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An Epiphany of Eclairs	By : ElectricAndroid Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1771 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-An Epiphany of Eclairs
- 1
Title:
An Epiphany of Eclairs

Author:
Electricandroid

Email:
electric_android@hotmail.com

Rated:
R

Challenge
#20: Neville suddenly realizes Harry only crawls into his bed when there is a
full moon, and why.

Disclaimer:
Harry Potter et. al. are the property of J.K.Rowling and their respective owners, no money is being
made and no copyright infringement intended

Authors
Notes: Normal text is normal narration,
italicized text is thoughts � it looks a bit silly � I know � but single quotes
looked stranger, and new paragraphs made it look like shite
modern poetry. I�ve only been writing for 3 months, so
any and all critique is greatly appreciated. I hope that you enjoy it. Much
thanks to saladbats, my beta, and ygrane
for giving me the courage and direction to think of posting this.

An Epiphany of Eclairs

It was a full moon. Well it always was. If Neville
never left the room, if he never ventured outside at night, to prune the plants
or just to watch the ripples that the giant squid left on the water - Neville
would know.

Harry Potter always came to Neville's bed on a full moon.

There was a helpless surrender by Harry on those nights. Hand on thigh and cock
so hard and tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes as he stroked a path
down Neville's stomach. The same tears leaving splashes of moonlight, leaving
paths of illumination down turgid expanses of flesh which Neville would much
rather hide. He feels like a beached whale in the moonlight.

And he doesn't know what to make of Harry. There is more pleasure and more pain
in those eyes than he had ever wished to witness - guilt and love and lust and
longing and hatred and shame and all the things a teenage boy feels when paired
with something like him. Something useless.

He went once to Harry's bed, and was roughly shoved away. It was the night
after his parents had died - finally at peace, but forsaking their son. Lost
and alone, Neville was looking for warmth and comfort, and maybe just a small
acknowledgement that he was something, anything to someone. He returned to bed
cracked and broken, but the next time Harry crawled between his curtains, he
acceded, as he always acceded. If he was broken, hard and hungry on the
streets, he would still come running - an addict's pain and guilt and loss.

Harry would only worship him in the moonlight.

And what a moonlight it was. Sharp beams curving around flesh so warm and
tender and rare, bars on Harry, bars on him - a prison of twisted light
and dreams. Genuflection and benediction and all that indicated Harry's
veneration was performed, month after ceaseless month. Hands on cocks and
liquid sighs and leaning back with that hard-toned body above - licking him and
smothering him and nothing more than instant oblivion when he would take
Neville in his mouth and the cries and whimpers, and the press of faces into
pillows.

It would not do for Ron to hear.

He wondered if Harry was afraid that he'd bite if he blew him back. That if he
went down on him, not having eaten for a few hours, he would get hungry and
consume his cock. Neville could understand why he always pushed him away - it
was a relatively simple mistake to make. Anyone could see that he was a
voracious pig. A small soft soul looking
out of a prison of flesh.

Harry would worship him. But only in the
moonlight. Soft lushness squishing down under hands so hot and
hard and omnipresent. And much as Neville would writhe and squirm to get
away - Harry would grab him by whatever he could grasp (useless senseless
baggage of flesh) - and twist him beneath him. The wetness of a tongue in his mouth - a fleshy intrusion too
personal, too particular, to be nothing more than a reminder of his state.
Lump and chattel.

There was something distasteful in the act itself. Neville did not need any
more completion, any greater a feeling of fullness. He was full enough as it
was, and any number of cocks up his arse would not close the hole in his heart.
He knew nothing and everything at the same time - and when Harry came to his bed
he gave up freely all he had to give. He knew not what Harry gave up in return.

Neville knew that it was almost time
now - the light from the moon had risen above the window ledge, and the oblique
bars were cast across his bed. He had forgotten to have dinner, lodged away in
the greenhouse, and his stomach was growling. He only hoped that the layers of
lard would muffle it from Harry. Oh, who was he kidding? Harry probably
thought he would eat anything at any time. He sighed. 'Well, best to get
this over with and roll over into the dreamless comfort of sleep.'

Neville
wondered if it was he whom Harry saw in his nightmares. Naked and fleshy and roiling beneath him. It
would have made Neville scream too.

The stroke of midnight, as always - time and time again and Harry never was a
second late, and he wondered if there was some sort of inner-Harry alarm which
woke him up and told him to fuck Neville. Or maybe Harry lay awake in bed,
waiting for the one moment a month he could seek completion. He doubted it.

