Disclaimer: I own naught.

Warnings: Slash, of the extreme and incestuous variety. Series compatible; ignores epilogue and any actions of Harry after the death of Voldemort.
Pairings: Established Marcus Flint/Harry Potter, eventual Marcus Flint/Harry Potter/Severus Snape; Established Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy, eventual Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy/Tom Riddle Flint.
A Note: Snape will be referred to the name of the visage he is currently in; Samael Prince=Severus Snape, and vice versa.

Morsus
By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom

Chapter One:
Once Lost, Now Found
Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing

I once was lost but now am found
'Amazing Grace', John Newton

(O.o)

The three men stood on the front walk of the cabin, within breathing distance of the freshly stained wood door—a closed can of Muggle wood dark stain, with a still-wet brush laid crossways on top, sat a foot away from the door—and the youngest shifted nervously. The elder blond man, hair down to the middle of his back, lifted his snake-head cane and rapped loudly on the door. The black haired man glanced at the slight stain left on the steel of the head of the snake and it disappeared.

A deep voice rumbled from the depths of the house: "Dobb—Donald, get the door!" A lightly audible huff of irritation followed the voice and the black haired man turned his head as a child's soft giggle sounded from the forest surrounding them.

An enthusiastic squeak responded to the deep voice and soft footsteps padded to the door, which slowly opened, revealing a man of short stature and rather impressively house-elf like features. The man squeaked again as he laid eyes upon the three men, three pairs of eyebrows twitching skyward as the glamour of the butler vanished, revealing the once Malfoy house elf Dobby. Dobby squeaked again and fled, crying, "Master Harry! Master Harry! There ares visitors!"

The three men waited patiently, flashing one another vaguely amused glances, and after a few minutes of waiting, a dirty Harry Potter—scar visible when he pushed back his fringe—strode up to them, tiredness sagging his features as his vivid green eyes landed on his not entirely unexpected visitors. The man sighed and rubbed his palms on his dirty blue t-shirt and flashed his eyes to the ceiling. He no longer looked the personification of James Potter that he had been in his school years; his features were more angular, calloused by the years that had taken their toll, and the black haired man shifted slightly uncomfortably.

"Lucius and Draco Malfoy, and…" the green eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the black haired man. "I thought you were dead," he intoned dully, green eyes locking with amused grey-black. "I watched you die."

The black haired man smirked thoughtfully. "I was unfortunately brought back to life, Mr. Potter—" Harry flinched violently and immediately shook his head.

"I am no longer a Potter," he told them, but did not explain; the three men on his front walk exchanged curious glances. They had been researching Harry's disappearance for two years; a name change had never been found.

The black haired man inclined his head slightly, eyes still locked with Harry's. "I was in a coma for nearly a year. Drastically unfortunate."

Dobby peered around a corner and gave a sound resembling a mixture of an 'eep' and a strangled scream; he disappeared again and Harry shook his head tolerably, moving into the small hallway directly to the right of the door. "Come in, then." He waved them in with his left hand; a thin band of gold glimmered from his ring finger and the black haired man's eyebrows lifted as they stalked past Harry Potter. Harry whirled on the door and softly shut it, sighing with an emotion in his eyes that resembled sadness.

He followed the three men to the sitting room, throwing himself in a heavily used arm-chair, waving the men to sit on the couch; Draco and Lucius settled themselves next to one another and the man that Harry had known as Severus Snape perched himself on the arm-chair directly across from Harry, knees almost touching the long, low coffee table. "What do I call you?" Harry sighed, green eyes flicking to the black haired man; now, he could see the glamour that covered the man, smoothing his features into a man that looked rapidly unrecognizable. Harry much preferred the visage of the man he had grown to know during his seven years at Hogwarts, a realization that was slightly disturbing.

He flashed a smirk at Harry. "Samael Prince."

Harry rolled his eyes. "After the archangel? Interesting."

