Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter Series, which solely belong to J.K. Rowling, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

Warning: This story contains the themes of sex, non-con/dubious consent, BDSM, and male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. Some scenes are of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write them as tastefully as my ability allows.

Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.

From Your Sight,

Yxonomei Ayauhteotl

Payment Due

Time began when Adam and Eve left the Garden. Before then day and night did not signify progression. There was no place one had to be. There were no schedules or appointments to keep. Man was in his natural state, amoral and timeless.

Then the legged serpent, crafty and wicked, tempted the First Couple with sanguine fruit of most becoming luster. The moment the poisonous flesh touched their lips, their eyes opened and they became moral creatures. It was only natural, then, that God drove them out. For if one is to know good, then evil must also be known; and once evil is known, it becomes temptation.

Paradise must never know evil.

In the end, I don't think that God simply banished the First Couple from Eden. God, if one truly believes, is all knowing; he knew the human penchant for expansion and its need for hope. Therefore, He broke Eden into small portions and distributed them in hidden pockets around the world. These places revitalize the flagging spirit and whisper hope into every soul. In these places time moves at a slower pace and innocence isn't so quick to sour.

This explains why, when the repairman says a couple of days, he doesn't show up until a week after I place the call. Of course by then the fridge, which died a spectacular, fluid-gushing death, was a museum of fascinating fungal growths and eye-watering odors. I hadn't cleaned the thing out of readily perishable foods under the vain optimism that I could save them and the man would show up when he said. People here work on Hawaii Time, which means that a couple of days can turn into a week or more.

Now one may ask, and quite rightly, why don't I use a quick little spell? Why do I even bother with this infernal, muggle device? Well, the truth is, I like my freedom, and using magic would, quicker than thought, take that away. I've been a caged bird for too long; I've been a pawn in a war I should never have been forced to fight in. I was a child without a childhood, and then a teenager with the world on his shoulders. Finally, finally, I can be me—or at least some approximation of what 'me' really is.

Voldemort is dead. I killed him like everyone wanted. One must appreciate the irony of his demise; I killed him with a wonderful muggle invention: a revolver. Four bullets became the Dark Lord's untimely end. One of silver and one of gold to his heart; one of lead and one of iron between his crimson eyes. No magic was involved; there was no epic battle. I crashed one of his dark meetings, raised the gun, and fired. That's it.

That was how I celebrated my eighteenth birthday. After that I left, left my relative's home, left Britain, left the entire wizarding world. I've never looked back. The only magic I've used since then is a series of complicated identity falsification charms.

Fame is the worst cage of all. I've already dealt with both sides of that particular coin. When they love you, you're watched every second and whispers follow your every step. When they hate you, you're watched every second and whispers follow your every step. And the most peculiar thing about magic is that it acts as sort of an identifier for anyone who bothers to look. It's like a big neon sign saying, 'look at me!' above your head, especially if you're the former 'Boy-Who-Lived,' turned 'Killer-of-You-Know-Who.'

I don't want to be found; I don't want to be watched; and I sure as hell don't want to be talked about.

So…

Hello, nice to meet you. My name is Evan Harrison, twenty-three, resident of Kaua'i. This scar? Ran into a bit of barbed wire in my youth. Quite a funny story attached to that actually…

Give out a humorous and slightly embarrassing anecdote and people fall into your hands. Then finish the deal with a small-town-boy smile and your friendship is sealed. After all, this is a section of the fractured Paradise; people here still believe in the beauty of the human spirit.

But still, I'm quite pissed off about the refrigerator.

This is why I am now trudging back to my single bedroom house in the near Whaler's Cove (it used to be just for rent, but I managed to make a more than acceptable bid for permanent ownership) while carrying several bags of groceries. The sky is threatening one of those brief but heavy rain showers that sweep through seemingly everyday. Of course the rains do nothing to combat the humid heat. Sometimes it's a dry heat, but not often and especially not when it's about to precipitate.

My sandals (or slippers, if you're interested in sounding more native) are caked in the red dirt of the island and my legs have a distinct vermillion hue to them. Someone once told me that the color came from all the iron oxidizing or something. Then the person began rambling about Mars and lost me. I never was that good at astrology or astronomy, or anything that had astro- in it.

