Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1845955.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Bill_Weasley/Louis_Weasley
  Character:
      Bill_Weasley, Louis_Weasley, Fleur_Delacour
  Collections:
      HPFandom
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-07 Words: 3053
****** I Am Tidal ******
by WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo
Summary
     It's not his fault; it's the moon and the bite. It's a fairly
     harmless way to release all that tension. What do they expect, after
     all, when they visit a glory hole? They deserve what they get.
Notes
     Written for the lj "nextgendarkfest" from prompt 22, by
     "gala_apples". Many thanks to "vix_spes" for the beta work.
     Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of
     J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is
     intended.
Bill Weasley doesn't need to look out of the window, or check a calendar to
know what phase the moon is in. He feels it deep within him, stirring his
emotions and thoughts, leading him and dropping him, and mercifully - for two
weeks out of four - letting him be.
Now is not a good time. The moon is bigger every night. His wife keeps charts
and notes so that she knows what to feed him when, when he will be safe, and
when to leave him alone to brood. Their lives are organised around his cycle.
The whole family has to accommodate the mood swings planted deep inside Bill by
Greyback's teeth. The children have grown up knowing this.
Sometimes he takes Wolfsbane, but it doesn't help much. He's a unique case and
they have to guess at the dosage. If he takes too much then he gets drowsy and
can't work. Alcohol doesn't mix well with Wolfsbane and when he's down he'd
rather have the help of Old Ogden's, so some months he doesn't take his potion.
This is one of those months.
 
 
His peace is destroyed by careless boots stomping into the sitting room. He's
not expecting it, so Bill doesn't have a chance to suppress his growl. There's
a frightened shriek which makes Bill sit up and open his eyes.
"Shit, Dad!" Louis looks pale. He's shaking slightly. And it's not like he's
never seen his father in one of these phases before, so this month Bill must be
particularly frightening, obviously close to losing control. Bill lives in
terror that one month the wolf will leap roaring to the fore and he will hurt
someone he loves.
"Leave me in peace, Louis," Bill snarls through gritted teeth.
"I'm fucking sick of this," Louis mutters.
"Louis!" Fleur's usually sweet voice calls warningly from the doorway. "Give
your father some space. It's not easy for him. And stop swearing; those Anglo-
Saxon words are not nice."
"It's not easy for any of us. I'm sick of this merde!"
"Louis, go up to your room now!" Her voice is too loud. It's ripping Bill's
head apart.
"I just got home. I've been at putain ecole, tous les enculer terme, et --"
"Stop swearing in French!" His mother snaps. "That doesn't help. You know
that's not what I meant. Now go to your room and calm down. Respect your
father! He has his condition to deal with."
Bill just wants them to stop bickering, to go away. He digs his fingernails
into his scalp, squeezes down on the rage flaming in his belly.
"Can't he go and deal with his condition somewhere else? I want to use the
Floo!"
Bill needs to curl up near the fire. The cold damp gets into his bones
otherwise and makes everything worse.
Fleur sounds hurt. "Where are you going?" She's shocked, too. Bill doesn't feel
up to processing other people's emotions. "You just got home!"
"Exactly, a whole term of schijten lessons and cazzo di N.E.W.T revision and I
get home to this!"
"Louis, your linguistic abilities do not impress me. You couldn't put the
effort into learning Charms instead of learning swearwords?"
"I can't even floo call a couple of friend in peace, cos he's doing the dying
werewolf act. Again! It's hovno!" He yells out the last word and stamps his
foot.
Bill can't take any more and springs to his feet. He can feel his hands
curling, his teeth are bared- and he's panting. He bolts for the door, grabbing
his cloak on the way and running out of Shell Cottage into the night.
At first he just runs, booted feet flat to the floor, cold wind rushing past
his face, hoping the rhythm of the repeated movements will soothe him, help him
to think. He runs down the path which leads away from the sea, towards the
village. He runs at top speed through the village; he can't afford to stop
anywhere near people. He knows what he is capable of.
