Friday Night

Friday Night

The old grandfather clock beside the counter had just struck eight. Borgin put up the closed sign on the door of his shop and looked out the window. There was a fight going on outside; he could hear muffled screams and curses thrown, and shaking his head in disapproval, he locked the door. After muttering a sealing charm, he picked up the oil lamp and walked into his tiny office, leaving the shop behind him, shrouded in shadows and darkness.

The tidy office stood in sharp contrast to the slightly chaotic shop. He looked over his desk; all papers were neatly put in their place, as if he'd used a ruler to see if they were in line, and all new items on the shelf were arranged in alphabetical order. The quills were all laid out, ready for tomorrow's work. With a nod to himself, he opened a door in the wall and went into his private quarters behind the shop.

In the hall, he closed the door behind him before entering his own personal sphere: a neatly decorated flat, oak-panelled walls with a deep red wall-to-wall carpet of the floor. His very own little world, separated from the street outside by the wall and an entire universe.

He arranged a supper for himself, and cast a heating charm on the meal before walking into his bedroom. In the oak wardrobe he found his eveningwear, expensive robes in black velvet. Quietly, he sat down by the large dinner table in his dining room, and placed one lamb chop on his plate. He nodded stiffly to the portraits, and received courteous nods back. The chandelier in the roof cast its colourful reflections upon the wall, played with the stern faces of his ancestor's portraits and painting them in blue, red and gold.

Everything was as it always had been. Quite beautiful, actually. Nobody ever saw it, of course - not that it mattered to him, and he couldn't care less.

Waiting. All his life had been centred around waiting; for things to come, for things to go away.

When he'd finished supper, he sat down in his stuffed armchair beside the fire. With a wave of his wand, the old gramophone started playing, and his customers would be surprised to hear the tones of classical Muggle music. He stared into the wineglass in his hand, swung it carefully around in little circles to let the warm red colour come to its full glory.

That vague restlessness came over him again. It had bothered him this whole week, but he forced the feeling back and refused to acknowledge it. Suddenly, he got the silly idea of going out, to grab a pint in the pub down the Alley or maybe even venture up to the Diagon and visit the Leaky Cauldron. Shaking his head, he discarded the thought; he rarely went outside his house and he didn't intend to start now. The noise and the crowd would begin to grate on him after five minutes and soon he would leave, feeling even emptier than when he came. Besides, it was Friday.

He found a new wineglass in the cabinet, and placed it beside his own on the little table. With a flick of his wand the other armchair moved up to the fireplace, opposite his own. It was nine o'clock, and the ticking sound from the clock on the wall came and went so slowly that he sometimes feared it had stopped. It was as though time itself didn't exist in this room, and indeed all the clocks he'd decorated it with stopped on regular intervals. He walked over to take a closer look. Tick tock. Nothing wrong.

With slow steps he walked into his bathroom and undressed. Stared at himself in the mirror, and the dark eyes stared back without really seeing anymore. When you stare at something for too long, it becomes invisible. Turning his back to himself, he stepped into the shower and turned on the water. He closed his eyes and the water poured down over him, and let his hands trail over his body. In the hot water it felt almost as if they belonged to someone else.

After the quick shower, he put on his finest dressing gown and went back into his living room. The room itself was always dark, and now it was only illuminated by the fireplace's flickering flames. Usually, he enjoyed sitting there, but tonight he had to urge himself to sit down. With a stern face he gazed into the fire.

Ten o'clock there was a knock on his door. Confused, he looked away from the flames -he'd drifted away in thoughts, as he usually did. He stood up, and bringing the glass with him he approached the door to the hall, whispering the soft charm that would unlock it. Straightening his dressing gown and fighting back the feeling of unease, he opened it. "Good evening."

The guest standing outside smiled self-assured back at him. "Hello, Borgin, how are you these days?" He stepped inside, and looked around. "It's been awhile since last."

"I'm very well, thank you," Borgin replied, a certain chill in his voice. "Yes, it's been what...two months? Three?" He knew exactly how long it was, down to the hours and minutes.

"Something like that." The young man stepped over the thick carpet and sat down in the armchair opposite Borgin's, where he crossed his legs and leaned back with a sigh. "I've missed this chair. Not to mention your exquisite taste in whine," he added, seeing the glass that was waiting for him. He sent a warm smile to Borgin, who uncorked the bottle and filled the glass for him.

"Thank you." He cursed himself for being so stiff; he sounded like a bad actor on his first stage appearance. Luckily, the boy was used to him by now and didn't seem to mind too much. He kept on talking about random things, and Borgin wasn't paying too much attention. As he put the bottle back in the cabinet he watched his guest. Watched his hand, gesticulating in the air while the boy told him about his NEWTs, and the way he turned halfway around, glancing at Borgin over his shoulder. He watched his hair, wavy and light brown, making that silly curl behind his ear - and he had to control himself not to reach out his hand and stroke that hair, feel the softness under his fingers.

Borgin sat down. "So, you haven't got your marks yet, then?"

The boy looked down. "No, have to wait until July. I think I've done quite well, though. You know, aritmancy and potions were always my strongest fortes." Again that smile, the quick flash of white as he bared his teeth for a second.

"Of course," Borgin replied. "You always were a bright boy, Dave; I knew you'd end up all right." He sighed in relief; this was a safe conversation. Focus on the school, career - easier that way.

Dave took a sip of the wine; let it roll for a second on his tongue before swallowing. Then he turned back to him. "What about you?" He stared at Borgin with a curious face. He always looked so alive, so...alert and awake. Borgin felt heavy and old beside him, the way a marble statue would feel about the birds perching on its shoulders.

"You know the alley...nothing much happens here. It's a boring place." Well knowing half the wizarding world would raise their eyebrows at his words, Borgin shrugged. He didn't want the boy to see the look of melancholy on his face.

