But the life it can't let go
It's a chain cuts across my soul
Anchoring in this world
Put my hand into the flame
Burning but I feel no pain
Don't speak, don't speak my name
Hold on to this life of chains
– Duran Duran, “Chains”

Harry Potter frowned into his Ogden’s.  This glass was his fourth and he was finally beginning to feel the effects.  His intent was to get drunk, but he was having a hard time accomplishing that feat.  As he finished off the latest glass, he idly wished there were something stronger than Ogden’s in the Wizarding world.

“Harry, let’s go,” Ron said, tugging gently on Harry’s arm.  Harry glared up at him but didn’t move.  With a sigh, Ron flopped into the booth next to his best mate.  “Even I, Mr Oblivious, can see that something’s wrong with you.  What’s going on?”

He did not think Ron would understand, and did not want to discuss anything in such a public place as the Leaky Cauldron.  He quickly motioned to Ron that he was Apparating home.  Ron nodded acknowledgement.  He tossed an abundance of coins on the table, far more than necessary, before exiting into the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron and Apparating home.  Ron followed a moment later.

“Harry, talk to me,” Ron said in a low voice.

Harry sighed and fell onto his sofa.  “I’m bored out of my mind.”

Ron smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Bored?”

“Nothing seems to interest me,” he said, driving a hand through his hair.

“You have witches – and even a few wizards – throwing themselves at you, including my sister.  You could have anything you want by just asking.  What’s wrong?”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on knees and head in his hands.  He knew he could have anything he wanted.  Hell, he had already been handed his dream job, being a professional Quidditch Seeker for the Montrose Magpies.  Ron had been disappointed Harry wasn’t playing for the Chudley Cannons, his favorite team, but the Magpies were the only ones who could afford him after his agent auctioned his contract.

He looked up at Ron.  “I don’t know what I want.”

Ron studied him for a moment, then said, “This isn’t a discussion I can handle.  Let me call Hermione.”

Harry shrugged.  Whom he talked to didn’t matter because he was certain no one could help him.  As Ron Floo-called his wife, Harry rose and went into his kitchen.  His mind only half on his activity, he made himself a drink, using Muggle alcohol this time.

“I hear you’re taking a job as a disaffected young celebrity now,” Hermione said by way of greeting.  When Harry didn’t respond, Hermione crossed the room to him and grabbed his chin.  He suffered in silence as Hermione turned his head back and forth, observing him closely.

At last, she released him and proclaimed, “You need a holiday.”

“Are you mad?  I can’t go on holiday.”

She propped her hands on her hips and glared.  “Why not?  I know your next League match isn’t for three weeks.  Even if you had a match tomorrow, no one would begrudge you the time.”

Harry grunted, taking a seat at his dining table.  In his mind, it was one thing to use his celebrity in his job – it drew fans and earned everyone on the team more money, making Magpie management happier about his salary – but for something as frivolous as a holiday seemed an abuse of the privilege.

He tried to raise his glass to his lips only to be stopped by Hermione’s hand on his wrist.

“I don’t like seeing you this way, Harry,” she murmured.

He looked up, meeting her eyes briefly before turning to Ron in the doorway.  Sighing heavily, he dropped his head to the table.

“What would you have me do?” Harry mumbled.

“Is there somewhere you’ve always wanted to go?” Hermione asked, releasing Harry’s wrist.

He shook his head.  When he was a child, his overwhelming wish had been to be where the Dursleys were not.  As a teenager he had been too caught up in defeating and surviving Voldemort.  Now that Voldemort had been dead for four years, he was finally coming to terms with himself and piecing together what he wanted from life.  He had traveled across England and some in Europe with the team, but there was nowhere he felt the need to revisit on holiday.

“Check with the goblins,” Ron suggested.  Both Hermione and Harry turned to stare at him.  Ron blushed, explaining, “You have an inheritance, yeah?  It has to be more than just Galleons.”

Harry considered that a moment but then laughed when Hermione leapt up to hug Ron and shower his face with kisses.

“I love when you show maturity,” she said between kisses.  Ron’s ears reddened and Harry made gagging noises.

“I know about it, but I don’t want to see it,” he teased, mood lifting slightly.  “Go home.”

Hermione stopped and turned back to Harry.  “Will you be okay?”  Harry shrugged.  “Stop drinking for tonight.  See the goblins tomorrow.”  Harry saluted and she rolled her eyes before she and Ron bid Harry good night.  They Apparated home within moments of each other.

He sighed again, finishing his drink in one long swallow.  He still felt restless and more than a bit envious of what Ron and Hermione had together.  Though Harry wasn’t a virgin – Ginny had taken care of that for his eighteenth birthday – he still hadn’t felt that spark he thought he should have, that spark Hermione talked about.  He’d felt desire, but even that was suspect because he’d had those feeling lately for men as well as women, especially with the plethora of nude bodies he saw in the changing rooms every day.  The thought had crossed his mind that his restlessness would end when he found someone.

Maybe a holiday was in order, he mused, maybe on a beach somewhere sun-drenched where he could ogle without consequence.  He wasn’t enamored of the idea of showing himself off, but it didn’t frighten him the way it once would have.  He’d been dead; nothing much frightened him any longer.

He owled his coach, Robert Stonefist, in the morning to let him know he wouldn’t make the morning practice.  Since he’d avoided the goblins and a review of his accounts for several years, Harry expected to be in their clutches all morning.

Harry donned the most innocuous clothing he could, hoping to hide in plain sight, before Apparating to Diagon Alley.  In the three years since destroying Voldemort and leaving school, his amusement at public reaction to him hadn’t faded.  The general population revered him for killing Voldemort, admired him for his accomplishments in Quidditch but didn’t take him seriously due to his age and precociousness.  It sometimes reminded him of how Snape had treated him in school.

The doors to the bank opened at nine sharp.  Harry waited in line for ten minutes before being able to enter and find the correct goblin’s desk.

He walked to a low table furthest from the doors, ignoring the looks he received.  Bending slightly, he said, “Good morning.  May I speak to the goblin in charge of my accounts, please?”

The goblin at the desk gave him a withering look that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall.

“Name?” the goblin intoned.

“Harry Potter.”  He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet.

“Do you review your statements, Mr Potter?”

An embarrassed flush crept up Harry’s neck.  “No, I do not.  I don’t recall ever receiving statements from Gringotts.”

The expression that crossed the goblin’s face was almost human in disbelief.  “Are you trying to accuse Gringotts of malfeasance?”

“No!” Harry retorted.  Drawing a hand down his face, he sighed.  “Let me back up.  I’d like to review my accounts with the goblin in charge of them.  I would like to know the extent of my assets.”

The goblin eyed Harry warily as if sizing him up and finding him lacking.  Harry met his gaze steadily, though, as if he were beginning to doubt the wisdom of Ron’s idea and Hermione’s plan.

“Very well,” the goblin murmured.  “Follow me.”

Harry followed the goblin down a long corridor behind the desk.  They passed several closed doors before stopping at one halfway down the hall.  The goblin ran a fingernail over the door in a complex pattern that reminded Harry vaguely of when his vault had been opened before his first year at Hogwarts.  The door opened slowly, revealing a long mahogany conference table.

With a perfunctory gesture toward the table, the goblin said, “Be seated.  Ankrak will meet you here.”

Harry entered warily, not surprised when the goblin nearly slammed the door behind him.

Now that he had nothing to do but wait for the whim of a goblin, Harry wasn’t sure what to do with himself.  Too restless to sit in one of the luxuriously appointed chairs lining the table, Harry paced.  His lack of sleep meant fatigue pulled at his brain.  Had he been in top form, he would not have angered the goblin he’d spoken with.

He had expected a folder or envelope to be handed to him shortly after his request.  He had not expected a private room or to be interrogated himself.  Frustrated, he flopped into one of the chairs to wait.