He runs up onto the moors on the other side, into the uninhabited blasted
space, off the road and up, up until the gradient slows him to an exhausted
stop. Lying down on the frozen ground, he doesn't care that his cloak soaks
through with chill liquid. When he opens his eyes he sees cloudless, inky, sky.
The moon is at its centre, right above him: heavy and yellow. Its light
penetrates him instantly and his exhaustion is replaced by a fierce violent
energy.
There's too much beast in him now for Apparition; earlier in the evening he
could have taken himself away to some place truly remote. It's too late. He
springs up and runs, crouched over with his arms moving in time with his legs,
although they don't actually touch the ground. He has to find the place where
he can vent his animal.
At the brow of the next hill, he slows. There are people near here. He's
getting to the beauty spot. In the daytime, even at this time of year, there
will be a dozen cars in that car park, all occupied by couples with flasks and
sandwiches who have travelled out to enjoy the view over the great hollowed-out
dip, which sweeps up to magnificent bracken-covered moor land. At night,
there's nothing to see. There are fewer cars, but there are always some, and
they cluster around the cement cube at one end: the public convenience.
These men are safe to be around. They furtively cling to the shadows
themselves; they'll never tell anyone what they do up here at night. Even
someone who acts as oddly as Bill does will be studiously ignored. They are all
here for the same thing, and it is a dirty, dark, secret thing.
Bill takes a few deep breaths and walks down onto the road, so he can amble
into the car park unremarked. He steps over broken bottles, ripped cans and
flattened boxes. Muggles really are disgusting. They come here for the beauty
of the place and then spoil it with their litter. His blood boils just a little
bit more as he walks around the toilet block to the flat graffiti-covered metal
of the gents' door.
By the faint light which he brings in with him, he sees that two cubicle doors
are open. He tries to ignore the stink of urine which batters his sensitised
nose and walks into one, pushing up the sleeves of his robes to his elbows. The
door to the outside bangs shut behind him. He knows where to find the hole;
he's been here a lot of times. He locks the door and unbuckles his trousers,
running his fingers over the smooth surface of the stall wall in the pitch
dark. He finds the edge, the harsh texture left by the saw-teeth which made it.
It's a little low for him, because he's taller than most, so he bends his knees
slightly as he uncurls his soft cock, pulls it out of his pants, strokes it a
couple of times and pushes it through the hole.
He hears a shuffling and a happy, expectant gasp from the other side of the
wall. Quietly, he pulls out his wand to wordlessly cast Muffliato. He magically
locks the door of the next stall, too.
There's a hand on his cock now, making it stiffen. Sometimes the men talk at
this point, but he's grateful to this one for being silent. A flattened tongue
runs up the underside, the seam. It's an expert move, he's found someone who
knows what he's doing and so, for a few minutes, Bill relaxes into the
ministrations, allowing himself to be sucked and squeezed and to enjoy it.
His hips start to buck after a while and he lets them. There's a choked protest
on the other side of the wall, a pulling back. Bill stills long enough for the
hot damp of mouth to engulf him again. Then he points his wand at his fist and
hardens it enough to punch it through the wall.
He enjoys the other man's shocked scream, but he's expecting it, so it doesn't
slow him down. He grabs hold of an ear and he's pleased to feel long hairs on
the back of his hand. That makes things so much easier. His victim naturally
tries to bite down as he struggles, but Bill is casting an Immobilising charm
on his jaws. He's careful to keep the back of the throat mobile. The wolf
within him needs the noise of choking. He could Body Bind him, but he likes to
hear the scuffles and feel the jerks and spasms of struggling.
He's releasing that wolf, now, giving it reign so he can be rid of its
insistent prowling. He gets a good fistful of hair and yanks it hard before
using it to hold the head still and fucking into it.
Heat rises and spreads through him. His belly slams hard against the flimsy
wall. His senses heighten and respond to every nuance of the sounds of sex and
struggle, to the smells of fear, piss and sweat. He is master of himself
through his sublimation of the Muggle pervert in the next stall.
