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Brains for gala_apples [NC-17] -- RW/MC/AG

Title: Brains
Author: mickawber_fics
Recipient: gala_apples
Rating: A/NC-17
Ship: Ron/Michael Corner/Anthony Goldstein; Ron/Hermione implied
Warnings: slash; bondage; implied non-con. Brains. And Nargles.
Summary: Ron's dreaming. Anthony and Michael have some ideas how to wake him up.
Genre: PWP, pretty much, with some odd plotty bits and attempted humor.
Author's Note: You gave me so many ideas, gala_apples ! I apologize that this took so long—real life intruded like the bugger it is—but I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


When Ron stumbled down to the common room having barely slept for the third time that week, he knew he needed to do something. When Hermione gave him her usual morning kiss and all he felt was a vague sense of shame, he knew he needed to do something soon. When Harry patted him on the shoulder as they started down toward the Great Hall and his knob decided suddenly to go periscope-up, he knew he needed to do something now.

The problem was, Ron didn’t have the slightest bloody clue what to do.

He wasn’t one to have weird dreams. Harry, sure—that was his thing, wasn’t it? Waking up screaming in the middle of the night, even now, more than six months after old Moldybreath’s very timely demise, needing a pat on the head and a tuck-in.

But Ron? The only dreams he could ever remember having before this month were a couple involving spiders from the summer after second year. He knew there’d been some others—he’d woken up often enough to find his sheets sticky and wet—but memories of those dreams, lovely as they must have been, were usually gone like dew before he’d managed to blink twice.

“Ron?” said Hermione, her worried face on. She was wearing the hair clip with mistletoe that he gave her.

“Hmm?”

Harry rested his hand on Ron’s shoulder and once again it brought up responses in Ron that he couldn’t for the life of him think of a cause for. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast. You coming down with something?”

“Dunno,” admitted Ron, truthfully.

“Want us to take you up to Madam Pomfrey?”

“Uh, no,” Ron answered, staring down at his sausages and very aware that he wouldn’t be standing up straight for a bit—certainly not while Harry’s hand remained on his shoulder. He nodded to his girlfriend, who was frowning at him. “You guys run on to Defense. I’ll catch you up.”

Harry gave Ron’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, Hermione kissed the top of his head, and they blessedly stalked off.

The suits of armor on either side of the main door started singing “I Saw Three Brooms Come Flying In.”
Ron sighed. His forearms itched.

He skewered a sausage and brought it to his mouth.

Sausage. Mouth.

He slammed it down again in disgust. Couldn’t he even eat in peace without getting hard as a beater’s bat?

Bloody fucking hell.

He needed to do something. Now.

Casting about desperately—incapable of standing—he saw a skinny, pale, long-haired figure crossing toward the Great Hall entrance. “OI! GOLDSTEIN!”

Anthony glanced up from his book, blinking.

Ron gestured furiously for the Ravenclaw to come over.

As he walked over, face blank but for one raised eyebrow, Ron felt both rising panic and rising certainty: Goldstein was exactly the right person. Smart. Taking the NEWT Healer course. Closed-mouthed as a clam with a Lockjaw Jinx cast on it. According to Neville he’d nearly died last year rather than rat out Luna and Ginny when those two had snuck up to the Owlery in order to send an order to George and Fred for more Darkness Powder. And of course…

“What’s up, Ron?” asked Anthony.

Ron coughed.

Anthony raised the other eyebrow. “You ought to take care of that.”

“Er, yeah,” said Ron, looking around. No one above fifth year, except for Ginny, who was sitting at the other end of the table with Loony. Giggling. Not trying to smuggle in Darkness Powder today, obviously. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, right?”

“What, a cough? Madam Pomfrey—”

No,” said Ron, a bit more loudly than he’d intended. He could see his sister’s face and her friend’s pop up at the far end, one face bright with mischief, the other with bliss. His arms felt… warm. Scratching at his sleeves, he leaned forward and continued in a low voice. “No. Not Madam Pomfrey. I wanted to talk to you.”
“But—?”

“Still in Healer training, right?”

“Of course,” Goldstein said. His eyes, bright and brown, scanned Ron’s face.

“Well, see, it’s also because you’re…” Ron tried to think of a way of saying what he needed to say without just saying it. “You know….”

Anthony leaned back slightly, his few freckles bunching over his pale nose. “Jewish? I mean, Hanukkah doesn’t start for another—”

Ron gaped for a moment. “Uh, no. No. You’re…” He whispered, “You’re, you know, gay.”
“Yes,” answered Anthony slowly.

“Well, I’ve been having these… dreams.”

Suddenly all of the confusion on Goldstein’s face vanished. “Ah. Well that’s perfectly nor—”
“I don’t think they’re mine.”

Ron watched Anthony’s brain work at that. He rather liked watching people think—he’d learned that pleasure from Hermione, of course. Ron could almost hear Hermione-like words like denial and homophobia bouncing around in the Ravenclaw’s skull. He could also see that Anthony was intrigued. “Not yours?”

Ron shook his head.

The bell rang, and there was a symphony of laughter and of chatter and of benches scraping back, and all of the students still in the Great Hall rose and started to herd toward the doors and their first classes.
Ron stood.

“Look,” muttered Anthony, who suddenly looked shockingly short, “why don’t you come up to Ravenclaw this evening around eight. I’ll meet you at the door. You know where it is?”

Nodding, Ron waved as Anthony Goldstein pushed off into the river of departing students.

An impish voice piped up behind Ron. “Didn’t think he was your type, Ronnikins,” Ginny giggled.