Twenty minutes passed before the door opened and a goblin of moderate height entered, followed by four more goblins.  Harry straightened, watching the procession.  The four additional goblins seemed to be assistants since they all carried a stack of papers at least two feet high.

“Mr Potter, I apologize for the delay,” the lead goblin said as he sat.  The four assistants moved to the opposite end of the table from Harry and began sorting the stacks of paper.  “I am Ankrak, your account manager.”

“Thank you for taking time to see me,” Harry answered.

Ankrak’s expression briefly brightened before resuming its normal dour countenance.  “It’s no bother when one of our largest depositors wishes to discuss his holdings.”

Harry blinked, surprised, and fell back in his chair.  “Excuse me?”

The look he received in return was withering.  “Surely you were aware of this, Mr Potter.”

“No, I was not.”  Harry felt a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole.  He had stepped into the bank knowing two things:  first, he had enough money not to worry overmuch about his salary from the Magpies; and, second, that he owned Grimmauld Place.  His intention had been to uncover any other properties but he was coming to realize the naiveté of his thinking.

The assistants whispered briefly amongst themselves before being silenced with a sharp look from Ankrak.

“Have you not reviewed your statements, Mr Potter?”

The tone of voice raised Harry’s hackles.  It reminded him all too much of the disdain he’d always heard from the Malfoys and Snape – and from the old guard in the Ministry who didn’t look kindly upon a teenager usurping what they felt was the natural order of bureaucratic privilege, given that he had the ear of the current Minister for Magic.

In a low tone, he answered, “I’ve never received a statement from Gringotts and I would thank you not to assume I have.”

If Ankrak had eyebrows – or hair – his eyebrows would have disappeared into his hairline.  “I find that nearly impossible, Mr Potter.”

“Why?” Harry asked in a dangerously low voice.

“Because every depositor receives a quarterly statement from the time of majority until the day they die.”

Harry blinked once then began to laugh. The goblins appeared horrified at Harry’s reaction, but Ankrak merely waited him out until he subsided.

“May I ask what is so amusing, Mr Potter?”

“I did die.”  Ankrak’s expression darkened.  “In the battle with Voldemort, I did die.  Check your vaunted records.”  The memory of being poisoned by Nagini several days before the final battle – resulting in the ironic death of the accidental Horcrux within him as well as Nagini’s death – was a memory he didn’t like revisiting.  He absently rubbed his thigh where the scars still lingered.

Ankrak glared at him for another moment before turning to the assistants.  A heated discussion in Gobbledegook ensued, after which one of the assistants left the room.

“We will investigate,” Ankrak told Harry.  Harry resisted the urge to smile.  “In the meantime, let us review your accounts.”

Piles and piles of parchment were paraded before Harry, so many that he had to owl his coach again to state he would not be at practice at all.  By mid-afternoon, when he had signed dozens of pieces of parchment, the assistant returned.  Once again there was a brief conversation in Gobbledegook.

Ankrak turned to Harry, hands clasped before himself on the table.  When he spoke, it was as if the words were being pulled reluctantly from him.

“The Goblin Nation apologizes for the oversight regarding your accounts.  This shall be remedied immediately.  As a token of our goodwill, we will double our standard interest rate from the time of the initial error until now.”

Harry was amused to note the sour expression on Ankrak’s face – he didn’t know goblins could have such an expression.  He leaned back in his seat.  After reading all the pages put before him today, between the Potter and Black inheritances, he did not need any more money.  He knew, however, that the goblin’s offer was more to save face than anything else.

One of the assistants shifted nervously, but froze at Ankrak’s quick glare.

“Very well,” Harry said.  “I accept on one condition.”  Ankrak’s brow rose questioningly.  Hermione wanted him to take a holiday, so why not enlist goblin help?  “I haven’t been able to read every line of every parchment I’ve signed.  Therefore, I seek your assistance in locating a property I own that I might use for a holiday.”

An assistant muttered something that, by its sharpness and pithiness, must have been a curse.  He was not reprimanded.

“Very well, Mr Potter,” Ankrak said after a surprised silence.  He motioned to the assistant who had cursed.  “Flesnot is your property coordinator.  He will review your holdings and give you a list of five before we are done.”

Harry was once again amused by the staring contest that ensued, especially when Flesnot snatched a stack of parchment and quit the room in high dudgeon.  He hadn’t known that goblins could have as many sides to their personalities as humans.  Then again, he realized, he’d never spent this long in their company.

The remainder of the afternoon was broken up only by a junior goblin bringing bread and water.  Harry nearly pounced on it – he had had nothing to eat since the night before, too nervous for breakfast that morning.  The goblins did not touch the tray.

In a perfect coordination of timing, Harry signed the last parchment just as Flesnot returned.  The other assistants cleared away the stacks of parchment and exited the room as quickly as they could without stepping on each other.

Flesnot took a seat across from Harry with one seat separating him and Ankrak.  After a brief glance at Ankrak, Flesnot laid five pieces of parchment on the table, fanning them out slightly.

“You did not specify what type of holiday you wished to take,” Flesnot began, almost accusatory.  “I made a guess, given human holiday patterns in summer, you would wish for a beach or island locale.  If I was mistaken and you would prefer a mountainous holiday, please correct me.”

Harry hadn’t given any thought to it.  He waved his hand dismissively.  “Beach is fine.”

Flesnot nodded.  In almost excruciating detail, he described each location to Harry.  Harry ruled out the three in populous areas – if he really was going on holiday, being so close to a large urban area defeated that purpose.  What remained were two relatively isolated locations.

Pointing to each of the pages, Harry asked, “Where exactly are these?”

Flesnot made a sound that might have been a sigh.  “The first is partial ownership in a resort in the American state of Maine.  There is a cabin available to you at any time.  The second is more isolated, located on a small island in the South Pacific.  The first is in a Muggle area, the second a Wizarding island.”

Harry shoved a hand through his hair.  He could not make a decision this quickly.  “Could you add to each of those the travel directions and contact person?”

Flesnot made another noise, quelled by a sharp look from Ankrak, then said, “Yes.”

Collecting the annotated pages, Harry bid them good day.  Exiting the bank, he heaved a sigh of relief to be in sunshine again, even if it were overcast.

He Apparated home from Diagon Alley, intent on contacting Ron and Hermione for their input.  He never heard his name being called from the steps of the bank.

He called Ron and Hermione once he arrived home – Hermione had insisted he have a telephone in his flat, though he only ever called her.  They came over almost immediately.  He explained the situation, handed over the pages, and asked for their opinion.

Hermione, seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, tapped the second parchment.  “Do you want to be in a Wizarding locale?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.  His brain felt stuffed with cotton, impeding his ability to think.

“You aren’t exactly anonymous,” Ron answered.  When both Harry and Hermione stared at him, he blushed and shrugged.  “Harry’s face and scar are internationally known.  In a Wizarding area he’d be recognized.”

Hermione smiled at her husband, which made Harry roll his eyes.  She could get aroused by the stupidest of things.  Ron had tried to talk to him about it once, but hearing about their sex life was where Harry drew the line of talks between best mates.

“True,” Harry murmured, drawing their attention back to him.  “You’re suggesting the Muggle resort, then?”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, then Ron turned back to him and nodded.  “You’ll have the best chance for anonymity there, Mr Quidditch Star, Chosen One and Defeater of You-Know-Who.”

Harry threw a pillow at him.

Sea Crest Harbor was a moderately-sized resort nestled on the Maine coast near Bath and an hour from Portland.

The day Harry arrived by rental car – driving was yet another skill Hermione had forced him to learn – it was pouring rain.  He was already put out at having to drive anywhere, especially on the wrong side of the road, but the Portkey-lag he was suffering due to the trip from Wizarding Heathrow to Wizarding Logan made him even more irritable.

