Harry followed the new bloke’s progress across the lawn, wondering what made Snape think he was so special that he didn’t have to wear robes.

Probably knows his arse is that fine, he thought, half-excusing himself from Ron’s company so that he might seek out Snape’s.

He found the other Sixth Year sitting under a tree by the lake, rolling up his sleeves. “Great tattoo. What is it?”

Snape started and replied, “Don’t actually know—I was drunk at the time.”

“May I touch it?” Harry asked, kneeling before Snape.

The other boy held out his arm in permission, and Harry bent down to examine the inked snake that was writhing its way through the skull on Snape’s flesh. It moved suddenly, causing Harry to gasp and Snape to grunt in amusement. Harry swallowed and touched the snake’s tail, which made Snape gasp; Harry felt as though a bolt of electricity had shot through his body, and the sensation set his nerves ringing all the way up his now-rigid prick.

“Your skin smells like vanilla,” Harry said, without meaning to.

A smile twisted its way across Snape’s sallow features. “You look like you’ve got a halo, what with the sunlight shining in your hair like that.”

Harry dropped Snape’s arm and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Well, I—”

“Good afternoon, boys,” Headmaster Riddle called then.

“Hullo, sir,” Harry replied.

Snape merely nodded respectfully.

“Mr. Potter, it’s good to see you making Mr. Snape feel welcome. What are you boys discussing? Not your lessons, surely, on such a beautiful day?”

Harry smiled. Headmaster Riddle is nothing like that awful Dumbledore.

“I was just showing Potter my tattoo, sir,” Snape said.

“Ah. Well, might you want one, too, Harry? I’m certain that might be arranged,” Riddle said, his eyes glinting redly.

“Oh, well . . . I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure my mum would approve.”

In a conspiratorial tone, Riddle leaned down a bit and whispered, “We’ve all of us got our secret tattoos that our parents don’t know about—but you shouldn’t get one if you’re . . . concerned,” before straightening up and walking slowly away without another word.

“Nice one, Potter. Now the headmaster thinks you’re still tied to your mother’s apron strings,” Snape said, when Riddle was out of earshot.

“I am not!”

“Prove it,” Snape said, pushing himself up off the ground. “Let’s go into Hogsmeade and get you a tattoo. I think I remember where it was my father took me for mine.”

Harry bit his lower lip. I can’t let Snape think I’m a coward. “All right—but you lead the way.”

Snape smirked. “It is nice, isn’t it?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at his arse.

Harry blushed and felt glad of his robes, thinking, At least Dad’ll like my tattoo.

“I have taken his magic. Which of you, my servants, deserves the honor of taking his life?”

Harry did not flinch when Lucius Malfoy stepped forward. He had no intention of shrinking from his fate. Raising his head—and ignoring Malfoy’s avaricious gaze as it assaulted his person—Harry saw how the other Death Eaters blenched and turned away as he looked at them; Snape actually winced before his eyes found his feet.

Coward, Harry thought, wishing that he had been able to kill the bastard before he had got himself captured.

“You may examine your prize, Lucius.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Harry did not recoil when Malfoy stroked his cheek with the back of one be-gloved hand. Steeling himself, he leaned into the caress—it was like silk against his skin—and allowed himself to accept that he liked it.

“Slut,” Lucius whispered.

Harry closed his eyes and thought, You have no idea.

“Strip him off, Lucius.”

“With pleasure, my lord.”

Harry refused to feel shame when the breeze played over his body, over his weeping prick. If this is how it has to be, I’m going to enjoy it.

Something told him that Malfoy would know how to fuck a wizard properly, that his ego would demand driving someone insane with pleasure rather than pain.

That’s why Draco loved him so much, isn’t it? Harry asked himself, as his muscles strained in protest against the ropes that held him spread-eagled just off the ground.

“How will you destroy him, my servant?”

Harry did look into Malfoy’s eyes then.

“Through degradation and . . . dehydration, my lord, if it pleases you.”

I knew it! Harry thought, inwardly exulting. This is going to work! “I’m glad it’s you,” he said quickly, forcing himself to quail as if in horror at his words.

Malfoy laughed. “Are you?” he asked, arrogant pleasure shining from his face. “Are you, indeed?”