'Mahalo for taking off your shoes.' Every time I see the gecko decorated tile, I can't help but smile. I found it in one of the many gift shops that constitute a good percentage of economy here.

Already several pairs of shoes caked in red dirt are neatly displayed against the right wall. As per the tiles genial commands, I remove my sandals after setting down the bags. A real gecko, dusty brown and gray, scuttles away into the thick vegetation lining the walkway. From around back of the small house (one bedroom, one bathroom, kitchen/living room/dining room) I can hear the scraping cluck of the ever-present chickens. I learned early on not to feed the wildlife (chickens and cats, with the occasional boar) unless I wanted them underfoot for the rest of my natural life. Honestly, the things get violent if you stop feeding them. I was once stalked by this particular rooster…but that's another story.

When muggles say that this place is magic, they don't realize how close to the truth they are. This place is magic. Deep within the earth primal currents of energy swirl and ooze out through ruptures, volcanic vents, in the surface crust. Surrounding these magical founts are such places, like these islands, that are saturated with the very essence of First Magic. The raw power rippling around me is astounding. It is nothing like the domesticated magic in England. Merlin never chained and bound the primordial gods here. They still roll beneath the surface, magic pouring from their restless bodies.

And all this wild magic hides my own. Wandless magic, the kind I have an unnatural tendency to do while stressed, is primal magic, First Magic. It precedes the usage wands and the subsequent taming of magical force. It is also like a big beacon saying 'look at me!' to those who happen to be looking for it. What better place to hide the spontaneous bursts of primal magic than a place that is permeated by it?

Another benefit of living in the Islands is that I don't have to learn a new language (Latin was hard enough, thank you very much!).

I pull the keys out from the back pocket of my jean cutoffs and unlock the screen and front door. Keeping the door open with my rump, I pick up the groceries and walk inside. Sometimes I wish there was someone to greet me, but that is an impossible dream. There is so much in my life, my past, that I could never share—seven years to be exact, and the eleven before them aren't exactly the stuff of polite conversation either. Add to all that the curse of being the Boy(yes, at twenty-three I am still a boy)-Who-Lived-to-Kill-You-Know-Who. I dare anyone to say that five times fast with no breaths in between.

Even inside the rich, earthy and decidedly aromatic scent of outside fills the rooms. It is like living in a hothouse twenty-four-seven. You can never escape the smell of rich soil, rain and blooming flowers. It's a good thing I don't have allergies to pollen.

As I walk down the short hallway to the kitchen/kitchen/dining room/living room, my peaceful, normal, muggle life gives one last coughing hiccup and dies.

"Mr. Potter."

Do I look as stupid as I feel with my mouth hanging open and the groceries threatening to commit suicide? Wait—don't answer that.

The bane of my entire seven adventuresome (dangerously so) years at Hogwarts sits as comfortable-as-you-please on my favorite armchair (It's a rather wild shade of orange. I found it in this lovely little antique store…). Black hair slightly longer and no less greasy, black eyes like pieces of hematite, black clothes starched to oblivion and far too thick for this weather, all of this belongs to none other than Severus Snape.

Well…Damn.

I suppose I should be amazed that it took them all this long to find me; though, I am a bit surprised to see that they sent him of all people. One would think he'd be glad to be rid of me finally.

"You may close your mouth now, Potter. You look like a goldfish." His tone is acidic and amused, his voice still like rough silk and a razor blade. In class again, my mouth snaps closed in the face of a teacher's authority. It's an instinct inherent in anyone who spent any time in an academic environment. Belatedly I realize my actions, and, well, I'll look like a damn goldfish if I want to!

"What the hell are you doing here, Snape?" I snap as I deposit the groceries on the kitchen counter.

"I am sitting in a chair that defies every decorating scheme created."

Bastard, that's my clashing chair.

"That's not what—"

"Yes, I'm fully aware of what you meant, Mr. Potter. As for my intentions…Accio wand." Glass shatters and my wand flies, screaming, through the air to be caught in his adept hand—still potion stained, I'm not surprised to find.

