Title: When
the Soul Goes Hungry
Author: dacro
Team: Wartime
Genres: Angst & Romance
Prompt: Order of Merlin
Rating: R
Warnings: See Snarry Games post for warnings.
Word Count: 17,000
+/-
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter is the property of JKR et al, and
sadly, not mine.
A/N: A huge thank you from the bottom of my heart to the snarry_games
mods, my wonderful Wartime teammates, and most importantly to the four
brilliant souls who let me invade their time and abduct their talents during
the editing process: saladbats, joanwilder
(who gets credit for suggesting the opening quote), synn,
and loupgarou1750.
It was an honour to work with all of you. *lots of love*
Summary: An innocent desire to escape the burden
of his duties – if only for a moment – leads Harry down a beautiful and
dangerous path.
When the Soul
Goes Hungry
"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember
that." –Albus Dumbledore
"George! He's here!"
"– and none too soon, if you ask me," George said, his head appearing
suddenly from behind the curtain that separated the main store from the back
room. "Enjoy your journey?"
Harry shrugged. "Not bad."
George clicked his tongue in an unsettlingly Mrs Weasley-type way, and stepped
up to Harry, welcoming him with a hearty handshake, and made quick work of
Banishing both Harry's trunk and the empty owl cage up to the little flat above
the shop.
"You'd better not let Mum see you in this state," he said, eyebrows
raised. "She's likely to tie you to the cooker and feed you until there's
colour back in those cheeks. You're paler than that vampire who came in the
shop last night."
"Your aunt and uncle kept up the stellar hospitality, then?" Fred
asked, tossing Harry something that looked like a Blood Pop.
Harry shrugged, nodded his thanks for the sweet, and gave a half-smile.
"Same as always. At least I never have to go back again." As soon as
he'd said it, he felt much better. His smile grew into something genuine.
"It's good to see you two. Thanks for letting me stay."
"What's ours is yours, and all that. Oh, that's reminded me – "
George flicked his wand at the door, and the flashing sign that had been
broadcasting 'Open for mayhem', now twinkled with the words 'Sorry, this
attraction is temporarily closed' in magenta neon.
"We're stepping out tonight – meeting of the Diagon Alley Bureau of Businesses.
Won't be too long."
"Two hours at most."
"Oh, no problem," Harry said, feeling a bit relieved. As much as he
always had a good laugh with Fred and George, a fortnight locked away with his
own thoughts had made the snap and sparkle of the store -- and the Weasley
twins themselves -- a case of too much too soon. "I think I'm just going
to have an early night. Ron and Hermione – "
"Coming by after breakfast tomorrow, yeah, Ron sent an owl," Fred
piped up, tossing George his matching hat. "Oh, and speaking of owls
–"
"Hedwig's waiting for you to check in," George finished.
George pointed a freckled finger toward the curtain. "Stairs are through
the back, your bed's the one with the Snitch quilt on, and help yourself to the
fridge."
"All right, thanks. Have a good meeting."
"If you're not as sleepy as you look, take a poke around the shop,"
Fred offered. "We've added quite a few new items since your last visit. Go
ahead and open anything that catches your fancy."
"But read the directions first; some things bite back, if you know what I
mean," George said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Okay, Harry, we're off.
Have fun."
And with a skip out the door, Fred and George disappeared around the corner,
and out of sight, leaving Harry in the garish room, surrounded by the fruits of
their inventive labour.
After a quick visit up in the flat with Hedwig, and a much needed snack, Harry
wandered back downstairs, the offer to take an uninterrupted look around far
too tempting to pass up.
The back room looked relatively the same, except the shelving space had doubled
in size, and a few more cluttered and stained workbenches were set up in the
middle of the room. Harry moved closer, careful not to knock anything over, and
began reading the labels attached to the front of each stack of boxes in the
first row: Touch-Me-Not Wands, Rebound Rubber Gloves, Shield Scarves, Warning
Watches, and Shrieking Shirts – the last he resisted taking out of the box,
although his curiosity nearly got the better of him.
He pushed the curtain aside and re-entered the front of the shop, pausing to
liberate a Sour Sugar Quill from its sticky jar. Sucking on the tip, he
inspected the new line of truth-telling sweets arrayed on the crowded counter
top.
After nearly an hour of box-reading, experimenting, and ear-scratching a few of
the Pygmy Puffs, he was contemplating going up to bed when a large pink box
caught his attention: Pirate's Fancy - Daydream Charm.
Harry smiled to himself, remembering Hermione standing in his place, and
complimenting Fred and George on the impressive magic of this same item almost
a year ago to the day. The picture of the young man and swooning girl on a
pirate ship had been updated so that the ocean's spray continually splashed
over the bow, and the sound of seagulls could be heard when he raised the box
close to his ear.
…realistic thirty-minute daydream…
He looked up at the clock on the wall, guessed that he had another hour before
his hosts returned, and thought he could use a bit of a laugh. After all, he
had been wondering about how 'virtually undetectable' the daydream would be
from reality.
Making his decision, he found a comfortable chair in the back room, drew his
wand, closed his eyes, and spoke the incantation written in bold on the side of
the box.
When he opened his eyes a moment later, he was still sitting in the plushy red
armchair, but it seemed to be rocking forward and backward gently, and
something was very wrong with the walls. As he watched, wide-eyed and slightly
panicked, the shelves melted, turned a deep brown colour, and reformed into
bowed planks. Dark blobs rose up from the floor and slowly became large barrels
ringed with rough, braided rope, and the call of sea birds replaced the
creaking of the chair as Harry shifted his weight to stare at the new
environment.
His brain took that moment to remind him about the Daydream Charm he'd just
cast, and encouraged him to take a deep breath and enjoy himself. His heart
slowed its harried pace as he settled deeper into the cushions and let his eyelids
fall closed once more, allowing the rich smell of the wood hull to mix with the
fresh sea air coming from somewhere above him.
He was curious to explore the decks above, but decided to take another long
moment to indulge in the feeling of being cradled in the belly of a ship
rolling over the waves. It was how he'd always dreamt a proper holiday would
feel: unhurried and peaceful. Safe.
His eyes flew open as a shadow appeared. Someone swung down from the hatch
directly overhead, landing solidly in front of Harry. He reached for his wand
and came up empty. A quick glance down at his clothing provided the answer: he
was wearing a low-cut, fitted cotton dress, and not much more. He pulled his
legs up on the chair and looked quickly up at the intruder: the blond, handsome
youth from the cover of the daydream box.
"What do we have here -- a stowaway?" he asked Harry, tossing his
long hair back over his shoulder.
Harry's mind kept trying to remind him that none of it was real, but the
swooping sensation he felt in his stomach when the young man smiled brightly at
him felt real enough – and more than a little unsettling.
The young sailor leisurely lowered himself to a kneeling position in front of
Harry's chair, and wore an expression of open honesty.
"I'm sorry if I scared you. I'm Palmer. What's your name?"
Harry's first instinct was to laugh, but, when Palmer touched his hand, two
other options battled for dominance in his mind: run or punch the boy who was
invading his personal space. He settled on reclaiming his hand and answering
the question. "Er…Harry."
"Welcome aboard, Harry. Say, that's a beautiful name. Fancy a tour?"
~*~
It was well into August, and Harry had only managed to track down one possible
tip-off connected with the whereabouts of Hufflepuff's cup, and that was mostly
thanks to Hermione's gift for diving head-on into research.
Since Dumbledore's death, there had been something else weighing on his mind,
something he felt was just as important as locating the remaining Horcruxes.
He knelt in front of the fireplace, thrust his head into the flames, and
attempted a smile that he hoped would look genuine when Remus' face came into
view.
"Any word on Snape or Malfoy?"
The answer was always the same, and yet he always asked.
~*~
The search for the remaining Horcruxes had produced very little success. Nearly
six months had passed since Dumbledore's death and yet, for Harry, every day
brought the depressing reminder that his mentor - the man who had always seemed
to be able to conjure answers and solutions from thin air, and who was, without
a doubt, the people's defender against both dark wizards and two-faced
politicians – was never coming back.
At first, Harry'd had more than enough drive to pursue his task with his head
held high, ready to take on the challenge, and his two best friends by his
side, but as time went on, he came to depend more on the heady mix of revenge
and justification, as well as the knowledge that it was his task, his duty,
regardless of countless dead-ends and numerous disappointments.
He had also hoped that somewhere, his parents were proud of his determination.
And yet all of that combined couldn't fill the Albus-shaped void in his life,
or dim the shimmering green light over the tower that appeared frequently in
his nightmares. The bad dreams were always most disturbing after receiving one
of Dumbledore's monthly posthumous deliveries – a condition of the old man's
Last Will and Testament. As much as Harry was honoured that Dumbledore had
included him at all, it made the loss even harder to bear and kept the wound in
his heart from sealing over.
His inheritance confused Harry at first, and he had even asked Ron if there was
yet another Wizarding custom he should have known about, but in the end, they
decided to count it up as proof of Dumbledore's uniqueness – a fitting legacy
of sorts.
The first token had been Dumbledore's wand, a great honour, and yet Harry had
given it directly to McGonagall for safekeeping, never telling her the truth –
that he couldn't stand to look at it or hold it. The second was a bottled,
silvery memory that showed Dumbledore sharing ideas with a preening Fawkes
about possible (but incorrect) locations of the remaining Horcruxes. The third
gift was a picture of Harry's parents sitting in one of the Quidditch stands
near the end of their seventh year, apparently debating over some issue, but
clearly focused intently on each other.
October and November's gifts were one offering in two parts: two enormous
bookshelves, and seemingly every book on the Dark Arts Albus had in his
possession. The arrival of the bookcases forced Harry to cast his first 'Obliviate'
when the second shelf stubbornly refused to resize, breaking through the
ceiling of his small rented room, and frightening the woman who lived upstairs.
Harry thought December's delivery would arrive with his other Christmas gifts,
but, with the holiday still a week away, the appearance of a flat, dusty and
very beaten-up box took him a little by surprise.
~*~
Thick smoke stung Harry's lungs, bringing tears to his eyes. His body ached,
and Snape's final, venomous words rattled around in his head, fuelling his
anger, draining his strength. Before following Malfoy into the dark, Snape's
sharp gaze connected with his own…
"I thought you liked eggnog?" Ginny said, from somewhere behind him.
