?

Log in

No account? Create an account
entries friends calendar profile AT: Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn Previous Previous Next Next
4, 5, 7, 11, 21: Arithmantic Series and Oneiromantic Analyses - Wemyss's Appalling Hobby:
From the Party Guilty of Committing 'Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn'
wemyss
wemyss
4, 5, 7, 11, 21: Arithmantic Series and Oneiromantic Analyses
Title: 4, 5, 7, 11, 21: Arithmantic Series and Oneiromantic Analyses
Author: GMW Wemyss
Pairing: H/D
Rating: BBFC 15
Length: 1472
Summary: It does not do to dwell in dreams
Warnings: (if applicable) Tennyson
 
__________________________________
4, 5, 7, 11, 21: Arithmantic Series and Oneiromantic Analyses
 
Prompts: Word prompts 4 (caught dressed as) and 7 (inconvenient arousal); picture prompts 5, 11, and 21
 
3.10 – 3.49 BST;
4.41 – 5.09 BST.
___________________________________
 
Harry even now, an old campaigner, woke swiftly and alertly, neither flailing nor mazed, ready to defend yet not wildly wanded.
 
As if there were anything that might want defending against in the deep-meadowed island-valley of the Vale of Evelake; but, there, one doesn’t first reflect upon that when wakened at … Tempus … at an ungodly small hour of an Autumn morning.
 
Harry smiled, fondly, all Harry now, not the retired Chief of the Magical General Staff laden with well-earnt honours, not the Master of the Hallows and the heritor of the Grail, but rather simply Harry, with his Draco after long voyaging in his arms and safe.
 
What had awakened him was evident: in dreams, even within the circle of the Grail’s protection, even with the charmed circle of Harry’s arms, his Draco was voyaging, and appeared not to know himself safe. Harry woke that restless beauty with his kiss.
 
Like a chieftain of the Merfolk struggling towards the surface, Draco rose from the depths of his dreams and broke the surface of waking. He gasped, and his eyes focused, and he gripped Harry tightly, burying his head upon Harry’s broad shoulder.
 
‘I’m here, love. Tell me if you like, and break whatever hold there is upon you.’
 
Draco exhaled, shakily.
 
Harry smiled into that fine, soft, silver-gilt hair, thistledown upon the wind when they were private and alone and his hands had not been stayed in their favourite task of running though it.
 
‘Lover…. Don’t fight it.’ Harry knew full well that dreams that might at most embarrass Harry only for social reasons if told abroad, dreams that those incontinent little fauns who were their sons should revel in, disturbed his Draco. Even pleasant and erotic dreams, if they were not explicitly about Harry and Draco, made Draco uneasy when he had them; and if Draco by day derided and distrusted Divination in all its forms, Draco by night felt old, atavistic fears of prophetic dreams and oneiromancy.
 
‘I’m here, love. All is well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. Tell me your dreams if you like, and we’ll blow them away with a breath.’
 
Draco swallowed. ‘It was ghastly. Simply not on.’
 
Harry carefully suppressed his smile, this time. Draco was clearly rattled when he resorted to three-in-the-morning plumminess.
 
‘Mmm? It didn’t involve an Old Hufflepuff tie used as a blindfold, did it? Or wearing any of the constrictors as a boa? Or me suddenly turning into Pans?’
 
‘Well, no. So I suppose it might have been worse.’ Draco shuddered. He was immensely fond of Pansy, but there were some things no gay Wizard should ever wish to see in dreams, even if that Wizard had once been sufficiently bisexual to have married and got a son.
 
‘I’m here, love.’
 
Draco nodded against Harry’s shoulder. Harry never judged, and never presumed to find Divinatory significance in his disturbing dreams, and that made everything to right itself and steady itself. He couldn’t have borne it had Harry gone all Trelawney on him.
 
‘It was raining. A mistful, wistful, lightish rain. And … I was aroused. Most untimely and inconvenient.’
 
Harry, although not nearly as randy in season and out as Al and Scorp (for whom there was no season they considered ‘out’), lazily traced patterns on Draco’s pectorals. He’d never found Draco’s arousal untimely or at any time inconvenient.
 
‘Mmm?’
 
‘Well! Wholly untimely and unbehovely. Because. Er. Cousin Weasel was walking along in the rain – silly fool hadn’t the sense to cast any charms, and was soaked through. And I’d caught him, you see.’
 
‘How, “caught” him?’
 
‘Appalling, really, he was dressed wholly inappropriately.’
 
Harry raised an eyebrow, trusting to the darkness that it be not remarked.
 
‘I mean, really. As a Muggle. In a Muggle suit. And clearly off the peg – not even bespoke. And the wrong boots entirely. And his collar undone and his shirttail out and his tie buggered up and – it was horrid. Even for that walking fashion disaster.’ Draco paused. ‘And, as I say, soaked to the skin. Shirt simply plastered on – that’s to say, his absurd ginger hair plastered to his thick head.’
 
Harry knew perfectly well what Draco had been going to say. Ron, soaked to the skin, his clothes moulded to his body with the wet, his shirt rendered all but transparent…. Harry cast a discreet wandless charm. No reason for both of them to be unnerved by having had, both of ’em, an inconvenient arousal; and Draco’s raw insecurities were not to be stung in that fashion. Harry turned away from that rather pleasant image of his best friend (Ron had grown up well), and gave his attention over to the only man he actually wanted both to sleep with and to wake beside.
 
‘And then I saw this chap. Thought it was a young you for a moment.’ It didn’t want to be said, for either of them, that Draco had panicked at the prospect it might have been Al instead. ‘But the nose was all wrong.’
 
Harry ran his hand down Draco’s abdomen, gentling him. So long as it hadn’t been a Snape fantasy.
 
