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.
Review responses are at the end of the chapter.
Also, for the round pen and horse scenes, please note that I only have my horses to draw the words and actions off of, so they might not be utterly correct, as I own...different animals.


Morsus
By: Bucket/Replacement for the Stars/filthyfreedom

Chapter Three:
Everything I Want
Year: 2005
Seven Years Missing

But as far as I can see, I've got everything I want
'Alright', Darius Rucker

(O.o)

Harry glanced up from pulling on a riding boot and smiled slightly at his trainer, a tall woman with bright red hair tied back in a loose ponytail and constantly amused green eyes as she stepped up next to him, her own horse directly behind her. At first, she had reminded him of his mother, or of the few memories he had seen of her, but now, he couldn't even connect his smiling trainer with the young woman he had seen in Snape's memories after the man had died looking into his eyes. Harry stood up and smiled at his husband when he stepped out of the tack room with their new barn dog, a yellow Lab pup named Swanson, dangling from one huge hand; Marcus stepped up next to him and wrapped a long arm around Harry's waist. Swanson wriggled out of Marcus's grasp and fell to the ground; after picking himself up, the Lab sat on Harry's boot and looked curiously around.

"What're you working on with Harry today, Rebecca?" Marcus asked, not looking at her but his eyes travelling the lines of the horse's legs and glancing over its chest, the line of its face and the color of its eyes. He had grown up with horses; being as ugly as he was, his parents had taught him everything they figured he needed to know and then shoved him out to the barn. Ironic how those assholes had sent him to the barn for punishment for being one ugly son-of-a-bitch—literally—and then his pretty little husband was a horse freak.

Rebecca smiled brightly, green eyes softening at the love obvious between these two men. When she had met Harry and Marcus two months ago—just four months after they had been married—she had still held her father's view on homosexuals: Bible says they're wrong, an abomination, so that's what they are. But after seeing their tender caresses and the soft looks passed between grey eyes and green eyes, how Marcus had thrown himself in front of Amor to protect Harry when the stallion had a bout of bucking and how Marcus kept his eyes on his little husband the entire time he was riding, not daring to look away, Rebecca's opinion had rapidly changed. "Groundwork with Amor, Marcus, and then bareback on Tea." Marcus nodded in approval and leaned down to scoop Swanson up again, pressing a kiss to Harry's lips right before he walked away.

"Stay safe," Marcus told his husband, and Rebecca's smile widened. She, like everyone else that met Marcus and Harry, wished for a love like theirs. Harry smiled softly and looked up at his trainer, who winked at him and gave him the reins of her horse so he could walk behind her without the threat of being kicked. Tom watched his daddy talk to the lady with the red hair and giggled, jumping down from the hay loft and landing in a pile of used shavings and waste; he giggled again and ran off, intent on finding Swanson so he could have a physical argument with the rambunctious puppy.

(O.o)

Harry stood outside the round pen, watching Rebecca's agile body work with the two-year-old colt, his copper coat flashing brightly in the sun. She turned her body and pointed the stick in her hand out to the left; Amor whirled around and went the other way before he reached the imaginary line, Rebecca and Harry smiling as brightly as the sun. Harry's green eyes flickered between Rebecca and his beautiful horse, trying to keep up as both bodies shifted subtly and body language changed dramatically with only a muscle shift or the placement of a leg.

"See how my torso is pointed behind his haunch?" Rebecca asked, green eyes flashing over to land on Harry's, whose own emerald eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they flickered between her torso and Amor's haunch. After a few long moments, he nodded; Rebecca spun around and threw her right arm out, Amor whipping around and beginning to canter, throwing a buck at Rebecca. Her brow furrowed and she whipped around, tossing the stick to her left hand and pointing it to the side. Amor ran directly through and after giving him another chance, which Amor didn't take, Rebecca spun around and ran to right where Amor was going to be, scaring the shit out of both Amor and Harry, the horse whipping back around and running off, bucking again. Rebecca swore under her breath and shook her head, turning to Harry. "You sure Marcus has been working with him?"

Harry nodded quickly. "He told me he has."

The huge man rumbled behind Harry, who squeaked softly in shock; "'Course I've been workin' with the damn beast. Once a bloody day, in the round pen." Marcus pushed Harry up against the bars of the round pen and glanced down at the younger man interestedly. "You tellin' this lady lies, beau?"