"What? Yeah, I do," he said distractedly, suddenly noticing the cup
floating in front of him. He took a polite sip, and tried to remember how long
he'd been sitting on the sofa, staring into the fire.
"You all right, Harry?"
"Yeah, just thinking."
"What you need is a proper holiday," Charlie offered, entering the
room and taking the opposite end of the couch. "From what Ron's been
telling us –"
"And from what we can all see with our own eyes—" George added,
strolling in with a bowl of nuts, Fred at his side.
"You're a shambles, mate," Charlie finished, wearing an understanding
expression.
Harry felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment and, for the umpteenth time that
evening, he regretted talking himself out of charming away the dark circles
under his eyes. "I don't have time for a holiday. Can you imagine what the
Prophet would say?"
"Good point," Ginny said, sitting on the floor at Charlie's feet.
"But still," she added quietly. "You might want to try Dreamless
Sleep or some sort of—"
"I'm all right, really. We're just getting close to something big right
now, and I haven't been able to put it out of my mind. Don't worry, I'll rest
soon. Besides, Ron and Hermione have been—"
"Sleeping," Fred said with a mock-glare. "Doesn't look like
that's a concept you've mastered quite yet."
Harry didn't know what kind of response to give, but was saved the trouble when
George provided a distraction by stealing Ginny's eggnog. With a flick of her
wand, a seal appeared over the edge of the glass, preventing George from
drinking. She also sent him a nasty look that Harry assumed had nothing to do
with the stolen drink.
"Wish I could still fly, though," Harry said, spotting a broom handle
sticking out of the crowded hall cupboard.
"Yeah, me too," everyone echoed.
"I thought the ban was supposed to be lifted by now," said Ginny,
polishing off her re-claimed eggnog.
"I can't see the Ministry going on with it much past January,"
Charlie said. "If they do, all the Professional Quidditch players will
have to find new homes, won't they?"
Fred made a face as if he'd swallowed something sour and began imitating the
Ministry Spokeswoman who had made the announcement over the wireless three
months ago. "The Ministry has concluded that broom travel is no longer
safe!"
"I wish she'd say the same about cabbage," George said with a wink.
Everyone laughed.
"And handling dragon dung," Charlie added.
Fred thrust a finger into the air. "And proper table manners."
Harry chuckled and stood up for a stretch. His eye caught sight of a broken
Muggle compass on a nearby shelf and an idea began to form in his mind. He made
a mental note to speak to Fred and George about it once there were fewer ears
in the room.
An hour later, everyone started yawning and heading toward their bedrooms.
Harry made his goodnight rounds, but held back, waiting until he was alone with
Fred and George, who were making ready to Floo back to their shop for the
night.
"Can I talk to you two for a minute?"
"Certainly, Harry," they chimed in unison.
"I've just had a thought; how do your Daydream Charms work? Instead of a
ship or whatever else you've got, could you change the incantation around to
make it seem like we're flying, or playing Quidditch?"
"Brilliant, Harry. We've been trying to market a line of the charms for
blokes, but weren't sure if they'd take off, so to speak, but Quidditch
Daydreams would sell like Chocolate Frogs."
"Well, I just thought, that way, I could still go flying and clear my mind
without having to leave my room."
"Brilliant. Best not to take your mind away for too long, but for flying
you'll be fine with a time frame of…what, George? An hour?"
George nodded. "Hour and a quarter, tops. The transitions are easier to
handle in smaller increments."
"That, and if you leave your body on its own too long, you run the risk of
missing important messages from places like your bladder. There's a long and
embarrassing story about that, but for now let's just say that I woke up after
two hours to soiled trousers and a headache that no potion would fix up. Not my
best day, I assure you."
"Should put that on the box," joked Harry, with a smile.
Fred laughed and thumped him on the shoulder. "Why don't you stay with us
tonight, and we'll teach you how to cast the alterations? We'll be back in the
morning to see what Father Christmas has coughed up. What say you?"
"Brilliant."
~*~
It felt better then he'd imagined – it felt real.
The sun shone pleasantly, not too hot, and the gusty breezes ruffled his hair
as he sliced and rolled through a perfect sky.
He pushed into a dive, swooping low over the tree tops, stirring up a few birds
and surprising a family of Bowtruckles.
He had considered inventing a few people to fly with, or a whole team to run
part of a game, but, as he banked towards the soft-looking clouds, he knew he'd
made the right decision. He was alone and free to take his mind away from
Voldemort, Snape, Malfoy, Horcruxes, and the pressure of keeping Ron and
Hermione away from tasks that were becoming increasingly dangerous.
He was finally able to investigate - without anyone's cautionary, well-meant
warnings --speeds that exceeded what he could achieve in reality. He shifted
his weight forward, pushing against nature's forces and blinked as the wind bit
at his wet eyes.
Harry tried to delay his return to the real world as long as possible, but,
when the sky began to blur and his broom descended of its own volition, he knew
it was inevitable.
~*~
"Oh, Harry, I'm glad you're back, Lupin wanted to know if…AHH!" She
leapt back from the Floo as Harry stepped through, Nagini draped limply over
his shoulders.
"Is she dead?" Hermione asked, her voice high.
Harry nodded wearily.
"And was she a – like Dumbledore thought?"
"Yeah."
"Are you all right?"
He nodded again.
"Was she sent to attack you?" Hermione asked, her voice creeping
higher with each question.
"No. She was in the Malfoy gardens. I think she was waiting for Draco to
turn up."
"But he hasn't – no one's seen him in nearly a year."
"I know." Harry rubbed at his tired eyes. "Maybe Voldemort
hasn't either, which makes me think he's still holed up somewhere with
Snape."
"Harry, I know why you…" she paused and took a deep breath. "Not
to make light of what happened, but Snape and Malfoy might be dead for all we
know. I think our time might be better spent focused on the remaining
Horcruxes."
Harry tried to hold on to the anger and annoyance that bubbled just under the
surface, but some of it escaped -- the bits that he felt were right and
justified. He pulled the giant snake off his shoulders and it landed with a
pathetic 'thump' at Hermione's feet.
"What the hell do you call this, Hermione?"
"Harry, I didn't mean… it was just a coincidence that she was…" She
narrowed her eyes and changed tactics. "What were you doing at
Malfoy's?"
Harry ignored her question. "Don't you think that if Snape was capable of
killing Dumbledore, his Master would trust him enough to tell him the
location of at least some of the Horcruxes? Maybe he's been sent away to
protect them. Did you think of that? This isn't some revenge mission I'm on,
Hermione; Snape's missing, and I have a feeling he's hiding for a reason!"
"But we have no proof of…" she stopped as Harry turned and headed for
the Floo once more. "Please, let's talk about this. Ron will be back after
his meeting with…"
"No! I'm going after Snape – Malfoy too, if I can find him, and I'm going
alone, like I should have in the first place."
Hermione tried to speak, but Harry raised his chin in a gesture he'd seen Snape
use with much success, and she fell quiet again. He was beginning to lose his
nerve, but something kept him from taking back his words.
He compromised by lowering his voice to a gentler tone. "Tell Slughorn he
can have at the snake if he wants, while it's still fresh. I've already looked
at her memories, but there's nothing we can use. It looks like she was
constantly Obliviated."
He looked up just as the flames began to spin. Hermione was silently crying,
and it was his fault. His rage crawled back into the shadows, and left him with
only guilt and regret, but it was too late to go back – he was already whirling
toward his own fireplace.
~*~
The cost of killing Nagini, as well as destroying another fraction of Voldemort's
soul, was higher than Harry had expected.
Three Muggle hospitals had been closed due to an outbreak of a new strain of
the flesh-eating virus; Hogsmeade had been set ablaze in the dead of night by
fire curses that could only be contained once the flames had consumed their
target; and seven people – three wizards, three witches, and one child – were
dumped unceremoniously out of the Minister's Floo connection and onto the floor
of his own office, all dead.
It was too much, and Harry knew he was to blame. No one else was supposed to
get hurt. His plan had been solid: leave school, find the Horcruxes, kill
Voldemort – fulfill the prophecy. But so much time had gone by, and nothing was
working out the way it should have.
He ran his fingers over his best friends' unopened letters. He missed them, but
one grim thought of their faces appearing in the Prophet under the heading of deceased
or missing was enough to pull his hand back, and confirm that his
decision to continue on alone was the right one.
He needed to come up with a better plan. He needed to find the missing pieces.
But first, he needed to clear his mind.
~*~
The farm sat halfway up on a rise, surrounded by multi-coloured hills that
exceeded what Harry had envisioned for this daydream. The smell of timber from
the newly-raised barn mingled with the tang of apple blossoms and sailed on the
breeze to where Harry stood in tall grasses beside a modest stone cottage.
He wandered up to a thatched structure with no walls, where a very pretty girl
with plaited brown hair was milking goats, and a tall, fit young man with
richly tanned skin was chopping firewood.
They greeted Harry like a long lost friend, and the three of them spent the
next few hours laughing, preparing the collected milk to be made into cheese,
and adding a substantial amount of newly chopped wood to the pile.
It felt incredible to be using his body again for something active, something
positive, even if it was all just a product of his imagination. The sun felt
real enough on his bare chest, and his arms burned with exertion, as if he were
really doing the churning and chopping.
The smiles came easily, as did the colour that crept up his neck and the good
almost-pain that swirled around his lower abdomen when the farm boy fixed his
dark eyes on Harry, and suggested that they go swimming in the fresh forest
pool.
It was an easy decision.
Harry jumped in. The invigorating water swirled around, over and under him,
supporting, pulling, and embracing his rapidly cooling skin with nothing to get
in the way. He broke the surface, feeling lighter and happier than he had in a
very long time. When the other young man swung out on a rope above him and
plunged naked into the pool, whooping at the top of his lungs and splashing the
surprised girl on the bank, Harry actually laughed out loud.
He had never stayed so long in a daydream before, nearly three hours, and yet
he could feel none of the side effects George had warned him about. The only
negative aspect was the tinge of regret he felt as the forest around him began
to melt and the happy voices faded.