He hardens his other hand and smashes it through the partition, too. It finds
the back of the man's neck and grips with its claws. The body flinches, but it
can't move away; it tenses; it whimpers. He thrusts into it. His rage builds.
Bill knows that he is close. Soon he will release his demons into this
faceless, nameless, helpless being which thrashes around in the darkness. Both
of his fists clench harder.
Suddenly there is pain searing at his forearm. It's a burning feeling which he
can't identify and which makes him let go of his handful of hair. Growling, he
loses control of his movements for a second. But then he clamps his fingers to
scalp and pulls the head nearer, hears it bang into the wall between them and
his balls tighten, his body fills with fire and he's coming. Ejaculate shoots
hard out of him, buckling his knees, loosening his fingers.
He is relaxed; he must not let himself collapse, though. Swiftly he pulls his
body back into his own cubicle, repairs the wall with a wave of his wand and
then runs out into the night, his cloak pulled round his half-nakedness.
He staggers for a few paces up into the moorland and then falls. Looking up at
the moon, he lies, contentedly, temporarily immune to its pull. Languidly, he
adjusts his clothing and cleans himself. He is examining the burn on his wrist
when he realises that he forgot to lift the lock on the neighbouring cubicle.
It means it will take the Muggle a while to escape but it doesn't matter to him
terribly much. His demon has been sated.
He shifts round so that he can see the filthy concrete building and the car
park. One of the cars drives away. Its exhaust sounds almost musical in Bill's
dreamy state. There's a movement: the door of the gents opens. A young man
tumbles through it. Bill doesn't like to see his victims afterwards. He's
confused, too, wonders if he's lost track of time, or whether the Muggle really
did escape a magical locking spell that quickly.
He sees the wand, held out stiffly from the hunched, retching body. Then he
sees the strawberry blond hair. No! He recognises the pale blue trainers that
cost so much. But it can't be. The slim back in the tight, pink T-shirt that
Bill hates. He hears the sobbing and – though it can't be – Bill knows that it
is and he's on his feet and sliding down the hillside: leaping, running, to
protect his son.
Louis' whole body is trembling. He's trying to heal himself, but spittle
bubbles from his mouth and it won't work properly. Bill takes hold of his upper
arms, spins him so that they can see each other's faces and Louis falls,
sobbing into his arms.
Bill's strength gives out. He wants to vomit. He sits down on the stony,
littered ground of the car park with his boy in his lap. The seventeen year-old
curls up, knees to his chest, arms hugging himself and snuggles into his
father's body. He weeps for a minute or two while tears drop quietly down
Bill's cheeks, too.
Then he pulls himself together enough to put his wand to his son's mouth and
whisper a healing charm.
"Dad!" Louis whispers. "Oh, Merlin!"
Bill hushes him, strokes his hair, passes his wand over the back of his neck,
his ear, and tries to make it all better.
"What are you doing out here?" Louis asks after a peaceful moment.
"Went for a run," Bill mumbles. He doesn't ask why Louis is here, or what has
happened to him. He just soothes him and heals him. He thinks about casting
Obliviate.
Louis sniffs. "So glad you're here. Don't know what I'd --" He stops mid
sentence. Bill looks down to see what's wrong. Louis freezes, stiffens in his
arms. Bill follows his gaze, tries to work out what's changing here.
Louis is looking at Bill's wrist. Bill tries to push down his sleeve, although
he knows it's too late. Louis has already seen the burn. Louis springs
backwards, away from him, staring open-mouthed. Bill realises that Louis must
have made that mark on him with his wand. It was a desperate attempt at self-
defence.
Louis finds his voice: "You did ...?" he gasps.
"No, I ... No! It wasn't --"
"Don't lie to me!" Louis shouts. More quietly he adds, "You bastard."
Bill tries to stand. "I didn't know it was you! I thought, I thought, it was
..." but he can't say it.
"You thought I was a Muggle, so you thought it was ok?" Louis asks.
