A Deviation of Circumstance
by Sparkling Whimsies
Summary- AU: In a reality where Neville Longbottom is the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter is famous. He's the beloved son of Lily Potter and the famous Quidditch chaser James Potter, as well as the godson of both the famous beater Sirius Black and the world-renown novelist Remus Lupin. He's beginning to think he's falling for his boyfriend, the slightly sadistic Draco Malfoy. After a late-night flight after a fight with Draco, Harry finds himself lost in a place where everyone's convinced his parents and godfather are dead and he's the Boy-Who-Lived.
Setting- Sixth Year
Rating - R
Chapter One: Alternate Universe Harry
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He felt as if fire was consuming him. Heat flowered in his stomach, burning through his veins and sensitizing his skin to his lover's touch. Pale hands with elegant fingers ran through his dark hair and teased him with whispery touches as gentle and fleeting as the touch of butterfly wings. Soft lips pressed against his own, and a warm tongue tasting of cinnamon and lust caressed the inside of his mouth. He writhed on the green silk sheets beneath him as the nude blonde over his equally unclothed form pushed his hips forward-
Harry Potter, disoriented and aroused, sat bolt upright in his bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, all alone within the concealing curtains of his four-poster. His breath came out in sharp pants. He angrily swatted his sweat-soaked fringe off his forehead. His watch read two-thirty in the morning.
'Bloody dreams. Bloody Malfoy,' he thought angrily. He flopped back onto his bed with a frustrated sigh and tried to go back to sleep. The piercing image of silver eyes beneath blonde lashes chased him into the depths of slumber.
Deep within the dungeons, a blonde boy alone betwixt green silk sheets smiled beatifically in his sleep.
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"Harry, mate, you alright?" Ron asked worriedly. The redhead stood at the corner of his best friend's bed, holding the curtains aside and allowing a shaft of bright sunlight to shine on the dark expanse of blood red comforter. Harry looked terrible; he stared blankly at the ceiling, a sheen of sweat on his unblemished forehead. His deep green eyes, bared by his lack of glasses, looked clouded and lost in thought. He had dark circles under his eyes, and most embarrassingly, obviously had a raging hard-on.
Harry lifted his head to address the unfocused Weasley-colored blob silhouetted by sunlight at the end of his bed.
"My stupid boyfriend discovered a wonderful new curse - it induces dreams. Specifically, the dreams chosen by the sadistic caster, of course," he growled. "Guess what? Draco's so sodding randy he's got to attack me in my sleep." The common-place morning background noises Seamus, Dean, and Neville had been making stopped abruptly as his irritated grousing filled the room. 'Hmm...' Harry mused. 'Maybe hearing about their gay roommate's wet dreams is a bit much this early in the morning.'
"Er... right then," Ron said uneasily. He hurried of into the bathroom, blushing furiously.
Harry lay in his bed a while longer, listening to his roommates shuffle around the room preparing for the day and watching the dust motes in front of his nose drift aimlessly through the beam of sunlight.
'Wonder if I can get away with sitting with Ron today in Potions...' he thought idly. Phantom fingers drifted over his torso, and Harry shivered. Goosebumps rose on his arms. 'He can screw with my daydreams too? Guess that idea's unlikely, then...'
He shook his head and managed to force his stubborn limbs to drag themselves out of bed. Wearily grabbing a towel off the top of his trunk, Harry headed into the bathroom for a shower.
'A cold one.'
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The dark scowl on Harry's face quickly cleared a path through the crowd of students on their way to dinner. The angry teen swept down the last flight of stairs and into the Entrance Hall, halting in front of the massive wooden doors leading outside. He turned, violently yanking his wand from an inner pocket of his robes and brandishing it at the staircase he had just descended. Many of the students on the stairs, well aware of his obviously foul mood and penchant for practical jokes, ducked or flinched.
"Accio Firebolt," he snarled. He jammed his wand back into its pocket and waited with ill-concealed impatience. The broom sped down to him, zooming just overhead of the students and causing more ducking and flinching. Harry knew he'd feel badly about their reactions later, but he ignored the cringing students in favor of snatching his Firebolt out of the air and turning to storm out of the castle.
Once on the Quidditch pitch, the brunette mounted his broom and kicked off. His overly zealous kick sent him soaring upwards quickly enough to give the wind of his passing enough force to push his glasses down to the tip of his nose. Already he felt his dark mood begin to dissipate. Harry's scowl diminished, becoming a mere frown as he pulled his favorite trick: pulling the handle of his broomstick vertical, and then continuing until it was horizontal again and he was hanging from it upside down. He clamped his legs around the Firebolt and let his arms dangle as he muttered the spell to temporarily inhibit the broom's magic. Without its power to hover, the broom was just a shaft of wood between his knees as he reveled in the feeling of free-fall for just long enough to get close enough to the ground for his actions to have just the slightest element of danger. He said the counterspell to his broom and performed the barrel role his father, the famous Quidditch player James Potter, had taught him the summer before his second year.
As he became lost in the intoxicating sensations of flying, his row with Draco gradually seemed less horrible (even if it was all Draco's fault; honestly, he had practically molested him in Potions, of all classes!), and his anger at Professor Snape for his malicious comments about the situation waned. Harry began laps of the pitch in an attempt to rid himself completely of the lingering venom of anger still in his system. Soon the laps metamorphosed into a series of stunts learned from his father and one of his godfathers (and despised by his slightly over-protective mother), and Harry soon lost all track of time as the sun gradually dipped below the horizon.
Harry finally realized it was late when he found himself releasing a jaw-cracking yawn in the middle of a Wronski Feint. He pulled out of the steep dive, yawning a second time, to look at his watch. It was nearly nine; he'd miss curfew if he didn't hurry back to the dorms. A sudden flash of lightning from off beyond the lake clued him in to another important bit of information - there was a thunderstorm headed his way with almost unnatural speed.
Letting loose a string of mental curses his godfather Sirius would be inordinately proud of, Harry turned his broom toward Gryffindor tower and shot off at top speed. Before he was even halfway across the grounds, the roar of pouring rain caught up with him. The sudden weight of the falling droplets forced him down a few feet closer to the ground and had him completely soaked within seconds. Scowling furiously once again, Harry continued toward the warmth and, more importantly, dryness calling to him from his dormitory window.
All at once, every hair on Harry's body stood on end. Harry slowly turned his face up into the rain, a grim and terrifying suspicion growing in the edges of his mind. There was a sudden, brilliant flash of light, searing pain, and the familiar sense of free-fall. Darkness overwhelmed him.
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