As the dark room started to reform around him once more, he called out
suddenly, asking for their names. He heard a faint 'Nora and Seth', before the
scene collapsed completely, bringing him back to a sprawled position in his
chair, feeling on the edge of vomiting.
Along with his roiling stomach, his eyes itched from a lack of blinking, and
his head throbbed steadily. He was thankful that the sun had set while he'd
been dreaming; if he'd had to deal with the setting sun at eye-level, it would
have made the situation even more uncomfortable than it already was.
He swore at himself for foolishly presuming that the time limit rules, and the
repercussions of breaking them, wouldn't apply to him.
Warring with the suffering in his head was an inappropriate but intriguing
swelling below his belt, and the almost overwhelming demand from his aching
heart, that he ignore the recommended safety precautions and go back right
away. He longed to strip off his clothes again and dive into that perfect
water, spend the night under swaying branches, bookended by two warm bodies,
and escape – just a little while longer – from the impossible future that lay
ahead.
He reached for his wand, his mind made up, but before the words of the spell
could leave his mouth, his stomach pitched. By the time his vomiting eased, he
was too sore and tired to think about casting anything more complicated than a
cleaning charm.
~*~
Dear Mr Potter,
It has come to our attention that you have not opened the portion of your
inheritance from the late Albus Dumbledore delivered to you last December.
The purpose of this missive is to bring to light a clause in the Will which I
may have neglected to mention to you upon our first meeting. It concerns the
fact that your next 'gift' cannot be sent until the previous parcel has been
opened.
I know this must be a demanding time for you, Mr Potter, but it is the
responsibility of our office to carry out the last wishes of one of the greatest
wizards of our time. Your assistance would be greatly appreciated, especially
since the items in question do not seem to enjoy being delayed for months at a
time, and are becoming quite unruly.
Sincerely,
Barlow Broomaker
Estate Solicitor
~*~
Harry came to on the Indian rug in his room, face down, and stiff. He lifted
his pounding head and looked up awkwardly, trying to judge the distance from
the mattress to the floor, and to puzzle out how he'd fallen off the bed in the
first place. He gave it up as a bad job, and decided rolling over on his back
was about as much as he was capable of at that moment. But as soon as the cool
air met the damp front of his trousers, he became aware of the uncomfortable
stickiness.
The memories of his most recent daydream washed over him, distracting his mind
from reality once more.
This time Nora had been busily sewing in the cottage parlour when Harry
arrived, so he and Seth left her to her work, and went to explore the new barn.
Up in the hayloft, they talked for hours about trivial things, and Harry was
surprised at how refreshing it was to have an entire conversation with someone
who knew nothing of war, curse scars, or Voldemort. As the sun was setting
beyond the large open window, they chewed on bits of straw, and simply enjoyed
each other's company.
This new friendship was everything he'd had with Ron, and yet he felt
completely different when he was alone with Seth. Harry found every excuse he
could to casually touch the other boy's work-roughened hands, and study his
dark eyes up close, amazed by the sunset's reflection there.
He tried to take his time, interpret what he was feeling, but all he could
concentrate on were his physical reactions: his sweaty palms, his belly doing
backflips, and how difficult it was to breathe normally.
He was going mad.
He knew there must be something very wrong with the fact that his body wanted
to do things with Seth that boys only did with girls, but, as they laughed
together, Harry reminded himself that this was his new world, his
dream, and if he wanted something – anything- to happen here, it would.
He was in control.
Seth was halfway through a story about collecting eggs when Harry closed his
eyes, leant forward, and kissed him clumsily.
There were no punches thrown, no harsh words, just Seth's soft gasp of
surprise, and then his hands on Harry's shoulders, pushing him down onto the
hay. His own shock surfaced momentarily before he felt Seth's weight settle
over him, a knee strategically placed in the dusty straw between Harry's
slightly parted legs. Dusky eyes stared down at him with wonder.
Nora's faint call from the cottage drifted in through the window, but they
ignored it. Seth blew aside the hair covering Harry's ear and whispered,
"This is what you want, Harry?"
A thread of doubt suddenly pushed past Harry's desire and demanded to be heard.
He mentally kicked himself for never thinking anything out properly. "I –
I don't know. I haven't, with another bloke, but I wanted - I want to
try – with you."
Seth smiled. A warm smile that sent a dart of arousal directly to the part of
Harry's body crying out for attention.
"And you?" he asked in a whisper.
Seth answered with another kiss, bolder this time, moving his fingers to
Harry's shirt buttons, and lowering his hips until there was contact.
Brilliant contact.
Harry's mind surrendered, shut off, and let his body take over, answering the
pressure with an experimental roll of his hips.
They both swore from the surge of pleasure. Harry had never felt more alive.
"Harry?"
Nora was still calling, although her voice sounded higher, less distant –
annoyed.
"Harry? Are you all right? I was worried when we hadn't heard - what are
you doing on the floor?" Hermione's voice slammed into his consciousness.
He winced and lifted a shaky hand to close the Floo connection, embarrassed at
the state of his body, his wet trousers, and angry at the interruption.
Nothing happened.
She continued to stare out at him from the flames, looking as if she now had
several more questions she wanted to ask.
The exertion had made him nauseous, but he wanted to be alone more than he
cared about sicking up on the rug again.
"Accio wand," he ordered.
Nothing.
"I'm calling a Healer," she said.
"No, I'm fine," he lied. "Just drank too much last night. I'll
call you in a few hours."
"It's past midnight, Harry, are you sure…"
"Tomorrow, then. Goodnight." he said, rolling to the side, his back
to her.
He could feel her eyes lingering, but sleep was already coming to claim his
exhausted mind and body. He pulled at the edge of the bed coverings until they
fell down over him. The fire's glow faded from the room as he concentrated on
returning his mind to the hay loft.
~*~
The Wizarding community asks: Where is Harry Potter?
With the sun setting on the one year anniversary of Albus Dumbledore's death,
and an alarming increase of disquieting events (see page 5: Dark Mark appears
over St Mungo's), citizens are calling for action, and demanding to know why
the Chosen One is silent, and, as of yet, largely unseen in the fight against
You Know Who.
A concerned mother, one Janice Duggins of Castle Combe, told this reporter that
a 'strongly worded letter' has been sent on behalf of her family and several
others to Gawain Robards, head of the Auror Division, concerning the apparent
lack of headway against the rising violence, stating: "Something needs to
be done. If the Aurors can't help us, and Harry Potter is unwilling to
undertake his duty, then I believe we – as a threatened people – need to take
the initiative, confront the Ministry head on, and take further measures to
protect ourselves."
The Minister for Magic urges the community to remain calm, and have faith in
the Magical Law Enforcement system. In a statement delivered to the Prophet this
morning, the Minister writes: "Do not lose heart. Adjustments are being
made, and it will only be a matter of time before this unpleasantness is behind
us. We should not divide our numbers with acts of sedition, but instead, work
together to address our fears and grievances." (cont. page two)
~*~
Harry fought waking with all his might, but the sound of a steady metallic
tapping became too insistent to ignore. At first, he allowed himself to relax,
believing he was listening to the steady rhythm of Seth swinging the axe, but,
as the deep echo of his fantasy transformed into a high-pitched clattering
noise, he reluctantly opened his eyes, and became increasingly aware that
Hedwig was responsible for the racket, pounding her beak repeatedly against the
locked door of her cage.
"How'd you get back in there? I just let you out," he said, pulling
himself groggily to his knees to deal with the problem.
He was shocked to see her cage was a mess: shredded parchment, small downy
feathers, and several days worth of droppings cluttered the bottom. What next
caught Harry's eye made his chest tight and uncomfortable - her water dish was
empty.
"I'm sorry, girl – I don't know what happened." He set his finger
over the lock. "Alohomora."
The lock rattled slightly, and then fell still. Hedwig flapped around
impatiently in the confined space, and took her cacophony to a new level,
squawking louder, and snapping her beak at the air.
In his urgency to quiet and free her, Harry fumbled his wand, knocking it under
the bed. Back in his grip again, he pointed it at the lock.
It clicked open without a fuss. Hedwig made quick work of getting past him,
spotted the open window, and was gone – her reproachful cries fading into the
twilight.
He sank back onto his feet, feeling numb, guilty – confused.
Weak.
He curled up on the rug to think, but rolled away automatically when his cheek
met with something wet and sour-smelling. He reached for the lamp and took a
good look around the room for the first time.
It was worse than Hedwig's cage.
A glance in the mirror told him that the state of the room was the least of his
worries. Even in the fading light, his reflection was grim: his clothes hung
awkwardly, as if they had been draped hastily on a broken mannequin, his skin
was deathly pale under the filth that covered it, and he didn't recognize his
own sunken eyes.
He dropped to his knees and tried to remember how long he'd been asleep, and
before that, how long he'd spent wrapped in Seth's arms on the cool forest
moss, leisurely kissing and experimenting with different ways to make each
other moan. The memories spun together, and the effort of untangling his days
from his dreams became a losing battle.
There was a mountain of post on the floor under the open window. He crawled over
to inspect the parcels and letters he couldn't remember receiving. A bright red
ribbon stuck out from a small crushed box at the base of the pile. He threaded
a thin finger through the silk loop and pulled.
Something shiny – smooth and round on one edge, and jagged on the other -
dangled from the ribbon of what he now registered was some sort of broken
medallion. Portions of the embossed writing stood out from the surface. He
wondered if it had somehow been damaged in delivery. Harry squinted, moving his
hand closer to the lamp, but reading it was like listening to half of a
conversation: nothing really made sense, but considering that only one person
sent him monthly gifts, he had a solid guess as to whom it belonged, and what
it was. A gust from the window spun the medal around.
He touched his trembling finger to the shiny surface.
By the time his brain warned him that something felt wrong, the sensation of a
hook tugging at his centre was already pulling him forward. His eyes rolled up
with the force of magic, and cold dread wrapped around his heart.
~*~
Harry released a moan from deep in his chest and gave up trying to support his
head on his own, letting the floor do his work for him. He kept his eyes shut
tight, and focused his attention on Seth's strong hands as they ran over his
shoulders, down his arms to his fingertips, lower to his outer thighs, knees,
ankles and ended with a finger outlining every sock-covered toe.