“You have no idea.”

Hermione never thought that she’d be floating in an engorged barrel full of summer rain with George’s cock nestled between the cheeks of her arse and Fred’s prick sliding slowly in and out of her cunt, but here she was, and here she would gladly stay, buoyed up by the pleasure of too many cinnamon-scented limbs to count. It was difficult to remember that there were just two of them, Fred and George, when fingertips were playing over her nipples and tongues were lapping at her throat and fingers were . . . fingers were—

“Pinching!”

“Oops,” said Fred, “think that was me.”

“Make it both of us,” George urged, pushing inside of Hermione and pinching up along her left side, while Fred pinched up along her right.

It was too much.

“Oh! I—no! Oh, yes, that’s—”

Fred laughed, steadying Hermione’s head as it lolled forward so that she wouldn’t drown. “Love it when she comes that hard.”

“Love you, Free,” George panted, leaning over Hermione’s shoulder to kiss his brother.

Her hair covering her face, Hermione smiled.

“It’s the strangest dream. I’m playing with Frisky. Crookshanks is watching me. I keep thinking it’s odd a male cat gives a shite about what one of his kittens does. I thought male cats ate their kittens. Aunt Marge—”

“Stop getting distracted, Harry. What next? Why’s it weird?”

“Well, I kneel down to shoot more marbles for Frisky—”

“You can’t do that, Potter! The kitten would choke on a—”

“Shut it, Malfoy. Let him finish.”

“Draco, it’s just a dream, and they’re big—the marbles, I mean.”

“Fine. Big marbles. It still doesn’t seem like a weird dream to me.”

“As I was saying, I kneel down and suddenly there are hands on my hips—stop sniggering, Draco!”

“Whose hands are they?”

“That’s the weird part. I don’t know.”

“Malfoy, if you don’t stop laughing, I’m going to make you. Harry—”

“How?”

“Draco.”

“Aren’t you curious, Ron? I mean, if they aren’t your hands, and they aren’t my hands—”

“I uh, I think they might be Snape’s hands.”

“Right. That’s horrid.”

“What are you doing?”

“Malfoy, hold his hands. I’ll give him something to dream about.”

“I thought you wanted me to finish!”

“Oh, he does, Potter. He does—and so do I.”

Sorry! I thought I had pulled it before you'd seen it; I had to fix the typos. *blushes*

“Will it still be the same?” Ginny asked, turning from the rail and looking up into Severus’ eyes as he appeared on the balcony.

Severus caught his breath and almost dropped the goblet he was holding. “You know it won’t be, Ginevra,” he replied, shaking off the affect of seeing the witch in a diaphanous gown that left just enough to the imagination.

Ginny turned away. “Then I don’t want to do it, Sev.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” Severus told Ginny, joining her at the railing and passing the goblet to her.

“Then don’t call me ‘Ginevra’,” she retorted, before raising the goblet to her lips.

Severus watched her throat working and smiled.

When Ginny made to set the goblet down on the railing, she missed, and the vessel plunged over the side.

“Oh! Sorry.”

“It’s no matter, but you shouldn’t stall. You know you have no choice. You have to—”

“There’s always death. Lord Voldemort did say I could choose that,” Ginny interrupted, her voice light and teasing.

Severus grabbed Ginny and turned her to face him, shaking her a little. “Never say that!”

“And here I thought I’d never have to brace myself against your visits again. You promised not to—”

“Forgive me,” Severus said quickly, releasing Ginny’s shoulders. “I never meant to hit—you know that I was over-wrought. You refused your medicine, and I couldn’t permit you to do that.”

“Yes, so you’ve said,” Ginny replied, her eyes uncharacteristically hard. “And you know that I love you, so why must I—”

“Gine—Ginny,” Severus entreated, caressing the side of her face, “you do love me, don’t you? You do want to marry me?”

Ginny swallowed and lowered her eyes. “You know that I do, Severus.”

“Then you must take the Mark.”

“But if I do that, I will never be entirely yours. Why can’t we marry first? If I could just have you once, as your wife, just once, then I would be happy to take it.”