“Nah, just talking about some of McGonagall’s, you know…” Of course, Ginny and Luna were now in Transfiguration with Ron and Anthony, so he couldn’t think what they’d need to talk about.

“Oh, but I think he’s rather cute,” sighed Luna. “He and Michael let me watch them having sex sometimes. It’s quite exciting.”

Ron gaped and spluttered, as Ginny laughed and pulled him toward their first class of the day.

: :

In Potions, Ron watched Goldstein and Corner working on the Draught of Living Death. Were their hands touching an awful lot or was he just imagining it?

“Got a rash?” asked Harry quietly.

Ron looked away from the two boys at the next table and realized that he’d been scratching at his arms again. “Er, yeah. Something like.”

“You ought to see the nurse.”

Nodding as he went back to crushing belladonna seeds, Ron murmured, “Yeah, yeah. Good idea. This evening.”

“Good,” said Harry, smiling, and patted Ron on the back.

Oh, bugger. Ron groaned. Another stiffy.


: :

By the time he crossed the seventh floor of the castle and climbed the stairs to the entrance to the Ravenclaw Tower, Ron had spent so much time that day trying to adjust himself that he felt as if he might as well have just dropped his trousers and had done with it. Being a teenage boy was hard enough, but bloody hell! He was almost nineteen!

Not only were the same impulses popping up every time Harry got near, but images of Corner and Goldstein…doing it were chasing themselves through his head. And where a while ago such an idea would have done anything but got him hot—at best he’d have probably wondered what the hell two boys could possibly do—now, his dreams had showed him some possibilities that would never have occurred to Ron otherwise, and would have been more likely to make him want to take a warm shower with lots of soap to clean himself off, rather than a cold one to cool himself down.

Shower…

An image flashed through Ron’s head: the showers, wet and steamy; Harry, hands bound by a bumblebee tie to the bronze, talon-shaped shower handle.

The dream…

“Rod,” Harry moans, wet skin glistening. “Please… Please…”

“Want it, Potter?” chuckles Ron, running the sharp edge of his signet ring up the length of his best friend’s very wet, very erect knob. “Want it bad?”

Harry groans again and writhes against the bonds. “Please, Rod. Black…”

At Ron’s shoulder, Hermione sniggers, her voice low as it usually only gets after a good fuck. “He wants it. He wants it bad. Shall we give it to him, or shall we leave him here?”

Harry gasps. “Please!”

Ron kneels on the warm, slick tile between Harry’s thin, wet, splayed thighs. “What a good bitch you are,” he grunts, grabbing slim hips and pulling them up over his knees and sliding his thighs beneath until his own cock—hard, dripping with more than shower water—splits Harry’s bollocks. Slides against Harry’s thinner but equally erect cock. “Isn’t Potter a good bitch?”

“Quite,” says Hermione, barely audible. Ron can hear that she’s playing with herself.

Picking up his wand from the wet floor—have to polish it later, he thinks, which makes him grin—Ron casts a quick Glissare on his own erection and on Harry’s arse. Sliding his arms beneath his friend’s knees, he lifts unresisting legs over his shoulders. Suddenly the head of his cock is pressed between the cheeks of Harry’s bum.

“God!” gasps Harry, twisting against the tie that binds him.

“Not yet,” Ron laughs. With one hand, he spreads Harry’s cheeks so that his cock presses right up against the tight ring of muscle that is the gateway to all good things. “You haven’t seen him yet. Shall we show him to you?”

Harry closes his eyes and whimpers.

“Open your eyes, Potter. Look at me.”

He does; they are open and full of fear and desire.

“Ask me.”

“Please…”

“Ask me to fuck you.”

Harry’s mouth flops open; he glances up to Hermione.

She chuckles. “You know you want it. Ask for it, or he won’t give it to you.”

“Please!”

Ron pushes gently, feels the muscles of Harry’s anus begin to give way and then tighten, panicked; too late—the tip of Ron’s head is there, keeping the entrance open, a foot in the door. In spite of himself, Ron groans at the pressure around his glans. “Ask, Potter. Ask me to fuck your arse. Ask me to—”

“Bugger me,” Harry whispers, so quietly that Ron can barely hear it over the drip and hiss of the water flowing around them. “Bugger my—aaaaaahhhh!”

Ron pushes in now, hard, brooking no denial; his spell-slick erection slides past the entrance into the tight passage of his best friend’s bony arse.

Harry thrashes, crying out, but his hands are well bound, and Ron’s hands hold his sharp hips steady as his prick rams fully home, spearing Harry like an insect in a case.

Hot. Tight. Even fucking Hermione…

“Fuck,” gasps Hermione.

“Like it?” Ron grunts to Harry. “Feel good having a real cock up your bum at last?” Ron withdraws and slides back in, and… Bloody hell, it feels good—beyond good—and Harry cried out, transported expressions of pain and pleasure intermingled. Too good. Don’t want to… Got to… keep control. “Black? Want some? I’m sure Potter has something left for you.”

Harry weeps, but he pushes against Ron, welcoming him.

“Yes.” Hermione steps forward, stiff prick in her hands; it takes both to hold the thing steady. “Open your mouth, Potter. Open your mouth and we’ll see you well and truly—”


To his horror, Ron came to himself to find that he was half-collapsed against the corridor wall. Something warm and wet was dribbling down his trouser leg, and he was panting and sweaty—as wet as if he had actually just been in the showers.

From across the corridor, Anthony Goldstein’s mild gaze pierced Ron with the intensity of a Cruciatus.
Ron blinked at him, gasping for breath.

“Dreams, hmm?” said Anthony. “You’d better come on up.”