"This is new. I like it," Harry mumbled, shifting into the touch as
the hands paused momentarily before continuing their journey upward along his
inner thighs, light and quick, as if searching for something, rather than
taking their time to explore. "Slower, Seth, please – feels so good."
The fingers hesitated at his hips, bypassed where Harry wanted them most, but
then pressed flat against his lower abdomen -- wringing a hungry moan from his
mouth -- and slid slowly upwards, bunching the shirt as they pushed. The
fingers spread out at the base of his throat, and continued climbing, reading
his face with each fingertip that danced over his chin, mouth, nose, ears,
fringe, and finally forehead, ending with tracing a very familiar shape.
The finger froze, but Harry reached up with his mouth to capture the thumb he
could sense hovering just above his lips. He hummed around it, "Mmm…now
let me touch you."
The hand jerked away as if Harry had bitten down.
As he fought to open his heavy eyelids, a blurry shape spun away from him, and
disappeared into the darkness. Harry's hands came up, reaching for Seth, and
yet somehow he knew he was already gone – or had never been there in the first
place. He blinked a few times, straining his eyes, willing them to adjust
faster to the near total darkness of the room. A room that wasn't his.
He heard the rustle of fabric somewhere across the room. "Who's
there?" Harry called out, panic rising by the second.
A cold, deep laugh was the only answer.
Reality rushed back to his mind with frightening force.
Portkey!
Harry frantically searched for the medallion, until his fingers closed over the
smooth ribbon, hoping desperately it would send him back home the way the
Triwizard Cup had done. He closed his hand around the cold metal.
Nothing happened.
"Incarcerous," a man's low, calm voice commanded.
The coarse rope scratched Harry's skin as it slid over and around his body. The
flailing ends slithered behind him, latched onto something solid, and tugged
until Harry was sailing backward.
The impact with the wall forced the air from his lungs, but there was still
enough left to cry out when something above him creaked for a moment, and then
crashed down on his head.
Just before the darkness swallowed him, Harry whispered an apology to the air
as he slid toward the floor, silently praying his words and regret would reach
the hearts of everyone he had failed.
~*~
Harry came to slowly, grimacing at the burning pain that streamed from the top
of his head, through his neck and down to his back. He held on to his tears,
but not his bitter thoughts. He was thankful to be alive, but a darker side of
him secretly wished whatever it was that hit him on the head, had finished the
job.
It would have been easier that way. He didn't have the energy or the will to do
much more than lie there and wait to die.
The bonds were still in place, a clear indication that torture was probably
next on the agenda. He took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself.
"Where's your wand, Potter?"
There was no mistaking the voice now – Snape.
Fury replaced fear faster than Harry's fogged mind was ready for. His thoughts
spun with endless revenge-filled scenarios for giving Snape what he rightly
deserved. He shivered as year-old memories and echoes of the white-hot whip
curse Snape had thrown at him the last time they met, flared across his face
and chest.
And yet as quickly as the rage had built, it fled from him along with the last
of his strength – replaced by pitiful surrender.
He remembered how much trouble 'Alohomora' had recently given him, and
knew that even if he had the chance to duel the man, he was unlikely to pose
much of a challenge, considering the shape he was in.
He'd already lost a round to the owl cage only hours ago.
Unless Snape wanted a fist fight, there wasn't much Harry had to offer in the
way of a proper punishment –not that he felt he had the strength for any type
of physical exertion either.
Time away from reality had consumed Harry's mind and body – there was no
denying that – but it had allowed him to analyse his motives and emotions from
a detached, safe distance. Every time his mouth wanted to accuse Snape of the
crime on the tower, his mind would cruelly supply him with a green-tinged
memory, complete with foolish boy promises, blood offerings, and a crystal
goblet.
Harry hadn't said the final words that sent Albus over the parapet, but what
Harry himself had done, even on Dumbledore's orders, was just as unforgivable.
He still loathed Snape, and wasn't thrilled about being held prisoner, but
Harry comforted himself with the hope that, if he was lucky, Snape might kill
him quickly before Voldemort got the chance.
The alternative was something he didn't want to consider.
"What, no clever words? No stolen curses flung at my back? I'm
disappointed, Potter."
Harry swallowed the bitter words that wanted to escape, saving them for later,
and settled on, "Where am I?"
"On the floor."
Harry choked out a dark laugh, wincing when his head throbbed in protest.
"Have you faced the Dark Lord?" Snape asked, ignoring Harry's
question.
"Not yet. Just you," Harry said dryly, turning his head to ease the
pressure from the worst of the tender areas. There was another rustle of
fabric.
"Then explain your wretched condition."
Harry took a deep breath, fed up with having his question ignored. "Tell
me where I am!"
Snape was silent for a moment before answering. "House of the discarded.
Storeroom for the damaged."
Not knowing what to make of that answer, Harry asked his next question.
"What do you want?"
"My sanctuary returned."
Harry swore under his breath. "Then why did you bring me here?"
"I did no such thing, I assure you," Snape said sharply. He took a
few more steps toward Harry, and although the familiar dark robes came into
view with help from the slices of moonlight streaming in from the window above,
his face was still hidden in shadows. "You didn't Apparate?"
"No, I didn't." Harry huffed at the irony, imagining the mess he
would have made of himself had he tried to Apparate from his room to an unknown
location in his present condition. He glanced down, opened his hand, and
watched the useless Portkey glitter faintly in the soft light, wondering
briefly why Snape hadn't asked him about it.
He groaned and tried to sit up a bit further. Snape jumped back and raised the
wand that had been lowered slightly only a few moments before.
Harry's eyes took another brief scan over the room. He could see more detail,
now that he was becoming accustomed to picking out the emerging shapes among
the greys and blacks.
On his left there was a wooden table with two chairs pushed in close against
it; some sort of half-wall, or tall counter loomed on the right. Behind Snape,
he could see a few coals glowing through the sooty window of what looked like
an old black-iron stove, and the outline of a dark sofa to the left of that. He
searched for a door, but couldn't separate one shadow from another in the
remaining corners.
He looked at Snape's wand, and saw it was still pointing at him, but the angle
had changed to target the wall a few inches above his head.
"Your aim's off."
He didn't know why he had said it, or why Snape responded with a dramatic spin
away, that reminded him of many a weekend and evening spent in detention, but
the wand was no longer an issue, so Harry took another breath and tried to make
himself more comfortable – a tricky task on an uneven wooden floor, when all
his thundering head wanted was a soft pillow and a few healing charms.
An ear-splitting clatter and more than a few curse-words from Snape startled
him.
He shifted around until he had a clear view under one of the chairs. An iron
rod with a sharp end rolled toward him and stopped a safe distance away, but
other objects were still clanking around. Harry wasn't positive, but the thing
in front of him looked like one of the rods Hagrid used to poke at his cooking
fire.
The amusing thought occurred to him that Snape must have walked into the
fire-side tools in his hurry to avoid his questions. He suddenly wondered why
Snape was shuffling around in the dark, when it was obvious that he needed to
watch were he was going.
"Why are the lights out?" he asked, trying to keep the amusement from
this tone.
"Because I have no use for them and no desire to entertain anyone else.
Incendio!"
The dying embers exploded within the small stove. A roaring fire soon warmed
the air, and cast enough light through the window to illuminate most of the
lower half of the room.
Harry's head gave another painful throb, and he wished he could at least feel
his wound, to figure out how much damage had been done. "Are you going to
kill me?" he asked, after Snape had Summoned the rods back to their place
by the stove.
"Undecided."
"Can you loosen these ropes while you decide?" Harry asked, trying to
sound polite enough to get what he wanted.
"No."
Harry swore under his breath. "Fine. Can you at least heal my head?"
In a rush of warm air, Snape was suddenly crouching in front of him. Thin hands
fisted Harry's shirt and yanked him bodily forward until they were face to
face. Harry's eyes fought to focus on the features that were too close, but he
had no trouble feeling the anger that poured from Snape like a waterfall.
"Since your presence here is still unexplained, I want you disadvantaged a
while longer." Snape punctuated his utterance with a firm shake. Harry's
head snapped back.
Mind spinning, Harry lifted up again and gasped when the moonlight showed him a
clear view of his former professor's face. Everything was the same except the
eyes – they were cloudy, unfocused – dead.
~*~
He spent the remaining night hours on the floor in a fitful sleep, his dreams
filled with the image of people he loved jumping off a cliff, one by one, but
not before they turned to him and said, "Thank you, Harry."
~*~
Harry awoke to the full light of the sun warming his face. His hands instantly
came up to shield his eyes from the too-bright greeting. It was a moment later
that he realised that they were no longer bound, and a few more seconds before
he noticed the softness of the sofa cushions under him, the freshness of clean
clothes, and the lack of pain in his head. He sat up and looked around for
Snape, but he wasn't in the room.
The house was a lot friendlier in the light of morning, and seemed almost cozy,
until Harry's mind reminded him that it was essentially a prison. He decided to
familiarise himself with it anyway.
He looked over to the table he had been lying beside only a few hours ago. It
appeared normal enough. The counter that had looked monstrous the night before
now looked like a normal cheery divider that hid a small corner kitchen from
the rest of the dining area. The wall directly opposite his position on the
sofa was covered from floor to ceiling with bookcases packed with books and a
few knick-knacks.
An image from the night before flashed in his mind's eye, causing him to stand
suddenly – Snape. Blind.
He spun around and noticed two doors on the wall behind the sofa. One was
mostly closed, but the other was completely open and displayed two
cream-coloured towels – obviously the bathroom, Harry told himself. He had
disregarded the cloak rack that stood between the two rooms on first glance,
but something told him to take a closer look.
Two cloaks.
Harry took a few steps toward the door, and came to the only obvious conclusion
– Malfoy was in that room. Harry moved closer and saw, through the narrow
opening, Snape bent low over a single bed.
Harry jumped when the man suddenly spoke, "It's rude to linger at doors,
but I wouldn't expect anything more of you."
"That's Malfoy, isn't it?" Harry said tightly, trying to stay calm.
Snape simply stood and stepped back from the bed. His eyes looked even worse in
the light – as if they had been frozen in place and painted over with frost.