As to my wand and the glass, well, I had it framed and placed in my bedroom. Since I've vowed to never intentionally use magic again, and no one goes in my bedroom (sadly), it seemed like a pretty good place to put it. Every night before I go to sleep, while getting ready for bed, it reminds me of what I have given up and why.

"Hey, that's mine!" He looks it over with a scornful twist of his thin lips.

"Your power of observation truly is a wellspring of subtle observation. How old are you?" I immediately bristle at his condescending tone of voice. How dare he not only appear uninvited in my home (knew I should have risked putting up and anti-apparation wards), but take my wand and then treat me as if I were still a school boy. Some people never change.

"Listen, Snape, I have a feeling about why you're here"—an eyebrow rises in mocking inquiry—"and I don't care. Just give me back my wand and get out."

A slow, malicious smile, spreads across his face. It is the kind of smile Snow White's stepmother had on her face as she watched the girl gasp for breath while the corset crushed her ribs. It is the kind of smile that lets you know that the one smiling is about to do something you'd rather not have him do.

Shit.

"We are going to start over again, Mr. Potter."

"Like hell—!" I find myself magically gagged without further ado.

"As I was saying," the git continues, unperturbed, "We are going to start over"—muffled protests from me—"and behave like civilized wizards.

"First, you say some form of time appropriate greeting, to which I reply in kind, and, second, you inquire upon my health. That is how those of us who have learned to walk upright interact." The gag vanishes and I can once again articulate my thoughts. A slight narrowing of his eyes and a crueler twist of his lips warns me to behave, for now.

"Hello, Professor Snape."

"Hello." Oh, I do not like his tone one bit. It's far too satisfied.

"How are you doing, sir?" Oh how quickly we fall back into our schooling. Perhaps this is why institutions are made; not simply to instruct, but to indoctrinate and implant the automatic response to anyone displaying confident authority.

"You learn; I am truly amazed," he says with palpable sarcasm and that damned amusement. He knows something, something I need to know, too, if I want to deal with him on equal footing. The only question is, what does he know?

"Now that all those pleasantries are over, you can tell me why you're here. I assume it wasn't just for old time's sake?"

"Never assume, Potter, it makes one careless." His voice is deceptively mild; it almost covers the garrote wire underneath.

This is too much. The man, the situation, this is all too much! I was happy—okay, content—living here by my lonesome with no connection to the magical world and all its pressures on me. I was finally me: not Harry Potter, or Potter, or the Boy-etc.-etc. What does fate have against me?

I explode—so does the room. The glass mason jars lined up on the shelf shatter; gooey fruit preserves splatter everything. Dishes pour out of the cabinets and break upon the linoleum floor. Drawers eject their contents. Silverware imbeds itself in the walls and ceilings. Pictures jump from their hooks and crash upon the floor.

When the maelstrom fades, I find almost everything in a state of complete shambles. This is the result of half a decade plus some additional years of repression. Damn, and I had to go and do it in my own house.

Sweat drips into my eyes and burns down my throat. Harsh pants escape my lips. Slowly the wild currents of magic settle down to a low level hum. Snape watches me with a blank expression. He is unharmed (damn) and immaculate. I, on the other hand, am covered in sticky fruit preserves. Lovely.

"I see some things never change," the man comments with a sneer, echoing my previous thoughts. "You still have no control."

"Just tell me why you're here, okay?" Fatigue drains me of vitality. Defeat weighs down upon my limbs.

"Very well, we shall stop playing games."

"Goody."

He ignores the tired sarcasm in my voice. "Why did I stop being a Death Eater?" I stare at him incredulously.

"'Why did…'? What has that got to do with anything? I thought no more games?" The look he bestows upon is the one that sends seventh year Ravenclaws to the infirmary with hysterics. No other expression has ever managed to contain such potent, unadulterated scorn and condescension.

"This isn't a game, boy. It's a relevant question. No doubt it has been one to mystify you for some time." Well, that's true, but I'll never admit it. And I'm not a boy!

I tell him as much, but he just laughs, coldly.

"It wasn't because of guilt, as Albus might intimate, and it certainly was not for any altruistic reasons you could think of. I entered the Dark Lord's service for the knowledge and power he could give me. I left him because he had no more to give."