He pulled the car under the office portico.  Locking the car, he entered the office as he’d been instructed by his goblin-directed contact person.  Since there was no one behind the counter, he rang the bell that sat on one edge.

Harry nearly jumped at its volume, which was disproportionate to its size.

“Well aren’t you a pretty sight?” a woman commented from behind, startling him.  He turned to see the speaker, having expected someone to exit an office behind the counter, not one just outside his peripheral vision.  Her wide smile – and the fact she was devouring him with her eyes – made him nervous.  “You’re just as pretty from the front.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

If anything, her smile grew wider as she placed a hand to her chest and cooed, “A looker and an accent?  The ladies are gonna love you.”  Her accent, American South, Harry thought, had thickened as she became more amused by him.  It made deciphering her words a challenge.

Harry felt in way over his head.  Flustered, he shoved a hand through his hair.  “I’d like to check in.  I spoke to Mary Jo on the phone.”

“Honey, I’m Mary Jo.”  Harry didn’t know people could possess as many teeth as she was showing.  She was beginning to make him feel like he was her prey.  “You must be Harry.”

He nodded, feeling stupid.  Though they had spoken on the phone, he did not remember her drawling accent.

“We’ll get you fixed up and settled in a jiff,” she said.  Harry felt a headache press at his temples in the face of her unrelenting enthusiasm.

She slid behind the counter, eyes on him the whole time.  Despite his notoriety, he had never felt as if he were going to be devoured like a tasty treat.  He deliberately held himself still, suppressing the urge to shift from foot to foot under her gaze.

Glancing down at her computer screen, her eyebrows rose in surprise.  “Honey, you’re special.”

“Excuse me?”  He wasn’t sure exactly when his life had spun beyond his control, but he was sure Hermione had something to do with it.  The woman before him was just exacerbating it.

“You’ve got a reservation for Black Cottage,” she murmured.  “I don’t think it’s been used for twenty years.”

Probably more like twenty-five, he thought but didn’t speak.  He did not want to answer her resulting questions.

She looked up at him, smile sly now.  “That cabin is awfully isolated.  Would you like some company?”

Though inside he recoiled in horror – Mary Jo needed only the platinum blonde hair and acid green pen to be Rita Skeeter’s twin – he allowed a regretful smile to turn one corner of his mouth.  “Sorry, I’m gay.”

She froze as if he had sucked the wind from her sails.  “Oh, sugar, are you sure?”

The rain, the drive, this encounter suddenly seemed more than a bit surreal.  “Yes, I’m sure.”  He wasn’t going to dare mention his current confusion about his sexual preferences.  He wasn’t here for a quick fuck anyway, but for time to himself.

Her eyes narrowed speculatively even as she hit keys on the keyboard, sending paperwork to print.  Tipping her head to one side, she pinned him with her gaze.  “Should have known – you’re too pretty to be straight.”

Holiday, this is a holiday, he muttered to himself in his head.  Don’t hex the Muggle staff.

“Could I just have a key and directions, please?” he ground out.  Her cycle of enthusiasm and disappointment had increased his headache, making him want a pain-relieving potion and a drink.

She blinked as if startled.  “Of course, honey.”  Finally, she slid the paperwork requiring his signature onto the counter, then handed over keys and a map.

He escaped the office.  After first walking up to the wrong side of the car, he skirted the bonnet around to the other side.  After one wrong turn, requiring circling back around five minutes later, he was in front of Black Cottage.

The cottage was nondescript on the exterior.  Harry did not doubt that the exterior was merely a ruse, that on the interior it was both larger and more ornate than would seem.  The rain gutter at one corner emptied into a puddle, creating a monotonous running water sound punctuated with drips.

The rain had slowed, forming a heavy mist rather than downpour.  He felt at home in the mist.  Heaving a sigh, he grabbed his satchel from the backseat and exited the car.  The mist on his face felt refreshing, especially after his encounter with the predatory Mary Jo.

Hiking the satchel onto his shoulder, he stepped up to the front door.  There was no knob.  Scratching his head, he sighed.  Nothing about his holiday had been relaxing so far and being presented with this puzzle was just one more thing serving to add stress.

He knew he should approach the puzzle logically – even if common sense didn’t dictate it, his past experiences – but his head was pounding and exhaustion pulled at him, focusing him only on his need to rest.  Another heavy sigh escaped before he could stop it.

Laying his left hand on the door to push it open, he was shocked to find it warm and dry despite the weather.

He was neither prepared for the stabbing sensation in the center of his palm, nor for his blood running down the door afterward.

Yanking his hand back, he hissed, “Fucking hell!”

The center of his palm was cut deeply enough that every flex of his fingers caused pain.  There seemed to be some pattern to the injury, but there was too much blood to tell.

He kicked the door open, further annoyed when it slammed against the wall, obviously unlocked.  Entering the Cottage made him dizzy for a moment as he passed through the wards.  Head pounding, hand throbbing, he kept up a steady stream of curses.  Throwing his satchel on the floor, he slammed the door shut.  Cradling his hand to his chest, he set off to find the kitchen.  He was counting on viable potions being stored there or in a pantry nearby.

The kitchen was through a sitting room to the right of the door.  Trying not to bloody too much of the floor or furniture, he all but dove into the kitchen to shove his hand in the sink.  Cold running water helped alleviate some of the pain, enough that he stopped cursing in any case.  Leaning to the left, he grabbed a towel, using it to blot the wound when he pulled it from the water.

The pattern of the mark was now clear:  a snake very similar to those all over Grimmauld Place.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered.

He should have expected something like this to happen, given the Black family proclivities.  But nothing like it had happened when he took possession of Grimmauld Place, though, so maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable to be unprepared for attack by the cottage.

With a sigh, he began to methodically search the cupboards for a coagulation potion, a Blood-Replenishing potion and a pain-relieving potion.  He hoped there were some in the cottage because he was in no condition to make some – even if he had the ingredients and the recipes – he was not going to ask Mary Jo.

He found a supply of potions in the pantry just off the kitchen.  He quickly downed the three he needed, feeling better almost immediately.

Now that his mind was clearer, he went to the front door.  Opening it form the inside – with a newly-appeared knob – elicited no attack.  Exiting and opening from the outside did nothing this time, either.

And the only evidence of the “attack” was a few drops of blood on the step.  He Scourgified them, disturbed by the apparent absorption of his blood into the door.

There was something odd going on.

Harry took another dose of pain-reliever at nine and crawled into bed.  His head and hand ached miserably, making him moodier than usual.  It was just as well that he did not have company, he figured, since he was sure to hack them off, given his state of mind.

His dreams, which so often became nightmares, were disjointed and left him feeling as if he had not slept at all.

He woke just after dawn.  Every joint ached as if he had been under Cruciatus all night.  A hot shower didn’t help, only serving to scald his skin.  He fixed a cup of tea, taking it onto his patio to watch the day wake.

The mystery of the cottage door was one that needed to be solved, but he didn’t know where to begin.  That wasn’t true:  he knew where to begin, but not why.  Given that blood was taken upon entry, he reckoned blood wards.  What he couldn’t fathom was why the wards had treated him so poorly.

At eight, he walked to the main building for breakfast.  Rolling his eyes at the prevalence of sweets, he made a plate at the buffet before taking a seat in the corner.  Only once he was done did he realize he had instinctively chosen the best spot for surveillance.

He spent the afternoon kayaking.  By the time he returned to the cottage just before dinner, the pain he was suffering was just as unbearable as it had been that morning.  Two doses of pain-relieving potion knocked him out cold on the sofa, still fully dressed.