The three men exchanged curious glances as…Samael nodded and pressed his knees together. Harry's eyes flicked over the two Malfoy's sitting on his couch; he had never expected to have Malfoy sitting pleasantly in his sitting room without exchanging furious and spitting vitriol words. He had forgiven Draco Malfoy eleven years ago, forgiven everyone in the Wizarding world that had somehow wronged or hated or detested him. It no longer mattered. He had killed Voldemort. That's all that mattered to the Wizarding world, and he had left after he had done what mattered. The tense silence elevated as Harry looked between Draco and his father, eyes flashing with amusement. Something thumped loudly upstairs and Harry rolled his eyes again; three pairs of eyes flicked up to see if something or someone would come crashing down on them. Finally, he snapped out, surprising the three Slytherins—hell, he lived with two of them, he knew how to deal with Slytherins now—with his tone, "What do you three want?"

Lucius smirked. "You disappeared from the Wizarding world"—Harry sighed softly and pushed to his feet, striding quickly to the alcohol cabinet he and his husband made sure to keep well stocked; he poured himself a full tumbler of Ogden's and then returned to his seat, not bothering to put the bottle back as he sipped mildly on the whisky—"eleven years ago."

"I'm aware of that," Harry bit out, jaw clenched. He had known this day was going to come—when someone in the Wizarding world decided that he couldn't stay lost any longer—and had thought himself well prepared for it. As evidenced, he was not. Then again, it could be the fact that the man he had grieved for—for eleven fucking years—was apparently not fucking dead. He scowled at the ceiling and took a deep swallow of the whisky, pleased as it burned a satisfying trail down his throat. "I am presumed dead for good reason. Harry Potter no longer exists."

Draco scowled at him and crossed his arms haughtily over his chest. His father gently patted his son's knee; Harry watched curiously as he restrained from gently petting Draco's thigh and he restrained from snorting amusedly into his whisky. "You're Harry Potter," Draco informed him, as if he didn't fucking know.

Harry snarled at them, tossing his three-fourths full tumbler on the table and the whisky sloshed over the side of the cut glass, melting onto the scarred wood as Harry shoved himself to his feet. Samael discreetly pulled out his wand; Harry saw but ignored the movement, hoping the man wasn't actually that stupid. "I'm fucking well aware of who I am, Malfoy," Harry spat. "My name is no longer Potter. I already bloody informed you of that."

Lucius gave Samael a discrete nod and the man lifted his wand, murmuring Legilimens under his breath. His invasion impacted into solid steel walls but Harry let out a small shriek of pain at the agony of the remembrance of his lessons in fifth year with his horrendous man. Oh, now he remembered why he had detested Snape so much—the man was a right bastard.

A hulking, massive form appeared in the doorway and steel grey eyes flickered between the quaking form of his husband and the raised wand of an unfamiliar black haired man. He let loose a rumbling growl—nobody touched what was his!—and the two men on the couch spun around to see a tall, muscular man barrel into their long-time family friend and break the spell by throwing the man's wand on the ground, where it rolled under the couch. He held the man to the wall with a muscular forearm held diagonal across the dangerously thin chest and a meaty hand pressed to the man's thin neck.

Harry nearly fell over, quivering violently—no one had invaded his mind in years; the residual mental pain felt similar to the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse—and tired emerald eyes landed on the form of his infuriated husband. Harry grunted slightly and grabbed the tumbler of whisky from the near center of the coffee table and gulped down a few mouthfuls, ignoring the inwardly terrified looks on the Malfoy's faces, and dropped the tumbler, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The thick, rumbling voice was somehow familiar to both Malfoy men, and Samael frowned as he gasped against the hand pressing against his windpipe. "You dare hurt what is mine," the imposing man growled, "I kill those who hurt what is mine."

Harry sighed and moved over to his husband, ignoring the frantic flails of the man pressed against the wall. He set a small hand to his husband's arm and murmured, "Marcus. It's alright, love. He was checking to see if I was an imposter."

Harry's husband turned his head and looked down at him, nodding slightly and dropped Samael—but not before threateningly squeezing the hand around the man's neck one more time—and moved to Harry, roughly pulling the younger man to him and tightening his arms as hard as he dared. He lowered his head and roughly claimed the Gryffindor's lips in his own, Harry humming happily into his husband's mouth as Samael nearly fell to his knees, one hand pressed lightly to his rapidly bruising neck as he coughed.

After a few moments of frantic, claiming kissing, Harry's husband lifted his head and glared furiously at the two Malfoys sitting on his couch. "What are they doing here?" he growled, baring large, crooked teeth that, when his mouth was closed, were almost visible as they pressed against the inside of his lips.