Severus sighed. The potion needs a compulsion component. If I don’t add it, Ginevra’s willfulness will get her killed. “The Dark Lord demands loyalty from his followers—and their wives. Even Bellatrix didn’t marry before she took the Mark.”

Ginny snorted. “That slut took more than Voldemort’s Mark, for all the good it did her.”

“Don’t say that again. Don’t even think it,” Severus begged, leaning down to kiss Ginny.

She turned away. “You should go, Severus. We’re not yet married, and if you’d prefer to . . . to do things properly, loyally, then I’d just as soon wait as not.”

Damn it! Severus thought, clenching his fists. You’ve no right to refuse me! You shouldn’t be able to refuse me! “Ginny,” he said, forcing himself to be calm, “look at me.”

She obeyed him.

“What’s a Naga?” Sirius asked, as he sat down next to Remus on the cot and draped an arm over him.

Remus winced in pain but snuggled against Sirius anyway and replied, “The Naga are a race of human-snake shape-shifters native to India.”

“Why’re you reading about them?”

“Because there’s a legend that says the Naga can control their transformations,” Remus whispered.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I thought perhaps . . . .”

“You could find something to help you,” Sirius said, fighting the urge to turn and press a kiss into Remus’ hair.

“I have to find something. If I don’t, death would be better than—”

“Don’t say that!” Sirius exclaimed, leaping up off the bed and clenching his fists. “Just don’t, Moony!”

Remus sighed and closed his book, allowing it to fall to one side of him as he sank down into the pillows. “Sorry. Just tired, I guess.”

“Yeah, well,” Sirius replied, fumbling inside of his pockets in search of something, “I uh, I brought you a prezzie. Here,” he said, handing Remus a small box.

Remus took it and opened it; the sound of violin music filled the infirmary. “What’s this, then?”

Sirius grinned. “You said you wished we could do something to help Prongs with Evans.”

“Yeah. And?”

“Don’t sound so suspicious.”

“Tell me about the box, Padfoot.”

“All we need is some of Evans’ hair. We put it in the little drawer under the music box, and then, when it’s opened near her, she’ll want to dance—with whoever’s holding the box!”

“Sirius, that’s almost . . . Dark, isn’t it?”


Sirius took back the box and closed it. “No, it’s just a prank. I thought you’d like it.”

“I . . . I do. It’s brilliant.”

“‘Course it is! I’m always thinking of you, you know. I’ll leave it here. You can give it to Prongs when he comes to see you, all right?”

“Yeah, all right. Tired,” Remus mumbled, closing his eyes.

Sirius frowned down worriedly at Remus until he began to snore. Funny, he only ever snores when he’s here, he thought, sighing and turning to leave. “I’ll bring a better present next time.”

With the shadow of their adopted daughter’s illness no longer looming over them, Severus and Harry were free to enjoy the cool spring day by following Minerva as she ran, laughing, through the orchard, picking apples and stopping upon occasion to admire the opal tiara that Harry had conjured for her to wear when she had left St. Mungo’s.

“I think she enjoys being queen of all she surveys,” Severus remarked, smiling proudly as Minerva Vanished a bug out of the air with her over-long wand.

“Minerva,” Harry called, “only bugs, all right?”

“Yes, Daddy!” the four-year-old called, skipping farther into the orchard.

“You needn’t worry, she’ll—”

“Severus, we have to worry. She’s got all her adult magic without knowing anything of responsibility. We have to—”

Severus stopped and turned Harry to face him. “I know. That’s why I placed a . . . Confundus charm of sorts on her wand. She won’t be able to cast any ‘big’ spells.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’ve had enough to worry about since Minerva’s accident and Chief Healer Spriggs retired,” Severus replied, bending down to kiss Harry’s forehead.

“Look, I thought you promised not to keep things from me,” Harry replied, scowling.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you. This is the first time we’ve had a chance to speak since Minerva came home from hospital.”

“I did offer to quit.”

“I don’t want that, Harry. St. Mungo’s needs all the decent healers—”

“Right. Then tell me everything.”

“If you’ll do me the same favor,” Severus replied, turning to follow Minerva again.

Harry took Severus’ hand and asked, “What does that mean?”

“Miss Granger informs me that there was some talk of . . . reversing the process.”