Harry pulled his gaze away to look over at the figure in the bed. He'd been
right, it was Draco, but he was asleep, or unconscious. He was certainly
still enough. Draco looked fairly healthy and clean, but there was something
wrong with his expression; it was almost the same wistful, dreamy look that Ron
had worn, just before the brain tendrils began to do their damage in the
Department of Mysteries.
"What's wrong with him?" Harry asked, keeping his voice low, as if he
were in a room at St Mungo's.
"His mind is gone. He tried to keep his thoughts from the Dark Lord; he
failed, and was punished."
A pang of something Harry couldn't identify tugged at his chest. He was
suddenly too tired to stand. He took a seat in the chair at the foot of
Malfoy's bed and stared at the straw-coloured fringe that had grown long enough
to lie limply against Draco's cheek. He looked so much like his father, except
for the deceptively innocent smile that pulled at the corners of his thin lips.
"Does he sleep all the time?"
Snape reached out beside him until his fingers brushed the edge of the other,
slightly larger bed. He sat, staring blankly forward. "What do you care,
Potter?"
"I…" he stuttered, keeping his eyes on Malfoy, all of the questions
he wanted to ask the other boy swimming around in his mind. "Well, will he
get better?"
"Doubtful."
He'd never thought he would have any sympathy for someone who had nearly killed
Ron, belittled Hermione at every turn, invited Death Eaters into the school,
held Dumbledore at wand-point, and was a nasty piece of work in general, and
yet, as he studied Draco, he finally saw what Albus had seen on the tower – a
damaged young man.
"Voldemort should have just killed him, then." The words had slipped
from Harry's mouth before he could stop them.
"At last, something we agree on," Snape said darkly, touching
Malfoy's forehead for a brief moment, before reaching down and puling the
covers up over the pale shoulders.
Harry didn't know what to say, so he stood and hovered uncertainly in the
doorway.
"Go to the sofa and wait for me there. We're going to have a
discussion."
As Harry left the room, he couldn't help but feel like he had, once again, been
given detention.
~*~
Harry wrapped his arms around a pillow and tried to ignore his rumbling
stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and it was doubtful
that Snape was going to offer him a meal to go along with their impending chat,
so he turned his mind to something that was always a pleasant distraction –
Seth feeding him fresh greens sprinkled with crumbles of the goat cheese Nora
had made. He moaned at the memory of sticky fingers and fresh-ground pepper.
He was startled out of his fantasy by shuffling steps.
Snape trailed his hand over the arm of the sofa as he rounded it. He then took
two steps backward and Summoned a chair; it immediately slid out from the
table, and sailed across the floor until the edge of the seat brushed lightly
against the back of his knees. He sat down and crossed his legs.
Harry stared at him, not wanting to be the one to start the conversation, but,
as he watched in silence, Snape's words from the night before, suddenly made a
lot more sense: House of the discarded. Storeroom for the damaged.
Three of them in the house, all impaired in one way or another.
All of a sudden, he knew what he wanted to ask. "How do you get by?"
Snape didn't seem bothered by the frank inquiry. "I ask, and the house
provides. I assume it was something of Albus' doing."
It wasn't the answer he wanted, but he wasn't sure how hard to press his luck
with this strangely subdued Snape.
"That's not what I meant."
"Then ask plainly," came Snape's flat response.
"How – how do you find the will to – to live?"
"I don't. The house reads intent. If I ask for anything with the goal of
injuring myself, the item will not appear. If I try to cause self-harm with an
existing object, it disappears. I imagine if I asked for something to end
Draco's pointless existence, it would be equally unhelpful."
Something occurred to Harry then. He took another quick look around the room;
it was the same as before: table, kitchen, bookcases, stove, sofa, loo, coat
tree, bedroom… "There's no door to get outside."
"I once entertained thoughts of walking into the river," Snape said
calmly, as if it were an ordinary, everyday thought. "The door hasn't
appeared since."
Harry sank back against the cushions. "Oh," was all that came out.
"So you can give up on getting your fix here, Potter," Snape said,
his tone taking on its cold bite once more.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry shot back.
The chair creaked as Snape adjusted his position, setting both feet on the
floor. "You've been tortured by someone. Since we've established it wasn't
at the hands of the Dark Lord, I can only assume you've done this to
yourself."
Harry looked into the blank eyes again and scoffed before turning his gaze to
the stove. "How would you know?"
"I do have other senses, Potter," he said, leaning forward slightly.
"You arrived in a state of filth of which I thought only Mundungus
Fletcher capable. You smelled of sweat, vomit and semen, and you haven't shaved
in weeks, perhaps months." Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his rough
chin as Snape barrelled on. "You are grossly underweight, your fingernails
are beyond an acceptable length, and your mind is damaged enough to convince you
that I was someone called Seth."
Harry felt a chill run over him as the blood drained from his face. "Oh,
God. That was you – your hands, and I…"
A cold smile played over the man's lips. "Indeed. Ready to name your
poison?"
Harry buried his face in his hands, but to his horror, the words "Daydream
Charm" still escaped.
"Ah," was all Snape said for a few agonising minutes, before adding,
"A surprisingly creative form of self-destruction. I'm impressed,
Potter." Harry waited for the reprimand that was sure to follow, but it
was less sharp than he expected. "You, no doubt, ignored the restrictions
of the spell and continued to test its limits – even after you noticed
your failing health?"
There was no reason for it, but Harry found himself answering truthfully, and
more surprisingly confessing most of his story little by little.
He began with the first touch of the colourful box in Fred and George's shop,
and ended with Hedwig's furious screeching over her locked cage. Somehow, he
managed to describe the pull of dream-flying, the peace of perfect days spent
in the country, and the joy of guilt-free friendships -- without actually
mentioning the sexual exploration to which he had willingly fallen victim.
"And this Seth – a creation of your mind, or is he another poison
altogether?"
It was meant to get a reaction, and Harry was disappointed with himself for
falling into the trap as heat flared up his chest, and ended at the tips of his
ears. He took small comfort in the fact that at least Snape couldn't see his
predicament. What he hadn't counted on was the man's improved hearing.
"Your breathing has changed."
"He's none of your business," Harry said, feeling foolish for how
young he sounded and how pitiful and embarrassing it was to feel protective of
an imaginary – friend? Boyfriend? Neither word sounded right to Harry's
scrambled thoughts.
His stomach roared suddenly, and Snape's head tilted in amusement.
Anxious to turn the spotlight away from himself, Harry decided to ask something
that had been bothering him since his arrival, knowing full well he was just as
likely to get hexed as get the distraction he was looking for.
He braced himself. "What happened to your eyes?"
Snape stood abruptly. The chair toppled over. With a wave of his hand it righted
itself and returned to its spot under the table. His towering stance was still
intimidating, even though his eyes could no longer frighten.
"Feed yourself. I trust you can find the kitchen?"
And with that, Snape strode to the bedroom door, arm rising to touch it seconds
before a collision that never happened. Instead, he slipped into the room
without another word, and Harry was left alone with his growling belly, and a
twinge of guilt for his tactlessness.
~*~
It had taken Harry a few frustrating minutes to puzzle out the bare kitchen,
until he remembered something Snape had mentioned earlier about asking the
house for whatever he needed. Harry hoped it would work something like the Room
of Requirement, as he focused on the dining table and whispered, "Um,
chicken stew, toast and a glass of cold water – please."
When the meal appeared, he mentally kicked himself for not adding 'for one' to
his order. There was a single glass of water, but in contrast was enough stew
and toast to feed the entire Weasley clan, and then some.
He ate as much as his neglected body would tolerate, but it wasn't enough to
make even a small dent in the ocean of food. He tried to send some of it back
to wherever it had come from, but he either didn't have the words right, or the
house was insulted by his waste, and was intent on teaching him a lesson.
An hour later, he was standing at the head of the table, still pleading with
the house to clear up the now cold leftovers - quickly reaching the end of his
polite vocabulary - when Snape entered the main room, crossing the distance
with practiced ease – until he crashed into Harry's abandoned chair.
Harry would have laughed at some of the creative curse words, had he not been
terrified of being 'Crucioed' for his oversight. He missed his wand.
"Sit," Snape growled, taking Harry's chair for himself.
"Sorry about the…"
"I think it's time we discussed your arrival."
Harry pulled the broken medal over his head and dropped it nosily on the table
in front of Snape. "Portkey. You can touch it – it doesn't work
anymore."
Harry had worn the useless thing, hoping it would reactivate in its own time,
but since nothing had happened in however long he'd been in the house with
Snape, he reasoned it might be damaged, or perhaps it was the Wizarding
equivalent of a one-way ticket.
He watched Snape slide his hand along the rough wood until his fingers
encountered the ribbon, still warm from Harry's skin. The small half-rounded
bit of metal was only in Snape's hand for a second at most when he jerked it
back as if burned.
"Where did you get this?"
"Dumbledore, I think."
"What do you mean, you think?"
Harry told him about Albus' Will, and the items that were delivered at random
every month.
"I got the box just before Christmas, but I didn't open it until…" he
trailed off, as another thought bumped the others out of the way. "Why
would he send me here?" he asked, more to himself than Snape. Then he
looked up at the man sitting across from him. "How did you know this was
here – this house? Did he tell you about it before he was – before he
died?"
Snape took a piece of toast as he stood, and calmly left the room.
The rest of the food vanished, leaving Harry with nothing except a mind full of
unanswered questions.
~*~
As the sun painted the sky with deep oranges and moody reds, Harry cleaned up
the mess his stomach had made of his rejected dinner. He vowed to take it
slower with meals, sticking with bland and boring until his body was ready for
more.
He'd waited for Snape to re-emerge from the bedroom, but he remained alone,
even as he half-heartedly checked the windows for any chance of escape. When
the sunset melted into deep blue, and finally to a starless flat black, Harry
asked the house for a lantern and a blanket.
Since he had slept a good potion of the day away, he wasn't quite ready to
sleep. What he ached for was a few hours away, a comforting conversation in the
hayloft, or something more, as Seth's rough hand pulled him under the
skirts of a draping willow.
What he settled on, was a book: Huckleberry Finn -- the first spine his
fingers had brushed upon closer inspection of the shelves.