Harry shook his head as Rebecca snorted under her breath and turned back to argue with the nicely developing colt. Harry tilted his head back as Marcus breathed down his neck; he wriggled against his husband and let out a happy sigh. Life could not be better.

(O.o)

Tom sat with the happily panting Lab pup in his lap, tucked in between two slats of a pasture fence and his feet in a water trough. He leaned forward and scooped up a small handful of water, bringing it up to Swanson's mouth so the Lab could refresh himself. Swanson's entire small body wriggled as he tried to nudge at Tom's hand; instead, he somehow flipped over Tom's tiny knees and into the trough. Tom cried out in laughter and surprise and stood up, stepping delicately around the puppy that was desperately trying to climb out of the trough, and lifting a foot over the edge, he froze as his father's massive black horse, aptly named Haine, snorted loudly and began running towards him.

Tom fell forward, curling against the edge of the trough, and Swanson began barking, loud and ordering; Tom put his hands up in the air, as if they could protect him from Haine, and then, the moment before the horse's huge hooves destroyed him, all he heard was a small boom, followed by a loud and nigh deafening whoosh, and, suddenly, Swanson wasn't barking anymore.

(O.o)

Year: 2008
Ten Years Missing

Tom looked up from one of his dad's old potion textbooks, frowning softly and watching as his father grumbling something apparently hilarious into his dad's ear. "Why don't we have a dog?" he asked them; it had been bothering him furiously for the past week. His dad choked on his whisky and his father froze.

Wide green eyes met his and then flittered away. "Err...we had one when you were seven, Tom, don't you remember him?"

Tom nodded, slumping back into the middle cushion of the couch, rubbing at his face with his hand. Surely he remembered that happy little yellow pup, but he couldn't, for the life of him, remember what had happened to it. All he remembered was a loud scream and some huge black horse and his father's worried grey eyes and large hands shaking him, desperate to make sure he was alright, and seeing something indescribable and trying to apologize desperately for it and his father shaking his head, telling him that family was more important than a horse. "Yeah, a yellow puppy. Why'd we get rid of it?"

His father shook his head and set his dad aside, standing up and walking out of the sitting room with his hands up in the air, mumbling something that sounded like, "You deal with this, he was your kid first."

His dad shook his head good-naturedly and tucked himself into the pocket of heat left by his father, watching Tom with narrowed emerald eyes. Tom was well aware that he was adopted, as two wizards could have children but it was so rare that it was neatly thought impossible. He didn't mind, though; having adoptive parents was better than having no parents at all. Hell, and he couldn't ask for better parents than the ones he had now, even if they were both male and one of them was supposed to be extremely famous. His father had told him everything he knew about his dad, chortling the entire time that he said the name Voldemort—that damned name that had always sparked something unimaginable in Tom—and casting his son curious looks occasionally. Tom hadn't understood what was so funny but figured he'd learn in time.

His dad sighed softly. "Do you remember a horse named Haine?"

Tom nodded and placed the potions text, closed, on the scratched coffee table in front of him, turning to focus his entire attention on his father. "Yes."

(O.o)

Year: 2006
Eight Years Missing

Harry giggled as Marcus lifted him up from the kitchen table, shaking his head with that Slytherin amusement that Harry found so arousing. Dobby appeared behind them and took the bowls of fruit and chocolate syrup—he didn't even want to think about what his Masters were doing—back to the house elf kitchen below the basement, shaking his head tolerably.

Marcus grumbled softly at his precious beau, pressing Harry to the nearest wall and ravishing him senseless. Tongues danced; lips pressed harshly; teeth grated; Harry groaned loudly and wouldn't have it any other way. Marcus ached somewhere deep and pulled back slightly, slamming a hand into one of Harry's shoulders when the younger man tried to follow his mouth, and he growled, "Either we go upstairs or I take you right here." Harry chuckled softly and shifted obviously, Marcus's eyes flashing.

"Dobby will keep Tom occupied," Harry told him by way of an answer, and Marcus growled loudly and re-attacked his beau's lips.

Hands pressed to skin and two separate gasps were heard, Harry arching achingly into his lover's capable and talented hands; no one would ever take this from him, they couldn't, they wouldn't dare. This, right here, was all the world he could ever need. Harry moaned against heated skin and locked eyes with his husband; "I love you," Marcus grunted out, and Harry whimpered, arching again, against the thick, muscular and strong body of his husband, and as he met Marcus's honest grey eyes, he fell in love all over again.