: :

“And you think this is someone else’s dream?” Goldstein sat atop the oak desk that dominated the center of the Ravenclaw seventh year dorm, fingering the end of his ponytail. His expression was as neutral as ever but there was a sheen on his forehead; once he’d started to describe the dream, Ron hadn’t been able to hold back: it had all tumbled out, every bizarre, randy detail, and Goldstein had sat there, wide-eyed, nodding and occasionally pulling at his collar.

“Yeah,” grunted Ron. He was seated on the trunk at the end of Goldstein’s bed; somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to get on the other boy’s bed. “I mean, it’s the same bloody dream, every damned time, down to the bloody twist of the tie and the drops of water on Harry’s, um—that’s never happened to me before.”
Anthony shrugged, unconvinced. “Well, it’s not—”

“And,” Ron went on, “he calls me Rod. Not Ron, Rod. And Hermione! We both call her Black. And she… She’s got a bloody tadger!”

Anthony smiled. “A rather large one, you said.”

“Huge.”

“How nice.” Goldstein gave a tiny grin that seemed even more disturbing for being miniscule.

“I guess. I mean, you ever had a dream about your boyfriend suddenly having a, you know, girl’s stuff?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.” He turned his head slightly. “Rod… could also be a simple Freudian substitution…”

“A what?” Goldstein sounded like Hermione now—but didn’t have the nice bits to look at while you were listening, and so Ron was less willing to be patient. Besides…

“I mean, Ron,” Anthony stood and walked toward where Ron was, “did you enjoy what you were doing?”

Ron wanted to look away, but those soft eyes held him. “I… In the dream, hell yes. But come on. I like girls! I’ve never even wanted a go at another bloke, not even a little!” He scratched at his forearms.
“Not even once?”

“No! And no, I’m not, you know, in denial or anything. I like girls.” Only right now, Ron thought, the image of Corner and you frotting each other… Frotting? Where did that word come from? Bloody hell.

Anthony held his gaze for a long moment and then shrugged. “Okay. Fair enough. Do you mind if I ask you…? The other aspect of the dream—the power play. The bondage. That sort of sexual behavior is totally separate from gender preference. Do you and Granger…?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“What, you mean…?” In spite of the humiliation already heaped on him, Ron found himself blushing furiously. “Well, you know, we’ve played around a bit, just playing. But no, it’s really not like a big turn-on or anything for me. To be honest, her and me, every time we’ve tried something like that, we just end up… giggling. It’s kind of silly.”

“Didn’t sound like you found it silly when you dreamed it.”

“That’s my point, isn’t it?” Ron stood, towering over Anthony. “And the tie! Why the bloody hell would I be tying Harry up with a Hufflepuff tie?”

“You’ve been tying Potter up?” said a new voice. “Naughty boy.”

Ron spun around; even though he had watched Goldstein cast a Locking Charm on the door, there stood Michael Corner, smirking. “What…? Shit! It’s just a bloody dream, okay? And it’s bloody private.”

“Sorry, Ron,” said Anthony. “I didn’t… Michael and I know each other’s passwords.”

Corner leaned down and gave Goldstein a peck on the lips. Ron felt as if he should feel queasy, but didn’t. In all honesty, in all of the turmoil, he wasn’t sure what he felt. “Thought you liked girls,” he muttered, trying not to think about those same thin lips kissing his sister a few years back.

Anthony smirked at Ron. “Apparently, what he likes is short and scrawny, with freckles and a ponytail. Lucky me!”

Corner laughed, giving Anthony’s hair a tug. “Lucky me, too.” He peered at Ron. “What’s brought you up here? I don’t suppose you’re up for a game of Coppers and Criminals?”

Ron goggled at the pair. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Didn’t think so,” sighed Corner. “More’s the pity.”

“God,” groaned Anthony. “Don’t get him started. Not everyone geeks out over Muggle role-playing games like you do, Michael.”

“Look,” Ron muttered, starting to back toward the door.

“So this dream—sounds fascinating.”

“Corner, it’s private.”

Anthony looked between the two. “It’s true, Michael; I asked Ron up here so that I could help him try to figure out—”

Ron crossed his arms. “Something private.”

Corner shrugged, trying to look apologetic, but Ron could see the smirk fighting through. “Something private. To do with trussing up Potter with a Hufflepuff tie.”

Exasperated, humiliated, Ron started once again to leave, but couldn’t help trying to finish the point he’d been trying to make. He turned back to Anthony. “My point was, it doesn’t feel like, you know, a dream. It feels like I’m bloody remembering it.” Feels like I’m bloody living it. “Why in Merlin’s name would I remember Harry having a bloody Hufflepuff tie? Or, you know, any of that other stuff?”

Anthony sat up straighter in his boyfriend’s grasp. “It was Harry’s tie? How do you know that?”

“I just… do,” grumbled Ron, pulled between the impulse to leave and the need to make Goldstein understand.

“Don’t see the problem,” said Corner. “There’ve been Potters in Hufflepuff before.”

What?” Ron peered at Michael, looking for the joke.

Michael had his swotty Ravenclaw face on, however; he was staring intently down at the desk. “Well, I don’t knowwhat this… dream—or whatever—is about, obviously. But…” Corner looked up, realizing that both Anthony and Ron were staring at him. “Well, Harry’s grandfather was a Hufflepuff. I mean, maybe he left a—”

“How the bloody hell do you know that?” Ron asked.

Anthony continued to stare up at his boyfriend. “He’s writing his thesis for NEWT History on the family line of the Peverells.”

Ron blinked. “You’re joking.”