"They found me," Harry murmured softly, peering around his husband to look concernedly at Samael, who was quickly regaining his breath as he furiously straightened, one hand still touching his bruising throat. Harry shrugged at him. "Shouldn't have tried that," he told Samael, and the Potions Master snarled softly.

Harry pulled slightly away from his husband and, one hand petting the Slytherin's muscled side, turned both of them so that his three visitors could see his beloved's face. "This is my husband, Marcus Flint," he introduced, and three chiseled jaws fell open in shock.

Marcus snorted, picking Harry up and throwing his massive body into the chair Harry had recently vacated, wrapping the smaller man in his long arms as he curled up in Marcus's lap. "Malfoy," he said, tilting his head slightly to the boy who had been the Seeker on his Quidditch team, and his grey eyes flicked to the man that had bought them all Nimbus 2001s when his annoying-as-hell son had been made Seeker. His head swung to lock on the man that had tried to rape his Harry's mind, and he spat out, "Who the hell is that?"

Harry curled up in Marcus's strong arms, clenching his left hand in Marcus's own, their rings pressing to one another and the incomplete bond flashing not entirely unpleasantly through them. He trusted Marcus with his life, had for years; of course he did, he had married the admittedly unpleasant man six-and-a-half years ago. "Severus Snape," he sighed, and the Potions Master flinched violently as he threw himself into the seat across from the couple, glaring furiously at Marcus, still gingerly fingering his throat. "Also known as Samael Prince."

Marcus grunted. "Dumb name."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes, meeting Draco's widened grey eyes—his mind automatically compared the differences in the shades between Draco's and Marcus's: Marcus's eyes were a warm, heated steely grey that burned whenever he looked at Harry, while Draco's were a cool, flinch-inducing grey, the exact same shade as his father's eyes—and waited for the outburst. He didn't have to wait long. "Flint?" Draco cried; apparently, eleven years did nearly nothing for his year-mate's maturity, Harry noted. He nodded slowly. "How the hell...you and Flint?"

Harry shrugged elegantly, flicking his hand at the tumbler and cradling it against his chest as it shot into his hand. Marcus grumbled pleasantly at the show of wandless magic; seeing Harry so capable with magic had always been a huge, well, arousal point for him. Knowing that his little Harry was so powerful secretly made Marcus ache; he had never been magically powerful and had long ago made up for it in sheer physical power. Harry's magic was just one of the things that made Harry his; Harry had never been comfortable showing off his wandless abilities before Marcus had entered his life. "You three are not the first to find me."

Marcus smirked triumphantly and wrapped his arms all the tighter around his precious husband. If these bastards thought they were going to take what was his back to the Wizarding world, they had another damn thing coming.

(O.o)

Year: 2007
Nine Years Missing

Lucius absently pet the soft blond hair beneath his hand as he flicked through the documents on his desk—forms for a reinstatement of an old law that permitted incestuous relationships—and his son hummed under his father's gentle ministrations. The relationship had started after Narcissa had died of cancer—one of the few Muggle diseases that even magic was unable to cure—a year ago, for Lucius's desperation to hold onto anything that reminded him of his late wife. Anything, including fucking his son through the mattress every night, just to hear the familiar breathy gasps that were so reminiscent of his wife, just to see the familiar curves of his wife's genes in his son's arse and back and thighs and feet and the slope of his neck as he obediently took Lucius's cock in his mouth, the way his son wriggled impatiently on his fingers just as Narcissa had done while she had been alive.

And look at him now, feeling more affection for his son than he had ever felt for his wife.

Lucius fondly shook his head at the thought and looked down at the top of his son's head as the humming changed tone as he paged through the Daily Prophet, the hideous and low-class rag that his lover read twice—Evening Prophet at night—every day, despite Lucius's distaste for it. It was so...common, and Malfoys were anything but common. "Draco?" he pleasantly queried, not stopping his gentle petting of the hair he had sternly ordered to have be gelled while they were alone in the house.

Draco tilted his head up and moved slightly so that his father could see the headline proclaiming, Boy Who Lived to Defeat He Who Must Not Be Named Still Missing! Lucius gently rolled his eyes and shook his head. Harry Potter had been missing for nine years; he had walked out of Hogwarts after Voldemort slumped to the ground, dead, with a silent bundle in his arms, and he had never looked back. During the first year after the man's disappearance, there had been at least one article in the Prophet in every edition on it, but over the past nine years, the occurrence had faded to a so-called startling proclamation once a year, inspiring a mass wave of panic—what if You-Know-Who arose again—that lasted for no longer than a day.

