Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; they are the property of JK Rowling, Scholastic Press, and Warner Brothers. This fanfic is not intended for profit, but solely for my personal amusement.

Rating: NC-17. Please don't read if you're a minor.

Feedback: Feedback and constructive criticism are welcome at hutch @ jazmer.com.

Hours later, Harry wakes up. He's disoriented in the dark, the odd smell that isn't his room at the Dursleys' or his dormitory at Hogwarts, but a moment of blinking and his senses come back to him. Of course he's not at either of those places, because he's in Oliver Wood's flat.

Next to him, Oliver is still sound asleep, breathing in a heavy, contented sort of way. He snores a little, but it's not annoying at all. Harry reaches over and tugs the covers back up over Oliver, who's mostly kicked them off, and gets out of bed, barefoot -- bare all over, for that matter. He finds his underpants and pulls them on, still feeling weird about the whole thing, and goes into the flat's tiny kitchen.

Oliver's salary as Keeper for Puddlemere United isn't that much, but he has a few nice things, and the flat shows it: the new Muggle stove and refrigerator, the bottle of champagne in the back of the cabinet where Harry looks for a glass for water. Harry wonders what Oliver's keeping that for. Looking at the stove, Harry realizes that he doesn't even know if Oliver's parents are Muggles. He knows so little about Oliver. The thought makes him queasy and he hastily finishes his water.

The flat is quiet and dark, aside from the occasional sounds from the cage where Oliver's barn owl, Seeker, sleeps, head tucked into its wing so that it seems to have no face at all. Hedwig's not here tonight; she's flying a letter to Hermione, with an abbreviated explanation of how Harry came to be in London for the time being. Even though Harry doesn't have to stay at the Dursleys' any longer, since the threat of Voldemort is alleviated, people seem to expect him to be there. But when Seeker showed up with the invitation to some Puddlemere practices in Oliver's blocky handwriting, Harry couldn't get away from 4 Privet Drive fast enough.

Harry had had some vague thought of going to Grimmauld Place after this, but that disappeared after his third night here. Oliver was such a welcome sight -- a reminder of his first few years at Hogwarts, when they'd been so mad for the Quidditch Cup that nothing seemed to stop their drive, their determination to win it, and how Oliver had finally led them to that victory in their third year. Other parts of his time at Hogwarts weren't nearly so much fun, but he remembered the Quidditch matches, overall, as shining moments. Still, the odd quaver in his stomach when he saw Oliver for the first time in four years didn't have much to do with Quidditch at all.

He'd figured out last year that at least part of the reason of his lack of success with girls was due to the fact that girls weren't exactly his thing. Looking back, though, it made sense: he'd spent time at the Yule Ball with Ron instead of his date; Ron was the person chosen as a hostage in one of his Triwizard tasks, the person Harry would miss most; Ron was the one whose loss he felt most keenly when they fought. He was still feeling that loss, to some extent, though now it was because Ron and Hermione had finally realized that their constant bickering hid a deeper interest in each other. Harry was jealous of Hermione, and knew it: another reason he didn't want to go to the Burrow or to Grimmauld Place, to be reminded of their relationship every time he turned around.

Two nights he'd been at Oliver's, then, with odd glances, the strangest sort of tension in the air, even at the Puddlemere practices when Oliver had invited Harry onto the field to show Gregory Lynche the Wronski Feint, since Harry had learned it from watching Viktor Krum firsthand. Harry had noticed a couple of the others, the Beaters, he thought, elbowing each other and smirking, but they hadn't said anything.

And then the third night, where they'd gone out drinking with the rest of the team, firewhiskys all around and Harry had only needed a couple to feel lightheaded and wobbly, the way it normally took eight or nine butterbeers to feel. He'd leaned on Oliver, or maybe Oliver had leaned on him, all the way back to the flat, and barely inside the door, he'd leaned on Oliver again -- definitely him leaning this time, pressing Oliver to the wall, enjoying the way he could look into Oliver's eyes now, the dark centers of them wide with inebriation. And Oliver hadn't resisted; if anything, he'd encouraged, his hands pushing up under Harry's coat, pushing it off as they kissed. This, this was the source of it, all the strange feelings in Harry's stomach, the aching want that made him press his hips into Oliver's, and Oliver moaned and rolled back against him in a matching agony of need.

He'd never touched a boy before, but it came easily, easier than kissing Cho or navigating the confusing maze of her intentions. Maybe it was because he knew boys, didn't have to wonder what agenda was in the back of Oliver's mind: that was obvious, almost painfully so, from the hard cock inside his trousers, from the way his hands groped and searched. He knew Oliver; he trusted Oliver. And Oliver wanted him, and that was exciting too.

"This OK?" Oliver managed in between kisses, as he unbuttoned Harry's shirt.