(O.o)

Harry stepped up next to Tom as his son moved his bone-white wand from hand to hand. At first, Harry had debated not giving Tom the wand that had killed and tortured—himself included, a lifetime ago—so many people, but as Marcus had rumbled, "There is only one wand for every wizard," Harry had nodded and demurred the situation. Tom had never asked why he had a wand already, even when Harry had told him that wizards didn't usually receive their wands until they were eleven; or ten, as Marcus had pointed out, in pureblood society. The three horses in the outdoor pasture, Amor being one of them, grazed quietly and occasionally, with pinned ears and snapping teeth, told one another to get the hell out of their way.

Tom looked up at his dad and lowered his left hand, wand tip pointed to the ground; he wrapped his dad's arm around his shoulders and leaned into the green-eyed man, letting out a soft, contented sigh. For the moment, nothing mattered; Harry didn't think of the implications of saving the squalling red-eyed child from underneath the chair in Voldemort's mind, Tom didn't wonder about the mysteries of life or the blood-filled dreams he had that always made something deep inside of him ache when his eyes finally flashed open with a lips emitting a soundless scream, didn't think about the words already forming on his lips when he met his dad's soft green gaze or the random bursts of betrayal that battered his chest when his father smirked at him. He simply didn't think, and that was good enough for him.

(O.o)

Year: 2008
Ten Years Missing

His dad smiled sadly at him and gave Tom a soft nod, standing up and wandering out of the sitting room, leaving Tom to deal with his shock all alone. Tom found himself grateful that he had set his potions book aside; he wasn't sure what to do with his hands and inherently knew that he would have thrown something into the gently roaring fireplace or torn it apart with magic-assisted rage. He had killed. Killed a puppy and his father's treasured horse, and hadn't even been punished for it. His dad had quietly explained what Tom had done—covered the pasture in Haine's blood and guts and bones and brain and life, which his parents hadn't been able to remove with magic, as well as filled the water trough with Swanson's blood and gore, staining the metal and finally causing his father to shake his head in muted dismay and crush it with his hands—and now Tom sat in silence, figuring that it was no fucking wonder that he had suppressed the memory; how could he have done something like that? He had been raised to believe that hurting animals was the ultimate wrong, as animals inherently trusted and believed in people; animals were innocent, the ultimate innocent, as no human could meet that innocence, not even a babe.

Tom's red eyes squeezed shut as his fists clenched on top of his thighs and he felt himself being sucked into the mind of his seven-year-old self, seeing the world through a child's eyes:

Tom fell forward, curling against the edge of the trough, and Swanson began barking, loud and ordering; Tom put his hands up in the air, as if they could protect him from Haine, and then, the moment before the horse's huge hooves destroyed him, all he heard was a small boom, followed by a loud and nigh deafening whoosh, and, suddenly, Swanson wasn't barking anymore.

Tom looked up to see something that his dad would grow lightly green at: Haine was no longer the horse that had his father had specially researched and bought for a price that he had muttered at for a week afterwards, but now a wide, wet splatter of blood and bones; Tom could see the large heart, severed in half by his magic, lying a good five feet away, and it moved slightly and Tom let out a primal scream, wishing only for the comfort of his fathers. It came just as Tom was shaking his head in denial and sitting up, looking to see where Swanson had disappeared to.

He turned his head back, to glance curiously into the water trough and then to stare in disgusted shock. Swanson, as well, was no more. His soft yellow pelt now lay in floating strips on the edges of the blood-filled water, and Tom could see the small, thin ribs sunk to the bottom of the trough, staring up at him with caged eyes that he threw himself away from, one hand slipping on Haine's blood, and he fell into a swamp of loss and destruction; his father landed right where Tom had been cowering and those soft grey eyes fell immediately on his son and large, callused hands outstretched for his son.

"Tom!" his father barked, and he slammed forward, falling onto his knees next to Tom, somehow not slipping in the swamp of blood that was slowly pooling; Tom, whose entire body was shaking in his fear; the huge man's softened as they caressed Tom's face and his father rasped, "Tom, are you alright? Did Haine hurt you? Where's Swanson? What happened, son? Are you okay?"

Tom gasped out an indistinguishable response, and once he heard his dad's concerned voice, his eyes rolled back in his head as his hands wrapped tightly around his father's strong wrists and refused to let go.