Draco sighed softly up at his father, butting the hand that had stopped petting him. Lucius smirked and resumed his doting on his son, scrutinizing his son's pale face. Draco leaned his forehead against his father's leg and crumpled the newspaper in his hand, the familiar photo—the same one used for every 'still missing' article—of Harry Potter grimacing as he was crushed.

"I think we should find him," Draco finally told Lucius, not meeting his father's gaze. Lucius leaned forward, lifting his son's chin to peer into the eyes so identical to his own, and then flinched gently at the amused voice that echoed from the doorway to his office.

"Find who?"

Lucius stood up to look into the grey-black eyes of his glamoured friend, smirking fiendishly at him. "Samael," he greeted, and helped his son to his feet, gently pushing the soft, fallen-forward hair out of his lover's eyes.

Draco smiled softly at the fixture his godfather made against the open doorway of his father's office: leaning casually against the intricately carved doorjamb, arms crossed loosely over his thin chest, amused gaze on the lovers in front of him. Severus Snape had been declared dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, but Lucius had transfigured a found stone into the dead body of their family friend when they had both realized that Severus was still alive, and had checked him into St. Mungo's under the guise of Samael Prince. After Lucius had made a few carefully placed threats and dropped a few bags of Galleons on certain desks, Samael Prince became a person, possibly the most highly skilled wizard in all of England, a Potions Master, an unacknowledged Dark Arts Master, a distant cousin and life-long friend of the Malfoy family...essentially, another Severus Snape, except under a carefully and intricate glamour and a newly relaxed demeanor.

Samael inclined his head to his two friends, black hair falling forward over his now-handsome face—one he could finally stand to look at in the mirror—and he quickly brushed it away, repeating his query.

Draco leaned against his father's strong side and opened the Prophet to show Samael the article on Harry Potter's missing status. "I think we should find him," he repeated, and Samael smoothly stalked over, taking the newspaper from his godson's grasp, eyes roving hungrily over the smiling face. Draco and Lucius exchanged nearly concerned looks as one of Lucius's hands traced the line of his son's spine through the thin shirt he wore, and Draco twitched against his father's touch, stepping around his father to press his front against his father's, moaning under his breath as Lucius did not stop the caress.

Samael lifted his head from the article and, ignoring their actions, slowly nodded. "I agree." Lucius glanced at him and frowned softly. Draco pressed forward against him and Samael rolled his grey-black eyes, setting the crumpled newspaper on top of Lucius's desk and smoothing out Harry Potter's photo, receiving a winning smile in return. Samael looked up from the photo and met Lucius's gaze, casting the man a smirk and reeling him in with, "I found a loophole in the present laws for your..." He looked pointedly at the young man in Lucius's grasp and Lucius leered. "I will...tell you later."

Lucius nodded and watched Samael's retreating form for a moment before growling gently and, leaning down, captured his son's lips in his own, and at his son's wanton moan, quickly prepared the boy—he would always think of Draco as his little baby boy, a thought that he wasn't sure to be comfortable with—and thrust into his son's pliant body, those delicious ankles covered by Draco's quickly pulled-down trousers as they wrapped around the back of Lucius's neck.

Samael shook his head amusedly at the twin moans that emitted from Lucius's office and quickly put up a silencing shield before that stupid and worthless longing overtook him again.

(O.o)

Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing
One Hour Found

Harry sighed softly as Draco gaped unattractively at them. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Marcus's neck before sighing again and beginning the story of how Marcus had found him.

(O.o)

Year: 2002
Four Years Missing

Harry Potter scowled fiercely at the four-year-old boy that held desperately onto his hand, holding a melting vanilla ice-cream in one sticky hand. "You annoying twit," he muttered, but affectionately mussed the little boy's hair, causing the toddler to shriek with laughter; he knew from experience that his daddy was never mad really enough at him to really mean the insults, not even when he set the barn on fire or had been found talking excitedly to snakes in the garden. "Mordred only knows why I keep you," his daddy told him, and the toddler shrieked with laughter again.

