Obligatory disclaimers apply.

Rated "R" for sexual reference and innuendos.  Let's see how many you can catch.  Be wary children.  T'aint for the weak of heart.  Swallow your drinks first.  Or whatever.  XD

Harry Potter and the Firebolt


Harry Potter and the Floating Phallus

            Harry loved his Firebolt.

            Now, it may seem odd that a boy would love his broomstick, but in his case, it was understandable.

            He loved the gleaming, varnished cherry wood, the way it felt when he rode it.  It was as if he was flying into ecstasy and far away from everyone else.  He loved the feeling of being in the clouds, alone with his Firebolt and away from prying eyes.

            But now, trapped in the cupboard under the stairs in 4 Privet Drive, he could only bring out the treasured item and polish it lovingly.

            At first, he held at arm length away from him.  It was cocked upright, and it shone in the faint light.  Gently, he picked up a brush, and started to sweep it over the gleaming wood.  It brushed away the miniscule dredges of dirt that may have gathered from its last cleaning.  Swish, swish went the brush, over the broom, and Harry loved the sound of it.  It felt…right to him. 

            After an infinite amount of time, Harry tenderly set the brush away.  After all, it wouldn't do to spend too much time on one area of the broom.  He brushed his hand over the varnished wood lovingly before turning his attention to the foot of the broom.

            Tenderly, softly, he ran his hands through the thick straw, rough and silky to his touch.  He admired the way the golden strands seem to capture the slight light in the room, and with a sigh, he picked up another brush and began to comb it. 

            The brush whispered through it while he struggled to tame it.  It had to look a certain way, else he wouldn't be able to achieve optimum speed for Quidditch.  After all, it was vital that he capture the Snitch.

            Humming under his breath, he picked up a jar of "Candied Broom Wax," and unscrewed it.   He discharged a generous amount onto his palm and white wax melted under the heat of his fingers. The straw crackled under his fingers as he lovingly shaped the mound.  The wax was really quite good.  It claimed to be "perfect for brooms of all shapes and sizes" and he had no reason to doubt that. He critically examined the shape before judging it to be as close to perfect as possible and returned his attention to the long, hard shaft.

            He connected his index and thumb together and ran it along the wood's length. In and out, in and out the Firebolt skimmed through the entrance created by his fingers.  Harry's eyes squinted in concentration. Splinters were bad, even if he had gloves and protection against this sort of thing.  The wood began to warm against his fingers, and satisfied, he stopped his ministrations.

            He carefully squirted a bit of "Honey Broom Oil" onto his hands.  Supposedly, this was the best stuff on the market as honey helped to preserve the longevity of the wood.  He carefully ran it over the words "Firebolt" at the end of the broom, letting his fingers run over the slightly rounded end. A tiny bud at the tip caught his scrutiny and he rolled his fingertips over it, massaging and stroking and then coming back down upon the other side.  He was mesmerized by the action.  Up and down, up and down.

            But he couldn't allow himself to oil it too much; after all, he might slip off the broom, and that wouldn't be good, no indeed.

            His eyes glazed as the wood thrummed underneath his oily fingers, and his breath became heavy. The room was suddenly too stuffy as he righted the Firebolt. 

            Concentration slightly, he set the broom in the air, letting it float before him.  It hung there, patiently waiting for him to mount.  Resisting the temptation to settle himself against the familiar wood, he ran his fingers gently across the stiff shaft of the broom, inhaling the familiar scent of varnish and wood.  He loved the way it looked so erect, just floating there.  It had never failed to bring him to the Snitch. 

            It was the final Quidditch game, and the school was cheering the Gryffindors.  Lee was making his usual smart commentary, but Harry wasn't listening.  Instead, he was concentrating on the Snitch.  Where could it be?  He had to get to it before Malfoy..

            His gloved hands gripped the Firebolt tightly in nervous anticipation.  Sirius had given him a pair of dragonhide gloves for his birthday.  He thanked his godfather silently for the practical and useful gift.  It protected his fingers from all sorts of nasty splinters.  He rose higher into the air, his legs gripping to his Firebolt tightly.  He was practically pulsating with excitement; this was the final game.