As he had not done on that day three years ago, Tom leaned forward and stuck his head between his knees, throwing up the black bile of guilt and horror.

He was a killer. How could his parents dare to look at him? How could they keep him in their house, when they knew what he had done? Tom knew that his dad had done some horrible things in the Second Wizarding War, the war that his father had sat patiently in Flint Manor for and waited out, but his dad hadn't ever killed an innocent animal! His dad hadn't ever exploded a horse and a puppy! His dad was a man unsurpassed, a man able to forgive his son when he killed the two things that he had been taught to never abuse, never take advantage of, never hurt. His father might not have contributed to the War, and he and his dad had lovingly recollected their interactions at Hogwarts in front of Tom with wide smiles of reflection on their pleased faces, and his father might not be a good person, but he hadn't ever killed an animal!

His dad had tried to placate Tom by telling him that he hadn't known what he was doing, that both he and his father weren't scared of him and completely forgave him for acting in self-defense towards an animal that was certainly too dangerous to be around a child, but he had never mentioned Swanson. Tom took a deep breath and squeezed his knees to his temples, grinding his hands into tight, painful fists around his nipples, and knew that he was never forgiven for taking the life of an innocent puppy.

Someone dropped into the couch next to Tom and two huge hands crashed onto his thin back, pulling him awkwardly onto his father's wide lap. Tom curled into his father's lap and twisted his fists in his father's dirty white t-shirt, pressing his face into his father's thick shoulder, sniffling pathetically. Huge arms wrapped around him, comforting in their heat, and his father leaned his head against Tom's. "We never blamed you for Swanson or Haine's deaths, Tom," his father told him, voice gruff. "Your dad knew that it was self-defense; as he told you earlier, Haine was too dangerous to be around a kid of only seven." Tom could ignore the hasty kiss pressed to the top of his head but chose not to, lifting his head and meeting his father's calm and concerned gaze. He couldn't really remember any time in which he had been held in his father's lap; his parents were affectionate but usually only to one another. It didn't bother Tom; he was more of a loner, as it were, and he had grown used to it.

His father nodded slowly, as if agreeing with something Tom hadn't said. "We love you, Tom," his father grunted, gaze sliding away; Tom remembered a lecture on that love wasn't something Slytherins felt, and if they ever did, they were to either conceal it so well they forgot it existed—something that he was well aware was impossible—or to only admit it in a situation in which they could benefit from it. He kept his red eyes on his father's, waiting patiently, his fists loosening but not releasing the dirty white shirt. Tom realized the need his dad felt to constantly be in these arms; he had rarely, if ever, felt so safe—it was nearly addictive, and if he loved his father in a manner that was in a manner that was the opposite of what he felt now, familial and slightly hero-esque, Tom knew he would seek out these arms and this embrace even more—and wondered if he would ever feel this sensation of ultimate protection in anyone else's arms. He desperately hoped so. "I know that you've been raised to never hurt an animal, which you should never do, but Haine and Swanson..." his father grunted under his breath and shook his head, as if ridding it of a thought. "That was right of you. You did nothing wrong." Grey met red and Tom thrummed with the conviction his father held; before he could stop himself, he nodded in agreement. "Good." His father's arms tightened slightly before gently moving him to the side; his dad sidled in and curled against his father's chest, ever-watchful green eyes locked curiously on his son's face.

A golden hand gently caressed Tom's face and he pressed wonderingly into it, purring softly under his breath. Was this what his fathers' relationship was like? This constant comfort and shared body warmth? If so, Tom had to find it as quickly as he could, lest he wither away into a world of delirium and unreality. "You will always be our son," his dad murmured, and Tom's eyes flipped open; how did his dad know he had held that vague worry in the back of his mind? "We would never let you go, no matter what. Am I clear?"

Tom nodded in response, and closed his eyes, curling up against his father's chest and intertwining his hand with his dad's as he rested his head against his father's shoulder, falling asleep to the tempo of their combined love and acceptance.

(O.o)

Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing
Eight Hours Found

Samael dragged himself wordlessly out of his room after Transfiguring the clothes he had worn the day previous into something slightly different, and floated himself downstairs, unable to manage the stairs, and quickly found the kitchen, dropping his thin body onto the bench at the kitchen table, murmuring absently for his house elf, Shy, and when she appeared, politely asking him for what he wanted, he ordered his usual breakfast: a heavy mug of heavy black coffee and a piece of dry toast. She nodded softly and disappeared, reappearing just as Marcus Flint wandered in and glanced over him. Shy danced around the unfamiliar kitchen table but obediently set down his coffee and toast before disappearing again; Samael looked slowly up at the huge man as he dropped his heavy body right across the table from Samael, smirking knowingly at him.

