InsaneJournal

Team Snitch Entry (FIC): "Bids and Pieces (of Harry's Life, Post-Happily Ever After)" By Ziasudra
Title: Bids and Pieces (of Harry's Life, Post-Happily Ever After)
Author: ziasudra
Team: Team Snitch
Genre(s): Alive and Kicking
Prompt(s): Highest Bidder, Secret and Lies
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Highlight if you wish to know: * Infidelity (and various characters' different levels of acceptance/indifference about infidelity); Harry/OC (non-explicit but central to story); Epilogue compliant, so there's Harry/Ginny as an established pairing (non explicit)*
Word Count: 9,600~
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from the Harry Potter books belongs to JKR. I only play with them.
A/N: Thank you to the members of Team Snitch, particular el capitan joanwilder, rons_pigwidgeon, and whitecotton for your feedback and beta!


Summary: Harry's family and old and new friends are somehow all entangled into a web of interconnectedness, spun at the center by a mysterious potions brewer. Who could that be?





The First Bid

"If you would have told me!" Harry shouted, or tried not to, but probably shouted anyway, judging by how frustrated he was feeling. He sighed, deflated once his outburst was over, letting the spoken syllables ring in the air. He buried his face into his hands, heedless of the awkward way his glasses were pushed up against his eyebrows.

The expected 'You wouldn't have listened!' never came. Instead, Harry felt a trembling hand pressed against his shoulder, a gesture that intended to offer comfort but soon turned into one of seeking support. Ginny leaned her weight on Harry as she sat down beside him.

"I... just thought that this was something everybody knew," she whispered. "Harry, you're the icon of Britain's wizardry. It's easy to forget sometimes that you grew up entirely Muggle."

Harry held Ginny close but didn't reply. He didn't want to rehash what they'd already discussed so many times these past two days: So why didn't Muggle-borns contract the Gnome Pox then? Because St. Mungo's makes sure all babies are vaccinated, oblivious Muggle-born parents or not. What about those like me who didn't know they were wizards until Hogwarts? What about Hermione? We never got the shots.You never grew up among other magical folks. There's no Gnome Pox in the Muggle world. And Gnome Pox only affects young children and adult Squibs. Don't ask me why. What about all those shots they gave James after we took him back from the Muggle hospital? Why didn't they vaccinate him there?The Healers couldn't have possibly known, Harry. Gnome Pox vaccines are given within an hour of birth. When we took James to St. Mungo's for his checkup, he was already two weeks old. They probably thought he'd already had the vaccine.

Harry looked over at Ginny. Her head was buried against the crook of his neck, but even beneath the layers of thick, red hair, he could tell that her face was as pale as a poltergeist's and her eyes as red-rimmed as a Mermaid with an eye infection. He wondered how he looked. Frazzled? Panicked? Guilty? Maybe a little bit of all three?

He gave Ginny a gentle nudge. "Ginny, dear, time for me to give James his baby sleeping potion."

Ginny nodded. Her hand rubbed up and down Harry's back a few times in silent thanks.

As Harry walked toward James' nursery, the sentence he read in All You Need to Know About Your Baby kept replaying itself in his head:

Gnome Pox is a serious illness among infants, often fatal.

Fatal.

No, not his James. Not after all those trips to the Muggle doctors to finally conceive a child of their own.

"I'll find a way to cure you, James," Harry said as he watched a sedated James gurgle down his potion. "I promise."

-

Finding a remedy for Gnome Pox, as it turned out, was harder than locating all of Voldemort's Horcruxes combined. Harry sighed as he recalled his past two days, going from one hospital to another, only to be given nothing but soothing potions and calming draughts delivered into his hands by nurses with sad eyes bidding him good luck. One hospital did give him a dosage of potion for Dragon Pox. The nurse with sad eyes who worked there warned Harry that unless James was on the brink of dying, to not use the medicine on the child. Something about volatile potion ingredient properties that couldn't be controlled by someone who hadn't mastered his magic yet. Harry got the feeling that this medicine wouldn't work on Squibs either, which explained why the death rate caused by Gnome Pox among adult Squibs was just as high as the rate in the infant/children group.

Ninety-five percent. How the hell was he supposed to make it so that James would end up in the lucky minority?

Harry sighed as he dragged his mouse to close the browser he'd been looking at, a vain attempt to look for cures in the unlikely place of Muggle technology. Hermione had suggested it as a last resort, and Harry thought he was going to be able to find something, anything, in the vast world of the Web. After all, searching the Internet had brought him to...

Harry shook his head. Now was not the time to think about that.

He clicked but missed the red-colored "x" at the top right corner of the page. Instead, the click activated that vertical blinking line inside the search box right underneath the menu bar. Maybe he should keep on searching. Maybe he hadn't been searching at the right places.

Harry typed in his usual search terms, 'Gnome Pox' and 'potion,' into the box. And just for the heck of it, he added the word 'Muggle' as well. Maybe Muggles would know how to cure Gnome Pox.

He was surprised when only six search results showed up. Five of them were informational pages from Wizardpedia and its clone sites explaining what the disease was. The last result looked different. The title of the website read "Cure-All Potion: Satisfaction Guaranteed" and the link address was a simple www.cureallpotion.wiz. Intrigued and a bit hopeful despite himself, Harry clicked on the link.

Welcome to Cure-All Potion. As I have specifically engineered this site so that it would not show up on Internet searches unless the keyword 'Muggle' is used, your visit to this page proves that you are either desperate, have questionable intelligence, or possess a bit of both. Why would one input the term 'Muggle' in hope for finding a Muggle cure, when Muggles themselves are unaware of what the term means? With all due respect, reader, I pity you. However, if you find yourself here as a result of an act of desperation, then I commend you, and invite you to participate in this month's bidding.

Bidding? Harry clicked on the word, which was bolded and underlined in blue, his curiosity winning over the initial indignation he felt at being accused of having questionable intelligence. The insult felt familiar, but he was no longer a schoolboy and was in fact a parent desperate to find a cure for his son. If this Cure-All Potion could heal James, then Harry was willing to admit to the world seven times over that he wasn't the sharpest tool in the Herbology kit.