They strode up the back walk to their small—on the outside; it was the size of a small manor on the inside, thanks to magic and wizardspace spells—cottage in the woods, Harry stepping protectively in front of his son as his gaze landed on a huge, hulking form lounging against one of his trucks. His wand was in the invisible holster on his right forearm; Harry's fingers inched downwards towards it as his son stood behind him, those damning eyes locked on his dripping ice cream.

The form lifted its head from staring stoically at the ground and the form detached itself from his truck and slowly strode towards them, hands lifted in innocence. The man stopped a good five yards from them, face still cast in shadow; Harry's head cocked slightly to the side as his eyes roved the form's posture—it looked irritatingly familiar, but he just couldn't place who the hell could have found him.

The voice rumbled through him, a spark to ignite a river of fire, and Harry only barely heard the slow tone, nodding eagerly as the man said something about giving him a wand. His hands hung limply at his sides, his own wand forgotten; the man pulled a wand from a holster in the same place as Harry's, and the man slowly stepped forward, pausing slightly when Harry's son peered around his daddy's legs, nearly dropping his ice cream in shock at the massive form of the man advancing towards them. The man was nearly a foot taller than Harry, who guessed his height to be 6'7" or so. He took the offered wand without hesitation, freezing as somehow familiar magic coursed through him, igniting his very bones with an unrecognizable ache.

The face finally moved out of shadow and Harry took his own step forward, nearly forgetting that he had a wand in his hand as he lifted it to push his hair out of the way. The form flinched and Harry looked between the upraised wand and the somehow familiar face; a shorter and thinner version of the man protesting his first win against Slytherin in Quidditch filled his mind: He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it!

"Flint?" he asked weakly, and the hulking form nodded softly, turning slightly away, those now-familiar steel grey eyes and the slicked-back coal black hair—still dull, he noticed—and that pale skin that all Slytherins held and those huge, crooked teeth that he couldn't ever forget... Interesting. "What do you want?" he asked, still lost in recollection, as tactless as a damn rock.

Flint didn't—couldn't—meet his gaze, turning away even more, not even caring about his wand. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. He grunted softly and spoke to the horses he could barely see, watching them over a green stock fence, "Been trying to find you for a few months. Followed you here. I'll just leave now..." He desperately ached for Harry to tell him that he couldn't leave, that Harry felt the same stupid connection between them that he did, that he had been aching inside for someone and that someone coincidentally had a Marcus Flint-shaped hole to fill.

Harry took a soft step forward, left hand pressing against Flint's tensed arm. His son had temporarily been forgotten, but the wards on his land kept the boy from leaving his property or being seriously hurt—Harry believed that if his son was to learn, he had to learn the hard way, thanks to his lovely relatives—and the red-eyed boy was happily entertaining himself by dripping melted ice cream on dried leaves.

Flint turned and looked down at the smaller green-eyed man, dropping a heavy hand on one of Harry's thin shoulders, absently massaging it; Harry smiled softly up at him and leaned his head against Marcus's thick arm, handing the Slytherin his wand back. Marcus slipped his wand back into the holster, frowning down at Harry, stepping forward so that he was nearly pressed up against the man who had once been known as the Boy Who Lived.

"How did you find me?" Harry asked softly.

Marcus huffed and dropped his hand from Harry's shoulder, crossing his arms over his broad chest, nearly hitting Harry in the face as he did so. Harry stepped back the smallest amount of space necessary so that he could peer up over Marcus's huge arms and see the man's face. "Followed a little boy with red eyes," he rumbled. "Little boy with red eyes just like the Dark Lord's."

Harry's face rippled in horror and he spun around, making sure that his little boy was still there; Marcus dropped his massive hands down on Harry's shoulders and forcibly turned the smaller man back around. "Nobody knows," he told Harry, who visibly relaxed against Marcus's grasp.

Harry met the steely grey gaze and, slowly, his lips curled up in a smile.

Their first kiss was awkward, hurried, messy, standing in front of the hayloft as Marcus had gently caught Harry around the waist after promising to catch the smaller man if he jumped from the upper level. Harry had been the one to initiate the kiss and it had been perfect, all he had thought a kiss could be—ashamedly, his only other kisses had been one with Cho and the other with Ginny, both kisses that he would experience a thousand times over if only Marcus Flint would kiss him one more time—and even more.

