Chapter One.
After the McBarrons' New Year's Eve ball, Harry Potter, the boy who lived (twice), swore off women. He had had enough- figuratively and literally.
Slowing his car for a turn, Harry drew in the chill air, then exhaled; his breath misted instantly. The car heater could not penetrate the cold.
"There it is." From his seat beside him, his partner and family friend, Moony, pointed to a sign.
Harry nodded. Although it was past midday, the grip of the early morning freeze had yet to slacken; he kept his car at a slow pace as he went down the road to the southwest.
Despite the weather, he was determined to press on. With every mile that passed he felt better, as if a vise locked about his lungs for so long he'd forgotten it was there were finally easing open, as if a weight he'd forgotten he was carrying on his shoulders were lifting away.
By the end of last night's ball, he'd been fed up-overwhelmingly bored and not a little disgusted. If a crown existed for the premier lover in the wizarding world, he could probably legitimately claim it-indeed, it would very likely be offered to him on a purple silk pillow. Discretion, absolute and inviolate, might have been his watchword for years; despite that, the wizarding world had learned enough to form its own opinion of his prowess, his expertise. Much of the gossip was true, which left him with little doubt as to the sources of the information. As a result, a competition had developed with ladies vying to see who next could command his highly regarded attentions. Over the past few years, he had never lacked for invitations to ladies' beds.
Bad enough. The McBarrons' ball had been worse.
Ladies of amorous intent had surrounded him until he'd felt hunted. He did not appreciate the inversion of roles-as far as he was concerned, he was the hunter, they should be the prey. These days that wasn't how it was. Two sorts of women lay in wait to ambush him-most were single and married ladies whose only interest was in trying out his paces so that they could say they, too, had partaken of the latest acclaimed experience. The other were mothers with unmarried daughters plotting his matrimonial downfall, their calculating eyes fixed on his fame and wealth rather than on his more personal talents.
He didn't know which he disliked more. He'd felt like a fox cornered by slavering hounds.
Enough. More than enough. It was time to take a charge of his life and steer it...into deeper waters.
He uttered a short laugh. The superficiality of his life did indeed grate. He was 25 years old. What had he thus far accomplished in his life? Nothing. Well, besides the fact of bringing down Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Where was his life headed? He didn't know, but he was determined to set his wheels on a different road.
At present his car's wheels were rolling down the road to Exeter. He'd left the McBarrons' mansion outside Glastonbury early that morning while all the bejeweled ladies were still snug in their beds. None had shared his, which fact had caused no little confusion and even more annoyance. He was there, wasn't he? They expected him to perform, to live up to his scandalous reputation, all for their amusement. The wizarding world, as he well knew, could be a demanding world. They could demand all they liked-he was no longer interested in playing their games.
Around him the countryside lay silent, a dappled world of dark browns and white, the bare branches of trees and the patches of cold earth contrasting against the light covering of snow. There was more on the way, but he knew where he was headed, knew the road like the back of his hand.
He was going home.
He hadn't been back to Potter Place since burying his godfather nearly seven years before. His parents home was like a ghost to him now, all the warm, happy memories overlaid by the acrimony and dissension of his godfathers last years. His wildness was not something Sirius had understood, nor been able to counter after the war ended; his godfathers vain attempts at forcing him to toe his line had met with resistance and led to estrangement. Now he could admit that he regretted that break as bitterly as he'd at one time resented Sirius's wish to tame him. To change him. Sirius had failed, but so, too, had he. Potter Place represented that failure; he'd closed the house, turned his back on it, and left it-his principal estate and acestral home-to decay.
It was time to go back. Time to rebuild. To pick up the shattered pieces of that earlier life and start again.
And see what he could make of it this time.
He'd accepted the McBarrons' invitation out of all those sent him for the simple reason that their house had been perfect staging post for his drive down to Dartmoor. From the first, he'd intended heading west when he'd left; he hadn't, however, expected to leave today-the day after the ball, the first day of the year.
Then again, what better day to make a fresh start, with a whole new year stretching ahead of him? His mind full of memories, of prospects and plans, he drove on.
Remus Lupin studied Harry as he manuevered the car down the icy road. Finally he was going home. Back to where he belonged. It took seven long years for Harry to work out his demons. Sirius had been crushed, as had all those that loved Harry. Only he went with him. No one had seen Harry for seven years. The only news that came their way was by the media. The media still loved Harry and Harry had eventually accepted that. Remus still couldn't help but wonder at the reception they would receive.
Exeter was an hour behind them, the long climb up to the moor at their backs, when Moony leaned close to say, "Don't like the look of that up ahead."
His gaze fixed on the road, Harry hadn't been watching. Now he lifted his gaze, and swore beneath his breath. Leaden clouds puffed and swelled and rolled toward them, blotting out the horizon. Beyond, all the sky was that same ghostly gray-white hue. Both Harry and Moony knew what they were facing, having lived at Potter's Place for three years.
"Damn!" Harry's mind raced. They'd already turned into the lane to Widecombe, the small village beyond which Potter's Place stood. They were equal distance from four small villages with no other shelter near.
