silk and higher, finding out that he was correct about how soft those black curls were, a whimper of disappointment escaping his lips when Blaise pulled back and smirked.
“Now you’re relaxed,” Blaise said smugly, though Harry was pleased to note that his voice was husky and that his hand shook slightly as he ran it through his hair.
“Zabini?” Harry wanted to ask what the bloody hell that kiss was about and any number of other questions were constantly fighting with his arousal to take control of his mind.
“Potter.” Blaise smiled slowly, his index finger pushing Harry’s glasses up his nose. “Go out there and make a lot of galleons. It’s for a good cause, after all. If you get the highest bid, well, I daresay that might earn yourself anything you want.”
“Anything I want?” Harry repeated with slight predatory grin that he usually only wore when chasing the Snitch.
Blaise met his gaze fully, smirking once again as he leaned forward, his tongue moving along the shell of Harry’s ear. “Anything,” he purred as his hand straightened the front of Harry’s robes, lingering on the erection that was beginning to press against his trousers. Pulling back, Blaise winked before saying innocently, “All for a good cause, of course.”
Harry returned the smile, repeating, “Right. For a good cause.”
He was going to have to thank Hermione.
For a Good Cause
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Table of Contents | - Text Size +
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June 12, 2005