He woke just before dawn in a fever-induced sweat.  He tried to peel his clothing off, but barely had his shirt off before being overcome with the urge to vomit.  Cursing, he made it to the loo and hung his head over the toilet.  There was not much in his stomach, having missed dinner last night, but every bit of what remained came up.

Conjuring a cool cloth, he wiped his mouth and face.  He’d never really been sick in his life – Hermione had told him once that wizards had a stronger immune system due to their magic, the only way they were superior to Muggles – so to be so sick now annoyed him.  Legs shaky, he used the vanity to lever himself into a standing position.

The reflection in the mirror horrified him.  His skin was pale and waxy, eyes sunken with dark rings around them, and cheekbones too prominent due to the deep hollows under them.  He was reminded briefly of a neighbor with terminal cancer during one of the few visits on which Aunt Petunia dragged him along.

He had looked fine yesterday, if tired.  Today, he looked like he was at death’s door and every part of him ached miserably.

He fumbled with a pain-relieving potion, managing only to down half of it before it slipped through numbed fingers.  The potion had no effect.

Walking to the living room was too much effort.  He tried Apparating, which worked but left him even weaker.  Summoning the container of Floo powder, he grabbed a handful and tossed it into the fireplace.

Green flames shot up.

He had to clear his throat three times before he was able to call, “The Aerie.”

It seemed hours before Ron saw Harry’s head in the fireplace – Harry certainly had no strength to call out – but was actually less than a minute.

“Harry?” Ron gasped.  “You look like shit.”

Harry tried to smile, but it hurt too much.  “H’mynee?”

“Yeah, let me get her,” Ron said, hurrying out of the room.

Harry nearly fell asleep before Ron returned with Hermione.

She took one look at him, Summoned a bag, and ordered, “Move back, Harry, I’m coming through.”

The effort it took to roll his head from the flames left him moaning on the hearthrug.  Hermione tumbled from the fireplace to land atop him.  He tried to curse but found himself winded from her landing.

She scrambled off him, standing and brushing soot from herself.

“You’re skin and bones, Harry,” she murmured.  Pulling her wand, she levitated him to the sofa.  A cleaning charm later, he was no longer drenched in sweat but still felt like hell.

“Sick,” he answered.

She huffed, hands on hips.  “I can see that.”  Kneeling, she began a series of diagnostics on him.  With each result, she paled further.  Finally, she whispered, “When did this start?”

Harry had to lick his lips before he could answer.  “Yesterday.”

Horror dawned on her face as she fell backward, no longer kneeling but now sitting on the floor.

“How?”

Harry tried to meet her eyes, but his glasses had fallen off somewhere between the loo and the living room, leaving her a fuzzy blur.

“Blood wards.”

“Oh, Harry,” she rasped.  “This isn’t good.  Those wards are killing you.”

He had had that thought in the back of his mind, but had refused to acknowledge it.  Now he was being forced to and, had he the energy, it would have made him cranky.  He was tired of dying.

With a grunt, he flipped his left hand palm-up against his bare chest.  “Marked me,” he said.

She took his hand, making him hiss in pain, to examine it.  “This is a Black property, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you have blood rites performed?”  Her voice was strident now, verging on desperation.

“What... what rites?”  He was having trouble organizing his thoughts, wanting only to sleep.  He didn’t know what she was talking about.  He had never heard of blood rites.

Hermione paled further.  Diving for her bag, she pulled two phials and uncorked them.  There was no gentleness in her when she slipped her hand under his head, lifting it so she could force-feed the potions to him.  Despite his groaning in pain, she dumped the potions down his throat before easing his head back onto the pillow.

“You’ll sleep now,” she told him.  “I’ll find someone to help.”

Harry surfaced as if he had been drowning:  with a gasp and a curse.  He couldn’t move his body or open his eyes, but he could speak.

“Foolish boy,” a man said.  The voice was familiar, but Harry couldn’t place it.

“What – ” Harry began, only to be cut off.

“Don’t talk,” the voice ordered.  Harry obeyed – that voice promised bad things would happen if he disobeyed.  “You have a penchant for rushing in where angels fear to tread, don’t you?”

It was the last he heard before sinking under again.

Darkness pressed in on him when he woke again.  He tried to speak, but his mouth and lips were too dry.  His hoarse cough alerted his minder that he was awake.

Water dribbled against his lips, the feeling a wonderful relief.  He parted his lips, allowing the water into his mouth, dispelling the cotton sensation there.

“Slowly, Harry,” a woman said softly.  Several minutes went by before he realized it was Hermione.

He opened his eyes.  Everything was even blurrier than usual, making Hermione a brown-topped blob in the center of his vision.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered.

“T’irsty,” he managed, mouth still too dry to enunciate.

She did not answer, but bent away from his field of vision for a moment before returning.  An ice chip was placed against his lips before being pushed into his mouth.

“Slowly, Harry,” she admonished again.  More from habit this time, he thought.

He wanted to ask whom that other voice belonged to, the voice from before, but found he could not form the words.

Her hands combed his lank hair back form his forehead as she spoke.  “Harry, what are we going to do about you?”

The door opened and closed with a bang.

“Has he awakened?”  It was the commanding voice from before.

“He just woke,” Hermione answered.

“Very well.  Let us begin.”

Harry tried to ask about what they were going to begin, but another potion was poured down his throat.  He slipped into unconsciousness to the sound of that voice chanting in Latin.

“Foolish boy,” the voice muttered again in familiar refrain.  “Gave no thought to protections that might exist.  If it had been up to me, you never would have made it anywhere near the Auror Academy.  Too very Gryffindor, rushing in before assessing the situation.  But a real Gryffindor would have stayed.”  The voice quieted before continuing.  “Lily would be so disappointed.”

Harry stirred at the sound of his mother’s name, shifting restlessly.

“Be still,” the man ordered.  Harry lay still.  The man chuckled darkly.  “If only you were as obedient when well.”

Harry had the impression that the joke there was an old one.  He wanted to open his eyes to find out who was caring for him, but could not.  His eyelids felt like lead weights against his eyeballs, not painful but firm, preventing him from seeing.

“Miss Granger – or, more properly, Mrs Weasley – has insisted I speak to you,” he said, voice low enough to be termed a growl.  “Though I find the idea distasteful, she may have a point.”  Harry wanted to smile at that – it sounded as if the man had eaten something sour – but his facial muscles refused to cooperate.  “Despite your somewhat questionable intellect, you do seem to respond more to voice.”

Harry did nothing to respond to that.  He suspected he’d been placed in full Body-Bind, though he wasn’t exactly sure when, given how unresponsive his body had become after the man’s joke.  It was driving him crazy.  He wanted to know who was caring for him.

He heard the door open, then Hermione said, “I’ve brought the potion, Professor.”

Professor?  Which professor?  That voice is very familiar.  I should know it, shouldn’t I?

The man sighed.  “I’ve told you before, Mrs Weasley, that I am no longer your professor.  I haven’t been your professor for some time.”

Harry could imagine the blush staining Hermione’s cheeks at the rebuke.

“Yes, Prof– sir,” she murmured.

“Is that the correct potion?”

Hermione’s voice gained strength.  “Yes, this is the last one.”

Creaks from a chair and the floor made Harry think the former professor had risen and crossed the room to Hermione, removing the potion from her.  Harry wondered what potion it might be, and why it was the last one, but he had never understood potions; it was as if he had some sort of mental block when it came to truly understanding them.

“Very well.”  More creaks signified both Hermione and the professor had moved.

The Body-Bind was released, allowing Harry to slit open his eyes and groan.  Hermione’s head was still a brown blur; the professor was a black-topped blur.

A hand was shoved under his head, lifting it.

Before Harry could ask what was going on or even protest, the professor growled, “Open.”

Harry opened his mouth, afraid what might happen if he did not.  A sticky-sweet potion was poured into his mouth, nearly choking him.  Hermione massaged his throat, encouraging him to swallow.  Eventually, he swallowed all of it, then passed out again.