The link took him to what appeared to be an auctioning site. The Cure-All Potion was on offer, and the current bid was two hundred and seventy two Galleons. A real-time hourglass icon indicated there was only one day and five hours left for this month's bidding. There was no picture of the product.

"How am I supposed to know if the potion would work without a picture," Harry grumbled. He scrolled past the rather lengthy 'Testimonial' section, catching random words of unreserved praise, and down to the 'Frequently Asked Questions' section.

Q: How do I know the potion works without a picture?
A: Do you honestly think that by looking at a potion, you could judge its effectiveness? I remain convinced at your questionable intelligence.

"Bastard," Harry muttered, but kept on reading.

Q: How long is delivery?
A: The potion will arrive by owl post the same day the bidding closes. Additional delivery time applies for buyers living in Asia, Sub-Saharan Africa, and Australia. And for Merlin's sake, use your real name when ordering. The post owl will not be responsible for the inability to locate a non-existent witch or wizard.

"So you probably live in North America," Harry deducted, visualizing a world map in his mind and how long it would take for his own owl to fly cross-continent.

Q: My mother/father/son/daughter/pet kneazle is dying! Will you make an exception?
A: No. Only one potion auction per month. Do not request personal orders. You will be blacklisted.

Q: What's the potion's secret formula?
A: I sell potions for profit. I have no goodwill to share the Cure-All Potion with the world.

Q: What does the potion cure?
A: Do you not know what the word 'all' means? The potion is named Cure-All for a reason.

Q: What if the potion doesn't work?
A: It will work. Don't waste your time bidding if you do not believe me.

Rolling his eyes, Harry scrolled back up to the top of the page, the niggling feeling in the back of his head dissipating at the mysterious seller's confident tone. His eyes landed on the hourglass. Less than one day and five hours left now, and the highest bid had jumped to two hundred and eighty three Galleons since he'd last checked. He let his eyes wander to the testimonials posted on the page:

WizBoi24385: my mother never healed from a Fiendfyre burn from ten years ago, and then I found this site! It took me three months of bidding, but when I finally won the auction, the potion arrived just hours later and now my mother is completely healed!

SpngBob: Product as described. Fast delivery. Will do business w/seller again.

Hfflpff4ever: OMG! I had these annoying Mandrake bites every time I teach first years how to replant them! Now, I'm not a rich wizard, but every school year I make sure to bid the Cure-All Potion for the chance of some relief! The potion even worked when I dabbed a small amount into my ears! I was losing my hearing from the Mandrake screams, but no longer! Thank you very much, Cure-All Potion!!!

harrypotterfan123: (Harry cringed at that name) thanked you soooo much for curing my squib sisters gnome pox she was about to die and then i gave her the potion and before i could say merlins you-know-what she got better!

"Aha, so it could work!" The room suddenly felt brighter. Harry checked the hourglass again. Twenty more minutes had past and the bid had gone up by another thirty-two Galleons. If he were to have a chance of winning the bid, he must take action now.

"Kreacher," he said, "call Gringotts and ask them to transfer five thousand Galleons from my vault into my spending account immediately."

The house-elf materialized, bowed and said a quick 'yes, master', then disappeared into thin air again with a quiet pop.

When Kreacher returned with confirmation of the fund transfer an hour later, Harry's hand was trembling so much, it took him three tries to successfully enter '5,000 G' into the auction bidding field as the site's newest member, Sn1tchC@tch3r.

-

Congratulations on being the highest bidder, Mr. Sn1tchC@tch3r. However, I must invalidate your bid. As I have no doubt you must have read my instructions on the registration and bidding procedures, I can only take your willful refusal to use your real name when supplying me your shipping information as an act of blatant disobedience. Know that I do not tolerate such impertinence in my website, Mr. Potter. Though might I add: how typical of you.

However, since 1) you are the highest bidder, 2) I am aware of your true identity and will have no trouble instructing my owl to locate you, and 3) I am daily inundated through the tabloids with the tale of your son's tragic plight in contracting the Gnome Pox (a plight which, I hasten to add, was caused by your utter ignorance of all things important regarding the Wizarding World), I am — for this time only — open to considering an appeal on why I should sell my potion to you rather than to the second-highest bidder, Mr. Hfflpff4ever. You have one opportunity to appeal. Use it wisely.

Sincerely,

Webmaster
Cure-All Potions

-

The Second Bid

Harry pressed his body — Wilford's body — up against Roger's, reveling in the feel of fluid muscles and sharp angles of a male form. He only wished he knew how to control his Polyjuiced self better. 'Wilford' was easily a head taller than Harry's own body, closer to the height and build of Roger, whose wavy black hair and long limbs had drawn Harry to him since the first time he'd stepped into this establishment.

Roger seemed to be enjoying the encounter as well, his hands running up and down Harry's back, arms, and sides, smooth caresses that betrayed the hired boy's experience but lingering just a little longer to reveal desire beyond perfunctory motion. Roger was really talented with his hands, the way he pressed with his palms and kneaded with his fingers, instinctively seeking knots on Harry's back and loosening them with grace and ease. Harry shifted his body into the caresses.

"Wilford. Wilford!"

"Ung... hmm?" Harry mumbled, realizing Roger had been calling his alias several times.

Roger gave Harry an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. "Turn around. Let me work on your back for a bit."

"But I don't –"

"No extra charge. Not for you. Just put your head on the pillow and... there you go." Roger nestled Harry's body between his thighs. "Relax... sleep if you'd like. You're my only client tonight."

"Mmmm..." Harry said, surrendering to Roger's magical touch. "Gotta go home... two hours..."

"Wife waiting for you at home?"

Harry's eyes snapped open. "How –"

"Hush, stay still." Roger worked on Harry's shoulders. "It's... normal. Blokes coming here to find release in the arms of other blokes, because the one they love back home can't scratch the hidden itch inside them. We all have secrets."