“Oh,” Harry said, stopping. “How unlike Hermione to be so forthcoming with you.”

“I believe she has Minerva’s best interests at heart.”

“It’s not in Minerva’s best interest to be returned to her . . . prior condition. You know that.”

“I know that she’d probably stand trial for murder and collusion with the Dark Lord, yes.”

“She was under Imperius!”

“It pleases you to think that, but—”

“Are you telling me that you don’t want our family?”

“No, Harry. But if we want things to remain as they are, it might behoove you to . . . be more circumspect.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll invite Hermione to dinner tonight. I know she hasn’t told anyone—well, except you.”

“Searched her research notes, have you?”

Harry flushed.

“I thought as much. I’ll ask the house elves to prepare something special.”

“And I’ll Obliviate Hermione. I’m sure you can think of another research project for her.”

“I’m sure I can.”

In the distance, ‘Her Majesty’ began Transfiguring apples into insects, only to Vanish them as they began to fly away.

Charlie crept along the darkened corridor toward the loo, hoping that everyone had finished using it so that he could enjoy a long hot bath and a long-overdo wank. He missed his decidedly uncrowded little cabin at the dragon preserve, but he’d promised his mother he’d come for the Yuletide hols.

If I were home, he thought, stopping before the door in dismay as he saw the light spilling out from under it, I could be ‘bathing’ in a nice foamy tub in front of the fire.

Leaning down to peek into the keyhole—Charlie didn’t want to startle one of the girls—he saw something that startled him.

Harry was laying in the tub, his legs thrown over the sides, and he was hissing as his arm rose and fell in the water.

Is that Parseltongue?

Charlie’s cock twitched; he knew it was.

Has to be.

Looking both ways in the corridor, he knelt down so that he could work his prick in time with Harry, admiring the way in which the pretty younger wizard’s head turned from side to side in abandon as he neared his orgasm.

So hot. Gods. I never knew, Charlie thought, bracing himself against the door as he came.

It had been a long three days without privacy.

Hastily casting a cleaning charm on himself, Charlie returned to his bed thinking, I’m really going to have to invite Harry to the preserve, before falling almost at once into a guiltless sleep.

“Yeh jus’ set that lamp down on th’ table an’ keep quiet,” Hagrid ordered the mutinous-looking blond Sixth Year. “What you did to Filch, well, that was right mean o’ yeh. Yeh’ll have to be punished for it.”

“And you think you’re fit to punish me, you mongrel?” Lucius Malfoy retorted, though he did as he was bid.

Hagrid, who had been looking in a large bin full of brushes, turned suddenly on Malfoy and demanded, “Yeh’ve got a filthy mouth, sure enough. P’raps we should clean it up a bit. Here,” he said, pulling a large sponge out of one of his pockets and thrusting it toward the startled boy.

Lucius took it, holding it up before himself with one finger and a thumb. “And just what do you expect me to do with this?”

“I know yeh’re scared, Malfoy,” Hagrid told him, stroking his beard, “but yeh don’ have to be.”

“I’m not scared of the likes of you!”

Hagrid chuckled and moved to the hearth, in which a large cauldron was bubbling. “I was abou’ to take my bath when Argus brought yeh. Seems like we can use some o’ this soap for that mouth o’ yehrs. Hand me th’ sponge.”

“No,” Malfoy said hoarsely, clutching the sponge and dropping his arm. “I won’t let you do that to me.”

“No?”

“N—no.”

“Well, yeh’re going to clean summat,” Hagrid replied, examining the aristocratic face before him and trying to think of what he could have the Slytherin wash; he wasn’t used to giving detentions. I s’pose he could wash my dinner pan, but—

Malfoy sighed and dropped his gaze to Hagrid’s trousers.

Hagrid’s mind blanked. Before he could figure out what Malfoy was planning—or thought that he was planning—the boy dropped to his knees in front of him.

“If you ever speak of this, I’ll—”

“Blimey! What th’—”

“If Filch hadn’t have confiscated my wand,” Malfoy said, in an obviously furious but oddly eager tone of voice, “I’d never have allowed you to force me to this—you remember that!”