It was nearly as good as spending time with Seth in the tall summer grasses,
except with the book there was – more. More depth, more recklessness - but the
same quest for freedom, the same running. Running to. Running from.
He stretched out on the sofa, trying not to think about how frantic Hermione
and Ron would be when they saw the state of his room, and found his abandoned
wand.
He fell asleep with the lantern burning low, and the still-open book riding the
rise and fall of his chest.
~*~
Harry lay down on the sun-warmed planks, content to bask in the sounds of
the water murmuring under the raft, the birds singing in the rushes, and Seth's
soft breathing beside him.
He didn't want to break the spell, but he had to ask: "How far does this
river go?"
Warm, lazy fingers trailed around Harry's navel. "All the way to the
end."
Harry laughed. "You don't know?"
Seth propped himself up on an elbow and looked at Harry with a sober
expression. "I know what you know."
"Tell me something I don't," Harry said softly, pulling Seth in for a
kiss.
The other boy stopped him with a hand over Harry's heart. "It's not your
fault. None of it – not even Sirius."
Shocked by the sudden collision of his cold reality and summer-warm fantasy,
Harry pushed Seth away with all his strength. The boy's back hit the planks
with so much force, his body broke through the hastily-made raft, and plunged
into the murky water below.
Harry fell in after him, kicking, reaching, trying to swim, but his progress
was slowed by the debris wrapping around his arms and legs. Seth sank out of
view, and Harry's heart and chest burned with so much pain that a scream broke
free.
Water replaced air as he fought for breath, fought to keep his head above
water, but it was a losing battle. The raft tugged at his thrashing limbs as it
descended. Bits of twigs and rope floated in front of his eyes as his body
slowly gave in to the downward draw of the river.
Suddenly a shadow drifted towards him – and then a face. Salvation! He tried
once more to fight the pull of darkness as the features became clearer.
Long, dark hair danced and swirled around a face that was a collection of sharp
lines, steep summits and deep valleys. It was a face that showed as much as it
hid.
Harry knew that face.
Snape, not Seth.
Warm hands cupped his cheeks, pulling him forward until Snape's mouth was
sealed over his. An instant later, Harry's lungs filled with breath once more,
and his body reanimated.
He felt lighter, felt the bonds fall away, freeing him to move again. But
instead of swimming, he curled around his saviour, unwilling to return alone.
No longer worried about drowning, he felt at peace to stay entwined for as long
as they could both hold their breaths.
Snape's hands grabbed Harry painfully under his arms, tugging and kicking until
they broke the surface of the water, coughing and sputtering.
Harry stood in knee-deep water and stared at Snape, who was inexplicably
sitting on the shore, already dry and drumming his fingers impatiently on his
knees.
"Well, Potter, what are you waiting for?"
An image of Seth made Harry's heart pound with panic once again. He frantically
searched the water around him for the body, but stopped when he slowly realised
he was no longer standing in the river. He straightened up and took in his
surroundings: a picturesque small pond, complete with ducks, croaking toads,
and polished stepping stones.
Snape threw him his wand. He caught it without looking.
Harry leapt up off the couch when a bone-chilling scream shattered the silence
of the house. He glanced around in the darkness for something to use as a
weapon, until his foggy, half-asleep mind registered that he was still alone in
the main room.
He was climbing back onto his makeshift bed, convinced he'd either caused the
scream – or imagined it – when he heard it again.
Malfoy.
Standing in front of the door, he suddenly felt foolish. What could he do, how
could he possibly help – and did he want to? Well, I'm awake now, anyway,
he thought. He pushed on the wood, and it swung inwards.
There were no windows, but shapes were easy enough to make out with a little
help from the light thrown by the stove behind him. Everything was the same as
it had been before, except for the strange sight of Snape in a long, white
nightshirt that seemed as out of place as Filch in a ball gown. He was on his
knees, speaking in low tones to a whimpering Draco.
The strong scent of something pepperminty met Harry as he stepped forward. He
didn't think he had made a sound, but Snape knew he was there.
"This is no concern of yours, Potter," he snapped. His voice sounded
sleep-roughened and dry.
Harry had already taken a step back, but then Malfoy cried out again and began
to thrash around on the bed. "Can I…help?"
Snape grunted and something metal fell to the floor - maybe a spoon.
"Only if you can dispense of the Dark Lord in the next few minutes.
However, we all know how diligent you…"
"It's the Mark, isn't it?"
The shadows swelled around him. Harry's back hit the door, pinned at his
shoulders by the furious man now inches from his face.
"You think he's pleased that Draco and I have slipped through his fingers?
He does not forget, not even when the rest of the world counted us among
the dead months ago."
"Not me," Harry whispered, heart banging against Snape's chest.
"What did you say?" The grip loosened slightly.
"I never gave up looking for either of you."
"Looking for or hunting for?"
Harry swallowed in answer, but Snape seemed to take his silence as admission.
His grip tightened again as Harry tried to explain himself. "The Horcruxes
– I was hoping…"
"To torture the information from us – get your taste of dark revenge
before you won your prize for the light. Don't think for one moment, Potter,
that I…"
"No! I'm not…you're right, I hated you, both of you then, but I would
never…"
"Sectum…sempra," Snape hissed, stirring the hair covering Harry's
ear.
The word brought with it a mess of memories: blood, water, pale skin,
frightened eyes, someone screaming – Myrtle. No.
Malfoy again. Snape ignored him this time.
"Mistake – I didn't know," Harry choked out, unaware that he was
sliding toward the floor.
"What are you waiting for?" Snape shouted, backing up. "You'll
never have a better target than a blind man and an invalid. It's been months,
surely you can cast wandless. Someone of your special status must have acquired
a few more tricks to distract the Dark Lord."
"No. I don't…I needed. My magic…I can't!"
Snape's overwhelming presence was gone without warning, and Harry was left with
the rushing blood in his ears and Draco's soft sniffling from across room.
"You can't think of a reason why it would fail?" Snape asked calmly.
Snape knew. Harry's legs stopped supporting him. He slid the rest of the way to
the cold floor.
Another memory surfaced, one that seemed a lifetime ago: Tonks, her hands
wrapped around a mug, greeting him blandly with her sad eyes, absently pushing
mousy-brown hair out of her eyes.
"I did this to myself," Harry said in a whisper, feeling increasingly
foolish for not realising it sooner.
"Likely. Considering your condition upon arrival, one might assume your
mind was taking steps to break with reality. Coupled with depression or
variations on…"
"Then my magic isn't gone, it's just - unwell?"
Snape sighed, conjured a flannel, and laid it gently on Draco's forehead. The
whimpering quieted. Snape moved to his own bed, lifted the covers, and slid his
legs between the sheets.
Voldemort must have given it a rest for the night, Harry thought to himself,
sensing the relief washing over the room.
"There are several correct answers, and a great deal more to a wizard than
simply the physical, mental and magical."
"Obviously," Harry said quickly. "But how do I get it back, my
magic – make it well?"
"Feed the soul," Snape answered, lying down, and pulling the blankets
up to his chest.
Harry scrambled to his knees. "What? I tried!"
"Keep your voice down."
"Sorry. I mean that's why I started using the charms in the first place. I
thought I could use them to refocus, give my mind a rest. I thought the dreams
would…"
"Therein lies your problem, Potter."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that dreams are only ever dreams."
Harry sat back on his heels and remembered the nights he'd spent sitting in
front of the Mirror of Erised. "You sound like…" he trailed off,
unable to say the name.
"Leave."
With nothing more to be said, Harry stood, took one more look at the now-peaceful
Draco, and turned to go, but something near Snape's side of the room caught the
light, and Harry's attention – a thin chain draped around Snape's neck. Harry's
gaze fell lower, to where the man's hand was clutching the fabric covering his
chest, fingering something hidden from Harry by the nightshirt.
He returned to the sofa with still more unanswered questions, and a troubling
ache behind his scar as he reached up and brushed the broken Order of Merlin
resting against his own chest.
~*~
The days stretched on and settled into a strange but comfortable sameness that
sometimes strayed into the yard of boredom, peppered with explosive
conversations with Snape over unimportant things, or the random noises from
Draco's bed.
Harry kept making feeble attempts at escape, occasionally testing the
boundaries of the house's generosity and intelligence.
The house never lost a round.
He used his time, in between countless naps, to write letters to his friends.
Not having access to an owl or any way to send post, the letter writing was
simply for him alone - a way to begin sorting out his mind, and a means for
communicating his feelings without fear of judgement or censorship.
Snape never asked what he was up to, and Harry was secretly grateful for the
gesture, deliberate or not.
The first letter he wrote was to Albus: Twenty-five pages of grief, regret,
anger, fond memories, questions and gratitude. Harry stuffed the stove with the
lot and burned them that evening in his own version of closure.
Next was a series of shorter letters to Hermione, Ron, Fred, George, Ginny and
Remus. Harry had fallen asleep after finishing the last one, but when he awoke
to the bright sun the next morning, they were gone.
After a short and fruitless exchange of words with Snape through the bedroom
door, Harry had no other choice than to narrow the letter thief down to the two
remaining suspects: Draco and the house, but neither one of them offered up any
information.
As Harry's appetite and health improved, Snape joined him for meals, and
eventually they began spending their evenings together in the main room. It
took a few nights of adjustment before they could settle on safe topics for
discussion, but it was the house that presented a solution to a problem they
had largely ignored.
Snape was a blind man in a house full of books, and Harry had nothing but time
on his hands. A ritual was established, and an odd relationship was formed.
After their meal, Snape would settle himself on the end of the sofa nearest the
stove, with a ready cup of tea, and Summon one book at random to fly to Harry,
who would read from his place on the opposite end of the couch. Sometimes they
would finish a book in one evening, but most nights, Harry would read a handful
of chapters before one or the other's head would begin to nod.
The collection of reading material confused Harry at first, a mixture of
classic fantasies, fairy tales and folklore standing alongside Muggle romances,
travel journals, and several texts on gravity. Part of him wondered if Albus
had made a mistake by sending him all the dark texts, and leaving Snape and
Malfoy with a cache primarily made up of fiction.