"Yeah, secrets," Harry mumbled. "Too bad I don't seem to be too good at keeping them."

Harry buried his head into the pillow and tried not to remember the past day's events. How could the maker of the Cure-All Potion have known his real identity? It wasn't as if Harry had trumpeted his name throughout the website — anyone could be a 'Sn1tchC@tch3r,' from Draco Bloody Malfoy to little Johnny on the playground playing a game of Ground Quidditch.

Then again, not every Seeker had a dying son whose only hope for a cure now lay with the mysterious potions brewer's magical concoction. Harry supposed there was really no way to hide his identity when he was featured on the front page of the Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, Which Broomstick?, and Witch Weekly. It was a surprise he didn't make it into Gay Wizards Monthly, what with the way he'd been failing so badly at all this secret-keeping shite.

"Roger?"

The hands working on Harry's lower back stilled. "Hmm?"

"Your other clients... how do they keep their wives from finding out?"

Silence stretched seconds into minutes, until Harry thought Roger either hadn't heard him or that he had somehow offended Roger with his question.

A gentle hand smoothed Harry's entire backside from the base of his neck to the tip of his spine. "Secrets, Wilford. Secrets." The same hand retraced its path back up until Harry felt fingers kneading his scalp. "You're my only client, you know. My stringy hair and awkward build... they don't exactly help in attracting clients."

Harry didn't point out that he'd chosen Roger precisely because of how he looked. Of how he resembled a certain someone.

Some things were definitely meant to be kept secret.

-

Dear Mr. Potter,

I am willing to accept your offer. I should point out, however, a binding promise that you would do 'anything' for the potion is as ill-thought-out a proposition as your baffling decision to have Mrs. Potter birth your son at a Muggle hospital.

I shall collect your promise when I see fit. Rest assured, Mr. Potter, you will be hearing from me again.

Sincerely,

Webmaster
Cure-All Potions

-

"You know, Harry," George said as he slouched into an oversized armchair that didn't stop making farting noises until Harry threatened to attack it with a rather nasty variety of Diffindo two seconds ago, "I'm going to run out of hair soon."

"What do you mean 'soon'? I thought you said that bloke was a regular donor!"

"Hair donor to a charity foundation, my friend. I can't bereave some cancer-ridden child of a beautiful Wilford-hair wig now, can I?"

"They can make a smaller wig with less hair," Harry muttered. "Really, George, can't you conserve a bit more when you make those potions?"

"I can brew you regular Polyjuice. Takes less than a tenth of what I need for the longer-lasting stuff." He added when Harry made no effort to take the suggestion, "Or change faces every once in a while. If it's anonymity you want –"

"I like being Wilford, okay?" Harry snapped.

"Whoa, calm down there, mate!" George straightened his back and bounced his buttocks on the springy seat of the armchair before he trampolined himself toward the general direction of his 'research table'. He rummaged through a few stacks of paper and pushed several jars of odd-looking liquid aside before plucking a thin bottle with emerald-colored content out of a rack. "Newest invention yet, so new I haven't tested out my theory." He gave Harry a toothy grin. "Yours for absolutely free if you'd agree to be my test subject."

Harry eyed the bottle suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Polyjuice 3!" George announced. "Creative name for a lazy bloke who hasn't spent time naming it yet. But!" Harry rolled his eyes at George's overly dramatic pause. "Here's my theory: you need hair to brew Polyjuice, right? And once you add a certain person's hair to the potion, you turn into that person, correct? So my question is, why can't you pluck out your own hair when you're Wilford and use his hair to brew the next batch of Polyjuice?"

Harry shot out of the chair he was sitting in. "George, you're a right genius!"

"Ah, but there is a problem. You see, drinking Polyjuice only changes your appearance, not your being."

"So it's not going to work," Harry said, feeling glum.

"Not unless you're a wizard who knows Muggle biotechnology." George winked. "I think I've got something here that changes you into Wilford Birkshire."

Harry shuddered. If George was heading toward all those DNA-genetic-restructuring nonsense he used to talk incessantly about after he returned from Uni in America...

"We all used to think you chose to go abroad to get away from all this, to get away from the memories of, you know, Fred."

"I did," George admitted. "But then I found life could go on after the war, after all the scars, the pain –" He turned and looked straight at Harry. "I found something out there, Harry. And sometimes I can't help but think you will too, out there, visiting places where you don't belong."

Harry's heart nearly stopped at the pointed look. What was George hinting at? He'd always thought the excuse of wanting to be someone other than Harry Potter while out in public would be enough to stall off too many questions...

"You know."

"More than you would ever think," George said darkly. He put the bottle back into the rack, next to the other unlabeled liquid experiments. "If you break Ginny's heart, you'll have a very angry George Weasley to deal with."

"Then why are you helping me?"

"Helping? I've just recruited you as my test subject! How could I pass on such a gullible treasure?"

Harry smiled, relieved at the sudden change of tone and at George's obvious signal that the previous conversation was over.

"So this new potion of yours, this... Polyjuice 3. If Hermione had drunk it during her second year, she would have turned into –"

"A real, fluffy, purring cat? Oh, I would have killed to see that!"

Harry laughed, his pent-up nerves and guilt trying desperately to find escape through the thought of Hermione looking like a cat. It felt good to laugh. He hadn't done so in a very long time.

-

Dear Mr. Potter,

I must confess my initial surprise at seeing your screen name at the highest bidder's line for a second time. I presume your quest for another dose of my potion is for entirely selfish reasons this time? Loathe as I am to provide my perfectly brewed potion for a doubtless pathetic reason, I will be sending my delivery owl with the product posthaste.

A word of caution: over-consumption of Polyjuice Potion, particularly the modified variety I am certain you have been imbibing, will have long-term effects on your body, effects that a one-time dosage of my potion would not eliminate. To save my eyes from the agony of seeing your face plastered among wizarding publications mourning your premature death, for Merlin's sake, stop bidding on my potion and cut yourself off from the vice of impersonating hapless Muggles.

