eyes are burning and his head is pounding. The school library is entirely
empty; he’s surrounded by several piles of scrolls and books, half of which are
completely useless, because of course
Professor Graves had to give them an assignment on topics that weren’t covered
in books that were outside of the Wampus library, which he of course couldn’t
access as a Pukwudgie.
certain that Professor Graves looks down on him, the sole Pukwudgie in Advanced
Magical Defence. The rest of his classmates are Wampus, with a handful of
Thunderbirds scattered in the for variety. He’s used to their dismissive
glances, to being the last to be paired for the practical portions of Magical
Defence. But he will do well in his
theory, even if no-one wants to work on spellwork with him. He doesn’t mind.
Any sort of attention from Professor Graves thrills him, makes little shocks
skitter down his spine every time the man looks at him, every time their
fingers brush when he’s returning homework.
thinks about him, sometimes, at night when he can’t sleep. He carefully
recreates his professor’s face in his mind, strong jaw after slicked hair after
dark eyes, until he can fall asleep feeling yearning for something he cannot
in the wall sconces flicker. Outside, the sky is dark. Gradually, the school
settles, students and staff alike turning in for the night. He’s so absorbed in
his work he doesn’t notice.
The moon has
passed its highest point in the night sky when the library doors burst open and
Credence jerks upright, almost toppling from his chair in fright, his quill
skittering across his page and leaving a jagged dark smear behind.
Barebone,” says Professor Graves, mouth turned down in a grim frown, “What are you doing in the library at two
in the morning?”
stomach drops. He hadn’t meant to stay here for so long, but he couldn’t for
the life of him find any information because Graves had assigned them an
“I didn’t –
I’m sorry, sir, I – I lost track of time –” Caught off-guard by the world’s
most terrifying Magical Defence professor, the words won’t come out right, and
Credence clamps his mouth shut miserably.
him with a look that could probably turn him into a pile of smouldering ash.
Feeling like a stupid First, Credence shrinks down into his chair. “It’s five hours after your curfew,” the man
says, sharply. “This is a suspension-worthy offence, Barebone.”
catches in Credence’s throat and he can’t breathe. Suspension. He thinks of his Ma, who he hasn’t seen in eight years,
the bite of the belt all the way to his bones, long hours spent kneeling
beneath an unkind cross. Distantly, he can hear himself saying, “No – no sir,
please – please, you can’t –”
can’t, can I?” Professor Graves says, moving closer to his table. “Principal
Hyslop might have something to say about that.”
of kindly Principal Hyslop staring mournfully over his desk at him – we risked so much for you, Barebone, what a
shame – fills Credence with a terrible feeling. He feels sick.
sir,” he says, voice trembling, “please, you can’t tell Principal Hyslop. I – I
don’t have anywhere to go, sir, please don’t suspend me, please, don’t tell
him, sir, I’ll do anything, sir, please…”
Graves’ steps echo through the library, though Credence’s gaze is fixed upon
his white-knuckled hands and he can’t see. A chair at his table scrapes on the
floor. Professor Graves settles into a chair, and then there are fingers on his
jaw. He flinches, but the fingers are surprisingly gentle, guiding his face up
until he has no choice but to look at Professor Graves in the face.
Barebone?” his professor asks him, almost mocking in his gentleness. “That’s an
awful lot to promise.”
He is closer
than Credence thought. His breath fans out on his cheek. Credence meets his
eyes, skips away, returns shyly. Looking at Professor Graves’ eyes he has the
sensation of looking down from the top of a cliff, the sea churning beneath
him, and not knowing how to swim.
“Any sort of
punishment you see fit, sir,” he says. “Only – only please don’t tell Principal
professor examines his face again. The moment yawns out before them, Credence
suspended in the darkness of his eyes like a dragonfly in amber. Evidently, he
sees something he was looking for; a tiny smile curls up the corner of his
lips, and Credence feels like he’s had all the breath punched out of him.
Barebone,” he says, conversationally, casually. “Have you ever sucked cock?”
inhales sharply, trying to pull his head away, but his jaw remains gripped
firmly in his professor’s grip. “I – I -,” he says.
the man says curtly.
shakes his head once, face burning.
tonight, then.” Graves releases his jaw and Credence’s hand springs up
automatically to rub at it. “Stand.”
“Wh – what?”
“Stand up, Barebone, unless you’d rather we go
for a little walk to the Northern Tower – “ and Credence is up so fast he sways
slightly on the spot. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. His hands curl into
fists at his side.
to tilt his head to look up at him, but despite their height differences
Credence still feels powerless. “Come here.”