Samael froze; one hand danced over his neck, where he could timidly feel the bruise that Marcus had inflicted on him last night. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he reflected, gulping down some of the coffee and not meeting Marcus's grey eyes. How could he have forgotten to glamour the bruise? He didn't have to rid himself of it, but glamouring it...that was easy enough done. Marcus chuckled softly at him and Samael's grey-black eyes darted up to meet Marcus's warm grey ones, attempting to pull himself back but feeling himself swallowed up by them anyway. "Like bruises, eh, Prince?" Marcus chuckled, and ripped off a corner of Samael's toast and shoving it in his mouth. Samael only downcast his eyes, unable to chastise the man who had once been his student; he drained the rest of his coffee and attempted to flee back to the room that had been provided for him, but ran into a small, warm body instead.

Amused green eyes tore at him and Samael threw himself quickly away, whimpering in the back of his mind; can't even touch him, can't even hold him, Mordred knew he wanted to, wanted to touch and please and caress and moon over as if Harry Potter was a specimen to be treasured—which he was, even more than Samael could recognize—and he wanted to fall in love and follow after Harry Potter as if he were a god and press adoring kisses to the man's perfectly arched golden feet and just have those beautiful hands touch his skin, hold him, caress him. Harry smirked at him and nudged Samael back to the kitchen table, quickly busying himself with making coffee the Muggle way. Samael noted that with distaste as he gracefully took his seat, looking alertly between Harry and Marcus, not allowing his eyes to cradle the perfect globes of Harry's arse or the line of his back or the slope of his shoulders; Merlin knew that he would follow that boy until the earth ended.

Marcus Flint said nothing, grey eyes only watching Samael with an emotion that the Potions Master couldn't name. Once or twice, Marcus's lips opened as if he was going to say something—Samael could help but notice the grace of said lips—and then snapped shut nearly immediately. Harry was quickly done, hands cradling around a mug of steaming black coffee, and he deposited himself in Marcus's lap, carefully sipping at the hot liquid as his eyes wandered Samael's face.

Must he parade in front of me what I can never have? Samael thought desperately, and then physically pushed that thought away with a ruthlessness that he had wondered if he had lost with the guise of Samael Prince. The three men sat in silence and as Samael dropped himself into it, he could feel the wan comfort of finally being in Harry's presence after so many years of longing surrounding him and he closed his eyes and gently breathed it in. His hands sat on top of the table, palms flat against the scarred wood, and as his eyes squeezed shut, he felt two warm hands of differing sizes and strengths gently cradle his long fingers. He didn't dare open his eyes enough to see the mocking and cruel looks that he was sure that had taken over their faces, but just enough to see the hand that he had dreamed about for so long touching his hand. Samael nodded and huskily breathed as softly as he could; he gently clenched the hands touching his.

Magic swirled through him and Samael's breath caught in his throat; he could feel the Dark magic that Marcus had been raised with whipping through him and the residual magical block that had been raised by the hideous Muggles that Harry had somehow lived through—for a moment, he felt Marcus's possessive rage and furious shock and his vow to murder, as painfully and bloody and destructively as possible, whomever had done this to what Marcus Flint had deemed as his—and the wan confusion that had cried through Harry's small body as he glimpsed through the glamour that hid Severus Snape from the world and the dark amusement that Marcus experienced just this morning when Harry had finally made him agree to something. Something tugged piteously at Samael's heart and he screwed his eyes tightly shut as possible, feeling the beginnings of an established bond rip through him; why would they want me?

He could feel the startlingly familiar magic of their son swamp the room and before Samael could stop himself, he ripped away and fled back up to his room, locking and warding the door behind him. Tom held up his hands, mumbling that he didn't bloody want to know, and quickly fixed himself a stern cup of tea, ignoring the warm satisfaction that radiated from his fathers. No, he did not want to know. He paused slightly, cradling the warm mug between his hands—a habit stolen from his dad—as he turned to look at his fathers, who were leaning fully into one another, communicating with touches and soft glances, and slowly asked, "You're not...messing with him, are you?"