Sincerely,

Webmaster
Cure-All Potions

-

The Third Bid

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione asked, her brown eyes full of concern.

"You should ask. I reckon you haven't slept in three days, by the looks of it. Doesn't Ron help around the house anymore? Or take the night shift once in a while?"

"Ron does help me!" Hermione exclaimed. "But he can't help me in all the ways. Like feeding, for example. We've decided to keep everything as natural as possible, so no bottled formulas, and none of that artificially processed stuff. This means I've got to be awake during all the night shifts — at least for the first four months until Rose learns to sleep through the night, according to the book –"

"Doesn't work that way," Harry said, shaking his head. "Al is nearing eight months now and he's barely sleeping in six-hour stretches. Those baby books are rubbish. They consider five hours as 'sleeping through the night'."

Hermione groaned. "You mean I have at least six more months of this hell? What'll happen when I go back to work? I wouldn't get a wink of sleep then!"

"Don't worry, you'll survive," Harry said as he yawned, muffling the last syllables in a vain attempt to stifle it with his hand. "We all do, somehow," he added. "Look at James. Horrible infancy. Yet Ginny and I survived."

Hermione snorted. "Barely."

"Yeah." Harry leaned forward in his seat and placed his elbows on his knees. Those were six miserable months he chose not to think back on too often. Once in a while he'd let his mind wander to the strange correspondence he'd had with the webmaster of the Cure-All Potion site. The bloke never followed up to claim his 'anything', and Harry was glad for that. Their second string of correspondence ended abruptly as well. Harry supposed he did take the webmaster's advice regarding Polyjuice potions to heart. Not that he'd meant to. He simply hadn't had the energy to visit the establishment lately, not with two kids in need of constant care — one of them still in infancy.

"Hermione, I... have to go," Harry said, unstiffening his arms and legs as he stood up, rolling his shoulders several times until they didn't make cracking noises anymore. "I need to finish some stuff before it's my turn to tend to Al."

"I should get going too. Rose should be waking anytime now. I'll bring her over again next week. Al and she seem to get along well." Hermione gave Harry a one-armed hug. "Tell Ginny I said hi."

"Will do," Harry promised, watching Hermione gather her tote bag full of baby items before walking toward the nursery where Rose and Al were being looked after by a very longsuffering Kreacher.

-

Al learned to say something sounding suspiciously like "da-da" four days after he turned ten months old. Two weeks later, he learned how to sleep through the entire night — for more than a six-hour stretch.

"So we went with Al, because the missus couldn't stand the thought of naming our child after a Roman Emperor."

Roger laughed. "Well, Severus is rather unusual. I didn't think people still consider these old-fashioned names."

"They're not as old fashioned as you'd think," Harry countered. He was mindful not to let slip that he knew — had known — a Severus of his own, careful about not giving away specific details about Harry Potter's life.

"I didn't mean it as a criticism, Will. It's just... odd."

"Yeah, odd." Harry planted a quick kiss on Roger's forehead before getting out of bed to look for his clothes among the scattered pile on the floor.

It was good to see Roger again.

-

Ron took the seat facing the streets, leaving the one facing the inside walls of The Three Broomsticks for Harry, a thoughtful gesture that had become as predictable as Madam Rosmerta's uncanny instinct to always have the innermost table available every time Harry came by.

"Thank Merlin it's Friday," Ron said, pulling his chair closer to the table. "Long week for us both. Reckon we'll solve the case by the end of the month?"

"I hope so," Harry said. He waved a hand at a passing waiter. "Two firewhiskys, please!"

He turned his head back to meet the eyes of a very amused Ron.

"Craving the strong stuff today, mate?"

"As strong as they can make it. I'm knackered... couldn't sleep though."

"That serious, huh?" Ron sympathized. "And I thought Hermione had it bad."

"Oh, I don't doubt that. It's just... Sleeping Draughts don't work for me anymore. They used to, and it was wonderful to know I'd get a full night's sleep whether naturally or by magic."

"But," Ron prompted.

"There's no 'but'. It just stopped working. Poof. Woke up one day, and Harry Potter is immune to every single variety of Sleeping Potion known to the world."

"Thanks," Ron said to the waiter setting their drinks before them. He took a generous gulp of his firewhisky before turning back to the conversation. "So you mean one day you just couldn't sleep anymore."

"Well, it wasn't a one-day thing. I'd say it happened over several months." He inhaled, then took up his mug of firewhisky and downed the contents in a few quick swigs. He liked the tingly sensation of the alcohol warming its way down to his stomach.

"I'm just special, I guess," he finished, his tone as bitter as the aftertaste lingering in his mouth.

"Can't you try to find a cure? Something that might cleanse your body from built-up resistance to Sleeping Potions? Lavender's been into this whole 'detox' routine lately. Not that I keep in touch with her much, mind you. Hermione would kill me if I so much as mention her name in a conversation –"

Harry let Ron talk on about Hermione, knowing it'd become a longwinded monologue that would end in Ron realizing how wonderful she was. Ron's suggestion — he probably didn't know he'd made one — was definitely worth a try.

-

Dear Mr. Potter,

I was hoping I'd be rid of you. I now know I was being overly optimistic. To answer your question: there is no such thing as a detox routine in the potions profession, and therefore the Cure-All Potion would not cleanse your body of toxins the way an effective laxative would (which I would advise against taking, given your body's weakened state as a result of your lack of sleep).

Perhaps you should have let the Sleeping Draught take its course and induce natural sleep rather than fighting its effects repeatedly to the point of developing immunity against it. Most wizards I know would not take a Sleeping Draught only to later fight against the onset of sleep. In fact, excluding you, all wizards I know would gladly sleep after taking the Draught.

You are no longer young. Feigning sleep only to leave your home afterwards to visit questionable establishments is extremely reckless.

A word of advice: it is never wise to jump head-first into action without first considering the consequences. Your resistance against Sleeping Draughts is one example. Your disregard for money by bidding for my potion without knowing whether it would cure your immunity is another.