"Nothing for it-we'll have to go on."
"Aye." Moony huddled down in his seat. "That, and pray."
They did pray, both of them. They knew how treacherous the moor could be, especailly in winter. Snow started to fall, then thickened; the wind rose, swirling the flakes, making it harder to pick out the road. As the clouds lowered, the temperature dropped. The light started to fade.
Harry concentrated on keeping the car steady on the road, all the while squinting to see thru the swirling white, searching for landmarks to guide him.
The nearest shelter of any sort belonged to Pruett Cottage on the outskirts of Widecombe, still more than a mile away over an exposed ridge. The car had slowed to a crawl, the temptation to go faster grew, but Harry knew better than to give into it. If he missed the road, they'd end up in a drift and perish for certain. Their only hope was to keep doggedly on-and pray.
When the ridge finally ended and they found themselves at the top of a white slope with the roofs of Widecombe-in-the-moor dotting the opposite rise, just discernible through the falling snow, Harry allowed himself a sigh of relief. Looking down the slope, he could see a pair of parallel ridges-the low stone walls bordering the lane, a white ribbon leading to safety. All they had to do was follow it.
Every foot seemed like a mile, every yard an eternity, but they slowly descended without mishap.
At the bottom of the slope the lane crossed a wooden bridge. As they crept across the bridge creaked and the car pitched as its wheels turned and slid among the icy, snow-covered boards.
Moony! Get out!" Adrian held the steering until the last moment, then flung himself out of the car.
He landed in a snowdrift.
Gasping, shaking his head free, spitting out snow, he heard a crash; turning, squinting, he saw his car laying on its side on the frozen lake.
Harry struggled free of the snow and managed to get to his feet. The ground was icy-it was a wonder they'd got as far as they had.
"Moony!"
No answer. Harry strained his ears through the whine of the wind but heard nothing. He squinted against the driving snow, and saw nothing. He started to search.
He found his old friend facedown in the snow on the other side of the ford. Like him, Moony had flung himself into the nearest drift. Unfortunately, the drift Moony had chosen had concealed a large rock. With shaking fingers and frozen hands, Harry checked for signs of lifeand heaved a huge sigh when he felt Moony's chest rise.He was alive, and the cold had already stopped the bleeding from the gash on his head.
Moony was, however, deeply unconscious.
Harry looked up the slope to the houses of Widecombe, still a mile away. He could see Pruett Cottage. Old Aunt Pansy would give him and Moony shelter. All they had to do was get to the cottage.
All he had to do was get himself and Moony-up the icing slope. Luckily, the snow was coming down thick and fast-a crisp coating would make the going easier.
Harry didn't waste time refining his plan-the longer they remained exposed to the storm, the more likely they were to become its victims. If he collapsed one foot or one mile, the storm wouldn't care. Hefting Moony, he set out.
How long it took him to cover that last mile, he had no idea. The mixture of snow and ice on the upward incline made the going treacherous.
But he wouldn't give up-giving up meant death. Even resting was too risky. With one arm frozen around Moony, he dragged him along. Moony was a little shorter but was stockier, nearly the same weight; it was an effort to pull his unconscious form along.
Step by step; he stopped checking his progress-it didn't matter how far along he was. The only thing that mattered was getting there. Surviving.
He was so cold he hurt - ached-all the way through. When he could no longer lift his feet, he shuffled them.
He refused to think about death. Voldemort couldn't kill him and a snow storm bloody hell wouldn't kill him either.
He thought about his mother, his father, Sirius...
He staggered and his a post. Snow fell off it; green paint showed through. Gasping, Harry struggled to lift his head. Ice cracked down his neck.
Windows glowed warmly through the whirling white. He'd reached Pruett Cottage.
But he hadn't yet reached the door.
The gate was closed with snow piled behind it. He had to lay Moony down.
Shifting the gate took the last of his strength; when he'd pressed it back, he collapsed on his hands and knees. He felt the flags of the path under his gloves. It took the last of his will to push himself back up, to drag Moony to his side, and stagger up the path to the door.
He tripped on the step, concealed in the snow, and sprawled on the stone stoop. Chill darkness threatened; he fought it back. Silently swearing-anything to cling to consciousness-he reached up, up, scrabbling with fingers that could no longer feel. Pressing himself back from the painted wood, he regained his feet, then lunged and caught the bellpull.
He gave a mute thanks when he heard it ring.
There were sounds inside-footsteps hurrying, more light gathering in the fanlight over the door. He swayed on his feet, clamping Moony to his side as he heard to locks shot back.
The door was pulled open by a large woman with gray hair.
Not Miss Pansy, was all Harry could think.
Then he heard a gasp. A slighter female pushed to the front. "Harry?"
He recognized her voice, her eyes, and her flaming red hair--the rest had changed. His gaze dipped, steadied, then he fought to raise it back to her face. And still he stared. "I was coming home..."
It was the final shock. He went to gesture and felt himself falling. The cold blackness rushed in. He pitched forword at the feet of the sweet innocent who'd seduced him eight years before.