‘And you were never such a damned fool as to crouch on a window sill, half in and half out, in an open window, wearing only a skimpy bit of well-distended cotton and a come-hither look.’
 
‘Mmm. Go on.’
 
‘And then it wasn’t raining any longer, but there was an alley – horrid, fetid place – and wet from the rain. And the dark-haired bloke from the window – he was older now, but I made sure it was he. Standing there. In the most curious undress, with some sort of cap on, and his tackle thrust out. And I heard footsteps behind me, and I knew it was Cousin Weasel, and. I was hard enough to cut diamonds with it, and I didn’t want to see, I didn’t, Harry –’
 
‘Sh. It’s all right, love. I know you’ve no interest in Ron.’ Long training had finally inculcated in Harry the ability, when confronted by operational necessity, to lie convincingly. Everyone had fantasies about Ron. ‘And – was the other fellow Viktor?’
 
Draco nodded against his shoulder, miserably, silently.
 
Harry silently commended his lover’s taste in blokes. ‘I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Dreams are always symbolic, not literal.’ One should never convince a Wizard to believe that wholly, but Harry knew it must help somewhat. ‘If it bothers later – I mean, continues to do, later today – you might look at it Arithmantically.’ Harry held no brief for Arithmancy, didn’t understand it, and shouldn’t study it for a wager, but it was clinical and analytical and – although perfectly useless – allowed Draco to reach solutions he could live with, arbitrary numbers erecting a shield between him and more reality – or fantasy – than he could bear.
 
‘Later…. But, Harry. I’m. I’m a bit shaken now, to be honest.’
 
Harry chuckled, openly, soothingly. Seductively. ‘I know. Which is why we’re going to chase that away with … a more hands-on approach just now.’
 
‘Mmm?’
 
‘Oh, yes, my little dragonlet pet. Remember when Hermione made us watch Citizen Kane?’
 
‘Wh- yes, but –’
 
Harry’s hands were everywhere now. ‘Well, I have my own ideas about that. There’s a certain … rosebud … that’s central to my thinking, you see.’ Harry was spreading Draco’s thighs apart, lovingly but inexorably, demandingly; and Draco felt his hot breath as a zephyr upon his most intimate places, the last of Summer and the first crisp bite of Autumn. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ promised Harry, with naked sincerity. ‘No … infidelity …’ (as if Ron should ever be faithless to Hermione, Harry thought, with an inward smile) ‘and no grotty alleys … no sneaking about –’
 
‘H- Harry!’
 
‘Mmm. So delicious. A banquet of delights, love. A … moveable .. feast….’
 
‘HARRY!’
 
‘Yes, yes, that’s it, open for me, love … relax … enjoy….’
 
They were very late for breakfast, and Draco was going gingerly – particularly when he sat – and the age of miracles being not past, Albie nor Scorp said a word, although their countenances spoke many volumes when Harry – not Draco – caught their eyes.
 

… the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is:
 
***
 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea.
 
***
 
Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.


Tags: , , ,

16 comments or Leave a comment
Comments
absynthedrinker From: absynthedrinker Date: September 13th, 2011 06:20 pm (UTC) (Link)
Rosebuds and Zephyrs! Really?!

Peace,
Bubba
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 13th, 2011 06:22 pm (UTC) (Link)

Sometimes...

... one has a little sly fun with the fanon conventions.
absynthedrinker From: absynthedrinker Date: September 13th, 2011 07:20 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Sometimes...

Oh I loved the story to be sure. Just wasn't expecting rosebuds in your journal.

Always a delight reading anything you post, of course!

Peace,
Bubba
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 13th, 2011 08:43 pm (UTC) (Link)

Ha.

You don't think for a moment that Hermione didn't discuss Marion Davies in the context of 'rosebud', do you?

Thanks, you lovely man.
sgt_majorette From: sgt_majorette Date: September 14th, 2011 01:12 am (UTC) (Link)

Arithmantic Series

1,2,4,10?? I don't get it...
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 14th, 2011 12:41 pm (UTC) (Link)

Look at the title. Now...

look at the prompt numbers.

Now look back at the title.

(I'm on a Thestral.)
sgt_majorette From: sgt_majorette Date: September 14th, 2011 01:06 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Look at the title. Now...

Flashback: Me, in the Discrete Math professor's office, weeping...
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 14th, 2011 01:09 pm (UTC) (Link)

I cannot do maths. This is well known.

Wherefore such a simple trick with the title.
sgt_majorette From: sgt_majorette Date: September 14th, 2011 01:20 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: I cannot do maths. This is well known.

Moi, non plus; by my caluculation, there should have been some toe-sucking.
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 14th, 2011 01:29 pm (UTC) (Link)

Oh, surely not.

I hope.
sgt_majorette From: sgt_majorette Date: September 14th, 2011 01:49 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Oh, surely not.

4,5,7,11,__::1,2,4,8::4,5,7,11,19
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 14th, 2011 01:51 pm (UTC) (Link)

You forget...

... it's Duckworth/Lewis.
sgt_majorette From: sgt_majorette Date: September 14th, 2011 01:54 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: You forget...

Oh, well. Could have been way worse. (Number Twelve...)
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 14th, 2011 02:08 pm (UTC) (Link)

I like women. As persons.

But I cannot bear to write het.

Vide icon.
sgt_majorette From: sgt_majorette Date: September 14th, 2011 02:21 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: I like women. As persons.

What if it were a fat man? A threesome with Slughorn?
wemyss From: wemyss Date: September 14th, 2011 02:40 pm (UTC) (Link)

Chacun a son gout.

Not my preference, but not my business, either. (Ask Rubens.)

I leave the last word w Mika:

16 comments or Leave a comment