However, as guaranteed on my website, a delivery owl will arrive shortly with the fruit of your winning bid.

Sincerely,

Webmaster
Cure-All Potion

-

Dear Cure-All Potion Webmaster,

Isn't your potion supposed to cure all? Then why are you now saying it doesn't work for my Sleeping Draught resistance?

How do you know so much about me? Do you also know that Ginny used to lace my evening tea with Sleeping Draughts to help me unwind at the end of the day? I'm not stupid. I wouldn't have taken or tried to resist the Sleeping Draught if it weren't for her.

And you mentioned you know me. Who are you, anyway?

Harry Potter

-

Harry never received a reply from the webmaster.

-

The Request

"Harry! So good to see you!"

"Same to you, Neville. Or should I say, 'Professor Longbottom'? You look well!"

Neville grinned. Harry supposed he had a lot to be happy about. An esteemed teaching position at Hogwarts, a happy marriage, and an established academic career through his many publications in various Herbology journals. Neville's was a life that Harry used to think he'd have for himself.

"So you're coming as the bearer of good news again, I hope?" Neville asked, his face etched with excitement. "What is it this time, a boy or a girl?"

Harry couldn't contain the smile breaking across his face. "Ginny's finally got her wish," he said. "And we've decided on Lily Luna Potter."

"That's wonderful!" Neville exclaimed as he slapped a hand Harry's back. "When can I come over to see her?"

"For you, anytime you'd like," Harry said. "Ginny loves visitors. It gives James and Al the opportunity to climb on someone else other than their mum and dad."

"Great! I'll bring Hannah along too. Next weekend, I'll even cancel my Saturday detention."

"Detentions, Neville? I thought you were the nice teacher!"

Neville rolled his eyes. "Not if you have to teach some of the students I'm stuck with. I never thought I'd ever say this, but I can understand now how frustrated Snape must have felt about having me in his Potions class."

"Ten points to Gryffindor," Harry said in imitation of Snape's voice, "for finally recognizing my supreme rightness in everything and how much of a dunderhead you were."

Neville laughed. "I was hopeless in Potions. No permanent damage done though. It's not as if he hasn't helped me a lot. Little ways. Snape likes doing things in the background."

"He did, didn't he," Harry said, nodding. "He was too good at playing spy. But that doesn't mean he wasn't a bastard about it."

"World-class bastard, if there ever was one."

"Hear, hear!" Harry raised an invisible toast in mock respect, tipped it as if drinking, then turned back to Neville. "Enough about world-class bastards. So I'll expect you and Hannah next weekend?"

"We'll be there!" Neville promised. "Congrats again!"

"Thanks. See you soon!" Harry threw a handful of Floo powder into the hearth. "Godric's Hollow," he enunciated, and was swept away into the chimney.

It wasn't until he stumbled out of the fireplace on the other side that Harry realized the reason behind the strange niggling feeling in his head.

During the conversation, Neville had been referring to Snape in the present tense.

Was Snape alive?

-

Snape:

You're probably laughing about how dimwitted I am to not have figured out who you are until now. Well, I figured it out anyway, even if it's taken me four years.

I should have known you were the one supplying Neville with that potion of yours. I should have also known you were the one who snapped George out of his depression when he ran away to America all those years ago. Knowing you, you probably screamed him out of it. Well whatever you did, it worked. And whatever you taught him about mixing Muggle biotech with potions making worked too.

By the way, I figured out from the first time I visited your website that you're in North America. See, I can be good at deduction.

I guess I'm writing to say thank you. You did save James' life so – thanks. Although if I'd known you were still alive, I wouldn't have named Al after you. But Al likes his name, even if Ginny doesn't.

Okay, maybe the other real reason why I'm writing is, well, what do you want from me? You still have a request to redeem, and I'd rather just get it over with. Especially now that you know I know who you are. Anything legal. Owl me.

Harry Potter

-

Harry didn't know what he was expecting when he stepped through the doors of the establishment. One time of sudden disappearance when Al was born, maybe Roger could understand. This time, he'd stayed away for over a year. Juggling three children was more work than Harry'd ever imagined. Not even with Kreacher playing nanny whenever he wasn't busy cooking or mending broken furniture. James had this propensity to zip through the house wielding a toy sword wildly about.

What he didn't expect was rejection. A pleading, almost tearful rejection.

"I'm sorry, Will, I can't. We can't. Not anymore."

"If it's about time or money, I can –"

"No, you don't understand. It's not even about the money. The owner... he brought me out of a dead-end life and I owe him for that. He's paid me all this time, even when you're my only client and you haven't been around much lately."

"What does this have to do with the owner?" Harry reached for Roger's arm, but Roger jerked away. "If he wants money, I'll give him money."

Roger shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "We can meet for drinks or a meal at some point. But this –" He shuttled his hand back and forth in the space between them. "– can't happen anymore. Boss' order."

"Show me your boss," Harry demanded. "Bring me to him! It shouldn't matter which client you choose to see, and I'm going to tell that to his face –"

"You can't see him, Will. He doesn't interact with clients."

"But I'm not just any client! I've been coming here for five years! You're going to take me to him."

Roger paled. "Wilford, you can't... he's not here."

"Then I'll leave a note at his office. Where is it? At the top floor of this building?"

"Third door to the right, room 1619," Roger supplied, looking resigned at the inevitability that Harry would get his ears chewed out and be banned from the establishment for good. If that was the worst that would happen to him, Harry reasoned, then he'd wait in the office until the owner returned. His fingers itched to wrap around his wand tucked inside a secret pocket; his mind was already racing with thoughts on giving the owner a good talk-down in a room he would ward with Auror-level Silencing Charms.

"Thanks, Roger. I'll be back," Harry said, and proceeded to look for the establishment's stairwell.