The first thing Harry noticed when he woke this time was that he could open his eyes.  The second was that he could see clearly without his glasses.

Shocked, he lifted his hands to his face, verifying his initial impression:  no glasses.

Setting that aside for the moment, he sat up and took stock of his surroundings.

He was still at Black Cottage, now in the master bedroom rather than the sitting room, from his last conscious look around.  He was in bed and nude.  The last mildly embarrassed him, more because he thought Hermione had been the one to strip him than anything else.  After years in the Quidditch changing rooms, both in school and professionally, he didn’t have much in the way of body modesty.

The room had a faint musty odor, implying it had been used as a sick room for at least a few days.

His last coherent memory was of Flooing Hermione and of telling her about the blood wards.  His memories since then were disjointed and had no sense of time associated with them.  Idly, he wondered what day it was.

The door opened only far enough for one person to enter.

Loathing shot through Harry as Snape entered.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snarled.

“Back to your pleasant self I see, Potter,” Snape answered mildly.

The door opened a bit wider, allowing a tray to float in behind Snape.

The last time Harry had seen Snape, he was running away from Hogwarts after murdering the Headmaster.  Though it had later been revealed that Headmaster Dumbledore was dying anyway – mostly from the curse on the Gaunt ring, partly from the poison Harry had poured down his throat earlier that evening in the cave full of Inferi – nothing had abated Harry’s loathing of his former professor in the years since his disappearance.

He understood on an intellectual level what had happened, but could not reconcile it emotionally.  Hermione sometimes asked why, but the shock of seeing Headmaster Dumbledore’s body tumbling over the parapet always overrode his logical thought patterns when it came to the subject of Snape.

“Get out,” Harry demanded.

The tray gently floated to the dresser, settling without spilling any of the potions upon it.  Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry’s petulance then turned to the tray. Harry was nearly incandescent with anger.

“Though I dislike being here,” Snape began conversationally, voice low, “I assure you that if I leave, you will die.”

“What?”

Snape sighed wearily, turning back to Harry with two phials in his hands.  “You, Mr Potter, will die, not of your own folly and hubris, as I had thought, but from a goblin oversight.”

He crossed the room, shoving both phials at Harry.  “Drink.”  Harry took them but eyed them warily.  “Why would I bother poisoning you now when I could have done that more easily with you unconscious?”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that and didn’t know if he was relieved by Snape’s statement or not.  Knowing Snape had considered poisoning him was oddly reassuring.  He downed both phials, wincing slightly at the acidic taste.

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked, crossing his arms over his bare chest after handing back the empty phials.

Snape grimaced.  “She is dealing with a bothersome woman named Mary Jo.”  Harry’s lips quirked, amused.  Snape raised an eyebrow.  “I see you are familiar with the woman.”  When Harry said nothing, Snape continued, “The woman has taken it upon herself to check on you each morning, convinced something tragic has happened to you because you have not appeared for breakfast in several days.”

Harry turned his gaze from Snape to the window.  He wasn’t sure how to respond to that because something tragic had happened:  the wards were killing him.  The information could not be shared with Mary Jo, though.

The realization sobered him.  Despite his loathing of Snape, the man had worked with Hermione to keep him alive.  He was not sure how, but the proof was that he was awake and coherent rather than something no better than a Dementor’s victim.

Smoothing the blankets over his lap, he let his mind mull through the situation.  Somehow, Snape had kept him alive.  How Snape had found him and why he had helped were irrelevant for now, though the need for those answers burned within him.  He was now about to sublimate the need to know under a calm façade, something he had not known how to do in school.

He turned his attention back to Snape.  “How is it that I’m still alive?”

Snape took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, pale hands vanishing into his voluminous black robes, and raised his eyebrows.  “A civil, intelligent question.  You surprise me, Potter.”

Harry could feel his annoyance bubble below the surface, but he suppressed the emotion.  Calmly, he asked, “Will you tell me?”

Snape tilted his head slightly to the left as if studying him.  At last, he answered, “You are in an in-between state.  The wards would have killed you by now had I not provided something akin to an antidote.”

“But I’m not cured.”  Harry folded his arms over his bare chest, somewhat mimicking Snape’s stance but also to prevent himself from nervously picking at the blankets.

“No.  I have bought you a week, maybe a day more or less.”  Snape’s voice was oddly toneless.  Harry would have expected his death to elate the former professor, but it obviously did not.

“I see.  Is there a cure?”

Snape’s lips twitched, almost as if he wanted to smile.  “Potter, you continue to shock me with halfway intelligent questions.”  Rather than rile them both, Harry kept quiet, awaiting an answer.  “There is,” Snape drawled.

Harry’s gaze shot upward, meeting Snape’s.  “But?”

Snape sneered then scowled with his explanation:  “Sex magic with a member or representative of the Black family.”  He paused, then added, “Male member or representative.”

“With you as the representative?” Harry scoffed.

Snape eyed him disdainfully.  “An unfortunate side effect of an Unbreakable Vow.”

Though he was sure the ‘male member or representative’ was meant to shock him more than ’sex magic’, Harry did not care that it had to be a man.  What his mind stuck on was the sex magic portion.  He had learned about a few more common sex rituals, namely those that were relatively harmless – such as those on a couple’s wedding night – and others that must be interrupted – such as those to create sex slaves – in his single year in the Auror Academy.  While sex magic was not Dark, it was not all Light either.

“Why sex magic?” Harry asked after a long moment.  “What ritual?”

“No objection to two men, Potter?”  Rare surprise leeched into Snape’s voice.

Harry’s mouth twitched into a self-deprecating smile.  “It would be pointless to object since I am either bisexual or gay.  I haven’t figured out if I’m truly attracted to women or if it’s just habit.”

There was something to be said for throwing Snape off-balance, Harry thought.  Snape paled a bit further, lips compressing into a thin line.

“I see.”  And, with that, he spun on his heel, robes flying up, and quit the room.

Harry was more annoyed that his questions about the ritual were not answered than by Snape’s exit.

Hermione knocked softly in the mid-afternoon, entering after Harry called out permission.  He levered himself up to a sitting position, waving off Hermione’s protests that she would not have come in if she had known he was asleep.

“What do you want, Hermione?” he interrupted.

When she flushed in annoyance, he realized his tone was harsher than he had intended.  With a huff, she answered, “You called me here, Harry.  I’m doing you the favor.”

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Hermione,” he said softly.  Sighing at her stiff posture, he patted the bed next to his legs, gesturing for her to sit.  She did, but her posture didn’t relax.  Smiling to himself, he pulled her to him.

Though not usually empathetic, the experiences with Ron and Hermione over the years enabled him to read their body language more than anyone else.

Hermione pulled back and glared at him, softening her expression only when he smiled sheepishly.

“Do you want your glasses?”

“I don’t need them,” he said, amused by the way her eyebrows shot up in response.

She muttered something under her breath about studying that effect, but shook herself before she went off on a tangent.  Meeting his unfettered eyes steadily, she asked, “When will you and Pr- Se- Snape perform the ritual?”

Harry’s hand froze mid-stroke of Hermione’s hair.  “What?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”  She was anxious again, her hands fluttering in her lap like butterflies.

“He mentioned a ritual.”

Harry was not sure if his anger was more at Snape for not confirming, but merely implying he would be the representative, or that Snape would actually be the representative.  As he had told Snape earlier, he didn’t mind the need for another man, but Snape himself?

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, interrupting his brooding.  “You do realize that if you don’t do this, you’ll die, don’t you?”

He sighed.  “I know that, Hermione.”  He moved his hand from her hair to his own, running his fingers through it, tugging in frustration.  “But why Snape?”