Hands sneaking past velvet drapes, and a
tousled black head wending its way around - followed by the prerequisite golden
body. He wondered if Voldemort had
marked him - would he be perfect too?
Beached whale and burnished Adonis. It was not as if Harry could not get
any boy or girl he wanted - and had probably taken them at any and every point
in time. Stairs and doorways and nooks
and crannies. Yet thinking about it, Neville could not
remember him with any other person, male or female.

Startled from his reverie, he met those bright green eyes. Half a smile and
half a frown crossed over Harry's face as his eyes rode up and down Neville.

"You weren't at dinner." Words.
A new turn of events, though they were couched in tones of accusation and
worry.

"Wasn't hungry."
Neville flushed as his growling belly belied this statement.

"Wait here, I'll be right back"

Be right back, hey. Neville doubted it. Probably Harry had finally come to his
senses. He would do better just to roll over and sleep it off - forget the fact
that Harry would never come back to his bed, never slur a muffled 'Neville' in
his sleep - hum a delicious tune around his cock. He pulled the duvet up over
himself - no use in getting cold - and rolled onto his side. He wished he had
the nerve to go down to the kitchens, Neville knew that it would take ages to
get to sleep as hungry as he was.

There was a rustle behind him, and a disembodied head poked its way through the
hangings.

"I brought you something.� An armless hand
produced a platter of �clairs. Not a sandwich, not a salad - but a platter of
the most sinfully delicious desserts ever to grace Hogwarts grounds.

Suddenly realization.
Eclairs and Harry and light and food and
illumination and Neville, soft, so very very soft and warm and solidly there in the moonlight.
Tender touches when nobody else could see. A
glance across the dinner table and a Quidditch star arching backwards up against something so warm and clumsy as
he makes his way across the common room. A thousand little
nothings falling into something, falling so into place that there were a
hundred "I love you, I need you"'s that
Neville had never noticed, never thought of noticing. That Neville had never
presumed himself worthy of. Harry had given him everything - but that everything
was hidden in the details.

Harry's ability to see what he wanted, what he needed - everything that he
was not allowed by day, solid warm and ever so real, through a pattern of
broken bars on a bedsheet - and a weight that was
found nowhere else by day or night, except in fleeting hand on hand with
potions ingredients, or leaning over just that little bit too close.
Neville was clumsy - but not that clumsy - and whenever Harry was around - he
had made Neville feel bigger somehow. Though
it was his nearness - not Neville's bulk - that had increased.
Harry needed his solidity. He needed a home.

Harry noticed the startled realization in his eyes. He had wanted to protect
Neville from all that loving him would entail - heartbreak and sorrow and loss.
It would be better to end this now, than to let it continue - let it drag out
into Neville's death, and his heartbreak - or his own death, and Neville's
heartbreak. He turned to leave.

Hand grasped wrist, and
Neville would never after know where he had found the courage, for the platter
dropped to the bed, and then Harry was on top of him, hands squishing into a
field of �clairs and tracing creamy patterns down his nose, his chest. Sweet
delicious tongue, no more an invasion, no more anything than another way of conjoining
- of sharing this sacred bliss. Hands knotting through knotted hair, getting
stuck and the twisted pleasure/pain the solidity and thereness
of them, together, in bed.

Porcelain
pouts grip each other and the gentle exploration of hands, insistent and
pressing, which is no longer unwanted, no longer shirked from � but rather and
exploration, a voyage of soft white hands over the hard enamel of skin,
memorizing bumps and ridges and scars. And calloused fingertips trailing gently
from smooth curve to curve, outlining each individual arc. The joy of experiencing epiphany in the touch of a breath on your
fingertips, neck, collarbone.

Tongues and licks and down, further, one organism, mouth to cock to mouth to
cock, a circle. Harder and faster and harder.
Pleasure and bliss and giving, giving up so much of himself that he might break
� everything that was hidden from rejection � pale and flawed and soft marred
put on display. China in a glass fronted cabinet, and Harry realised what
he was seeing, what he was receiving for the first time, unconditionally.

And
when Neville spread his legs, even the strawberry scent of the lube didn't
distress him. The hardness that filled him was no more a tumescent reminder of
his sorry state. His heart was already filled,
this was just a sorry echo in the act of completion. And it was no longer
sordid - no longer to be hidden behind bars, teachers, people, no more muffled
pillows and morning lies

Lust and love and a tangle of sated limbs interlocking bonelessly,
the pale light of morning coming through the windows.
Breaths in and out, intermingled, one. The bed was covered in the remains of
�clairs, and lube, and sticky salty patches, but the moonlit prison across the
bed had dimmed � and the bars were slowly fading away.
- 1
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An Epiphany of Eclairs