Two stern glares were directed at him and Tom nodded, wordlessly receiving his answer even as his dad answered anyway, "No, Thomas. If we invite another into our bed, it is permanent."

His father grunted softly and nodded slowly, as if he couldn't even contemplate the fact that he was even thinking about bringing Samael Prince—Severus Snape, Marcus darkly reflected, and unconsciously tightened his arms around his precious husband—into their bed, and lowly told his son, as well as his beau, "Yes. He will be ours."

Tom nearly blushed at the blinding smile his dad graced his father with, and silently retreated from the kitchen, summoning Dobby to put up a silencing charm as he had a feeling that his father needed...reassurance. Tom shuddered lightly at the thought and waited patiently for the Malfoys outside his unlocked room, sipping his tea idly.

(O.o)

Year: 1999
One Year Missing

In the bed at St. Mungo's, a thin form threw his head from side to side, held down to the bed with both magical and physical restraints as he had attempted to kill himself once or twice and self-mutilate even more. The Healers were lost on what to do with him; finally, Lucius Malfoy had sternly ordered them to simply leave his long-time family friend alone, as he simply needed to self heal and no amount of magic could bring him out of the coma that Nagini's poison had induced.

Behind closed lids, a man lost in a world of dreams held justice to a young man with liquid green eyes and a blinding smile.

Snape—for he was not yet Samael Prince—walked through a fresher version of the Forbidden Forest, one person at his side and a lumbering form directly behind him. He did not meet the soft gazes of either man, not trusting himself with what he would do; would he run? Would he move into their welcoming arms? Would he fall to his knees, head bowed, and plead for acceptance? Would he ask to belong to only them, to these two people that he did not even know exist? Would he fall in love?

He did not know, so he did not entertain the thoughts for what he was certain could not happen; he did not look into either gaze. If either man touched him, he accepted the touch until he found himself enjoying it, then he would move quickly away and clench his fists behind wide leaves and stand behind thick trees until his breath had regained.

At other times, he would be alone, walking through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, in his teacher's robes and looking for rule-breaking students; he never found them, always searching and slipping into the shadows when he thought he heard voices as to surprise the students more and sequentially take more points, but never finding the loss he was searching for. Now he would stand at the bare edge of the Quidditch pitch, an unfamiliar broom in his hand and two unfamiliar forms darting in the air above him, and he found himself wishing to join them, to take flight and dart through the air like a bird without wings.

Tears slipped silently from closed lids and tracked down chiseled cheeks, resting in the thin pool of flesh behind his pointed chin; yet, as he was alone—as he always was—nobody saw. Nobody would ever see.

He saw an owl holding two letters and the look of shock on a beloved face; a red-eyed boy's shock and betrayal at finding out that his own dad had killed him; green eyes rolling, a smirk twisting a beautiful face, and taking a sip from a mug of hot coffee, his lips placed directly on top of where Snape's had been; following behind three forms as they strode confidently down Diagon Alley, and meeting warm green eyes and being tucked up against a huge, kind body and a hot, hard hand clamping possessively to his hip as a small hand intertwined with his; blinking away tears as he opened the unexpected bonding gift and gracelessly pulling out a plain black collar and throwing himself—fuck propriety—into the welcoming arms of the two men and nodding as determinedly as he could, then kneeling and begging wordlessly for two hands, one huge and one small, to gently clasp the collar around his neck and then two different but still beloved mouths to press similar kisses to the back of his head; tucked up against the side of a huge man, with his eyes flickering nervously between the two warm gazes directed at him—grey and green—and shivering in pleasure when a large hand gently tilted his chin up and grumbled, "You are ours."

Then, he was standing in front of the Dark Lord, Nagini hissing around his Master's feet, and his regret for all that he had done and not done, more regret than he had ever felt before overwhelming him; and he momentarily closed his eyes, wishing that he had told Harry Potter that he was loved.

(O.o)

Year: 2009
Eleven Years Missing
Seven Hours Found

Marcus grunted softly as he watched his beau wandlessly and wordlessly picked up two heavy bale of hay and wrapped his arms around Harry's thin shoulders as his husband glanced down the aisle and all of the hay gates slipped open obediently. Flakes separated and floated down the aisle into the correct stalls; Harry's head fell back and he let out a thin moan, one of the sections of hay wiggling dangerously before Harry glanced down at it and the hay slipped into the stall.