"No, well, yes. No. It's not me, it's the wolf."
Car headlamps sweep over them as someone drives in. Louis' pale, horrified face
is illuminated. Then he grabs hold of Bill's elbow and says, "Not here." Bill
sinks into the nauseating, dark slide of side-along apparition.
"Where are we?" he asks, looking round at broken furniture and the insides of
boarded windows.
Louis is on the other side of the room. He let go of his father's arm as soon
as he could and backed away to the wall. "The Shrieking Shack," he replies
without emotion. "Teddy brought me here once. It's where his father used to
spend full moons." He pauses, swallows, spits. "That's what responsible
werewolves do, they shut themselves in somewhere they can't hurt anyone. They
take their Wolfsbane."
"I'm not a werewolf," Bill replies. "Teddy Lupin?" He's the only Teddy he
knows, of course, Victoire's husband, Remus' son. "Why would he bring you
here?"
Louis just laughs mirthlessly, one choked bark of disdain. "You're not a full
werewolf. Do you do that every month?"
"Not every month."
"But that wasn't the first time?"
Bill's eyes shoot away from his son's ruthless gaze and that is answer enough.
"Do you know what it feels like?" Louis asks.
"No, please, don't," Bill whimpers.
"Bloody terrifying. I couldn't breathe, thought I was going to die. And the
pain --"
"I didn't know it was you!"
Louis just shakes his head.
"What were you doing in there anyway?" Bill asks, accuses.
"Looking for cock!" Louis replies.
Bill flinches. There is a silence. Bill begins to pace; the wolf is awake
again.
"I thought you were at home," he says at last. "You were flooing your friends."
"They were all busy." Louis is unnaturally still, frozen, watching his father,
frightened of him, disdainful of him. "So I had to find another man to shag."
"You have sex with your friends?" Bill is horrified.
"Not all of them. Not the girls."
Bill feels nauseated. He stumbles and puts his hand against the dirty wall to
steady himself. "How many strangers?"
"Lots! As many as I can."
Bill shakes his head. "Have you been to that place before?"
"A couple of times. There's something similar near Hogsmeade."
"Why do you let strange men do filthy things to you? I thought we'd brought you
up with self respect."
"How dare you judge me, after what you've just done?"
"It's not me. It's the moon. I can't --"
Louis interrupts him, exasperated and despairing: "You make sure you're not out
there! Lock yourself in, somewhere like this, like Teddy's Dad used to!"
Bill can't look into his son's face. His head bends downwards. He asks, softly,
"Why did Teddy bring you here?"
"The same reason any man ever brings me anywhere!"
"Your own sister's husband?"
"I may be a slut, but I'm not the rapist!"
"It's not the same!"
"It is!" Louis squats down onto the floor. He's exhausted but he daren't sit;
he has to stay alert. "How many men have you done that to?"
Anger surges through Bill, fills him and fires out of him. "What do they
expect? Going somewhere like that? It's what they're after, isn't it?"
"Not like that." There is a pause. Neither man can look at the other; both are
thinking. Then Louis says, "It's not because they're Muggles, is it? That's not
what makes it ok. It's because they're dirty queers, isn't it? Because they're
sick, depraved nancy-boys. Like me."
Then Bill looks his child in the eye. "I don't know what we did wrong. What
made you like this?"
Louis' face is crimson with fury in seconds. He is standing, pointing his wand
at his father. Bill stops breathing. He waits. He is wondering what his boy
might be capable of, steeling himself for pain.
"Expelliarmus!"
Bill is so relieved that he laughs as his wand goes flying into Louis' white
knuckled fist. That's it?
Louis says, in a voice full of quiet menace, "You're locked in. All the
entrances are blocked. I can Apparate away but you can't. I'll tell someone
where you are in a couple of days, when you're no longer a threat to anyone."
He spins and disappears, leaving Bill alone with the freezing wind which blows
through the gaps between the boards, his own demons, and furniture which has
already been smashed.
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