He had smiled to himself, imagining Draco engrossed in Peter Pan and Wendy,
looking up from time to time to complain about the misrepresentation of Fairies
and inquiring about whether or not 'dust' from any magical creature would cause
someone to fly.
The smile vanished as he realised that Draco would probably never get a chance
to do more than make random noises and spit back the nourishing potions Snape
force-fed him four times a day, for the rest of his life.
One evening, Draco's giggles carried out into the main room, causing Harry to
look up from his hot chocolate.
"If there was a way to get Malfoy to St Mungo's, could they do anything
for him?"
"Unless he's been granted a pardon while you've been on holiday,"
Snape answered, pausing for Harry's mumbled response, "then it is unlikely
the Healers would be able to do much for him in the few moments before he was
transferred to Azkaban."
Harry set down his cup. "They wouldn't – not in his condition."
"I doubt the Ministry has changed its policies since I've taken up
residence here," he said, standing.
"No, but if he wasn't in danger of being arrested, and he was able to get
care from –"
Snape exhaled loudly. "In that unlikely scenario, with a highly trained
Legilimens, perhaps."
"But you're a –"
"Eye contact, Potter."
Harry slumped back against the sofa. "Oh, right. Sorry."
Snape walked to the shelf, pulled a book at random, and offered it up to Harry.
Once he was sitting again on the unoccupied end of the sofa, he asked,
"What are we reading tonight?"
Harry laughed and felt the tension in the room lift a fraction as he read the
title to himself. When Snape made a remark about his rudeness, he finally
answered: "The Bible."
Snape gave his own short laugh, and Harry's smile grew wider.
"Albus never fails to surprise."
"You've read it?"
"Years ago – I was interested in the sections that pertained to slavery, service
to one's master, and Jubilee."
Harry fanned through the thin pages without direction. "What's
Jubilee?"
"My personal fool's dream," Snape answered.
Harry set down the book between them, hugged his knees to his chest, and said,
"Tell me."
"An old tradition, first mentioned in the book of Leviticus. One year out
of fifty was set aside as a time of celebration and, most importantly,
universal pardon."
"Pardon from what – sins?"
"From whatever bound you, be it sin, debt, or slavery."
"The slaves were free to go?"
Snape nodded. "Yes. Every man an equal and every debt forgiven."
Harry ran his hand over the leather cover in awe. "I wonder if it actually
worked."
Snape refilled his tea, and wrapped his long fingers around the cup. "To
avoid disappointment, I prefer to think of it as fiction."
~*~
Harry flipped through the pages of parchment, not believing the proof in his
own hands.
Letters.
He tried to remember how long it had been since his own had vanished – weeks,
maybe months. And in all that time there was no indication that…
He riffled through the stack again until he recognized Remus' clean script
…beginning to worry when you stopped checking in, but at least now we know
not to assume the worst. The Ministry is, understandably, in a state of chaos,
but that is the fault of its own leadership, and not because of anything you
have done. They have made up their own theories about what's happened to you,
and for now, we've agreed to let them think what they like until you are well
enough to return to us. Our concern is for you, Harry, they can wait.
He turned to the next sheet, his hands shaking.
…and Hermione's been lashing us about not warning you enough about the
side-effects, but we told her that you're a big lad now, and your choices are
your own. But we do feel half-responsible for not realising what was up. Take
care of yourself, mate. Things aren't the same without your ugly gob around.
The next one was ten pages long, and included a clipping from the Prophet – a
search notice with his name in bold at the top.
Harry, I've been sick with worry since you disappeared. I thought you left
because of what I said the day you killed Nagini. Please forgive me for making
you upset. I knew something was bothering you before that, but I had no idea
that you felt so responsible. Well, I knew you felt that way about a few
things, but I didn't know how serious it was. I wish I had known how to help
you then. I've already had a word with Fred and George about pulling that
Daydream product from their shelves, but they…
Ron's was next.
It's not the same without you here, Harry, but I don't want you to rush back
if you need more time. Hermione says I'm rubbish at communicating my feelings,
but I know you'll know what I'm trying to say. Whenever you're well, we'll be
ready, mate.
Ron
P.S. Hedwig's fine. We've been keeping an eye her since she turned up at the
Burrow with your wand.
Without waiting for permission, tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks as
he read letter after letter, emotion from their words – their forgiveness –
washing over him, and causing the parchment to fall from his trembling hands.
"What's happened?" Snape asked, standing behind Harry, placing a
solid hand on his shoulder.
Harry felt the words slip from his lips.
He read some of the letters aloud, listening to himself speak as if he were
another participant. The distance helped to control the tone of his voice, but
he couldn't stop the tears from blurring his vision.
He grounded himself to the gentle pressure of the hand cupping his shoulder,
using the presence of it to remind him that it was all real, and not another
illusion of his own creation.
Later that evening, as he sat beside Snape and practiced his magic with growing
success, he realised that all the tears must have been taking up the room
needed for other things – like hope.
~*~
"Hold him still," Snape ordered as Harry rushed into the room,
awakened from a deep sleep once again by one of Draco's frequent nightmares.
A thin arm came free of the blankets and shot up, sending the cup of Calming
Draught flying from Snape's hand. Harry pointed his fingers at Draco, thought Devincio,
and watched as wide fabric straps slithered out from under the bed and wrapped
gently around Malfoy until he was secure and lying still once more.
Snape ran his fingers over the restraints. "Wandless and non-verbal?"
"Yes," Harry answered, breathing heavily, as if he'd been running
after Draco the entire time. "I didn't even stop to think – it just
happened."
Harry collapsed onto Snape's bed and closed his eyes. He could hear the man's
soft words of praise as Draco obediently swallowed the second cup of potion.
"A successful execution."
"Thank you, sir," Harry mumbled, already sinking into sleep.
~*~
As he watched the sleeping boy beside him in the hay, Harry wondered why it
didn't bother him more that Seth was changing.
His hair was now shoulder-length, straight, and black, his body was more lithe
and long - not a boy's frame now, and his skin was significantly less tanned
than it had been originally.
Then there were the hands. Hands that had become eyes – hands that never
stopped moving, exploring, searching. Hands that Harry wanted to explore in
turn.
He reached for one and pulled it toward him, cradled it against his bare
stomach, and gently rubbed each thin finger, wondering where the calluses from
the axe handle had gone.
Seth groaned and rolled closer, his other hand finding a home on Harry's hip.
It felt so real, the stroking of his thumb, each talented finger tucking under
the baggy waist of Harry's pyjama trousers - warm breath on his forehead. He
tilted his chin up, desperate to discover if Seth's new mouth tasted the way it
had before.
Harry opened his eyes when a man moaned against his fringe.
It was real, but he bit his tongue sharply, just to make sure he was
fully awake. Every sound and sensation was vivid, clear for the first time in
what felt like a several ages.
He was in Snape's bed. The hands were real – and the breath.
Not Seth's.
A sense of danger, and a push of determination pooled somewhere deep in Harry's
belly, and his mind and body were instantly in agreement about what they
wanted, and whom they wanted it from.
He didn't even know if Snape was aware of what the minute movement of his
fingers was doing to Harry's body and mind, but it was glorious, and small, and
perfect, and he never wanted it to stop.
He shifted his hips, letting the fingers guide him.
When the hand froze, Harry sighed in disappointment.
"Potter, wake up."
Harry's heart raced ahead, ignoring the way his lungs seemed to need more air
than they had a second ago. He was surprised that Snape hadn't pulled his hand
away yet. "I'm up – I'm awake. Are you?"
"No."
The word brushed across Harry's forehead, and made him shiver. He tried to pick
his words carefully, but then realised it just wasn't his style. He plunged
into the awkward conversation, stumbling only once, still clutching Snape's
hand against his stomach..
"I was dreaming. I'm sorry about – it's just been a long time since I've
fallen asleep next to someone, and I think my body must have—"
"Understandable." Snape whispered, voice scratchy from sleep.
"Who am I, Harry?"
Awed by the sound of his name on those lips, the question passed by unanswered,
until he noticed the fingers on his hip were squeezing gently.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he confessed, waiting for the
words that would send him back to his sofa. He released the hand he'd been
holding, regretting the loss immediately. "I'll go."
Snape's grip stayed firm over his pyjama trousers, and his free hand slid up
the side of Harry's throat, over his jaw, and along his lips. A finger lifted
up, and hovered just out of reach of Harry's opening mouth.
"If we cross this line," Snape began, his tone deep and even, "I
want you to be fully aware with whom you are proceeding."
Understanding hit Harry like a Bludger in the gut. "Oh. Okay," he
managed, not knowing what else to say.
An image of Seth appeared in his mind. He said a silent goodbye, thanking him
for what they had shared, and then watched as Seth smiled and vanished into a
leafy-green hillside.
The words were suddenly there. "I'm with you," Harry said to the man
lying beside him. He built up enough courage to whisper, "Severus",
just before moving forward to capture the teasing finger.
Snape made a noise that sounded something like a growl, before jerking Harry
against his very real, extremely warm body. It was satisfying and yet
completely new all at once.
Whatever he and Seth had done, it was nothing compared to this new rush of
apprehension, want, and anticipation.
"I've wanted to touch you again since you first crashed into my
kitchen."
Harry pulled back. The wet finger slid out of his mouth. "Hated me for it,
didn't you?" he said, in the most playful tone he could summon in his
excited state.
"Without a doubt."
Then they were kissing.
Harry didn't know who started it, but it really didn't matter, as long as he
didn't do something stupid to make it stop.
Snape's lips were thinner than Seth's, but there was firmness and an earthy
taste that had never been there before – and there were tongues, and teeth, and
bumping noses, and breaths to coordinate.
His erection, trying unashamedly to stroke Snape's own hardness through two
thin layers of fabric, felt even better than the kissing. There were angles to
figure out, and awkward hip bones, but he didn't care. He let the heat and
electricity take control.
A portion of his brain that wasn't sending all of his blood south suggested
that if he wanted to turn back, this would be the time. Harry buried his hands
in smooth strands of black, opened his mouth wider to Snape's explorations, and
told his brain to shove off.
Harry couldn't believe that he'd never made time for this before, had never
even tried to find another boy – man – to experiment with, outside of his own
mind, before now. The truth was, if he was honest, there were hundreds of
reasons – and most of them lined up behind the creature who had marked them
both. He pushed Voldemort out of his thoughts, and focused on Snape rolling him
onto his back.