Marcus had held Harry so tightly after the kiss that the younger man had wondered if he was going to break, and then Marcus had gently set Harry on the ground and walked listlessly away. He had then determinedly evaded Harry as well as one could when they were sharing the responsibility of a four-year-old and up to ten horses and living in the same house; Harry, as expected, had been so devastated that it had been nearly impossible to function.

Harry knew that his kissing abilities probably weren't as good as someone nearing twenty-five should be, but he had thought they had been good enough for their first kiss. He hadn't realized how much he had begun to rely on the older and stronger man, desperately missing all of their casual touches—the touches that he hadn't even realized were happening until they stopped—and the soft embrace he could turn into whenever he felt like it. It couldn't be that Harry was ugly, was it? He didn't think he was ugly. He probably was.

Harry examined his naked body in a silently Conjured mirror that reached from the ceiling to his feet. He was small—5'6"—nearly an entire foot under Marcus—6'4"—who Harry had demanded to measure one late night while they had been relaxing in front of a softly burning fire in the sitting room before Harry had gone and fucked everything up by kissing the other man. Hell, he figured, as his hands traveled over the faded white scars on his stomach, courtesy of the Dursley's, Marcus probably wasn't even gay. That would just be his luck, too, falling for a man who couldn't even love him back.

That had been the reason he had kissed Marcus, too, because as he had been gazing softly into those smirking grey eyes the moment before he had jumped, he had been awaken desperately by the realization that he was in love with the other man.

Stupid, he knew, but it had been sudden and overpowering and mindless; he had felt those familiar massive hands cradling his hips and Harry hadn't been able to stop his stupid freak urge to kiss the other man. And he could have sworn that Marcus had kissed back, but that was probably his stupid freak mind trying to placate him through the realization that lady luck wasn't on his side in love, as she hadn't been in anything else.

It was probably that Harry was ugly and a guy, Harry figured, running the pads of his quivering fingers over the angular planes of his face. While Marcus wasn't a conventional handsome, to Harry, he was as handsome as the night sky he had found on a mound of dead leaves a few days after Marcus had first come to stay with them, made out of his son's slowly melting ice cream. Speaking of his son, Harry had to call the nanny he hadn't employed since Tom was two, because seeing the joy in his son's red eyes reminded him too much of Marcus. That was stupid, too, seeing Marcus in everything around him, especially now that he knew that he couldn't dare touch Marcus in case of being thrown away like the freak he was.

Marcus wasn't pretty, Harry knew. His eyes were too small and beady and his hair was eternally dull and limp and his ears stuck out slightly from his head and his teeth nearly poked through his lips whenever his mouth was closed and sometimes he gave off a reek scent...and all of those things, Harry liked. Loved, really. He loved how when Marcus held him, his grasp usually became uncomfortably tight, or the sharp musk that assaulted his nose whenever he and Marcus were in touching distance—and before Harry had fucked everything up, they had actually touched, but now Marcus cleanly stayed out of Harry's reach, probably because he was so disgusted and infuriated that if Harry touched him, he'd just up and leave, go tell the Wizarding world that Harry Potter was living out in the woods like the stupid freak fag he was with his horrible-history son that thankfully was growing up to be a happy, free child—or the way Harry's name rolled off the man's lips as if it were made of flaxen gold...

That was another thing. Harry turned away from his freak reflection and flicked his hand over his scarred, thin shoulder at the mirror, and with the small whoosh of magic, the mirror disappeared. He should have broken it and stepped all over the glass.

Marcus had stopped calling Harry by his first name, which was probably the worst deal out of the lot. Being called 'Potter' by those deep, rumbling tones...it was torture. He wanted to shake the man—not that he was strong enough to even have an effect, or now being allowed within touching distance because of his freakish stupidity—and demand for an answer, demand to know why, even if Marcus hated him for being such a stupid fag freak, that he couldn't be called by his first name, even just once before the time that he was so sure was coming, when Marcus decided that he couldn't handle being around such a freak and left him. Probably to go tell the Wizarding world where he was, in Slytherin retribution for being a freak.

Harry's fists clenched tightly and he blinked angrily, low-slung drawstring trousers appearing around his hips as he stalked out of his room and down the hall to the room he had given Marcus when he had arrived. The door was open and the room was empty; Marcus was probably downstairs, staring into the fire and drinking all of Harry's good whisky. Harry growled under his breath as he slipped down the stairs and as he turned to the sitting room, breath catching in his throat at the slope of Marcus's broad shoulders as he sat on the couch, head in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees.