Credence hesitates, his professor makes an annoyed noise deep in his throat
before flicking his fingers, and Credence comes stumbling forward, nearly
pitching into Graves’ lap, pulled forward by his belt loops and magic. His
hands almost collide with Graves’ shoulders to steady himself but he corrects
at the last moment, yanking back and returning to curl into anxious fists by
amused. “Hands on the table.”
begins to turn around so his hands are in front of him on the table, but Graves
clicks his tongue. “Lean back against the table,” he says, “and keep your hands
against the table, hands behind his back, Credence feels horribly exposed, from
the long line of his throat down to his knees. He swallows, the saliva in his
mouth suddenly thick.
his ankles apart nonchalantly, and then pulls his shirt from his trousers with
ease. Another casual wave of his hand and Credence’s jersey disappears,
reappearing on the table on top of his essay, folded neatly. Credence shivers,
and it has very little to do with the chill October air. His chest feels very
hot and then very cold on the next breath.
undoes the lowest button of Credence’s shirt, and then the next, and the next.
Credence’s stomach quivers, leaping away from the man’s fingers. Graves make a
little noise like he’s just bitten into a sweet pastry, and the back of his
knuckles are ghosting along Credence’s stomach, then around to his waist and
flank. The other hand curls around his hip; Professor Graves’ hand brackets his
pelvis easily, thumb pressed against the point of his hip and fingertips
skimming the notches of his spine. Though the touch is feather-light, Credence
can feel every bump, every hair on the back of his hand, burning hot against
trace the long rungs of his ribs, from their origin at his spine and curling
around to his front, beginning with the lowest just above his navel and
climbing steadily. It feels – it feels quite nice, actually, and Credence feels
his shoulders uncoil, the tight muscles at the nape of his neck relaxing, and
his head tilts back.
Graves skips the last few ribs – Credence’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now – and
his fingers skim over his nipple. There’s a sharp, sudden bolt – something arcs
down inside him, a force connecting the point where Graves has touched him and
the secret place between his legs.
eyes fly open and he spasms straight up. “Oh!” he cries.
startled for the barest moment, but then his mouth curls into a smirk.
“Sensitive one, are you?” he asks. It’s that same tone as before, that makes
Credence want to sink to the ground and bury his head in his hands; nearly
kind, almost gentle, but there is something in the tone that makes Credence
want to skitter away.
Professor Graves’ fingers are back, tracing back and forth over Credence’s
nipple, whisper-light. With one pass, the pads of his fingers brush the very
tip of his nipple; the next, the nail of his thumb presses into the areola.
Credence gasps with each one – he can’t help it, oh, there’s warmth and heat inside him that he never knew existed,
curling and coiling and twisting. It feels good – so good –
Graves’ clever fingers come together and pinch,
taking a hold of the areola and pinching it up and tight and Credence hears,
distantly, someone making a whining noise and realises it’s him. The sharp sensation bolts through
him, twice as powerful as the gentle pleasure from before, and Credence’s legs
are feeling so shaky that he’s very grateful for the table behind him, holding
Graves says, approvingly, and those words fill him up. He arches his back,
seeking those fingers again, please, please –
Graves, and he sounds ever so slightly out of breath. “You liked that, did
“Y-Yes, sir,” Credence says. His fingers
clench and curl against the table.
says, and then his hand is back, and the other hand leaves his hip and now
there are two, one pinching and the
other pulling and Credence rises on his toes but also curls in, leaning into
the sensation. A bead of sweat slides down the side of his neck. Every inhale
makes the world tremble at the seams.
Graves chuckles, deep and dark, and the sound arcs right through him. He
repeats the action, one hand pinching him from the base of his areola while the
other latches around the other nipple and tugs. He’s using his nails now,
worrying the flesh and Credence can’t think of anything, not of his essay, not
of the threat of suspension, just those sharp points digging into his skin like
mean little teeth. “Uh-uh-uh!” he stutters. It feels so good but it hurts.
releases his nipples, and Credence thinks his legs might give out entirely
because the release is somehow just as tortuously wonderful as the grip. He
gasps through clenched teeth, but then his Professor’s palms soothe over his
chest, gentle now, a warm pressure over his nipples. He is so sensitive he
thinks he can feel Graves’ pulse through the palms of his hands on his chest.
his Professor says. He doesn’t sound kind any more, but he doesn’t sound unhappy,
either. Not kind, not cruel.
opens his eyes and finds his head is fully tilted back, blinking up at the
ceiling. “Yes, sir?”
two options. You can get up, leave, and go to sleep in Pukwudgie, and this will
go no further.”
