InsaneJournal

FIC: Spark
Title: Spark
Pairing(s): Lucius/Ron, Ron/self (and some Quidditch players)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: AU. Ron doesn't want to discuss Lucius Malfoy, his Care of Magical Creatures Professor at Hogwarts while Hagrid is away.
Warning: wanking, small references to chan
A/N: I've always enjoyed reading about Lucius Malfoy, Hogwarts Professor; however, at the beginning of OotP, Defense against the Dark Arts wasn't the only vacancy. I didn't want to go so AU as to remove Professor Umbridge from existence. This is one of several L/R vignettes I've written in this setting.




"Ron, dear, beef stroganoff for dinner! Remus Lupin is stopping by! Could you set the table?" mum yells out through the kitchen window, "Oh, and I meant to ask you! I found all those photographs of... one of your professors when I was cleaning your room. Why on earth did you get so many? Do you want me to throw them out?"


* * *


At least she doesn't reference him by name.

I couldn't possibly explain this to mum; she'd drop the saucepan. After I'd be done cleaning up the flour and cream from the kitchen floor, she'd prod me along upstairs, clucking something about herself at my age. When dad got home, she'd corner him in the hall, and demand he and I have that long-overdue father-and-son, man-to-man talk.

No thanks.

I mean, I know bloody well this isn't normal.

And she could probably stomach it, after the inevitable saucepan-meets-floor, if it were someone more... someone less... if it were good old Harry.

"Ronniekins, are you, well, sure?" she'd manage, trying not to look me in the face as she spits out "you-are-my-son-and-I-love-you-very-much".

She'd huff and puff and make sure that the floor was squeaky spotless before inquiring, "maybe it's just... hero worship?" in a wavering voice. "You know, I read in the Quibbler (the Prophet, the Gazetteer, the Witch Weekly) that many, well, children your age admit to having a crush on your friend. He's Harry Potter, you know, everyone wants to date a celebrity."

Her idea of an appropriate date is meaningful stares over a glass of something fizzy and fruity (and good heavens, non-alcoholic), "never you mind what your father calls me when he thinks you lot've gone to sleep".

What do I say then, "our first date consisted of him catching me wanking" and "oh, by the way, his name's not Harry"?

"My robes were open and my trousers were slid halfway down and I had that stupid jumper from last Christmas under my arse. My cock was sliding happily in and out of my fist, completely oblivious to everything except for the feel of sweaty skin on sweaty skin. In my mind, the fist had belonged first to Oliver Wood, then Roger Davies, then the Cannons' Beater, Joey Jenkins. I was arching up against Wood's hard, smooth stomach; my other hand - Roger - was tweaking my nipples, rolling them between his silk-soft palms. Joey's calloused ones closed over my cock like it was a bat, gripping tight and not letting go, moving faster, then slowing down for a squeeze; Roger had moved to my balls, then below, gently thumbing the sensitive little spot - Oh, right there! Wood's fingers, newly slickened with my spit, were replacing Jenkins, who had sat back on his haunches, watching me take them in my arse, one by one, as I sighed and moaned and rubbed my own hand over the drooling tip of my cock. My eyes were closed, my teeth reflexively worrying at my lower lip as my breaths came faster and louder. I was feeling it in my balls already, that heavy tightness, that sense that there is nothing else to the world but cocks and fingers, connecting over and over again until everything goes sparks and shooting stars and then dark and still post-explosion. Except that there was so much more to the world - the tree I was leaning up against as my cock pulsed in release; the lakeshore beyond the tree that I wasn't about to look at; the man that waited until I lifted my hand to my mouth and licked at the hot, bitter-sweetness of it to let out an 'Ahem'. He grinned as he took it all in - my eyes like dinner plates, my lips working vainly to produce any sort of language. 'You do have freckles there,' he said."

Not much of a date, I have to admit.

Mum could probably even handle it if it were a nice boy in my House; barring that, my year. She might be able to calm herself enough to accept that her baby son is seeing a boy from school, a nice boy, a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, a Hufflepuff. It would take days, weeks, months, but I could get her to say "He's in Slytherin, but oh, he's so charming and clever and you've really got to meet him; it's those few bad seeds that give Slytherin a foul name".

She'd tell me all about how she and dad felt that special spark in detention together, a connection over scrubbing cauldrons and polishing chalkboards, she for sneaking pumpkin juice into History of Magic and he for pouring pumpkin juice into someone's stewing nettles.

"Yes, mum, you could say we really connected in detention, he and I - his hand to my hair and my mouth to his cock. His cane on my arse, that was the end-all and be-all of special sparks."

I wonder, would she lock me in my room or chain me up in the attic if I said that last bit out-loud?

He is "charming and clever" - when he wants to be - and even Harry has admitted that he can teach. Granted, Harry is certain, as is Hermione, that this is a cunning plan devised by You-Know-Who to recruit Hogwarts students. It's Easter hols, though, and he hasn't spelled anyone to follow him into the Dark Lord's secret lair, and I don't think he will. They'd interviewed him for just about every paper there is when he'd taken the job, and while I don't trust papers, I trust Headmaster Dumbledore. He didn't have to hire Lucius Malfoy; Care of Magical Creatures isn't cursed, like Defense. I am sure there were tons of people who'd have taken it, like that Grubbly-Plank woman from last year. Except Dumbledore hired him, but Hermione hasn’t stopped the constant "Honestly, does Mr. Malfoy even like animals?" routine.

"I've seen it, mum; he shivers and moans when I touch it. It's small and faded, but it swells and darkens when I run my fingers over the soft skin, and he says it burns. Maybe I should be afraid of it, maybe I should be afraid of him, but it doesn't sting me to stroke it, it hurts him to have the Dark Mark branded into his arm."

Yeah, I bet that would convince her right proper.


* * *

"I'll be right there, mum!" I yell, running in from the garden, "and I need those pictures back! It's Harry's idea, 'know the face of your enemy' and all that, and they're good to practice jinxes on. Want me to use the good dishes?"