He stepped into the room, forcing his relaxing fists to clench again, and he ground out Marcus's name. Marcus's head shot up and he whipped around, jaw unhinging and eyes widening dramatically at the scars marring Harry's bare torso. Usually, he would have berated himself for not wearing a shirt around Marcus—the 'where the hell did you get those scars!?' conversations were never comfortable—but, right now, he was too damned miserable and pissed to care.

"Harry," Marcus surged to his feet and drew closer to Harry, his own great fists clenching at his hips, "Who the hell—"

"No," Harry hissed, taking his own step forward and feeling his magic whip around him. It felt painfully good to see Marcus's steel eyes widen and for the huge man to take a step back; is this how Marcus felt all the time? Imposing and impossible? No wonder the man was so big. "You have no right to call me Harry."

Marcus turned away, nodding quickly. "I know," he told Harry, who frowned slightly. What the hell? Marcus hated him, wasn't touching him because he was a freak, because he was stupid... "I didn't mean to kiss back," the Slytherin whispered, whipping back around on Harry and wrapping Harry's small, scarred shoulders in his massive hands. "What the hell did you think you were getting at, Potter?" he spat, those beloved grey eyes furious and Harry cowered away. Here came the insults for being a fag, for being a freak; Harry tensed himself for them, telling himself that he would just nod in response and then woodenly walk away, never let Marcus see his reaction to those horrible words.

He had never been scared of Marcus before.

Marcus gaped down at him and nearly jumped back, holding his hands up in front of his chest. Harry's heart clenched; was it really that painful to touch someone so disgusting? He...if he could Obliviate that idiotic memory from Marcus's mind, just to have them return to what they were before his unbelievably stupid need to kiss the elder Slytherin, and if Harry had the actual ability to raise his wand against the man he loved, he would do it in a second. "Is it really that horrible to touch me?" Harry growled, feeling his uncut nails dig into his palms and well up blood. "I'm not going to jump you again if you touch me," he jeered, "Just because I'm a stupid freak fag doesn't mean I'm going to—"

Their second kiss was even better, Marcus pouring all of his regret—how could he let Harry think that he hadn't wanted to touch him, to take him, to kiss every inch of his precious flesh every second? How could he let Harry think that he had been disgusted by the most beautiful kiss of his life? How could he let Harry think that he hadn't spent every second of the past two weeks with his fists clenched, trying to hold in the need to pet down Harry's shoulders or plaster his hand to Harry's hip as they walked to the barn together or pull the other man up against him as they watched the water trough fill with fresh spring water newly siphoned from a hose?—into Harry's mouth, desperately trying not to show that this was the only the third kiss of his life; the first one had been with girl who had been searching for Montague way back in his first seventh year at Hogwarts. How the hell could anyone mistake him for Montague, anyway?

Marcus grunted into Harry's mouth and the smaller man moaned softly, allowing Marcus to plunder his mouth, running his tongue over the roof of Harry's mouth. No, Marcus corrected, as Harry trembled violently against him, that accidental kiss with the Slytherin bint hadn't been a kiss, it had been a mistake. This was a kiss, this was Harry. This was love.

Harry's arms wrapped around his waist as Marcus gently pulled away, tightening his grasp around the smaller man's shoulders. Marcus felt Harry tense in his grip but didn't relax it; instead, he dug his fingers into the Gryffindor's ribs and pulled himself up straight, craning his head forward to breathe into Harry's swollen mouth, "Mine."

Harry nearly started crying as he nodded in agreement. "Yours," he informed Marcus, who growled loudly and threw Harry onto the couch, falling on top of him.

Their third kiss was the first time Harry ever came without touching himself; Marcus watched Harry's face as the younger man fell prey to his orgasm, taking Harry's pleasure for his own and imprinting that single image in the wall of his mind—for every time he blinked, he saw Harry's face twisted in spasm of pleasure so wide that Harry couldn't shut his eyes.

They were engaged a month later—the fourth month that Marcus had been living with him—by a mutual look as they passed a Muggle ring shop. Harry had nodded at the same time Marcus had, and then they had dragged one another to the store and slyly bought one another matching plain gold rings.