Hermione rose, shifting into what Harry privately thought of as her lecture mode.  She paced a short track from the bed to the door as she explained.

“The ritual takes the place of a goblin blood rite, which serves to adopt a new head of family outside the direct bloodline.  It doesn’t happen very often because the entailments are only associated with the oldest families now, generally pureblood families that have few male heirs due to reduced numbers and inbreeding.”

Harry grinned.  “Inbreeding?”

She nodded.  “There are only so many times cousins can marry cousins before the line dies out or leaves a descendant considered mentally unfit.  Introducing new blood – like Muggles – into the mix creates a healthier gene pool.”

Her words brought a vague memory to mind from primary school about genetics, but no details.  He trusted Hermione to know about these things, so he didn’t try to recall details, accepting her words.

“And the ritual?” he prompted.

“When there are only unacceptable candidates for family head, that title must transfer outside the direct bloodline.  That’s how Sirius could transfer that to you rather than it go to Draco Malfoy.”

Harry started at that.  He had never considered that Malfoy had a legitimate claim to head of the Black family.  “Why couldn’t it go to Malfoy?”

“Because, according to Black family entailments, the head cannot be passed through female issue.”  At Harry’s confused look, she smiled.  “Because Narcissa was a Black, and not Lucius, Draco can’t inherit.”

Harry now drove both hands through his hair.  “So if I’d been a girl, the line would have died with Sirius?”

Hermione bit her lip.  “Probably.  I’m sure even more distant relatives would have come forward first, though.”

Harry felt as if his mind would explode.  He had never been much interested in the old inheritance rights and things like primogeniture – mentions of it in school in relation to the monarchy bored him – so he was having a hard time processing all this information.

“How could Sirius pass it to me anyway?” he asked.  “I was only his godson.”

Snape chose that moment to enter the room.  Hermione, caught pacing next to the bed, fell with a squeak to sit on the edge.  His dark eyes took them both in, surveying and assessing, before he entered to sit in the single chair near the window.

“May I?” Snape asked, almost amused.  Hermione nodded; Snape inclined his head in acknowledgement.  “You are also a very distant cousin, Potter.  Were you no blood relation at all, the wards would have killed you immediately.  However, because the blood relation is so distant, the goblins should have performed blood rites upon the formal acceptance of your inheritance.”

A blush rose high on Harry’s cheeks.  “I, um, threw them off-balance.”  He felt the weight of Hermione’s curious look and a single raised eyebrow from Snape.  “I’d never received a statement from them.  When I told them that, it made them so angry that they nearly injured me.  Turns out their records listed me as dead.”

“You continue to do the impossible, Potter,” Snape drawled.

“Nagini!” Hermione gasped, covering her mouth.

By the fact Snape did not ask about the snake, Harry concluded he already knew the details, probably via the Order.

“Yes, Nagini,” Harry confirmed.  “They were so shocked that their accounting methods were wrong that the meeting concluded almost immediately.”

Snape raised his hands to steeple them against his lips.  Harry felt the weight of that impenetrable black gaze as if it were something physical.

“I shall contact them for the necessary items this evening,” he said, hands falling to the arms of the chair once again.

“What items?” Harry asked.

Snape’s eyebrow rose.  “A few exotic potion ingredients, an athame, and Draco Malfoy’s blood.”

Before either Hermione or Harry could ask about the list, Snape swept from the room.

Only Hermione’s sharp whisper broke the silence that followed.  “Sex and blood magic!”

Harry felt worse than the day before when he woke the following morning.  It brought home the fact he was on borrowed time.  Despite that, he felt disgusting.  After days of fever and chills, his skin was clammy with dried sweat.

He took a deep breath, flipped back the blankets and sat up.  There was some dizziness, more than the day before, but it was manageable.  Slowly, he turned until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.  He wanted a shower but at this rate, he thought, he would be dead before he was clean.

When he stood, his legs felt as wobbly as those of a newborn colt.  Just as he thought his stance was stable, his legs collapsed underneath him.  His arm caught a tray of empty potion phials as he fell, sending it crashing to the floor with him.

“Five... four... three...” he whispered, stopping when Hermione rushed into the room, followed more sedately by Snape.

Hermione knelt by his side, frantically searching for injury.  “Harry, are you all right?”

After she tried to pull his legs straight for the third time, he pushed her away.  “Hermione, I only fell.  I’m not hurt.”

Snape scoffed, but Harry ignored him.

“Why are you out of bed?” Hermione demanded.

Harry sighed.  “I wanted a shower.”

She stood, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.  “Why didn’t you call for one of us?”

Harry’s embarrassed blush stained his cheeks as well as his neck.  “I didn’t want to impose.”

“Stupid, foolish boy,” Snape snarled.  Before either Harry or Hermione could protest, he pulled his wand and levitated Harry into the bathroom.

When Snape deposited Harry into the bathtub more gently than he had expected, Harry murmured his thanks.  Another wave of his wand filled the tub with moderately warm water.  Harry thanked him again, accepting the slight inclination of Snape’s head as a “you’re welcome.”

“I trust you can wash yourself and will ask for assistance when you are done?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, duly chastised.

The initial potion treatment had given him a false sense of wellness, allowing him to mistake coherent thought for a cure.  As he scrubbed himself, he contemplated the task before him.  However distasteful or arousing the thought of sex with a man, with Snape, might be, his true feelings about it made no difference.  If he wanted to survive until the following week, let alone live for many more years, this ritual was mandatory.

Viewing the sex magic that way certainly put it in perspective, Harry thought ruefully.

A small bell had been placed on the toilet so Harry could call for assistance once he was done bathing.  With his toe, he pulled the drain for the bath while, with his hand, he rang the bell.

Hermione entered several moments later.  “Ready to return to bed?  I’ve changed the linens.”

“How are you going to get me into bed?”

She huffed and rolled her eyes.  Pulling her wand, she said, “If you don’t mind being levitated again, it will be easy.”  Harry shrugged.  He was just happy to be clean.

Hermione cast a drying spell on him, then levitated him to the bed.  The sheets were clean and fresh, making him smile as Hermione helped him settle.

“Where is Snape?” Harry asked somewhat sleepily.  His energy had apparently been taxed to its fullest by his bath.

“The items arrived from Gringotts,” she said softly, punching a pillow before tucking it under Harry’s head.  “He’s sorting them and completing the necessary potions.”

Harry opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them.  “When will it be done?”

“The ritual?”  Harry nodded.  “He wants to try it tomorrow.  Friday is the last day we could perform it.”

Harry nodded.  A window of three days to save his life.  He fell asleep to that bleak thought.

The door is standing open
but I'm too tired to be afraid.
My whole life in the moment,
I've been fighting all the way.
I just need a li'l more time
'coz the life just can't let go
It's a chain cuts across my soul
– Duran Duran, “Chains”

“I’ve told you before, Mrs Weasley, you cannot be involved.  The risk is too great.”

Harry surfaced from sleep hearing Snape’s words.  He could see Hermione’s mutinous expression without opening his eyes.

“And I have told you I’m willing to accept the risk.”

Silence fell.  Harry cracked open his eyes to see Snape eyeing Hermione like she were an annoying insect.

“You may be willing to accept the risk but I am not.  If you persist, I shall be forced to demand you leave.”  Snape’s voice softened slightly as he concluded, “How would Mr Weasley feel if he knew you’d endangered your unborn child in such a manner?”

“Fine,” Hermione huffed.

“You’re pregnant?” Harry asked, voice a harsh rasp.

Hermione startled and blushed.  “Yes.  We were going to tell you when you returned from holiday.”

Harry’s answering laugh degenerated into coughing.

“Potter, has Mrs Weasley explained this ritual to you at all?” Snape asked as he prepared a work area atop the dresser.