"Harry," Marcus rumbled, and scooped his beau up into his arms as the last flakes of hay were deposited and the last hay gate was closed; he slammed his husband lightly into the closest wall and immediately bit down on that delectable neck. Harry whimpered and writhed obediently against him; they could do this every day for a thousand years and Marcus would never tire of it. "What do you think of our black haired guest?" He was well aware he would have to bring up the possibility of Samael Prince being the final piece to their bonding; Harry would never bring it up for fear of infuriating Marcus and causing him to throw Samael out. Better to have the man in their house and not be able to touch than gone and never to be seen again—that would be Harry's logic, always so goddamn selfless that it was sometimes painful to live with.

Harry stilled immediately and Marcus stepped back, not wanting to pressure his beau with touch, and Harry conjured up chairs that both men took, not looking at one another; Harry sighed softly and buried his head in his hands. "He feels...like another one of us," Harry murmured, not looking at his husband.

Marcus grunted softly and reached out his hands, resting the tops of his forearms on his knees, palms tilted towards Harry's bowed head. He waited until Harry's attention was caught and those beautiful hands were placed gently in his. Harry's head bowed forward as Marcus slowly murmured, "While you were sleeping this morning, I found his wand and flicked a few spells with it. Harry...do you know what it means when you can use another wizard's wand?"

Harry shrugged idly and slowly shook his head. "I know that I've used your wand a few times without realizing it."

Marcus nodded softly and pressed a brief kiss to the back of Harry's hand, right on top of the faded scar: I will not tell lies. Marcus's teeth bared for a moment as he remembered the cause of that scar—Umbridge—and, once again, vowed to destroy that woman. "Only witches and/or wizards with compatible magic can use one another's wands," Marcus admitted, a pained look crossing his heavy features, and then continued, "So that means..."

"He's our third," Harry finished lowly, eyes wide as they sought out Marcus's. "Holy..."

"Merlin's fucking hat," Marcus completed, and immediately pulled Harry into his arms. This was something he needed to think about; they couldn't just invite someone into their bed and expect everything to work out perfectly—Marcus was well aware that if they did that, Harry's incredibly bad luck, often countered by extraordinarily good luck, would suddenly flare up and possibly kill all three of them, or something similarly painful. He knew that Harry's promise of six years ago—that he would, always, always be Marcus's, and any decision on allowing a third into their bed would ultimately fall to Marcus—still held true, but he had to make sure. Slowly, he asked, "If we do this..."

Harry interrupted him with a gentle, loving kiss on his lips and a confirming, "Yes, Marcus, all decisions fall to you. I am yours; if you let S...err, Snape into our bed, all I ask that he wear no glamours. I...I just need to see him, not some guise."

"You are mine," Marcus repeated gruffly, and at Harry's affirming nod, he threw the boy up against the nearest wall and quite thoroughly proceeded to ravish his little beau senseless. For Harry, he would allow Snape—Prince, whoever the bloody hell he was, Marcus didn't care—in their bed, but on his own terms. He sneered at that thought; oh, he might have Harry, but the man that Harry had told him to allow in their bed was going to be his, in face and name and soul and all that the man knew.

Today, tomorrow, and yesterday, he would be king.

(O.o)

End Chapter Three
Morsus: Latin for pain.

A/N: Yes, this chapter was not as long as the other ones—three pages shorter, actually. I tried to make it longer but the chapter just ended here. So, here's chapter three. Happy readings; review, if you will. It is most appreciated. Yes, and this chapter is slightly different; no Malfoys! What is the world to do? *wink*
-Replacement for the Stars

A small correction: During Tom's flashback to when he was seven and killed Haine and Swanson, I wrote 'eyes' instead of 'hands'. It has been edited and corrected, as well as a few other inconsistencies I noticed when re-reading the chapter. If there are any other such wrongs, please leave a note in a review and it will be corrected. Thank you.

Something Else: Also, if there are any worries about how quickly Marcus and Harry are allowing Samael/Severus into their relationship, please cast those worries away. Yes, while it may seem to be too soon, please note that there will still be a lot of things for Marcus to work through with SS and that will draw the beginning of their true relationship out. I...just don't have the ability to put off the beginning of a relationship, but I do have the ability to give angst. Please do remember that HP and MF were married after only six months of living together--three months of being together, if memory serves correct--and so any relationship that had to do with them will begin startlingly quickly and last for bloody ever. Thanks for reading.