Severus brushed his fingers over Harry's lower abdomen. "Have you –"
"No," Harry answered quickly. He felt at this point it was better to
be brutally honest, even though he doubted any other eighteen-year-old was as
inexperienced as he was. "I've never – not with…" Harry felt the
blood return to his cheeks, burning with embarrassment. "…anyone
real."
"What are your expectations?"
Harry stared up at Severus. In the dim light, he could almost fool himself into
believing those black eyes were searching him, learning who he was from the
outside in.
"Nothing. Anything – everything," Harry said, trying to catch his
breath. "I'll probably be rubbish, but…"
He gasped as Snape kissed his doubts away, and then crawled down his body,
dragging Harry's pyjama bottoms with him. Harry lifted his hips to help, and
then froze as he watched Severus come up on his knees and pull his nightshirt
over his head.
The sight of Severus naked and hard –for him – was something he would remember
later in a thousand dreams, but what stopped Harry short was the item hanging
against the bare chest from the thin chain he'd seen before…
A broken Order of Merlin.
Harry reached up for it. Severus took in a sharp breath.
"How did you…" Harry tried to ask, his other hand confirming that he
still wore his own. "You have the other half," he said barely louder
than a breath. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Albus gave it to me years ago," Severus said, turning Harry's
medallion over in his fingers. "He told me it was a Portkey that would
bring me to safety, but to use it wisely, since it could only be activated
once."
"You used it – that night?"
"Yes."
A few more deep breaths, and Harry had reined his shock and libido back under
control. "Please, tell me."
Snape settled over Harry's naked thighs and took a deep breath. It was a
strange place for a talk that should have happened months ago, but it seemed
right, somehow, to be naked before each other while laying their hearts bare as
well.
"Given the number of witnesses, I had no choice but to take Draco before
the Dark Lord immediately. He begged for another chance to prove himself, and
yet still refused to allow his Master access to his memories."
Harry had an idea of what Draco didn't want Voldemort to see, but he kept his
thoughts to himself as Snape continued.
"When it was evident that his resistance was causing damage, and he was no
longer useful, the Dark Lord turned to me. He inspected my thoughts for Draco's
failure, and viewed my completion of the duty to his satisfaction. I then
showed him a fabricated memory of our interrupted escape from the castle."
Harry silently put the pieces into place.
"He was less than pleased at Draco's lack of cooperation, since there had
been plans in place for him – had he been successful on the tower – to lead a
new generation of Death Eaters, recruiting the curious and securing ties with
the faithful already within the student body."
"God," Harry whispered, wondering if there was a new student now
charged with that job. He looked over to the other bed where Draco was snoring
quietly. He spared a moment to be embarrassed of his recent actions with Snape,
but then refocused on Severus' fingers, as they moved from the Order of Merlin and
caressed his collarbone.
"But he still punished you – your eyes."
"For relieving Draco of his task without permission, and for my 'lack of
vision' in regards to the future, he took away my sight, yes."
Harry reached out to touch Severus' fingers. "Is there a counter curse – a
way to end it?"
"It ends when he chooses to remove it…" Snape took a slow breath in,
as if trying to decide whether or not to continue, "…or if he dies."
Harry swallowed, suddenly ashamed. He had wasted so much time. He tried to keep
his voice even, but it came out higher than he wanted. "So, when he cursed
you, that's when you used the Portkey?"
"No. I reached for it when the Dark Lord raised his wand to kill Draco. It
was pure instinct over calculation. I assumed that if I acted quickly, there
would be a way to undo, or lessen the damage to his mind. I was mistaken, but
Draco's life was spared."
Harry squeezed the fingers now wrapped in his. "How did you keep it
hidden?"
"Rudimentary Transfiguration. To everyone else, it appeared to be the key
to my private potions stores. I was never questioned about it."
A thought occurred to Harry as he looked down at the ribbon. "Dumbledore
must have – he wanted us together."
Snape laughed low in his chest. Harry trembled at the wonderful sound.
"I'm not sure if this is what he envisioned," Snape said, shifting
his weight, sliding his legs down the outside of Harry's thighs, "but I
believe he would be pleased with the common ground we've discovered."
Harry heard the words, but had no time to process them as Snape's weight
settled over him. He was frozen, and yet exploding inside with pleasure. He
wished there were other word choices available to him other than 'Oh!', but his
vocabulary had gone on holiday with his modesty, and it didn't seem as if they
would be back anytime soon.
Severus was whispering, moving downward, kissing around Harry's navel. His
Order of Merlin followed wherever he went, and Harry loved the cool slide of it
over his burning skin.
When Snape slid his mouth lower still, Harry remembered how to move again. His
legs spread and lifted on their own, his voice broke free with sounds he was
sure he'd never made before, and his hands wove into the long black hair
spilling over his hips.
Snape hummed hungrily before surrounding Harry with wet heat and glorious
pressure.
Harry opened his mouth to call out, but his breath was caught, stuck like his
fingers knotted in Snape's hair. His thighs shook with the weight of hands and
forearms pressed against him, his feet pointed and flexed, and something far
below his belly curled into a tight ball.
While Harry was distracted by the man's skilled mouth, Snape's fingers had
wandered off on their own and discovered the one place even Seth had never
touched.
When he felt the tip push inside, his small world broke apart.
Harry threw back his head and released a moan from his very centre as his body
unleashed itself down Severus' throat.
Oh yes, Harry thought as Severus nudged him over onto his stomach a few
minutes later, so much better than dreams.
~*~
He awoke facing the bedroom wall, a warm body pressed up behind, holding him
close. The night's memories came back to him slowly as he rubbed his tried
eyes, smiling as the images danced across his mind.
A hand slid onto his hip. He covered it with his own.
"Good morning," he said, his stomach already fluttering as Severus'
hand inched forward.
"No regrets, Potter?" Snape asked, breathing the words against the
back of Harry's neck.
"No regrets."
"Good. On your back."
Harry obeyed.
Soft morning light from the main room streamed through the door, and Harry was
pleased to discover he had been telling the truth – he didn't regret a single
moment. He had wondered, as they moved together in passion the night before,
what he would feel when confronted with the reality of morning, no longer able
to hide under the protection of darkness or dreams. But now, fully awake and
aware of his surroundings and of what they had done and said, there was only
acceptance, relief and more than a touch of amazement.
He opened his mouth to share his feelings as Severus was leaning in, but both
actions were interrupted when the two halves of Albus' medal brushed together
between their bodies.
Harry flinched as light shot out from where the pieces seemed to be stuck
together like two magnets. They glowed and melted into each other, but when
Harry guided Snape's fingers to feel what was happening, it was cool to the
touch.
A moment later the warm light faded, and they were left cradling the Order of
Merlin, whole once again – both tied to it by the ribbon and chain around each
of their necks.
Harry smiled, and yet he sobered quickly, realising what it meant – knowing
what it was time for him to do.
Snape seemed to know as well.
"Begin your search in the Chamber," he whispered. "With Nagini's
death, he would want the added protection that Parseltongue affords him, and I
believe he's convinced himself that you would never want to enter it
again."
"I'll start there, then."
Snape carefully removed the chain from around his neck, and transferred it to
Harry.
"Read it to me," Snape said, after Harry had pulled on a clean shirt.
Harry pulled it out once more, and tilted the disk into the light. "Albus
Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - Order of Merlin, First Class." He
turned it over. "In sincere appreciation for defeating the Dark wizard,
Grindelwald."
"Fitting that you wear it now," Snape said, taking the Order, and
sliding it back between Harry's skin and shirt.
Harry reached for the hand. "It was lighter when we shared it."
"We will again."
~*~
After feeding Draco, and going over his plans with Snape, Harry ventured out
into the main room, unsurprised to see a large door to the right of the kitchen
table. It stood wide open, welcoming the sunlight and warm summer breezes into
the room.
He turned back to the bedroom. "Severus?"
Snape walked toward him, but seemed to sense the change immediately. "The
door."
"Yes," Harry answered, taking Severus' hand and walking them outside.
They sat on a wooden bench just outside the entrance to the house. A stone path
stretched before them to a small country road, just beyond their front gate.
Rose bushes in full bloom grew in front of a low hedge that appeared to
surround the entire property. Green fields stretched and rolled away into the
distance, dotted with white sheep, heads bent low, enjoying the thick grass.
It was beautiful.
Harry described every detail, trying to commit it to memory so he could
Apparate back without any difficulty. Severus sat quietly, Harry's hand
clutched tightly in his lap.
After a long silence, Harry spoke again. "Can I ask you something?"
"If you must," Snape answered, a thin smile on his lips.
"What hit me on the head, that first night?"
"A potted fern," Snape said flatly. "Your impact with the wall
dislodged it from the window ledge." His tone was even, but Harry noticed
the smile was just a little wider.
"So it was my fault?"
"Without a doubt."
~*~
Warriors for the Light: Veterans honoured
In a quiet ceremony this afternoon in the Minister for Magic's office, several
worthy citizens, including Aurors, prominent leaders, and even school-age
children, were awarded the Order of Merlin for their part in ridding the
Wizarding community of one of the darkest wizards of all time. (Complete list
of awards, classifications, and names on page 5)
Harry Potter, the most anticipated guest, was unable to attend the event due to
injuries sustained in the final meeting between himself and the Wizard Who Is
No More, however, a statement taken from his close friend, Mr Ronald Weasley,
has assured us that Mister Potter's injuries are not of a serious nature.
In a letter addressed to The Prophet from Mr Potter himself, he states that he
has chosen to recover at an undisclosed location in the countryside, but plans
to attend the memorial service for those who lost their lives during You Know
Who's dark reign (Wizarding Citizens honour the departed - full story, page 4),
and will give testimony at the Ministry Hearing on the first of November. The
Hearing in question, this reporter has discovered, has been designated to
review the criminal records of persons who assisted in the war, and consider
remuneration and, in some cases, pardons.
We at the Prophet would like to take this opportunity to wish Mr Potter a
speedy recovery, and offer most sincere gratitude for his actions and
sacrifice.
~*~