“Or you can
stay, and we continue.”
eases his head upright, looking down. Graves is staring right at him. In the
golden half-light of the library, his eyes are not black, as Credence had once
thought; a sunburst surrounds those pupils, the precise colour of Wampus fur,
of a gold coin, of the sun in the evening sky. His face is not as
expressionless as it usually is; his cheeks are stained just a touch darker,
and there is an indent in his lips where he has bitten them.
Credence says, hesitates, and then keeps going because otherwise he’ll never
say it, “Please, don’t stop.”
is utterly blank for a moment, and then the twin sunbursts of his irises
disappear, so widely blown are his pupils.
“If you want
to stop, all you have to do is say so,” he says. “Say stop, and you’ll be dressed and back in your dormitory, and no one
will ever know.”
licks his lips. “But sir,” he says, “I don’t think I want you to stop.”
smiles, lazily, languidly, all teeth.
skitters down Credence’s spine, a little burst of fear and yearning, and explodes like a firework somewhere in the cradle of
his hips. Credence can’t help the broken little moan that escapes his throat,
and his head falls back again.
ah,” Professor Graves says, and one of his hands reaches up again, brushing
Credence’s throat and holding onto his jaw again, dragging it down, forcing
Credence’s head upright. “You’re going to watch now, and you won’t look away,
will you, pet?”
makes it harder to breathe, and he can feel his shoulders burning already in
their strained position, but Credence nods obediently.
hands skim his chest again, up to his collarbones and then down to his ribs.
His stomach tenses minutely but his professor merely reverses his direction,
back up to his throat and then down to his hips again, hot rough palms against
soft skin. On the next drag up he catches Credence’s nipples again, and
Credence inhales, arching his back and trying in vain to get him to do that
again, touch him again, it felt so nice –
Professor Graves denies him. His hands continue their slide up to his throat
and then back down again, and this time they unbutton his trousers with neat
efficiency and then his pants are around his knees and –
hands still. “Christ,” he says.
clarity bursts through Credence and he recoils, hands coming up off the table
and reaching around to cover himself.
never told anyone, has never dared
tell anyone. When he was a Fourth he’d outgrown the underwear he’d brought with
him from the Second Salem Church. It had fallen to Queenie, his only friend in
Pukwudgie, to show him how the magical mail order system worked, and as a joke
she’d ordered a pair of lacey underthings along with the rest of it, and the
moment Credence had slipped them on in the privacy of his bedroom he’d known he
never wanted to wear anything else ever
again. The lace curls daintily around his hips, the satin caresses his skin
in a way union suits couldn’t dream to imitate; he loves them, loves them, but it’s a secret he’d
thought he’d take to the grave.
as it turns out.
He tries to
take a step away but stumbles, caught as he is with his trousers tangled around
his legs. But Professor Graves’ hands shoot out to catch his elbow before he
can fall, drawing him back and half onto his lap, enclosed in his arms.
you, pet,” Graves says, but the tone isn’t scornful like Credence had expected.
It’s something quite, quite different – something quiet, reserved for Sunday
mornings and for prayer. Worshipful. Reverential. He dares sneak up a look.
Professor Graves looks like he’s just watched Moses part the Red Sea, a hundred
men fed with twenty loaves of bread, collected manna from morning dew.
Something miraculous, something Biblical, something holy. “Look at you,” he
swallows. The saliva is thick in his throat.
Professor Graves says, and Credence startles a little, because he’s never
called him by his first name before.
sir?” Credence replies.
“Do you want
to continue?” And Mercy Lewis help him, Graves sounds so oddly gentle in a way
he never has before, Credence thinks he might melt into a little puddle of warm
and happy goo at the man’s feet if it meant he could hear him speak to him in
that tone again.
Credence manages. He swallows again. “Yes, sir, please.”
his hand to the back of Credence’s head and Credence jumps at first, but the
hot weight of his palm remains steady and warm. Something about it anchors him.
He feels more substantial, less like he might be whirled away by a breeze and
Professor Graves murmurs into his hair. “Good boy.”
basking in that when Graves pushes him back up, and he stands, hands going back
to the table. Graves drags the chair forward and Credence’s legs are forced
farther apart, one on each side of Graves’ thighs. His Professor brings one
hand up, slowly, slowly, running it up Credence’s leg from his knee to his hip.
He strokes Credence’s skin through the underwear. They’re not even Credence’s
nicest pair – white, almost entirely lace, covering him modestly – but Graves
brushes his fingers over the lace like they’re the finest things he’s ever
seen. Beneath the fabric, Credence’s taught muscles quiver.