“But I haven’t—oh, Merlin!” Hagrid exclaimed, as Malfoy freed his cock and, without preamble, stretched his lips around its head. ‘M goin’ ta get th’ sack!

As Malfoy’s hands began to fondle Hagrid’s balls and he started sucking, however, Hagrid decided that he didn’t care.

Severus entered the Dreamscape Diarist and stopped just over the threshold because the reek of the destructive distillation of wormwood pervaded the front room. Several uses for various extracts of wormwood immediately sprang into the Potions master’s mind, but he doubted that a bookseller needed any of them.

Unless his books are flea-ridden. “Hello?” he called, stepping farther into the shoppe, which appeared to be empty.

The sound of water cascading caught his attention, and Severus turned toward the left side of the room in time to see someone in a woolly hat—all he could see was the hat, as the shelves were taller than its wearer—push through a curtain of colorful beads and make his or her way toward the service counter before which he was standing.

“Oh! Professor,” Luna Lovegood said, blinking up at him. “Happy summer.”

Severus frowned. A happy summer is one in which I do not see a student. “Miss Lovegood. What are you doing here?”

“I work here, Sir,” Luna replied, grinning as she walked behind the service counter and hopped up to sit upon a stool behind it, “since Dad bought the place. How may I help you?”

Severus paused. He had no intention of discussing his special order with a student. “Is Miss Moonbeam working today? Miss Artemisia Moonbeam? She’s . . . familiar with my order.”

Luna blinked once and slowly before saying, “Miss Moonbeam’s on holiday, Professor, but I’d be happy to—”

“That will not be necessary. When is she expected back?”

Luna blinked twice and quickly before saying nothing.

“Is there a problem?” Snape demanded, beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable. She promised not to share our correspondence with anyone!

Severus had met Artemisia Moonbeam quite by accident in the offices of the Quibbler, where Albus had sent him to ask Mr. Lovegood to refrain from publishing any stories related to Aberforth and his goat problem. The witch, who was a functionary in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, had been there to complain about an article Lovegood had run about the relative harmlessness of vampires. She had also been breathtakingly beautiful, seemingly unaware of Severus’ reputation, and willing to speak to him. Their conversation had carried over into drinks, then dinner, and then into bed. They had met infrequently since taking leave of each other at the Hog’s Head the morning after their first meeting, but their correspondence had remained . . . vigorous. And when Artemisia had left the Ministry—the traveling connected to her position had become too arduous for her, she had written—to manage the Dreamscape Diarist, she had promised Severus that they might see each other more often.

With Potter soon to return for his sixth year of trying Severus’ patience, the Potions master had thought it would be gratifying to see Artemisia again.

She might have told me she was going away on holiday. . . . I might have joined her, Severus thought, watching Lovegood watch him, while he castigated himself for giving in to the whim that had put him in his present, embarrassing circumstance.

“There’s no problem, Sir. It’s just that . . . Artemisia won’t be pleased with me if I let you leave here without filling your order.”

“I haven’t actually placed it, yet.”

“Ah, so you haven’t made up your mind. I understand. Would you like to see the Rare Books in Print catalog?”

“Why?”

“Well, whatever you need is surely in there,” Luna replied, adjusting her hat.

There was an apple pie sitting on the kitchen windowsill of the house at Godric’s Hollow being warmed by the autumn sunlight. There was a frolicking group of young cats dashing after one another in the back garden, frustrating the gnomes' efforts to pull up herbs. There was a soft keening emanating from the ramshackle shed at the property’s edge. There was no one within earshot to hear it.

And that was a good thing because there was nothing more ruinous to a hero’s reputation than others knowing that he was buggering his father’s last surviving friend, a friend who just happened to be a werewolf.

“Keep your palms to the wall, Remus,” growled Harry, as he pushed thickly and slowly inside of him. “Tell me again!”

“You’re . . . oh! I’m yours, Harry.”

Damn right, Harry thought, beginning to thrust faster. So stop calling his name! “Tell me . . . again!”

“I’m . . . yours!”

“I didn’t mean for you to quiz me about Bill, damn it!” Tonks exclaimed, standing up in the boat and raising her bottle of firewhisky above her head.

