"Now, lift your arm above your head. Smile coyly. Right, do that thing with your other hand again? That's great, Neville!"
If you'd told me when I was what Peeves still calls an "ickle Firstie" that I'd be running a porn--excuse me, erotica--business before I'd graduate, I'd have laughed in your face. All right, I most likely would've gone beet red and spluttered in your face, but that was before Seamus Finnigan got his hands on me. No, not like that. Unfortunately. Seamus is bloody sexy, and he has a nose for this business. Snuffed me out, he did, knew right away I'd be good at this sort of thing. A natural, he said.
"Hey Colin, how about this one? I was thinking it up during dinner today."
A flick of the wrist, and the plain, boring, white linen sheets are suddenly black silk, and fuck if it's not the sexiest thing I've seen in ages, and coming from me, that means something. I'd get hard if I wasn't holding a camera, but I am, so I don't. Funny how that works.
"That's great Neville!"
Funny also how the object of my purely professional affection, the star of Creevy, Inc., would be the one person less likely than I to be in this business. Neville Longbottom, another one of Seamus's unlikely finds, another fucking natural.
"Alright, I used up the four rolls I had with me. You're a genius at this stuff. And with Seamus's help, we'll be able to finish the charms on the cameras and the other equipment, so we can start filming by Christmas. Isn't that wonderful?"
I'm babbling, and I know it. He has that effect on me, scares me witless sometimes with his temper tantrums, like a five-year old deprived of candy. Except, of course, most five-year olds don't completely destroy a room when you take away their candy.
"It's always the quiet ones," my gran used to say, and then she'd fix me with a withering stare. I don't think gran ever liked me very much. Wonder if she knew, even then.