He hooks his
fingers over the hems on either side and slowly, agonisingly, draws them down,
and Credence’s cock bobs free, slapping into the skin of his stomach, head
purple-red and angry. The library isn’t cold, but a shiver runs through him
from toes to the crown of his head, hairs on the backs of his arms prickling.
The underwear hadn’t even hidden all of it but like this, lace bunched
obscenely beneath his testicles, Credence feels filthy.
Graves says, voice dark again, and Credence rocks up onto his toes and back
down again, “I told you to keep your hands on the table, didn’t I?”
Oh. Credence nods, once.
Graves says sharply and Credence’s cock jumps at that, smacking into his belly.
A thin line of pre-cum rolls obscenely onto his thigh.
Credence says, voice small.
moved them away, didn’t you?”
“Do you need
me to use a sticking charm to keep them in place?”
knees actually buckle at the idea, eyelashes fluttering down onto his cheeks.
“If – if you’d like, sir,” he says cautiously.
Graves purrs, “you would like that,
wouldn’t you, pet?” Credence watches as he spins his wands between his fingers,
once, twice. “Epoximise.”
tugs experimentally, but the palms of his hands remain firmly stuck to the
surface of the desk. His breath explodes out of him and he shifts his weight
anxiously from one foot to the other, because Graves is leaning back into the
chair with one leg crossed over the other looking like he could stay there
until the sun comes up, just watching Credence tugging uselessly at his bonds.
stop struggling,” Professor Graves says casually. “I might be more inclined to
give you what you want if you ask me nicely.”
stills immediately, leaning back against the desk and watching Graves from
beneath his eyelashes. He nibbles at his lower lip, worrying at it between his
teeth. Graves’ eyes skip from the long line of his throat, his poor abused
nipples, the dip of his waist, and then his cock, head purple-red and angry,
drooling against his belly, framed by the white lace underwear. His eyes skip
back up to Credence’s.
gives inside Credence, and he’s sinking. He feels like he’s fallen into a pool
of syrup, sinking and floating all at once, and nothing in the entire world
exists except for the way Graves is staring at him, his dark eyes, his large
hands settled on the arms of his chair, the broad press of his shoulders inside
“What do you
want?” Professor Graves asks him, gently, persuasively.
“I – I – “
Credence tries, but his face is burning. He closes his eyes and tries again.
“Please,” he says, voice a high whine, “please sir, please will you touch me?”
rustles and then yes yes yes, Graves’
hand is on his hip again, then back down to his leg, joined by the other,
easing his underwear off. When the underclothes reach the vicinity of his knees
Credence feels a hot breath of air against his cock, and he makes an aborted
little wail, eyes screwing shut, fingers scrabbling against the table for all
that they can’t actually go anywhere.
nice, pet?” Graves says and he’s right
between his legs.
what you’d like, now,” Graves says again, so sweetly, so coaxingly.
doesn’t know what he wants, exactly,
though he has a fairly good idea it involves Graves’ mouth and his cock, the
hot breath over him again, all tongue and wet and completely merciless.
“Please,” he begs, because he wants to ask but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t
know what to ask for. “Please.”
Graves says, and Credence thinks he might become the first ever case of
spontaneous self-combustion. “You beg so prettily for me, pet. Look at you. How
could I deny you?”
And then his
hands are right there and he’s
pressing his lips against Credence’s navel, then his stomach, then the point of
his hip and down to his thigh, open-mouthed and wet now. Credence whimpers,
because every press is so hot against
his skin, every point those lips touch is searing hot, imprinting onto his skin
and sinking through, to muscle, to nerve, to bone. He thinks, dizzily, that if
he dies right now, when they find his skeleton, they will surely find the marks
of Professor Graves’ lips pressed into the bones of his thighs.
can’t breathe, oh god, he’s going to die right here and he’ll be the first ever
wizard to die of pleasure, but what a
way to go. Pinned as he is, he can only turn his head to try and muffle the
noises exploding from his chest into the skin of his shoulder.
back, and Credence keens, hips arching, aborted little circles in mid-air,
chasing that warmth, that heat, the perfection that is Professor Graves’ mouth.
ah,” Professor Graves says, and he flicks his fingers and Credence’s head turns
of its own volition, fixed and frozen so he has no choice but to watch. “You’re
going to let me hear every noise you make, pet.”