"Why are you telling me this?" His sneer becomes a dark little smirk. It is enigmatic and ambiguous. I'm getting a very bad feeling in my stomach.

"I joined Albus' side, the 'light' side for the same reason. He had something I wanted; he had knowledge and so he had power.

"Why do you pale, Potter? Did you think my bastard act in school was that? Oh no, it was—and is—quite accurate. I am not a nice person. I enjoyed what I did under Voldemort's service."

"Bastard." For the first time in many years true fear swirls in my stomach and knots my intestines.

"Becoming a spy was no hardship. Now, being a teacher was, though. Do you know what I wanted to do to half of your precious classmates? All those insipid sheep, they needed to be culled. Fortunately for you all, Albus would never have permitted it and I still had more knowledge to gain from him, so I obeyed." His eyes glow with black flames. I back away as he stands in one fluid motion. Black cloth rustles likes raven's wings.

"The Headmaster…he knew?" I choke out, still backing away. I always knew this man was dangerous, but I never realized just how dangerous. He liked what he did for Voldemort?

"Oh yes, he knew and he didn't like it. However, the only way to spy on Voldemort was to have the Dark Mark and the only way to get it was to truly want to follow him. He needed me and I needed what he knew. It was a simple trade during the first conflict."

I'm up against the wall by the time he finishes speaking. I know by heart all the exits from this room. But I am once again a frightened child facing the power of an authority figure.

"So why…?" Keep him talking, less hexing and pain that way.

"Albus, unlike the Ministry, was not fool enough to believe that an infant could truly vanquish Voldemort forever." He shrugs and gently runs his fingers over the two wands. I want to yell at him to get his hands off my property, but I'm too frightened. I don't like that.

How did he go from being an annoyance to the scariest thing I know?

"Now we come to the point that concerns my presence here, and you." The malicious, happy smile on his face is chilling. I press back against the wall as if I could push through it.

"By the time your first year at Hogwarts came about, I had no more use for Albus or what he knew. Like the Dark Lord before him, I had found everything there was to find. "My continued allegiance to the Order came with a price, Potter. They needed me far more than I needed them.

"Ever wonder the reason behind the intensity of Black's rage?" I blink. Again he has switched subjects, or seems to, and I am at a loss. Too many thoughts whirl around my head, all featuring the word 'why?' with 'hell' coming in at a close second. The chant, 'This isn't happening. This isn't real' seems to be another favorite.

And another thing, how dare he mention Sirius! He isn't fit to lick his boots much less speak his name.

"Because you're a fucking bastard!"

"Language, Mr. Potter, is a sacred responsibility. Do not abuse it." Again I find myself gagged.

"His enmity was not based solely on childhood animosity. He strongly disagreed with Albus' choice of tender. The price."

Everything in my head flies out the window as one long, tapered finger brushes aside my unruly bangs. He's touching me! Violently I jerk my head back and hit the wall. Pain explodes in the back of my skull.

"Of course being a convict and in hiding—fine job he did of that—meant he had no choice in the matter, despite being your dogfather."

Bastard. Bastard. Goddamned bastard!

Wait…What does being my d-godfather have to do with…

He grins with horrible relish. "I see the first signs of apprehension in your normally dull expression. Do you understand, Potter? Has your little mind worked it out?"

No…This isn't…Dumbledore wouldn't…!

He…They…

"Poor lost little Potter, has the world disillusioned you again? Did you think that only the 'dark' side practiced pragmatism?"

No, I want to scream. Shut up! I don't believe you. They wouldn't do this. You're wrong.

"The Order practices, though not openly, that peculiar institution of slavery, among other things."

Lies! Nothing but lies!

"Do you want to know the price of my allegiance, Potter?"

No! Please don't tell me. I don't want to know. I want my illusions.

He leans in, warm breath heating my blood-forsaken cheeks. His eyes glitter darkly, hungrily. I bring my hands up, but they prove to be an ineffectual shield. They burn with the heat radiating off of his body.

"Sweet boy, you are mine now."

And my world shatters with the dominating press of his cruel lips and the honeyed words filled with heated vindication.