            "And Angelina scores another ten points for Gryffindor making it one-twenty to seventy!  Take that you slimy Slytherins!  Die you bas-"

            "Jordan!" McGonagall's voice rang out. 

            Harry's eyes crinkled at the corners as he sought for that telltale speck of gold.  It had to be around.  He tightened his hand around the hard shaft.  Dammit, where was the Snitch?

            "Harry, look out!" screamed George who was speeding his way.  Harry blinked, and swerved just in time to avoid a Bludger.  "Thanks George!" called out Harry.  George gave a smart salute before flying off in vengeful pursuit.

            He glided nervously above the game, swerving abruptly from time to time to avoid the occasional Bludger.  On one such swerve, he spotted a distinct flash of gold near the Slytherin goalposts.

            "Go, go," he urged his broomstick, flattening himself against it.  The Firebolt penetrated through the wind as Harry continued to encourage speed out of it.  His hands were slick within the leathery gloves.  He felt like spanking the broom, as riders did when encouraging speed from their horses.

            His world narrowed down to the Snitch and the broomstick beneath him.  He risked a glance over his shoulder, and noted with satisfaction that Malfoy was miles behind him. He cocked his Firebolt at his target.  He focused on it intently, desiring to thrust himself at the Snitch and grab it before Malfoy did.  He willed himself to drive his Firebolt towards the winged speck of gold hovering in the distance.  It was, so close, so close, right against the hoop.  Neatly plunging through Slytherin's defenses, he whizzed through the hoop.  His leg brushed against the cold metal.  He felt a cold jolt go down his spine and ignored it.  He thrust the broom forward, shaking with ecstasy and adrenaline.  He crushed the broom between his legs, pushing harder to reach his goal. The wind was ripping around him, sweat clung to his robes and he was uncontrollable.  His hands closed around the Snitch.

            "And Potter has caught the Snitch!  Gryffindor have won the Cup again, thanks to their Seeker, Harry Potter!"

            Harry sighed, lost in his memories. That had been one of the best days of his life.  He could still hear the wind whistling through his ears, could feel the Firebolt under him as he strained to reach that pinnacle of triumph.

            Almost as if mesmerized, he stretched out a hand and gripped the broomstick tightly, sliding his hands back and forth.  It glided easily as his hands still retained the residue of the honey oil.  He grinned slightly at the welcoming friction.  It was almost as if he were back on the Quidditch field.

            "Remember team!  Good Quidditch players worship their broomsticks!  They sleep, protect, and hell, they even make love to them!"

            Harry smiled slightly.  Oliver's words still rang in his ears, and he kept them close to his heart.  It had been after his first Quidditch game, still excited and energized about their victory.  His Firebolt was truly worth protecting.  He kept it locked securely within his trunk, much as he did during his third year.  It was quite easy to become paranoid about his beloved broomstick.

            He knew his Firebolt could stand up to anything, even Whomping Willows.  He had mourned the loss of his Nimbus2000, but acceded that it was for the better.  If anything, it was certainly easier on the eye.  It was slim and long, and the cherry wood of the handle made it especially attractive.  His Nimbus had been a bit shorter and thicker, and he did not sit upon it as easily.  He snorted; he remembered his first Quidditch game when Quirrel had cursed his broomstick.  It had been damned hard to control.  But his Firebolt…

            "You are one good broomstick," he said to it lovingly before gripping it in both hands.  He imagined himself straddling it, as if it were for a match of Quidditch and, for a moment, he was in the game, soaring into the sky and completion. However, he was tired and needed his sleep. The Firebolt grew cold in his hands. Shaking his head ruefully, he massaged his right hand vigorously.  It was cramped from staying in the same position for so long. 

            Examining the broom critically, he judged it to be dry enough.  He picked up a piece of latex, and slid it across the handle.  He grunted as it hesitated on some parts of the shaft.  Moisture could ruin the wood, and Harry didn't want his exertions to be undone.  He settled the broomstick back into the trunk and shut the lid reluctantly.

            After all, there was always tomorrow night.


Thanks go to Ilana, Killiko, Serena and HA for their contributions (which added up to approximately half of this fic and to Jae, who instigated the whole Harry/Firebolt business.  But now I am buggered for a smutty sequel.  Which may possibly happen.  Ph33r m3.  XD