"Don't stop," Harry breathed, and Oliver laughed. They stumbled to the bed, not far to go, through a doorway and then down into a mattress that buckled beneath them, and Oliver straddled Harry's hips and finished undoing his shirt. That was exciting, too, feeling Oliver's rugged body holding him down, strong muscles, the burliness of him. Harry kept looking back to Oliver's face, though, his dark eyes, almost black with need, the hunger that made Harry's breath come short. He'd always thought Oliver to be handsome enough, but at this particular moment he thought Oliver was nothing short of beautiful.

"God, I can't believe this," Oliver gasped suddenly. It was Harry's turn to laugh.

"Me either, but please--" He pushed up, catching Oliver's nape and kissing him again. Sloppy and deep, tongues riding together, and Harry had to struggle to breathe, he wanted things he'd never even thought about in the past. He hadn't had much of a sexual education up until now, aside from hearing talk in the Common Room, or Ron describing how it felt to kiss Hermione in achingly faithful detail. Fortunately, Oliver had no such problems. He slid down off the bed, between Harry's knees, and undid his jeans.

"Oh, fuck," Harry gasped as his cock sprang free from his underwear.

"You don't have to do this," Oliver said suddenly, looking up at Harry over the rather solid evidence of his arousal. "I mean, reciprocate--"

"OK, OK," Harry groaned. "Just, please..."

Oliver grinned, then, and lowered his head, and Harry nearly swallowed his tongue. He'd been jerking off regularly for the past few years, especially once Ron had started to fill out, but nothing, nothing in the world compared to Oliver's mouth on his cock. 'Ron who?' Harry managed to think dimly to himself, and then lost the thought again when damp heat slid down to cover him so fully that Harry thought he'd die.

One hand slid instinctively into the dark sheaf of Oliver's hair; Oliver did something particularly exquisite with his tongue, right around the ridge of Harry's cock, and Harry let out an involuntary yell and pulled. "Ow!" Oliver gasped and pulled back; the sudden rush of cool air made Harry jerk up from his prone position, and he let go of Oliver's hair.

"Sorry," he managed to pant. "I didn't--"

"It's OK, just don't do it again," Oliver said, and dove in again.

Harry had known he wouldn't last long, but he couldn't hold back long at all; one moment Oliver's tongue was sliding around the base of his cock, and the next minute he was yelping his orgasm. Oliver jerked backward, but not fast enough, and Harry looked up to see -- oh, no, Oliver's face was liberally spotted with drops of whitish semen. His come. Harry felt himself go bright red.

Oliver only grinned, though, and took a fistful of his t-shirt to pull it over his head, wiping his face off as he did. "Warn a guy next time, Potter," he said. The very idea of there being a next time made Harry's whole body throb dully. He lifted up, letting Oliver tug his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off, and then slid down to kneel on the rug next to him.

"I want to try," he said. He was pretty sure the firewhisky had burned out of his blood, replaced by some other, hotter thing that coursed through him, some river of lust that made him push Oliver back to the floor and climb over him, hands exploring his broad chest, the dark nipples standing up against a soft mat of springy hair.

"God," Oliver mumbled as Harry unbuttoned his trousers. "You don't have to."

"I know," Harry said patiently, and gave Oliver a rakish smile. "I'll never learn if I don't do it, will I?"

Oliver managed to laugh at that and let his head drop back. Harry's first blowjob was a fair effort, as he managed to not choke himself or score Oliver's penis with his teeth. Actually, from the way Oliver arched up and came -- he had enough presence of mind to warn Harry beforehand, so that Harry was able to pull back and jerk him to climax -- Harry had a feeling he'd done a pretty good job.

That was a week ago, and Harry feels almost like he's settled into Oliver's flat now. They go to practices together, or to the movies, and then they come home and usually barely make it inside the door before they're yanking each other's clothes off. Two nights ago, Oliver told him about bottoming and topping, and whispered roughly in Harry's ear that he wanted Harry to top him. The very idea was so hot that all Harry could do was roll over and ask if Oliver had condoms. Harry's learned more in a week than he thinks he did his whole last year at Hogwarts.

He likes this, the way they are together. It's like they're two different people in here; they're not Oliver Wood and the Famous Harry Potter, they're just Oliver and Harry, and Harry thinks he might be in love with the Oliver that exists in this little world of theirs. He's a little afraid of that idea; after all, didn't he just get done thinking he hardly knows him?

He jerks out of his thoughts when warm arms come around him, nearly making him drop the empty glass. "Come back to bed," Oliver murmurs in his ear.

"Sorry," Harry whispers. "I was thirsty."

Oliver chuckles and takes the glass, setting it in the sink. No wands, no magic in here; that's one of their unspoken rules. It's a Muggle flat, and they don't need it, which is fine, because Harry's more than used to it.

Once they're settled, moonlight slanting in through the blinds to dapple the sheets, Harry turns his face to Oliver, touches his cheek with gentle fingers. "So tell me," he says, swallowing, "tell me about your parents."

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this page last updated on 21 february 2004