Graves bites, sinks his teeth into
the softest part of Credence’s thigh. Credence is vaguely away of someone
moaning, high and keening, nearly a wail; it’s him, he thinks, dizzily.
barely has a moment to savour this new sharp sensation before Graves moves
away, pressing his lips to the bite gently, gently, butterfly kisses and kitten
licks against the delicate skin of his inner thigh. He presses a last kiss,
harder than the rest, to the centre of the bite before raising up and before
Credence can say anything else he leans forward and presses an open-mouthed
kiss to the head of his cock.
jerks, curling in, hips arching, the wails cut off abruptly as he gasps,
gulping down air like a drowning man. Sensation arcs through him, a force of
nature, an earthquake or a tsunami or a thunderstorm, threatening to drown him.
moves, cold air whispering over the kiss before another presses down, and
another, and another, and another. Then a wet stripe of tongue against his
length, and Graves takes his cock inside his mouth and sucks. He pulls back, swirling his tongue around the head and then
back down, mouth burning, taking him in and swallowing around him.
trying to get his mouth and tongue to cooperate, a babbling, incoherent mess.
“Yes,” he says, “Yes, sir, please, more, oh
wailing, his world contracting to the feel of Graves’ mouth around him, and
everything is burning white, pulses of pleasure sparking and skittering and
exploding out again, his universe reborn. His knees really do buckle and he arches weakly, his poor shoulders straining at the
joints as they hold most of his weight. But he doesn’t notice, really; he’s
sinking into that lake, enveloped, surrounded.
aware of Graves tapping the backs of his hands and they’re free from the table,
and then being bundled into an enormous fluffy towel, gathering into Graves’
lap right there on the floor of the library. He thinks he might have fallen
asleep for a little while. Professor Graves soothes him, pressing soft kisses
against his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids. He has the vague impression of
green flame and the familiar scent of Floo powder before he’s being cocooned in
warm blankets on a sofa, a hot cup of tea pressed into his palms.
well done, you were so good, so perfect,” Graves says, so softly, so gently,
Credence thinks he might float off again. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s
sweet, herbal, and leaves the taste of roses on his tongue. The sweetness
centres him, and the long heavy weight of Graves’ body against his. He yawns.
Graves mutters, bringing up a tempus
charm with a waggle of his fingers. It’s past three in the morning.
opens his eyes muzzily. “Sh’ go,” he mumbles into his cup.
ceases its slow winding through his hair. “Do you want to go?”
thinks for a moment. Now that he’s an upperclassman he has a room to himself.
And tonight’s – well, yesterday – was a Friday, so no one will be expecting
him. He shakes his head slowly, jaw cracking back into another massive yawn.
the cup out of his hand and Credence burrows into his side. Tomorrow, he thinks
sleepily, tomorrow he can worry about all of this. For now, he just wants the
gentle safety of Graves’ arms, the angle of his jaw on Credence’s crown, and
the soft private comfort of the sofa, a little world unto themselves.
Further ideas in a world where the Dresden cast works at Hogwarts:
-Bob completely ruining Binn’s after-life by being his typical wise-ass self . For fun. And being completely accurate in his corrections.
-The annual “First Year Races” on Mouse and Fang.
-Karrin as guest lecturer for Muggle Studies.
-McCoy and McGonagall have a history. I repeat: a “history.”
-Side note: have we ever found out who Harry’s grandmother is? No? Hmm…
-Butters teaching an advanced class on supernatural physiology. And Advanced Defence Against The Dark Arts.
-Harry, Butters, William and Molly teaching a class on how to blend in with Muggles. It eventually devolves into an Introduction to Popular Culture course, filled with quotes. And some very interesting choices in fashion, without breaking the ruling on school uniforms.
The £1,050M Type 45 destroyer HMS Dauntless (D33) sails past the £394M luxury private yacht Azzam, currently the largest in the world. The Type 45s are currently the most advanced anti-aircraft/missile defence ships afloat; capable of controlling airspace over Charles de Gaulle from the dockside in Portsmouth, England.
On 20 October 1897, George Findlater, then a junior piper in the Gordon Highlanders, was shot in the feet during an advance against opposing defences at the Battle of the Dargai Heights; unable to walk, and exposed to enemy fire, he continued playing, to encourage the battalion’s advance. The assault was a success.
I like to think that the D.A continued definitely after the battle of hogwarts and led to many advancements in not only defence against the dark arts, but muggle/wizard relations as well
The D.A was personally responsible for getting Muggle and wizard relations figured out, as they all got into positions of power in the ministry and just fucked everything up man. Old traditions were out the window. They installed wifi, electric lights, actually told the muffles about the existence of magic, and made life a whole lot easier for both sides of the coin.