Corner’s eyebrows shot up. Anthony put a finger on his boyfriend’s lips, intervening. “It’s a very interesting subject, given last year’s events.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not what I meant—I can see that, definitely, sure. No—you’re taking a NEWT in History?”
“Well,” said Michael with a laugh, “if there’s no one out there with the qualifications, they’ll never be able to replace Binns, will they?”

Ron startled into laughter himself. “Guess not! Still… you’re a braver wizard than me!”

“Quite a compliment from a Gryffindor,” said Anthony, plainly relieved that some of the tension had broken.

“Actually,” said Michael, “the work is almost entirely independent. I’ve been reviewing my research with Binns every week or two, but mostly it’s just me and the library.”

Ron recognized the misty look that descended over the faces of both Ravenclaws. “Yeah, don’t tell Hermione, she’d die of jealousy.”

The three of them shared a chuckle.

“So,” Ron continued, “Harry’s granddad was in Hufflepuff?” That somehow didn’t seem right.

“Oh, yes,” said Corner, looking—or trying to look—professorial. “Charlus. He was a prefect. Was at Hogwarts from ’22 through ’29. Quite a Quidditch natural, apparently, like his son and grandson.”

“That sounds right anyway.”

“He was also a leader in the movement that was very popular at the time to abolish the four houses, as it happens.”

“Wow.” Ron could see the face: thin, pale. Harry’s. But… Charlus. In the shower... He shivered. “Um… Did… Was there anyone there around the same time named… Rod?”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed, catlike, as Corner’s flashed. “Yes! How did you know? That’s one of the most interesting bits: Roderick Gaunt, a Ravenclaw, in the year ahead of Charlus. Last direct descendent of Cadmus Peverell. Another one of the leaders of the House Abolitionists. Distant cousin of—”

“Of Voldemort.” Ron shivered again. On his own finger, a ring… running up the edge...

“Y-yes.” Corner shuddered, and Goldstein with him, though probably for different reasons from Ron. “Yes. He died right before finishing Hogwarts, actually.”

What?” That wasn’t what Ron had expected at all.

“Well, sort of.”

“How can you sort of die?” asked Goldstein, sensibly.

Well, Ron mused, Harry…

“Quite mysterious, actually. He was hit by some sort of curse while in the Great Hall. There were hundreds of witnesses—but no one ever saw who cast the spell.”

The thought floated through Ron’s consciousness: Invisibility cloak… “Uh… So, he died?”

“Well, actually, it’s quite interesting: he was dying—quite painfully, actually—and rather than let the curse take him, he donated his brain—”

“—to the Department of Mysteries.” The shudders had become a steady spasm. The vision swam before Ron: a tank, full of floating…

“How on earth could you have known that?” Corner asked.

Without a word, Ron popped open the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves as high as they’d go.

“Wow,” said Anthony, staring at the pattern of welts that scored Ron’s arms, red now, and raw. “How long have you had these?” He took out his wand and began running his wand over them.

Holding his arms out, trying not to look down at them, Ron sighed. “Couple of years ago. When we followed Harry down—”

“—to the Department of Mysteries.” Michael managed to look as though he were nodding and shaking his head at the same time. “So you and our friend Roderick met?

“Met!” snorted Ron. “Yeah, right. I reached into the tank, sort of, um, by accident, and he…” He gritted his teeth to keep from shuddering. “He sort of… latched on to me.”

Michael’s eyebrows disappeared into his mop of hair.

“Cool,” Anthony murmured, lifting his wand. “And these have been bothering you ever since?”

“No,” Ron said, rolling his sleeves back down over the raw-looking scars. “Just for a bit, once before, and then the past couple of weeks.”

“Hmm.” Anthony looked up into Ron’s eyes. “And the dreams? Did they start up at the same time as this inflammation?”

“Yeah.” Ron looked down at his hands. “Was the main reason I was so sure the dream wasn’t… mine.”
“Hmm. And did you have similar dreams last time?”

“Well…” Ron could feel a blush pushing its way up, and hated it. “I don’t… You know. Don’t, um, remember my dreams, usually. But I had lots of… I was kind of randy for a bit yeah. Which is part of…” The blush swept over him, silencing his tongue.

“Part of?”

“Merlin,” choked Ron. He had never admitted this to anyone and wished he didn’t need to now—but he could see the puzzle-hunt brightness in Anthony’s eyes and recognized it from Hermione. He knew the Ravenclaw was on to something that might help. “Part of… You remember when I… wentoutwithLavender?”

“With…?”

The two boys blinked at Ron. Then Michael smirked. “With Bosoms Brown? How could we forget? The two of you were attached at the lip for—”

Anthony held his hand up. “Right around the holidays, wasn’t it, Ron?”

He nodded. It hurt to remember.

Anthony put his hand on Ron’s shoulder in a manner that Ron was sure was meant to be reassuring. “And did you have… homoerotic dreams then too?”

Ron puzzled out what Goldstein meant, and then shook his head. “I mean, like I said, I don’t usually
remember my dreams, now do I?”

“Hmm. But you kept going out with Lavender for a while after that, didn’t you?” Anthony asked.

“Yeah, ‘till around Easter. But… it wasn’t exactly the same after Christmas.”

“Less… randy?”

“Yeah… More like I was looking about, trying to figure out how the hell I’d got myself in such a mess.”
Michael laughed in sympathy; it was a relief to laugh along.

“May I ask, Ron,” asked Anthony, that brightness fairly burning in his eyes now, “have you kissed Hermione under the mistletoe this month?”

Ron blinked at Anthony. “Well… of course. I mean, got her a hair clip for her decorated with a bit of the stuff at the last Hogsmeade weekend, now, didn’t I?”