Charlie quickly hooked an arm around Tonks’ knees to knock them out from under her. “Stay down. Do you want us to get caught, woman?”

“Ow!”

“Yeah, well, if you ate more you’d have a better cushion.”

“Charlie Weasley, have you been looking at my bum?”

“I’ve been looking for witnesses. Keep it down.”

“No one’s going to be out here so late. Have a swig,” Tonks replied, thrusting the bottle forward and smacking Charlie’s head with it.

“Ow!”

“Now who’s making a racket? You look like you just inhaled a bag full of kneazle fur,” Tonks said, giggling.

“I’m never bringing you out here again,” Charlie replied, rubbing his head.

Tonks pushed herself off the seat and knelt before Charlie.

“Hey! I told you to stop moving,” he protested, starting as Tonks fumbled with his trouser buttons.

“No, you told me to ‘keep it down’,” Tonks answered, before lowering her head toward Charlie’s exposed prick and swallowing it.

Harry drank from the milk bottle, catching snatches of conversation as floated into the kitchen from the lounge.

“. . . grand slam.”

“. . . doubt that you’ll win with that.”

“Yes, but how could . . . .”

The voices were all young, feminine, and familiar. Ginny’s bridge game was a tradition in the Potter-Weasley household. Every Friday night, Luna, Hermione, and Susan arrived with wine and baked goods to play until they were too tipsy to continue, while Harry cleaned up the dinner dishes, read the kids their bedtime story before tucking them in, and then spent the remainder of his evening however he liked.

It was normal. It was routine. It was boring. It was just one more thing that allowed the sensation of uncomfortableness within him grow as Harry pretended that he liked his life.

He was fairly certain that Ginny knew how he felt about working for the Ministry and shagging twice a week and going on with things, but, as he wasn’t completely sure, he never mentioned it.

What would be the point? I’m not even sure what needs to be different, he thought, placing the milk bottle in the refrigerator and running up the back stairs two at a time to check on the kids.

They were fine. They were always fine.

Everything’s fine, Harry told himself. Fine. Normal. Routine . . . . Damn it.

Slap!

“Aw, fuck!”

“No, not until you can hold your tongue.”

Slap!

“But—”

SLAP!

“Mr. Potter, I am disappointed. You’re bent over my lap. Surely you can feel how much I desire to fuck you. . . . You may answer.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Then why can you not accept your punishment silently? Only then will you receive your reward.”

Slap!

“Very good, Mr. Potter.”

Slap!

“Excellent—but try to be still. Your writhing is distracting.”

SLAP!

“Oh, I am pleased. You may speak to me of the Aconitines while I . . . while I use the ridged paddle—don’t worry. It won’t leave any scars on this luscious arse of yours.”

Thwap!

“Begin.”

“The Aconitines—”

Thwap!

“—areagroupofhighlytoxic—”

“Do slow down, Mr. Potter.”

THWAP!

“—alkaloids derived from various species—”

Thwap!

“—of Aconite, and whilst possessing—”

Smack!

“Hands, now, I think—no. No, I believe you’re finally prepared for my cock. Isn’t that right, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes! Oh yes, Sir!”

Harry’s information was taken from this page.

The end came, at long last, in a blasted back garden. Severus watched as Potter, shaking with some undefinable emotion, raised his head toward the sky and howled.

In the distance, the werewolves howled with him.

It was not Severus’ favorite form of music, but the pack was far off in the distance; Severus suspected that no wolf of any species would be visiting the place in which he now stood, where remnants of spent magic slid through the air and against him like tendrils of living, sinister silk.

“That wasn’t wine in the goblet,” Potter said hoarsely, turning to face Severus.

“No. It was the Dark Lord’s blood, polluted with a poison based on your own. You were right not to drink it.”

Potter stumbled forward and would have fallen if Severus had not caught him.

“Easy, Potter.”

“It . . . was, really, when you think about it,” Potter replied, before going limp.

Severus sank to the ground and clutched Potter against himself, rocking to comfort them both and wondering, Will he still want to kill me when . . . .

“Never . . . wanted to kill . . . anyone.”

“Then you needn’t kill anyone again, Mr. Potter.”

“Funny. I thought you . . . wanted to . . . die.”

“Funny—so did I.”