Harry struggled to sit up.  Hermione made a move to help, but was halted with a sharp word from Snape and a reminder she could not touch Harry from now until three days after the successful conclusion of the ceremony.

“Not the ritual itself, only the reasoning behind it,” Harry said finally.  “I know it’s a variation of an adoption ritual, but I don’t know the details.”

Snape nodded absently as if Harry’s answer was what he had expected.

“Had the goblins done what they were supposed to do, the blood rites – a simple spilling of blood from a self-inflicted wound and words pledging faith to the new family – would have been sufficient.”  He sighed.  “You will just have to trust me for the rest.”

If he could have, Harry would have shrugged.  No matter how much it grated on him, he had no choice but to trust Snape with his life.  The irony almost made him smile.

Snape turned to him with a silver chalice in his hands.  He glanced at Hermione.  “You must leave now before we begin.”  She met Harry’s eyes, moderately reassured by his smile, then left.

Snape approached the right side of the bed with the chalice, placing it on the side table there.

“You must be open and accepting of every portion of this ritual.  If doubt about your course of action enters into your mind, it could kill you instantly.”

“And if I don’t do this, I die by Saturday.”  Snape nodded.  “Then let’s proceed.”

With a solemn nod, Snape pulled the blankets back and the pillow from the bed, leaving Harry naked upon the single sheet covering the mattress.  Snape gestured for Harry to lie down flat, which he did, though he felt ridiculous.

Taking the chalice in his hands once again, Snape held it over Harry’s torso.

After a long chant in Latin that Harry did not understand, Snape poured the glittering sky blue substance from the chalice onto his skin from shoulder to thigh.  Harry hissed in shock.  The liquid was cool at first, then warmed to a temperature just below uncomfortably hot.

When the sensation changed from liquid fire on his skin to an erotic burn under his skin, he twisted on the mattress and moaned.  Arousal hardened his cock until he wanted to beg for relief, but he said nothing.

Snape replaced the silver chalice on the tray, then returned to Harry’s side with a wooden bowl and paintbrush.  He painted on Harry’s chest with the dark red liquid in the bowl.

“This is part of the ritual specific to two men.  Were you a woman, this would be unnecessary.”

Harry nodded, afraid to reply verbally for fear it would derail the ceremony.  Then again, everything Snape was doing felt increasingly erotic – he was afraid he would degenerate into begging if he spoke.

The completed painting tingled, some in a pattern Harry recognized as runes and the rest seemingly random.  The tingling lasted only a moment before they all flashed, sending arousal spiking through Harry in a barely-controlled wave of lust.

Panting heavily, he began to close his eyes only to open them again at a sharply barked order from Snape.

His vision turned hazy as arousal spread through him.  When Snape shed his robes, revealing pale skin and a surprisingly muscular body, Harry whimpered.  His arms felt too heavy to lift and his legs too restless to keep still.

“Potter – Harry – you need to follow the next instructions carefully.”  Harry blinked.  It was odd to hear his first name spoken by Snape without contempt lacing his voice.  “Do you understand?”  Harry nodded.  “Very well.  Take the athame from the tray.”

It took Harry a moment to force his limbs to obey, but when he could move his arm, he then took the athame from the offered tray.

“Cut three shallow lines into each forearm.”  Harry blinked, somewhat surprised, but did as ordered.  The cuts did not hurt, as he had expected, but served instead to increase his arousal.

“Make a deeper cut down your sternum.”  Harry frowned.  “I cannot guide your hand, you must do this willingly.”  Harry made himself sit up.  Looking down, he laid the athame against his sternum, the point just below the hollow of his throat.

“I do this willingly,” he said, voice hoarse.  Stinging pain followed the path of the knife, making Harry hiss, but he continued until he reached the end of his sternum.  Blood welled sullenly from the wound.

“Lie back.”  Snape took a phial from the tray, the color and consistency of which Harry assumed was Malfoy’s blood.  Uncorking it, Snape murmured something else in Latin, then poured a portion over Harry’s arms and chest.

Harry nearly shot off the bed, stuck in a vicious feedback loop of pain and pleasure.  Back arched, he moaned and hissed, torn between wanting to climax and wanting to stop the ritual.  Snape waited until Harry relaxed once again, lying flat on his back, teeth gritted.

“Bend your legs at the knee, Harry, feet flat on the bed,” he ordered.

Harry had never expected his first encounter with a man to be during a sex magic ritual to save his life – had never expected it to be with Snape, either.  But, he did as ordered, viciously tamping down his embarrassment at the position.

Snape climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between Harry’s upraised knees.  “You will need to relax.”

A semi-hysterical laugh escaped him.  He would not be able to relax until this was done and he knew he would live.

Snape whispered another Latin incantation under his breath before coating his palms in blood again.  After setting aside the phial, now nearly empty, he moved closer to Harry, parting his thighs further, bloodied hands sliding up Harry’s thighs.  Shifting his hands, he used one to stroke Harry’s cock, and his other to stroke Harry’s entrance.

Shock made Harry hiss, but the sensation of Snape’s hand there wasn’t unpleasant.  In fact, over and above the arousal due to the ritual, he thought the sensation would leave him one vibrating erogenous zone.

When Snape pulled his fingers away, Harry had to bite back a disappointed moan.  The fingers were soon replaced with something large, blunt and surprsingly warm:  Snape’s cock, his brain belatedly informed him.  He worried it would not fit – it felt too thick – but was distracted by Snape’s voice.

“Do you accept your role in the Black family, Harry James Potter?” Snape asked, voice catching on the middle name as he poised to enter Harry.

“I do,” Harry gasped.  He wanted to writhe and beg, but was restrained by the ritual.

“As representative of the Black family, I accept you as family,” Snape added, gripping Harry’s hips and slowly pushing inside.

Though the potions and runes were designed to increase his arousal, making him desire this, he had never had sex with a man and his body had not been prepared.  Snape’s entry was painful and relentless.  Though he knew it had to happen, he wanted nothing more than to push him away right then, to stop the pain that was quickly swamping any pleasure he may have felt.

Then Snape stopped, fully seated within Harry’s body, balls resting against his arse.

“Is... is that it?” Harry asked, confused by his desire to beg for more even though it hurt.

Snape’s laugh was low and dark.  “There is the required and, quite frankly, expected, need to climax, Potter.”

Despite the dual edge of pain and pleasure Harry was balanced on, he saw the amusement in the words as well.  Licking his lips, he clarified, “Are there any other ritual words?”

“Only once we’ve reached climax.”

The idea he was now having sex with Snape for pleasure threw Harry off-balance.  Snape shifted his hands, moving one back to Harry’s cock and leaving the other on his hip.  He wanted to protest when Snape began to stroke him, but the potions and ritual-based desire, in addition to his own curiosity, were overwhelming him once again.

A deep moan escaped him, changing to a whimper when Snape slid out of him.  He wrapped one leg around Snape’s hip, once again surprised at the musculature there, encouraging him wordlessly.

The smile on Snape’s lips was almost disturbing, but the arousal in his eyes fed Harry’s.  Harry arched, hissing in delight when Snape thrust into him again.  Hands restless, he tangled them in the sheet, pulling it form the corners of the bed.

Snape stroked him again as his thrusts increased in force.  When Harry met his eyes, he was thrown by the intensity there, but not surprised.  He didn’t think Snape ever did anything halfway.

Harry’s arousal seemed to double yet again as Snape shifted his hips, canting them at an angle that allowed him to hit a spot inside Harry that made him roll his eyes back in his head and moan.  Harry wanted to curse and urge Snape on, but did not know if additional words would negatively affect the ritual, nor did he trust himself, given his previous loathing for the man fucking him.  Though he reminded himself that sex sometimes had nothing to do with love or like, just lust, Harry had never been able to separate it all in his mind.