“Very smooth,” said Michael with a wink.

“Ta.”

Anthony nodded, his fingers fairly digging into Ron’s shoulder. “And two winters ago? With Lavender?”
“I don’t—“ Ron began, but then the memory flooded back: after the Quidditch match, Lavender telling him how brilliantly he’d played, then glancing up slyly at the weird-looking hunk of moon-glow greenery floating over their heads. And suddenly he’d… “Bloody hell. Yeah.”

Anthony leaned back, clapped his hands together and laughed. “That’s it!”

Ron found himself wondering if maybe Goldstein had got into the kosher wine or something. “Mistletoe?

Anthony laughed again. “No. No. It’s too good! I can’t….” He began to giggle.

Michael goggled down at his boyfriend. “What are you on about, Anth…?” Then his jaw dropped and he too began to laugh. “No fucking way! She’ll be impossible!”

“She’ll have earned it!” guffawed Goldstein, and the two began to howl with laughter.

For a bit, Ron just let them laugh, but that got boring pretty fast. “Guys? Guys? Could…” He waited a bit more, staring up at the ceiling. They finally started to slow down. “Any chance you could, you know, let me in on the joke?”

They startled, clearly having forgotten that he was there. “Sorry!” they both said.

Ron shrugged. “So?”

They started to giggle again.

“Loony,” laughed Michael.

“Nargles,” guffawed Anthony.

WHAT?

Anthony wipe his eyes, sniggering on. “She’s been on about the dangers of mistletoe every bloody year—has these detailed charts of the life cycles of Nargles, their effects on humans—”

Corner laughed. “When I first met your sister, Ron, dancing with her at the Yule Ball, she starts grilling me about the bloody things—Luna’d told her to watch out for them at the ball, you see! I told her they didn’t bloody exist—”

“But they make people randy and have weird dreams?” Ron stared down at the lacework of red scars on his arms.

“Well,” said Anthony with a hiccough of a snort, “not exactly. But combined with the effects of having been latched onto by… Roderick—”

“Did I hear someone talking about Nargles?” A familiar, vague voice wafted from the doorway.

Ron shot to his feet. Luna was wearing pyjamas that had Thestrals dancing over them. “Er…” He tried silently to tell the two boys not to saying anything—

“Speak of the devil!” crowed Goldstein.

“Oh,” said Luna, “I thought you were speaking about Nargles. Never mind then…”

“No!” shouted Corner, though Ron was waving his hands—one to try to keep Michael and Anthony quiet and the other waving goodbye to Luna quite emphatically. It didn’t matter. “You’ve got to see this!”

Anthony leapt to the door and began pulling Luna towards Ron who was quickly shrinking back onto the desk. “All of those times that we told you that you needed empirical proof if you were going to talk about Nargles and whatnot and here it is!” He grabbed Ron’s wrist and pulled the lacerated arm out.

Luna’s eyes—always wide—expanded alarmingly. “Goodness. From the Department of Mysteries?” she asked, but not waiting for an answer pushed Ron’s eyelids open and peered into his eyes. Twisting his head, she stuck her pinky in Ron’s ear. “Oh, dear. These are classic symptoms. I’m so sorry, Ron.”

“Er…”

“Have you been having odd dreams? Picking up on others’ thoughts? Having visions of sugar plums with gnashing teeth coming to—?”

“Er… Yeah.” Ron twisted his head away from Luna’s pinky. Her eyes were enormous. “Er, the dreams anyway.”

“Ah!” Luna’s face, which had been unusually focused, broke into a huge grin. “That’s wonderful!”

“Well,” mumbled Ron, “I mean, they are really odd dreams.”

“Oh,” said Luna, and Anthony and Michael sniggered—Ron hoped at her reaction, not his own discomfort.
She tilted her head. “Do you know whose brain it was that attacked you?”

Before Ron could say anything, Michael Corner announced, “Roderick Gaunt.”

“Oh!” Luna blinked, quite slowly. “How awful for you, Ron. My father says he was a nasty bugger.”

All three boys gawked at Luna.

“Well,” she said, as if someone had actually asked something, “my father was a first year Ravenclaw when Roderick Gaunt was head boy. That was the phrase he used: nasty bugger. I believe that he meant it literally.”

Suddenly interested—in spite of himself—Ron grabbed Luna’s hand. “What do you mean?”

“Well, my father told me that he took a rather unusual approach to teaching discipline to the younger boys who wanted to get ahead. He liked to tie them up—”

“In the showers,” grunted Ron. “And fuck them up the arse.”

“Yes.” Gooseflesh sprung up on Luna’s arm. “Ron? That didn’t sound terribly much like you.”

He grunted again, non-verbally this time.

Huge eyes narrowing, Luna asked, “Have those been the dreams you’ve been having, Ron?”

He nodded.

“Oh, my. Those must be quite exciting.”

Potter, his legs over my… Ron bit down a groan. “But. They’re. Not. Mine.”

Fast as a Snitch, Luna’s hand shot out, yanked down the fly to Ron’s trousers, and yanked out his mostly-erect tadger.

“Bloody—!”

“Oh, dear,” Luna said, looking at Ron’s erection as if it were a sick Kneazle. She turned to Anthony. “This is quite an advanced case.”

“Nguh,” gasped Ron as she poked at the head of his cock. He looked down and saw that the shaft was marked with the same pattern of scarlet lacerations as his arms.