-

When he opened the door to the office (with a well-honed Alohomora), Harry was surprised to find a room with barely any furniture, a stark contrast to his presumed mental image of a lavishly luxurious loft. There was one desk at the far end of the room, a brown slab with legs that was more functional than decorative. On either side of the desk was a single chair, stripped of any comfortable cushioning they may have had in a former life. The lighting of the room was dim. The odor reminded Harry of one of Hogwarts' broom closets — dusty and unused.

Inspecting the right side of the room, Harry's eyes were immediately drawn to a beautiful fireplace with deep-red bricks and a generous supply of logs inside the hearth. He also noticed a metal cylinder on the mantel. Floo powder. The owner was a wizard.

Harry drew out his wand and approached the fireplace. A quick flick with his wrist discovered no hidden ward or curse. A basic tracking spell could not reveal the coordinate of the most recent Floo connection. There was not a mite of a clue as to where the owner lived or where he came from.

Harry wandered back toward the desk, his initial anger replaced with cautious curiosity. On the desk were stacks of old bills and correspondence, all of which were business in nature. A few of the sheets looked like they were profiles of the boys who worked at the establishment. Application forms to apprenticeship programs. Harry paused. So these boys were receiving vocational training as part of their servitude at the establishment...

A fluttering piece of parchment caught his eye. Harry grabbed it by the corner with one hand and, pointing the tip of his wand to the parchment with the other hand, whispered a spell that would reveal any hidden writing that was on it. Harry waited as the parchment glowed for a few seconds before it returned to its original form with the addition of a neatly written address:

(f) 29th & 1st, First Basement, Underground, New York City

"A Floo address!" Harry exclaimed upon seeing the (f) for Floo. Stuffing the parchment into his pocket, he dashed back to the fireplace, took a handful of Floo powder from the fireside can, and activated the establishment's Floo network.

-

Harry barely managed to keep himself on his feet as he stumbled out of the Floo exit on what felt like the other side of the universe. He'd known that international Floo travel was brutal, but he hadn't expected it to be that bad.

"If you are going to vomit, kindly do so into the rubbish bin to your left and steer well clear of the hand-woven silk carpet right in front of you," a voice flowed into Harry's reeling mind, anchoring him back into reality.

That voice hadn't changed a bit.

"Snape," Harry wheezed in between making embarrassing noises over the rubbish bin. "Hullo to you too."

To his credit, Snape waited patiently from wherever he was until Harry regained his bearing, was relatively certain he didn't need to vomit after all, and tried his best to stand up straight.

There Snape was, sitting about ten feet from him in a fireside armchair, hands clasped on his lap and one long leg crossed over the other, looking completely at ease. His face was still long and his features severe, but his head of black hair was now silver and a lot less greasy than it used to be, and Harry couldn't help but admit Snape had definitely aged well.

Snape was wearing a high-collared shirt, but Harry could see glimpses of gnarled scars underneath. If he was looking at anyone other than the inventor of the Cure-All Potion, Harry would have demanded to know how Snape had survived those snake bites. But looking at Snape, the strongest survivor he'd known, Harry realized he didn't need to ask how anymore.

"I understand you're an Auror now?"

"Yes, sir," Harry answered, feeling like an errant schoolboy all over again.

"Then use the skills you've acquired from your profession and tell me what you've learned in the past ten minutes."

Harry took a moment to consider the many new revelations he'd been shown. First it was the discovery about a year ago that Snape was still alive. Then it was that lucid moment over a pint of butterbeer one day that Snape was the webmaster of the Cure-All Potion site. Following that was a blur of baby-raising that Harry'd rather not think about right now. And then there was Roger. And finding out the owner of the establishment was Snape, sitting in front of him and currently giving Harry a thorough look-through from top to bottom.

"You knew it was me bidding on your potion the first time because I'd use the same computer to log into your establishment's website a few months before that," Harry said. A mystery of over four years finally solved.

"Correct."

"So then of course my relationship with Roger is no secret to you."

"Your affair outside of your wedlock vows to Mrs. Ginevra Potter."

"That's not –" Harry glared at Snape, who met him with a cool, pointed gaze. Harry turned his eyes away. "Why do you care anyway? You're making money off of me."

"I do not earn any profit from the establishment. My boys keep what they make. I provide them with a base salary to cover their living expenses."

The memory of discovering those apprenticeship application forms on Snape's desk came back to him. Those boys certainly had reasons to save up money. "No, you don't make anything from the establishment," Harry agreed. "But you do make a fortune from those potions of yours."

"Contrary to popular belief, not everybody could afford to bid five thousand Galleons on my Cure-All Potion," Snape said, arching an eyebrow at Harry's glower. "But you are correct. The potion auction finances my daily living. Thanks especially to Mr. Longbottom, I never have to fear a lack of a bidder for any given month."

"Professor Neville Longbottom. See, you were wrong about him."

Snape sneered. "I never questioned his Herbology skills. I stand by my judgment that he was abysmal in Potions."

"Point," Harry conceded. "And George –" he said, his mind working out the many pieces of the mystery that were now fitting together, "– knows your whereabouts, knows what I use his Polyjuice 3 potion for, and yet hasn't leaked a word to Ron or Ginny."

"Mr. Weasley and I have an understanding," Snape said. "He has agreed to take on Roger for an apprenticeship in the next two years. He needs someone to run the Muggle side of his business."

Roger. The ultimate reason why Harry was here, the one thing he still couldn't figure out. "Why did you do it? Forbid Roger? Why not let him, er, entertain me — why now after all these years?"

Without saying a word, Snape rose from his armchair and strode into an adjacent room, swishing his robes in a grand gesture just as Harry had remembered it during his schooldays. He followed Snape.

Harry found himself inside what looked like an office for an administrative clerk. The same type of decrepit furniture, like the ones inside the office of the establishment, decorated the room. This room looked nothing like the lavish sitting area outside.

"Many years ago, this place used to be an asylum," Snape explained, as if reading Harry's mind. Maybe he was reading Harry's mind. He'd forgotten that Snape could do that. "In the 2000s, Muggles tried to build up this area to make a biotechnology complex by the waterfront. The then-mayor of the city was trying to attract professionals from the scientific industry into New York.