Too late. Dave put the glass down and crossed his arms. "What's the matter?" he asked, staring at him with a serious expression. "You in a bad mood? You want me to leave?"

"No. No, not at all. Unless you want to, of course."

"Nah, it's all right," Dave replied and picked up his glass once more.

For a long time they sat in silence, Dave staring into the fire and Borgin trying to take his eyes off the boy. Several times he took a deep breath, shaping conversations in his head, but the words got stuck in his throat and didn't come out. Dave looked tired; he saw new lines around his mouth. When had those lines appeared? Borgin didn't know, and felt a sting of shame. The boy closed his eyes, and seemed to drift into a light sleep.

When the clock behind them struck eleven, Dave took a deep sigh, rubbed his eyes and turned to look at it. "It's getting late," he said. "I'm meeting a friend down at The Cauldron at midnight. I suppose you don't want to come?"

Borgin glanced at him in surprise, but shook his head. "You know me. I don't like going out." He felt the restlessness come over him again, mixed with a burning feeling of jealousy. For what he wasn't quite certain; for the boy's youth, perhaps, the easy way he dealt with everything, or from hearing he had a friend. He knew he should be glad for him, but he wasn't.

Dave was staring at him again, the thoughtful eyes measuring him. "If that's what you want," he muttered more to himself than to Borgin. He got up from the chair and took a couple of steps toward Borgin. He was tall, and towered over the older man before getting down on his knees. "I wouldn't mind if you came," he said, placing a careful hand on Borgin's knee and slowly pushing his hand up, following it with his eyes.

Borgin tried to take his eyes away but could not; he drank in the sight of this wonderful boy, kneeling in front of him, slowly finding his way inside the dressing gown. The warm fingers against bare skin were almost more than he could handle. "You wouldn't," he repeated in a husky voice.

"No." Dave looked into his eyes. He had blue eyes, Dave, just like his brother, strange eyes - to display so much emotion just from a look. It wasn't natural.

Suddenly he was filled with the urge to pull the boy closer, to kiss him. The urge was so strong he couldn't speak, but he took a firmer grip around the arms of the chair. That had never been a part of their deal - bodies were given freely, but a kiss was the most personal expression of love. Love was not a part of the arrangement, never had been.

Until now.

Dave returned his eyes to his hands, and with a soft smile on his lips, he let his fingers play with Borgin's hardened cock. Leaning closer, he parted his lips, but stopped and inch away, looking up at Borgin with a little smile. "You want me to?" His voice was little but a whisper.

He'd always been a tease, this wretched boy, this beautiful young man crouching down before him like a tiger ready to strike. He'd always had a certain catlike air about him; a nonchalant laziness combined with strength. It scared Borgin sometimes. "Yes," he said, so quietly it was merely audible over the cracking sounds from the fire.

The lazy smile never leaving his face, Dave let his tongue trace the head of Borgin's cock - merely the softest touch. Borgin couldn't keep his hands away anymore, and lifted his right hand to stroke the boy's soft hair with a gentle hand. Dave's eyelids were closed now and Borgin could stare as much as he liked, taking in the sight of his young lover. The cool hair against the palm of his hand was just as soft as he remembered.

No one had touched him this way in months. The restlessness and anxiety centred on the boy's working tongue morphed into a now unfamiliar desire, an obsession almost, and Borgin felt himself push the boy away. It was physically painful, doing it.

Dave looked up at him, taken aback. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice quiet as he watched the older man's face with eyes wary and confused.

"Nothing's wrong," Borgin answered, lied right in the boy's face. Everything was wrong. The way Dave looked at him was wrong, the restlessness when the boy left was wrong. This hadn't been the purpose of their meetings.

Dave stood up hesitantly, looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Borgin remembered. "They're on the mantelpiece," he said, casually so as to not give away too many of his feelings. It was a deal, a business arrangement. He had to remember that, never let it slip his mind. If he did, he would surely doom himself to misery. Borgin didn't want more of that. Didn't need it.

"Thank you," Dave said, picking down the pouch of Galleons from the mantelpiece. He didn't bother to count it and neither did Borgin expect him to - he would know by now that he could trust him. Sticking the pouch in his pocket, he once more resumed watching Borgin. He didn't smile anymore, and his voice was filled with an emotion Borgin couldn't quite place. "You know, I meant what I said. I wouldn't mind if you wanted to go out with me one night." He lowered his eyes to the floor, and seemingly embarrassed he walked over to the door where he stopped to wait for Borgin. "Well, I suppose I should be going."

The words hurt more than words were meant to. "Yes." Borgin rose from the chair, pulling the dressing gown closer. "You have a good time, then."

He wanted to tell Dave to go away and never come back, because what was happening here wasn't allowed to take place. He wanted to close his eyes, as if that would make his feelings less real, less tangible. But his voice betrayed him. "See you next Friday," it said. He tried his best to send the boy an assuring smile, but it became stiff and awkward. Cold. Dave hesitated as if he wanted to say something, and again those eyes, those blasted eyes, looking at him without understanding. In the end Dave nodded and walked out to disappear in the darkness of the alley.

As the door closed, it was as though something closed inside Borgin as well. He was alone once more in his mansion, this prison and refuge. He walked over to the narrow window and looked out into the night, and shuddered. It was not right of him to invite anyone into his private nightmare. He never let them stay, not even when they wanted to. He rarely wanted them there. But rarely doesn't mean always.

Next Friday he would tell him, tell him to accept whatever position in the Ministry would be offered him, tell him to leave this place. Dave didn't need to be caught down here like his brother was, like Borgin had been; he was free, free to leave and never come back. Next Friday, then.

But how do you control a foolish old heart? The heart has a will of its own, and will not succumb to the will of the mind.