Luna patted his prick, and Ron had to fight an urge that wasn’t his own—at least, he hoped wasn’t his own—to flip the mad bint onto the desk and bugger her…. She spoke in an ethereal, calm voice. “Nargles feed on erotic feelings. In order to do that, they have to break down the natural Occlumency barriers that we all have—that keep us from hearing one another’s thoughts. However, they also make one susceptible to Possession from the outside. That is why I thought it so important to warn Ginny about them, and Harry. But I did not think to warn you, Ronald. I had not thought that your encounter with the brains in the Thought Room would affect you in this way. I am sorry.”

“Nguh.”

“So,” Anthony murmured, his eyes focused on the still-growing erection in Luna’s hands, “you think that he is in danger? Even if we remove the Nargles?”

“I think that, at this point, it is likely that the barriers between his own mind and Roderick Gaunt’s have been compromised.”

Anthony nodded. “And Gaunt was—is a fairly dominant and domineering personality. So you think—?”

“That he is using this opportunity to establish a hold on Ronald’s mind that will be quit difficult to break.”

Luna peered at the penis in her hand, which pulsed. “Ron, have you experienced these symptoms before?”
“Well,” said Ron through gritted teeth, “not last year, no bloody mistletoe, Fleur doesn’t like it—”

“Veela have many superstitions involving Nargles,” interjected Luna.

“Hmm. But. The year before…”

Corner finished for him. “With Lavender.”

“Oh.” Luna nodded. “Yes. That was rather excessive. It makes sense.” She turned his rod in a clinical fashion—Ron had to bite his cheeks to keep from howling and throwing her down on the floor. “I think he needs immediate help,” she said to the boys.

“Hmm,” said Anthony.

Luna nodded. “Yes. And Gaunt does seem to be a rather dominant personality.”

“Oh!” Anthony said. “You mean—?”

“Yes,” Luna answered.

Anthony nodded, smiling—flushing. “Psychothaumic inversion.”

Corner, who had, like the other two, been getting an eyeful of Ron’s manhood, gawked up. “What?
Psycho… Oh.”

Luna nodded. “Yes. I think it would be most effective.”

“What?” Ron growled.

“In the dream, it was Gaunt and a fellow named Black—” began Anthony.

Michael kicked in. “Must have been Regulus. Another nasty bugger of the first order, according to Slughorn, who should know—and another one of the leaders of the House Unification movement in the 1920s.”

“So,” sighed Luna, “it will take two.”

“Two?” groaned Ron, who was vacillating between bewilderment, rage, humiliation and sheer randiness.

“Hmm,” said Luna with a nod. She turned to Anthony with a rather predatory grin. “Can I watch?”

: :

“Uh… Guys?” Ron twisted against his bonds; the transfigured tie held fast. This didn’t seem like such a good idea to him. It hadn’t from the beginning, and his misgivings were only getting worse.

Heat flared in his forearms, in his cock; apparently, it didn’t seem like such a good idea to Rod either. Nasty bugger.

Ron bit down a whimper.

At least he’d managed to talk Luna out of watching. She was guarding the door.

He twisted his arms again. The yellow-and-black-striped tie dribbled water down his enflamed wrists. “Guys?”

“So,” Michael Corner said, his voice low. “You want this?” Corner was standing in front of Ron, naked, wet. Thiswas his very hard hard-on, which he was stroking. Did Ginny—?

“Uh…” Ron felt the twin explosions of Roderick Gaunt’s reactions to this situation: desire and fury. I should be the one showing these halfbloods—! Ron gulped. Bugger that for a laugh, Gaunt. Always wondered what it would be like to be a girl, he thought. Guess I’ll find out. “Please… Please.”

Corner licked already-wet lips and knelt between Ron’s knees. He glanced down at Ron’s cock, which was bouncing stiffly against his panting stomach. “Want it, Ron?” He gave a smirk and ran the back of his thumbnail up the length, evoking a deep, full groan—even Gaunt thought that felt pretty good, the berk. Michael’s smirk widened to a small, foxish grin. “Oh, yeah. You want it.”

Ron whimpered and twisted. “Please… Merlin. Please.

Behind Michael, Anthony chuckled. Ron blinked up at him; not the soft-faced, quiet boy now, but dark-eyed, teeth white. “Oh, yes. He wants it. He definitely wants it. Gaunt knows he has it coming.” The smaller boy stepped forward, stroking himself…

MERLIN….

Ron had grown up with five brothers; he’d seen other pricks before now—hell, he’d seen them erect. The twins had loved to wank with their door open, the gits, just because they knew Ron had to go by their room on the way from the bathroom to his own. He’d even touched Dean’s one drunken night sixth year—Harry off with Dumbledore, Neville hiding, Seamus howling with pissed laughter, and Dean trying to claim that his tadger was the biggest in their year. Ron’d shown him: balls to balls, Dean’s foreskin barely coming to the edge of Ron’s head. As with Corner, he’d had to work not to think of his sister putting her fingers around….

But he had no doubt now: his cock wasn’t the biggest in their year—just in Gryffindor. Anthony Goldstein—small, swotty, skinny, pale, pony-tailed Anthony Goldstein—was squeezing his fist up the length of a mast of dark pink flesh that was as long as Ron’s and looked as thick as Ron and Dean’s together. Ron gulped.
If Michael’s grin was like a fox’s, Anthony’s was more like a wolf’s. “Shall we give it to him, do you think? Or shall we leave him here to suffer?”

He could feel Roderick Gaunt shriek within him; ironically, this calmed Ron. Yeah, you wanker. Let’s see how tough you are, eh? He could feel the bastard trying to yell, to say Take that thing away from me! Breathing as evenly as he could, Ron said, “P-please.”