"The deserted building we're in now was supposed to be rebuilt into a hotel. But that did not transpire, and after I placed a Fidelius Charm on the property, the Muggles forgot about the place and continued to build up their Science Park 'campus' without giving a care to the former asylum."

"Perfect place for you to house your potions lab while being close to a biotech complex," Harry said. "No wonder George came back from his Uni experience raving about his 'Chemistry' professor. You taught him everything he needed to know to expand his joke shop into a wizarding pharmaceutical, didn't you?"

Snape didn't respond, but Harry could see the pride in his eyes. Proud of himself, of course. He couldn't imagine someone like Snape feeling pleased about the accomplishments of another wizard.

"So why am I here? I'm not George and don't want to pursue higher education."

"You're here to sign this." Snape pointed to a piece of paper on the desk. "And I brought you here to redeem your 'anything'."

"You still remember that shite?"

"I do, and while it may be 'shite' to you, I treat it as a solemn promise."

Taking a deep breath, Harry approached the desk to read the content of the paper, certain that whatever Snape was requesting, it wouldn't be an easy task.

He didn't expect it to be a binding document barring him permanently from the establishment, as well as other similar establishments that would, upon Harry's signing, be magically prevented from allowing Harry entry.

"You want me to sign this?" Harry shouted, incredulous at Snape's request. "What have I ever done to Roger? What have I ever done to you?"

"I wouldn't ask the second question if I were you," Snape jeered.

"Shut it. If this is revenge for things in the past –"

"It's not." Snape's tone was quiet, certain, and authoritative. Harry swallowed the rest of his words.

"Then why... sir? What do you want me to do? Ruin myself from frustration? Ruin my family? I've been perfectly discreet with Roger –" Snape raised an eyebrow at him pointedly. "– well, except for you and George and probably a lot more people that I don't realize. But I don't fool around any more than I have to! It's always only been Roger, and only when I have time –"

"It should," Snape said, "always only be Ginevra Potter, who, might I point out, was beginning to get suspicious when she started lacing your evening beverages with Sleeping Draughts. That you fought off the potion's effects in order to have your rendezvous with Roger is proof enough that you are incapable of self-restraint."

"But – WHY?" Harry shouted, feeling confused, feeling like fifteen years ago when everything Snape did was just as senseless and unreasonable.

Snape waited until Harry's breathing slowed down and his heartbeats no longer pounding inside his head. "Your third child. You named her Lily Potter."

"Lily Luna Potter," Harry corrected.

"That part is irrelevant. She is known as Lily Potter, correct?"

Harry nodded.

"Anyone bearing the name Lily Potter deserves to have the best of life," Snape said. "I refuse to let you ruin her childhood."

Harry didn't — couldn't — argue with that. If Ginny was oblivious about Roger when James was a baby and started getting suspicious when Al came along, then it wouldn't take a genius to figure out how much more she would eventually find out now that there were three children and Harry was still making excuses to go out during evenings.

"I'll sign it," Harry grumbled, feeling defeated. "And I'll be miserable for the rest of my life."

He took the magical quill into his hand, its golden tip gleaming with mockery of Harry's pending, frustrated future years.

He couldn't lower the quill to touch the paper.

"Harry."

He looked up, perplexed. Snape had never called him that before...

"In the future. Should you experience moments of... needs, you may come here."

"What?"

"This place is Unplottable, you'll be safe. And if the world does find out, they will blame me. You will remain the Golden Child of the wizarding world, and Lily Potter will have her perfect childhood."

Harry felt as if his eyes couldn't stretch any wider or his jaw drop any lower. Was that a proposition? He stabbed the quill onto the paper, scribbled his name, and watched the paper roll into a scroll before disappearing into thin air.

"You bastard," Harry hissed. He slammed the quill onto the desk and marched out of the room, straight to the Floo. "I'll never come to you even if I'm so horny I want to explode!"

Harry's words rang hollow even to his own ears.

-

The Encounter

"So you've finally come," Snape said without looking up from reading his magazine. "The bedroom is the second door to your left. Make any necessary preparations and I will join you shortly."

"I'm NOT here for sex, Snape!" Harry shouted — screamed at the top of his lungs. He reached for his wand and pointed it at Snape.

Snape didn't look up. "Then why are you here?"

Harry's wand hand trembled, his skills from years of Auror training suddenly nowhere to be found. Breathing hard, he tried to vocalize any of the curses and hexes running through his head, but couldn't say a word.

Snape turned a page.

He missed Roger. He didn't love him — no, Ginny was the one he loved — but Roger had up until this point filled a much-needed role in Harry's life. This role was now empty and Harry found his own right hand woefully inadequate. His only other option was the epitome of undesirable. But if Harry were honest with himself, at least Snape was an option.

"I suppose... I have nowhere else to go," Harry said.

Snape set his magazine aside and stood up. "Perhaps there is sense in you yet. So tell me, Potter, what do you require?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Shame filled every cell in his body as he tried to contain the need inside him, the need that went beyond Roger but was a primal, physical want to give and receive what he in his marriage bed could not experience. The want had made him turn nonparticular. He wanted facelessness and anonymity and the strong, sculpted feel of a masculine body that he'd grown used to getting from one person, but was really not ever about Roger at all.

He wanted a cock up his arse and balls slapping against the back of his thighs. Anyone's cock and balls. Even Snape's.

When Harry opened his eyes, he found his gaze connected with Snape's as his flurry of desires flowed to the forefront of his mind, wide open for the Legilimens' perusal.

"I see," Snape said coolly, calmly, almost professionally. His eyes were dark and inscrutable.

"I-I should get g –"

"You will go directly into my bedroom, undress completely, sit with your knees on the bed facing away from the door, and await my further orders." Snape barked, "Go, now!"

Harry fled toward the bedroom.

-

He felt Snape's presence even before he'd heard the first of a series of footfalls, each getting uncomfortably closer than the next. When the walking stopped, Harry next heard the rustling of robes and a variety of sounds that he could only infer as Snape setting aside his boots and neatly folding up his clothes. Then there was a brief moment of silence, a few seconds when the air in the room felt heavier, and finally, the clank of Snape's wand hitting the night table.