Belatedly at this point, he realized that maybe what he had really needed was a mindless shag, not a holiday.

Snape seemed to notice his inattentiveness and gripped Harry’s cock tightly with one hand, using his other to roll Harry’s balls.  It drew Harry’s attention back immediately as well as nearly bringing him to orgasm.

A low moan, part arousal, part plea, escaped his throat.  He arched toward Snape, silently begging for release.  The smell of sex, the grunts he made with each of Snape’s thrusts, hell, the half-smile on Snape’s lips only increased his arousal.

Shifting his hands to Harry’s hips, Snape gripped Harry tightly, driving hard and deep.  Harry tightened the leg around Snape’s hip, digging his heel into Snape’s arse.  Sweat beaded on Snape’s brow, dripping onto Harry’s chest to mix with the blood and potions.  The driving force left Harry feeling bruised, but the speed and violence of the motion was enough to send him over the edge.

With a noise between a moan and keening wail, Harry came.  Snape groaned in response, coming with Harry’s final wave.  Neither of them moved for a moment, dazed.

Shuddering, Snape pulled out of Harry.  To Harry’s surprise, he ran his fingers through the come on Harry’s stomach.  Bringing his fingers to his lips, eyes half-closed, he almost purred, “The House of Black accepts this offering from Harry James Potter.”

The magic that flowed through Harry at the words nearly gave him another orgasm.  It washed the sickness of the ward poisoning from him, leaving him refreshed and terribly aroused once again.  Snape raised an eyebrow, glancing at Harry’s cock with a smirk.

Embarrassed, Harry tried to sit up, preparing to run into the shower.

Snape laid a hand on his chest, stopping him.  “There is no need to run away.”

“Is the ritual over?”  Harry’s voice shook with the words, annoying him.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Then let me up.”

Snape closed his eyes and nodded, rolling to the side.  Harry leapt from the bed, nearly falling before his legs were strong enough to support him.

He stood under the spray of the shower for a long while, scrubbing until his skin was pink from heat and irritation.  It didn’t erase the ghost of Snape’s touch.  He was not sure if that was a good thing or not.

Now that the poisoning was cured, he was having a hard time remembering why he had trusted the man – but also why he had hated him in the first place.  Harry did not deal well with shades of gray, he knew, and that was the only color that existed in Snape’s world.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved or annoyed to find Snape gone from the cottage when he finished his shower.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Hermione asked, fussing over him the next morning.

He wanted her to leave.  He needed time to himself to think about his life and what had happened.  He didn’t need to be mothered by his best friend.

Swatting her hands away, he spat, “I’ll be fine.  Go home.”  He sighed, then added in a more cordial tone, “I’m sure Ron misses you.”

The look in her eye became lascivious.  He turned his head and pretended to gag.  She smacked the back of his head, making him laugh.

She gave him another once-over before hiking her bag onto her shoulder and turning to the fireplace.  She grabbed a handful of Floo powder, prepared to throw it into the empty grate, when Harry laid a hand on her wrist.

He had tossed and turned all night, thinking about what had happened.  Near dawn, he had come to the conclusion he needed to find Snape.  Even if it were only to thank the man for saving his life, he needed to find Snape.

“Hermione, where did you find Snape?”  Snape had remained hidden from the Ministry for five years.  Then again, the Ministry had not thought to look in the United States.

She flushed.  “I went to both the seediest and best apothecaries in New York and asked about their best potion-maker.  The answer was the same.”

“But where did you find him?”

“Bar Harbor, Maine,” she answered, a half-smile on her lips.  “Now may I go home?”

Harry hugged her briefly, then let her go.  He had preparations to make before tracking the elusive Snape.

He was ready to leave the next day.  Mary Jo, like a shark sensing blood in the water, paid him a visit for dinner, happy to find him alone.  He was cynical enough to realize she must have been watching the cottage, but had had enough of his own company to allow her to drag him out.  He was not pleased to be shown off like a new toy, but tolerated it.  He pretended to be oblivious to her attempts to invite herself into his bed for the night, amused by her perseverance despite having told her he was gay.

Though he had originally planned to drive to Bar Harbor, one look at the map changed his mind.  He did not want to spend three and a half hours driving when Apparition would be instantaneous.  Chatting up Mary Jo for information about Bar Harbor first thing in the morning gave him a plan of action.

From the cottage, he Apparated to a partially-secluded dock in Bar Harbor.  A quick glance around confirmed that no one had seen him but for two seagulls hunting fish.

The main street was busier than he had expected at nine in the morning, but it was the height of tourist season, a fact he was exploiting in order to blend in.  He felt the shorts were a bit much, exposing his pale skin, when paired with the forest-print shirt he had purchased at the resort’s gift shop.  Now that he was in the middle of a resort town, he blended in rather than stood out.  His wand was strapped to his forearm in an Auror-issued invisible holster he had been able to keep after leaving the Academy.

He snorted, amused.  As soon as he opened his mouth, he would stand out again.  His accent seemed to draw people in no matter how much sarcasm and dryness he injected into his tone of voice.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, earning a pithy curse from someone behind him.  It had suddenly occurred to him that there might be a reason behind Snape’s attitude, that he intended to drive people away rather than draw them in.

The scent of incense drew his attention back to the present.  His epiphany made him stop in front of an occult shop.  Amused, he wandered in.  The shop was the best and worst of magic leaked into the Muggle world.  The closest items to real magic were those for Wicca, though many of those appeared to be bastardized versions of Wizarding items.

“Can I help you?” an ethereal voice too reminiscent of Sybill Trelawney for comfort asked him.

He turned from the display of focus rocks and gems, startled by the most diminutive human he’d ever seen.  If she came to his elbow, he would have been surprised.

“No, I’m fine,” Harry muttered, then saw a row of phials on the top shelf, all meticulously hand-labeled.  Taking one, he asked, “Wait, where do you get these from?”

The woman smiled knowingly.  “You aren’t the first to ask.”  He waited for her to continue, but she closed her eyes, rocking slowly back and forth while humming softly.  Suddenly she didn’t remind him of Trelawney but Luna Lovegood.

He tried not to startle when her eyes snapped open, drilling into his with uncanny precision.  “He may not want you there, but he works from a shop at the end of Bernard Avenue.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, replacing the phial on the shelf.

Not knowing where Bernard Avenue was, he exited the shop and turned right.  He passed several businesses not yet open until he found a coffee shop.  A few questions later – and after cooing over his accent – he was given directions to the odd shop at the end of Bernard Avenue.  It was only a block away.

Harry walked steadily down the street, turning onto Bernard, which became a dead-end by Snape’s shop.

The shop itself was well-kept, though it showed signs of better days.  Harry stood on the sidewalk outside, debating whether or not he should enter the shop.  It wasn’t open yet, but that would not have stopped him had he wanted to enter – unless Snape had warded the building.

He walked to the door, shading his eyes and peering in.  On a table beside the door was a placard that must have been in the window or on the door:  Closed until further notice for family emergency.

Harry froze.

Tracking Snape down was for his own benefit, not for any altruistic reason.  Did he need to know why Snape had done it?  A part of him did, yes, but in the long run, it made no difference.  Harry was alive because of Snape.

He realized he needed no further information.

He stayed another week at Sea Crest Harbor, relaxing amid the Americans on holiday.  He had dinner with Mary Jo on the last night there.

He was not sure what sort of decisions he’d make about his life upon returning to London.  He needed to pay a visit to Gringotts and talk to the goblins about the mistake that had nearly killed him.  He needed to visit Draco Malfoy in Azkaban and thank him, however galling that may be.  He needed to talk to Ginny and explain to her that he would never marry her, that while he loved her, he knew now that he was gay.

But those were all items for tomorrow.  For that last morning before driving back to Boston, he was enjoying the sunrise from his deck, a cup of tea in his hand.