Corner slid closer until the tops of his thighs slid beneath Ron’s bum; nothing was supporting Ron’s weight now but the strained, dripping tie and Michael’s slick, muscled quads. Bugger. He didn’t look so strong when we played Quidditch! His hair was black, trailing around his neck in wild, wet tendrils.

No, Potter, no, not YOU…

But it wasn’t Harry—or Charlus. Ron held his eyes open, and forced Roderick Gaunt to keep watching.
Corner’s cheeks were darkening; whether it was just acting or not, he was getting excited. “What a good bitch you are,” he growled, and it would have made Ron laugh, if it hadn’t made Gaunt screech indignantly. Corner’s cock met Ron’s own and slid up the length of it…. Frotting… “Isn’t he a good bitch?”

Ron felt his balls pulse around the other boy’s erection.

Anthony grunted and ran his fist back down the length of his spar. “Quite.”

Glissare,” hisses Michael, and Ron feels a slickening warmth—first on his John Thomas, then inside his bum—smooth, relaxing heat.

Ron tamps down another internal squeal of outrage from Roderick just as Michael lifts Ron’s legs, opening his arse, pressing the tip of his cock against…

Hermione stuck her finger there once and it felt… amazing. Weird, but amazing. But the idea of this…? Not as big as Goldstein’s but still… The tip pushes open the circle of Ron’s bum. “GOD!”

“Too much?” says Corner, looking worried for a moment, and Gaunt almost manages to scream out YES! but Anthony growls, “No mercy. Gaunt is a frightened little bully, and deserves no mercy.”

Ron shakes his head, eyes closing.

“Look at me, Gaunt,” says Michael, his voice low and commanding. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
Gaunt doesn’t want to, but Ron opens them anyway.

“Ask me.”

“Please…”

“Ask me to fuck you.”

Ron tries, but Gaunt—panicked, terrified, furious—stops him. Throat in spasm, Ron blinks up at Anthony.
“You know you want it. You know you deserve it. Ask for it, or you won’t get what you deserve.”
Michael rocks his hips, lifting up onto his knees, and Ron’s weight pushes Corner’s spear up into Ron’s arse—just a half an inch, but AAAAAH! “Ask me, Gaunt,” says Michael, and gives Ron’s calf a playful bite. “Ask me to fuck your arse. Ask—”

Ron can feel that Gaunt is weeping, angry. “Bugger me,” groans Ron. “Bugger my—”
It slides in, and it hurts as it slides in; he remembers Hermione crying their first time, and now—“AAAAAAAAAAAH!”—but it feels nasty and hot and good to, even as it burns, and the muscles in Ron’s bottom fight the invasion.

Fingers gripping the points of Ron’s hips, Michael presses himself further in, and Ron feels as if that cock is a piston, pushing all of the breath out of him and he is crying, but…

AAAAAAAAAH!” Ron’s body thrashes—is it his body, panicked by the feel of fucked, or is it Roderick Gaunt, rebelling against receiving what he’d always been so happy to give? Ron doesn’t know, but he can’t stop himself; yet those hippogriff-trap fingers, the straining tie, and Michael’s cock, pressing further into Ron, hold him in place.

Ron feels bollocks bounce against his open bum, and suddenly the tip of Corner’s cock touches a place inside of Ron that hurts, but BLOODY HELL! Ron’s tadger, no longer hard, flops against his belly, and precum oozes into his navel.

“Fuck,” gasps Anthony. YES! thinks Ron: FUCKFUCKFUCK!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO wails the thin, whispy soul of Roderick Gaunt. It is scratching and clawing at Ron’s mind, trying to take it over even now.

“Feel… good? Gaunt?” grunts Michael. “Feel… good having me… roger your arse like you rogered all of those boys? Like it?” He withdraws and—

NOOOOOOOOO! howls Roderick, but YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS thinks Ron.

Michael is beginning to fuck him in earnest now, Ron’s legs up over his shoulders. Ron grabs hold of the shower handle to keep from being slammed against the tile wall. Michaels face is sex-slack and dark, eyes heavy-lidded. He’s biting his lip and Ron can hear Gaunt whimpering, Yes, yes, you pathetic nancy boy, pop off, just as you’re getting started… Then I’ll show you!

But Michael takes a deep breath and slows, even as that terrific piston pounds in and out of Ron, giving and stealing breath with each stroke, touch that scary, wonderful spot where it feels as if every nerve in Ron’s body is wired, like one of his dad’s stupid Muggle contraptions.

Michael thrusts in. Stops, shuddering—trying not to come.

Ron, folded in half, opened like an oyster, weeps, and Gaunt weeps too, shrill and thin.

Turning back to where Anthony is stroking his enormous penis, Michael groans and says, “D-do you… want some? S-sure he’s got something left for you.”

Wolf eyes open, wolf grin feral, Anthony steps forward, that huge prick advancing on Ron’s face. The small, gentle, nice, quiet boy with the eight-inch forearm of a willie leans over, grabbing onto the shower handle for support. “Yes.”

The dripping head, plum-dark, pushes toward Ron’s mouth, which slams shut in terror. Nononononono! wheedles Gaunt, and Ron can barely hear him.

“Open your mouth, you little bugger. Open your mouth and we’ll see you well and truly fucked!”
Ron’s mouth opens of its own accord; Gaunt’s feeble objections ignite his courage and his desire, and he pulls forward against his bonds, against Michael’s thrust, and touches the tip of his tongue to the smooth, dark tip of Anthony’s cock. Anthony’s hisses. Gaunt snivels.

Michael pushes up into Ron again, tipping him off his precarious balance, and Ron finds that thick, hot flesh pressing his jaw open.