Two months after that, Marcus—so nervous he had ripped holes in his palms—officially asked Harry to marry him; Harry had cried in his joy and Tom, who had been slamming his rattler against a door, had begun laughing as his papa swung his daddy around the sitting room, Marcus slamming into the liquor cabinet and Harry, giggling, had repaired it with a wave of his hand. After a long, painfully emotional talk in which Marcus found out everything Harry was capable of—wandless magic, for one—Marcus took Harry to a covert Wizarding marriage center and they were married.

Harry had wanted to be bonded, ached to be bonded, but the stern yet understanding Governor had regretfully informed that they needed another partner to complete a bond. Marcus had still demanded they be married but not have the records released to the Ministry of Magic until the third and final line on their marriage and bond contract was signed and both were finally completed.

Marcus had torn Harry a dozen new claiming marks and fucked him hard enough to be sore and lame for a week after being told that there was someone he had to share his Harry with, and after two months of placating, Harry had finally convinced the imposing man that if there was someone else that they had to share their bed with, it would only be on Marcus's terms and Harry would always, always, belong to Marcus.

Marcus had nodded in agreement and then, for only the second time in their entire relationship, had somberly told Harry that he loved him.

That had been one of the best days of Harry's life.

(O.o)

Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing
Two Hours Found

Marcus smirked neatly at the Slytherins watching his pretty little Harry as he blushingly left out the time that Marcus had fucked his beau—literally—through a floor. Harry had thought it so funny that he hadn't allowed Marcus to seal up the hole, which was in the middle of their bedroom and covered by a mild concealment charm and led to a room that could even hold Marcus's rage. Snape—masked as a Samael Prince, the annoying bastard—watched his Harry curiously as the boy skirted around the topic of their marriage, the grey-black eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Harry's head whipped around and his entire body softened at the thin boy with ruffled black hair and red eyes standing in the doorway, those trademark red eyes flickering curiously between the three men. His fathers' open affection for each other was no longer—if it indeed ever had been; Tom couldn't remember a time that his father wasn't holding his dad as close as humanly possible, growling at anyone who even dared look at him—shocking to him, but the pretty blond boy staring at his dad was...startling.

"Thomas," Harry greeted him, telling him with his tone—and his father's grey eyes warning him darkly—that these were formal guests, and Tom nodded slowly, glancing down at his bare feet and the dusty Muggle jeans he wore, the huge dirty white t-shirt—it was one of his father's, as all of his clothes were being washed—dangling down to his knees and drowning him in faux purity.

"That's my shirt," his father grumbled, steely eyes narrowing slightly. Tom gulped and skirted around the far side of the couch, closer to the handsome man with the black hair and then keeping that man between him and his fathers. "Only Harry is allowed to wear my clothes, Thomas," his father informed him, as if he hadn't been told that a dozen times, and Tom nodded quickly, shucking off the shirt and throwing it at his father. His dad held up his hand and the shirt floated over to him, his father glaring at him. He should have just gone shirtless. Tom made sure to remember that bit of logic for his future.

His dad dropped his father's massive shirt and turned in his father's lap to tell him to do something. Only his dad could get away with even the thought of telling his father what to do, Tom reflected. He heard something about feeding the horses and groaned under his breath; feeding with his father was a chore best left to his dad.

His father nodded stonily, his grey eyes still locked on Tom's face, and he gently set his dad aside as he pushed gracefully to his feet. His father stalked towards him and shoved Tom out of the sitting room, grumbling angrily under his breath as they stepped outside, his father shoving Tom up against the house with a small grunt. "Do not wear my clothes again, Thomas," his father warned him, and Tom nodded hastily. It would be stupid to defy his father; and, by default, his dad, who had his father to back him up.

His father grunted again and stepped back, allowing Tom to drop to the ground—it always seemed so far away when his father told him what and wasn't up—and then scramble through the dust after his father. "Looked like a girl, anyway," his father dryly informed him, and Tom chuckled dryly. He had the best fathers in the world.

Harry curled up in the warm spot Marcus had left behind, tucking his arms around his shins, smiling slightly to himself. "Well, that was my son," he informed the silent Slytherins all staring at him, "Thomas Riddle Flint."

Harry smiled serenely at their reactions.

(O.o)

End Chapter One
Morsus: Latin for pain.