Disclaimer: You could sue me, but I wouldn't bother – I can't pay you anything :P But to save you the trouble, I don't own it. All belongs to the wonderful JK Rowling.

Author's Note: Alrighty guys, you convinced me. I wasn't going to write another fanfic, but I'm now addicted to reviews. So thanx to everyone who reviewed my first fic – you guys are the best! Anyway, this was inspired by a phrase at the end of GoF where it almost seemed like Snape was excited to be spying again. So I was originally going to do this about Snape, but I scrapped that and now it's Harry. He's easier, anyway :-)

Enjoy!

Addiction

Danger.

You'd think I would have had enough of it, wouldn't you? From the moment I was born – no, earlier – from several months before I was born, a deranged murderer who called himself a lord wanted me dead. The first year of my life was spent in hiding. When I was a year and three months old, he killed my parents and tried to murder me.

But you already know that, no doubt. The point is, life didn't exactly get easier after that. The next ten years of my life, while admittedly free from murder attempts, were horrible, being starved by my aunt and bullied by my cousin. The good part: I didn't get fat, and I got loads of exercise. I also learnt how to duck – very handy. I recommend learning it if you're ever planning on going into battle.

That may not have been why I learned it, but I ended up doing battle, anyway. Many times. I was almost killed, what, three times in my first year at Hogwarts? Merlin knows how many times it was throughout my six years of schooling. In those times, I was terrified as hell. My heart would be pounding, my breathing harsh and uneven, and my hands would sweat so I could hardly hold my wand. It was dangerous, and I knew that each time I fought could be my last.

It was in my fifth year that the balance began to change. In my fifth year, I went to the battle, instead of it coming to me. Sure, I didn't really go intending to fight, but I knew I would anyway, and you know what? I didn't care. Oh, I was scared that my friends would get hurt, yes, but I walked right into the Department of Mysteries fully expecting a fight, but disregarding it as unimportant compared to saving Sirius.

The fight itself, while terrifying, was also strangely exhilarating. I hardly noticed it at the time, buried beneath among all my other emotions, but I rather enjoyed the fight. I enjoyed the adrenaline rush, the sudden heightening of my senses, the tingling in my fingers. I enjoyed the feeling that I could take on the world, see anything, do anything. I enjoyed the danger.

Danger's a drug, d'you know that?

In sixth year, I asked Dumbledore to take me with him when he left to find the horcrux. Back then, I thought I was doing it to show him that I was dependable and to prove to myself that I could take on Voldemort's protections. Another part asked out of principle, expecting Dumbledore to say no. Looking back, I realise the biggest reason was none of these. The biggest emotion I had when he said yes was not fear, or dread, but excitement. I was excited, not to be doing something at last, but to be doing something dangerous. The thrill of not knowing whether I would die or come home in one piece. The rock-and-roll motion of dodging curses, ducking and weaving through people, running until only will kept me going. The strenuous pumping of my heart, the feel of blood rushing through my veins, the pounding in my ears. I yearned for it. Without it, life was…dull. Maybe that's why I refused to let the issue of Malfoy go, even when I had no evidence. Sneaking around and eavesdropping, putting myself in positions where I could easily get caught, it all gave me adrenaline, and I needed it.

Danger's a drug, and I was hooked.

The next year passed in a whirl of battles, gathering horcruxes, destroying them, and finally taking on Voldemort himself. By the end of the Final Battle, I had been running on nothing but adrenaline for hours. I was drained, it took me four days straight of sleeping to recover. And then I was back at The Burrow, lazing around with Ron and Hermione, revelling in the victory and mourning the losses. For a while, I was content. But then it started again. At first it was a nagging at the back of my mind. Then it became a tensing in my body. I tried to relieve myself with quidditch, but after a year of nothing but hardship, terror, small victories and more hardship, quidditch was nothing. Especially flying safe.

I never really was one for caution, but in those few months I got downright reckless. Suicidal, almost. That's what Ginny called it, anyway. To me, I was just having a bit of fun, nose-diving for a hundred feet or more before suddenly pulling up, perfecting my wronski feint. Practicing rolls and manoeuvres that no one would ever dare try in a game. It was amazing, the feeling of flying through the air at breakneck speed, knowing the only thing that stood between me and certain death was my reflexes. Exhilarating. The wind would be pushing back my hair as I dove straight for the ground, a grin on my face and eyes alive with excitement. It was mad, but it was worth it. Pure satisfaction.

Then the job offers came rolling in. I had originally planned to join a quidditch team, give up a life of fighting the dark arts forever. After all, I'd done enough. I thought I was sick of it. But when the offer came from the Auror Academy…well. There was no competition, really. Quidditch is all well and good for fun, but after a while it becomes too easy, and it loses the thrill. But fighting…fighting could never lose it. I mean, what's the worst that could happen in quidditch? Break a couple of bones? Knock yourself out?

Been there, done that.

Well, all right, worse could happen the way I'd been flying, but not in a normal game. You don't risk your life playing quidditch. On the other hand, in a fight, it's only your wits and reflexes against your enemy's. Your ability to duck against their ability to curse. It's a thrill no amusement park ride, no fancy broomstick tricks, not even any extreme sport can recreate. After my school years, I deserved a peaceful life, but, frankly, it would seem dull. I'd be bored out of my mind. I needed the thrill; I needed to become an auror.

So I did.

Hermione thought we were crazy, when Ron and I signed up. "Why on earth do you want to keep fighting Death Eaters and the like? You've been doing it for the past seven years, for Merlin's sake! Haven't you had enough?" Well, no. I could never have enough, and I suspect Ron couldn't either. Don't get me wrong, the main reason he joined was because he stood against the dark arts with every fibre of his being, and he wanted to see them destroyed. But part was because he, like me, enjoyed the fight. Like me, he had to give himself a reason for his adrenaline rush to stop himself getting reckless. The difference was that he had restraint: Ron knew when enough was enough, when enjoying the fight changed to becoming suicidal. My problem was that I'd already crossed the line. I'm not that bad: I don't fight for the sake of it – I never fight unless we're on a mission that includes it. But once I'm in one…I enjoy every minute of the fight. I enjoy the ducking, the dodging, the firing of curses and hexes, the feel of a spell as it grazes my skin. And I enjoy the taunting.

Ever notice how, in muggle movies, the hero always regains his strength from becoming angry or defensive at something the villain says? How the villain always fights face-to-face, instead of just killing the hero from behind? Watching those movies as I teenager, I'd always thought the villains deranged, or I'd scoff at the Hollywood producers and their love of dramatic scenes. Now I realise why the villains always taunt them. Its not for the image, and its certainly not because they want a chance for witty dialogue. It's all for the thrill. The thrill of knowing that you're pushing your enemy to the edge, giving them what they need to defeat you, getting them into the frame of mind that they won't hesitate to kill you. After all, there's no fun in an easy fight.

Call me insane – I do, sometimes. What sort of sane man gives his enemies an advantage and risks his life…for fun? What sort of man enjoys danger?

The newspapers call me a hero, a man who has devoted his whole life to free the world of its dark side.

My friends call me a good fighter, a man who likes an ordinary life but will do anything to see the dark side destroyed forever.

I call myself a drug addict.

Danger's a drug, and I'm hooked. One day, it'll destroy me.

Until then, I'll thrive on it.

A/N: Any feedback, good or bad, is very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!