Anthony moans. Gaunt rages.

Michael pants. “Bloody… hell… You… okay…? You… Shit! You got… the whole… thing…?”

The thing wedges Ron’s tongue, jaw, throat open. It tastes… bitter. But good. Familiar. Ron struggles to breathe though his nose with two cocks squeezing the air out of him. And the one in his bottom is certainly disconcerting, but feeling this monster in his mouth, gently pulling out and thrusting back in—Anthony holding on to Ron’s ears to keep him steady—brown pubes dancing with the air streaming from Ron’s nostrils… It’s intimate. Intimate in a way that even being buggered wasn’t.

Michael pants on… “Shit… So… Ginny couldn’t ever…”

Ron glares at him with one eye. If I had green eyes like Harry, I’d cast the Killing Curse…

Michael wisely shuts the fuck up. Smiling a weak apology, he lets go of one hip and wraps his fingers around Ron’s bouncing semi-erection.

The feeling shoots through Ron, and he finds himself clamping down on a cock at either end.
YES, says a dark, whinging voice in his head. Oh, yes!

“No!” barks Anthony, and slaps at Corner’s hand, catching the head of Ron’s cock painfully. “Gaunt is here to serveour pleasure. So long as he’s here, he gets none!” And he thrusts back in, deeper than he’s ever done, and Ron chokes, but revels in the feeling.

NO, screeches Roderick Gaunt in his mind, fighting the final battle for dominance. I am the alpha, I am the omega…. I am… I am the Head Boy! I am…!

Screaming back in his mind—welcoming two quickening, swelling cocks into his body. You are a piece of dung too smelly for anything but the Vanishing Cabinet. You aren’t good enough to be fucked—who’d ever want to fuck a disgusting bit of bullying shite like you, let alone let you fuck THEM?

NO! NO! Don’t let…!

Ron hears, as Gaunt heard, both Ravenclaws groaning through clenched jaws. The twin pistons rock in and out of him—bollocks slap against his bum and his chin—and Ron can barely breathe, dark stars are floating through his vision.

NO! THEY CANNOT…!

Michael is beginning to twitch as he thrusts and Anthony’s fingers are squeezing around Ron’s ears and in his hair. Ron growls around Anthony’s bitter-spilling meat, swelling in his mouth: YES! THEY WILL! Triumphant, he tightens his arse around Michael, pushes his tongue up against Anthony and screams, COME!

: :

Hermione’d explained to Ron once—why?—that people’d used to call orgasms the little death. He hadn’t understood it, but as he dangled there, feeling both boys empty themselves into him, he thought that maybe it made sense after all. Vision blackening, body twisting, he felt as close to dying as he’d ever done.

And he hadn’t even come yet.

Molten fire poured down his throat and up his bum, and he was sure they’d meet somewhere.

He felt the tendrils of the foreign mind disengage from his own—like dead tentacles releasing. And stay out, tosser…!

Ah, well, he thought, letting go of consciousness at last, not a bad way to go….

: :

The tile was wet and cold against Ron’s back. Water was dripping onto his face. From hair.

His wrists and back burned. And his jaw… And his bum still felt...

“Ron?” called the panicked voice of Anthony Goldstein, suddenly several octaves higher than it had been. “Are you…? Enerva—”

Ron held up a weak hand—free now—hitting Anthony’s wand, and the spell misfired into the shower wall in a shower of sparks. “M’okay.” Better than okay.

“Thank Merlin,” said Michael, who was holding Ron steady. Who was still buried in Ron’s bum.
In agreement, Anthony gave what sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Are…?” He inhaled sharply. “Ron!”

“Huh?” Ron answered blearily. He could feel his consciousness fluttering still.

“Your arms,” Anthony whispered. “The scars. They’re… gone.”

“Huh.” Ron believed him. Felt too weak to pick them up to check.

“And from his upstanding Member for Cockshire too,” said Michael, closing his fingers around Ron’s prick, sending a thrill through overtaxed nerves; Ron let out a moan so huge it made no sound. “Tony,” asked Michael, meekly, sliding his fist up the length of Ron’s stiffening stiffy, “is it all right now?”

Anthony smiled that mild, scary smile. “More than all right.” He leaned down and gave Ron a quick kiss on the lips. “I’d say it was the least we could do.”

Expertly, Michael began to stroke Ron, who lay there on the shower floor in a gibbering mass. The pressure of Michael’s cock, softening, but still pressing against that spot…

And Anthony ran a smooth hand up Ron’s chest and tweaked his nipple, and the world…

: :

the little death.

Ron blinked. There was something on his face. His vision swam into focus. Anthony Goldstein, long hair untethered, grinned as gobbets of white dripped from from his cheeks. His chin. His nose. “Guess you liked that.”

Ron grinned. “Guess… I did.” Involuntarily, he shuddered, his arse contracting, finally pushing Michael out. They both groaned in disappointment.

“Well,” said a bright, diffuse voice from the far side of the showers, “how nice that the psychothaumic inversion worked.” All three boys turned; Luna was sitting against the base of the wall, one hand down her Snorkack pyjama bottoms, the other up the top. Her hair was stuck wildly to the tile behind her, and her usually pale skin was a deep, rosy pink. She blinked at them slowly. “I know I said I’d watch the door, but there was noise, and I thought you might need some help. Also,” she added, smiling less vaguely than usual, “that was rather interesting. In fact, if I had to choose a phrase, I would say it was rather…” The grin became predatory. “I would say that it was quite fucking hot. Wouldn’t you?”
Tags: tfest 09
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