The gesture of disarming was comforting, but didn't slow Harry's heart from racing. He struggled to keep himself still as he heard the unstoppering and restoppering of what must have been a bottle of lubricant, and felt his throat go dry.

What was he doing here, giving himself over to Snape?

Snape was efficient in his preparation, oiling himself in a few quick strokes and using his other hand to dab some of the lubricant over Harry's entrance. From the sound of Snape's flesh meeting his hand, Harry imagined Snape's cock must be quite large. Wide in girth, at least, judging by how heavy it sounded. Harry bit down hard on his lips and ignored his own growing cock. He shouldn't be feeling this excited. He shouldn't even have wanted...

A long finger dipped inside Harry and moved in and out in smooth motions. A second finger, then another, soon followed. Harry moaned and pushed back to meet the strokes, desire so clouding his mind that he'd almost forgotten whose fingers were teasing him.

"How long has it been?" Snape asked, in that same professional tone he was using earlier.

"A year, maybe more. Definitely before Lily was born."

Snape made no acknowledgement to Harry's answer. Harry soon felt a dip in the mattress behind him. Snape had moved onto the bed.

The fingers gave a few final strokes before pulling out, and Harry felt something larger nestled against his opening, ready to push in.

"Let me know if the pain is too unbearable, and I will stop," Snape said. He placed a hand on Harry's lower back, gave Harry several seconds to brace himself, then pushed in.

Harry gave out a loud moan that sounded to his own ears like a mixture of frustration and relief. He despised himself for having this side of him, this need that other normal blokes didn't have. Physical sensation soon took over any remaining thinking faculty he had, and Harry was assaulted by wave after wave of that delightful mixture of pain and pure ecstasy. The ecstasy was fueled further when a hand found its way to grab his cock, jerking it in tandem with each thrust. Less than a minute later, Harry climaxed into Snape's hand, leading Snape to speed up his strokes as he followed Harry and came not long after.

"It gets easier in subsequent encounters, more familiar and hopefully more enjoyable," Snape said when they were once again clothed and standing by the fireplace. "That is, if you choose to return," he added, his tone stiffer and Harry thought he might have detected a hint of uncertainty. "You are in no way obligated to."

Harry nodded. Taking a handful of Floo powder, he threw it into the fireplace and asked to be taken back to his Auror Department office without saying another word to Snape.


The Happily Ever After

Lily Potter did have the best of childhoods. She flourished under the care of doting parents and protective (only when it came to other blokes) brothers, and was loved by all of her uncles and aunts-in-laws, especially Uncle George, whose student Roger would buy her sweets and make her feel like the princess of the world. Her dad didn't seem to like Roger that much at first, and would always make funny faces that Lily couldn't quite understand. But that eventually stopped when Dad started to come home later from work, then stopped going to work altogether when he became partners in a business he co-owned with Uncle George in New York City. Mum said all the Muggle technology talk was rubbish, but according to Uncle George, they were making a crapload of money. (Auntie Hermione said 'crap' was a bad word. Uncle George used a lot of bad words.)

Lily wanted to be a Ravenclaw when she grew up.

-

The Ever After

"The potion's stabilizing. Keep an eye on it for me while I go out for a moment?"

"Leaving me all the work while you go have the time of your life with that old git?" George teased. "Why, sure, co-owner and co-partner. Maybe you should look up the definition of the prefix 'co' on your way out."

"Happy Christmas Eve to you too, George!" Harry said, tossed his lab coat toward the general direction of the coat rack, and made a beeline for the office door. Life with three adult children was great. For one thing, he had a lot more time.

Snape was brewing his Cure-All Potion when Harry arrived. His hair tied back at the nape, he looked utterly delectable.

"Who won the bid this month?" Harry asked.

"A deranged old lady in Denmark who's convinced her son is haunted by the ghosts of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. I stand by my assessment that those who visit my site have questionable intelligence."

"And I stand by my assessment that you're a bastard," Harry quipped.

"I see no disagreement here," Snape said, in that smooth tone that caused Harry's spine to tingle every single time.

Harry watched as Snape distilled the potion into a small bottle, secured it with a delivery note to his post owl, and fed the owl several pieces of treats before sending it away on its long journey.

Snape turned his attention to Harry after seeing the owl off. "You're standing here like a child reporting to detention."

"If you'd move away from your potions table, maybe I'd be more inclined to go near you." Harry sauntered into the sitting room. "Let's sit by the fireplace. It's much more interesting than a potions lab."

"I suppose each is entitled to his own opinions," Snape said, in a tone that managed to convey the exact opposite.

Harry laughed. "What, no hexes? We've come a long way, Snape."

Snape sank into his armchair, a look of bliss spreading across his face. "Indeed, we have."

And that was the crux of the matter, Harry mused as he looked at Snape relaxing with his eyes closed. He probably began just as another one of Snape's projects, trapped with no other option and forced to be tamed by the only person who could remotely empathize. Harry turned out to be a long-term project though, one that Snape remained committed to faithfully, in the shadows of an Unplottable building. Sometime after the purely physical sexual encounters had ended ("I'm over seventy, Potter, certain bodily functions don't work anymore." "Can't you take a dose of your potion? It's supposed to 'Cure All'." "Drop the subject or you'll be very, very sorry."), they had become... companions. That was as good of an ending as Harry deserved, he supposed.

Tomorrow — or when it would be tomorrow on his side of the world — Harry would return home and spend his Christmas holidays with Ginny, another lover-turned companion. He would see his James and Al and Lily again, and they would have a big meal together. Two days after that, they would each go their separate ways.

"Sleep if you're tired, you've had a long day brewing that potion," Harry said. "We don't have to do dinner tonight. We can go another day. I'll be back."

Harry tried to say it often. To quell that uncertainty inside Snape that he knew was still there, despite the stoic front.

Yes, he'd be back.