Chapter Three:

Of Homes

"Pick a name, mon ami," Remy warned, "or Remy be pickin' one fo' ya, an' ya won' have a say in it."

Harry rolled his eyes and kept his attention on the book in his hands. "Remy, I'm hardly powerful enough to need a name. I fail to see the point."

The Cajun just chuckled. "Den Remy be callin' ya Seer."

Making a face, Harry quickly shook his head. "Too awkward. Try again." He also wasn't a seer, really, not the way that Professor Trelawney—or even Luna, to a lesser degree—had been (were? Were going to be? He didn't know the date, and tenses were so fluid that he was never certain which to use), but he wasn't about to say that out loud. It would raise far too many awkward questions.

"Delphi?"

"Do I look like a madwoman to you? That fails on two counts. Next."

"Foreteller? Foreseer?"

"Ugly and ungainly." Harry looked over the top of his book and coolly raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me something, Remy darling?"

Remy just snorted. "Mon chèri, it's no' dat har'. Pick a name, and den when Gambit go huntin', 'e won' be alone." He crouched down in front of Harry's chair, eyes pleading. "Please, mon amour? Do it fo' Remy?"

A month and a half together, and he already knew how to manipulate Harry into just about anything. With a sigh, Harry dropped his book and closed his eyes, considering. Wizard was too obvious, and none of its synonyms appealed to him. Remy's idea, even though he was reluctant to admit it, was probably the best suggestion, and close enough to an actual ability to be fitting. Opening his eyes, Harry raised an eyebrow at the expectant Remy and offered, "Oracle?"

Remy grinned, plucking the book from Harry's loose grip and setting it carefully aside—he had learned the hard way that Harry was incredibly protective of his books. Then, gently, he took Harry's hands and raised them to his lips, kissing them in quick succession. "Gambit and Oracle it be, den—toge'er."

Heart clenching, Harry slowly slid out of his chair, going to his knees in front of the Cajun. His hands rose to frame Remy's face, and, with a smile, he leaned forward and kissed him softly. Harry knew he couldn't promise forever without breaking his word, but he would gladly give Remy everything else.

"Yes," he answered.


Harry was overwhelmed by just how much he loved the city, and the people, and Remy, and how he couldn't imagine ever being anywhere else.

But someday, he knew, he would have to go somewhere else.

Already, he could feel the faint stirrings of unease that always preceded a freefall, as though the Time Turners in his blood had begun to shift and move in preparation for spinning. For the first time in a long, long while, Harry felt frightened—of the Time Turners and the inevitable fall, and of Remy's reaction when he did leave. Even if, somehow, he landed in a "when" where Remy was still alive, would the Cajun still want him? Would he be able to forgive Harry for leaving in such a way, so sudden and stark? Would he have moved on already?

There could be no warning, Harry knew. He couldn't say anything, both for fear of bringing up his wizarding past and because Remy would try to do something to stop the freefall. Harry had already tried everything, back when he first started drifting, and knew that there was no way to so much as delay the Time Turners. He went wherever they took him, and as much as the stubborn Gryffindor he had buried deep inside himself chafed at that, there was nothing to be done. When the time came, he would leave, and Remy would be alone, and he would be alone, and he would have to spend the rest of eternity freefalling through time, knowing what could have been, but unable to go back to it.

He loved Remy with a physical ache, a throbbing in his heart that grew with every moment they spent together. No one had ever inspired such emotions before, or made him think of forever the way Remy did, and Harry knew that it would kill something inside of him to lose that, to lose Remy.

Moonlight poured over the room, elegantly cold and somehow achingly lonely. Curled on the window seat, Harry sighed and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window itself, closing his eyes against the depression that surged like a rising tide in his gut. Behind him, on the bed, Remy slept. For once, it was a peaceful sleep, without nightmares to disturb it, and as much as Harry wanted to go and curl up next to him, snuggle into his embrace and bask in his warmth, he knew Remy would wake up if he so much as rose from his seat, and Remy needed whatever peaceful sleep he could get. He'd wait, then. Just a little longer.

A flutter of wings drew his attention back to the view outside as a bat flickered past, there and gone in an instant. Like me, Harry acknowledged, and would have laughed if it hadn't been so utterly dismal a thought.

The soft rustling of blankets moving roused him, and he looked back at the bed to see Remy watching him, hazel eyes solemn. Harry blinked and sat up straighter, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Oh. Remy. I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Even if he hadn't made noise, it was possible. Remy woke up if someone was thinking too hard.

Remy shook his head, smiling faintly as his gaze traced over Harry's moon-drenched form. He held out a hand. "Come ta bed, mon amour. It's ei'er way too early or way too late fo' lookin' dat serious."

Obediently, Harry slid off the cushioned seat and took the outstretched hand, allowing Remy to pull him down onto the bed. With a grin, Remy wrapped his arms around Harry's shoulders and rolled so that he was on the bottom, staring up into golden-brown eyes that flared with sudden, smoldering heat.

"How long ya been up fo', chèri?" he asked, his voice growing deeper and huskier, and Harry shivered at the sound of it.

Pupils dilating, Harry cleared his throat. "A few hours," he whispered, and the words were hard to get out. "I couldn't sleep, and then you just looked so peaceful—"

Remy's wandering fingers cut off the question, and Harry moaned into his mouth as their lips met. Harry fought another shiver, feeling the lingering wetness inside him from their last round, and how his body became so soft and pliant under the Cajun's hands. Greedy, greedy, greedy, something inside him taunted. Wanting him, possessing him, taking advantage of man you know you'll have to leave behind. How could you?

I love him, was all Harry could think in response. He's my everything.

Harry stared up into the hazel eyes that held so much warmth and adoration, so much emotion that he couldn't believe was directed at him. Remy was the enigmatic thief, who had overcome banishment and fear and hatred and thrived on the opposition. And he had chosen Harry, out of all the people in the world.

Harry wasn't under any misconceptions about himself; he knew how he looked and how powerful he was, but he also knew his shortcomings. He had a temper – though it was slow to rise these days – he didn't know when to stop, and he threw himself headlong into suicidal situations that seemed unwinnable. Why anyone would waste time trying to understand him, trying to love him, was something he couldn't comprehend. Especially since Remy was probably the only one who had ever seen him as he actually was—someone young, with a power than they still couldn't understand, who needed help and companionship no matter how well he seemed to do living a solitary, quiet life.

That, more than anything else, was precious.

Remy hitched one of Harry's legs up, pulling it around his hip, and they slid together with an ease that Harry still found somewhat ridiculous, even after all this time. How could any two people be as perfect for each other as they were? It defied all probability, all reason and logic. Nevertheless, he was incredibly grateful for it, for this man who was so warm and kind and wonderful, who kissed him like breathing and filled him perfectly. He gasped out a word that might have been Remy or might have been more or even move, and arched up as Remy did so, sliding slick and easy so deep inside him.

It wasn't storybook perfect—Harry was still sore from earlier, and Remy was still a little too sleep-dazed for it to be incredibly romantic, and they were both too eager (as they almost always were, it seemed) for it to last very long between them. Still, it was them, and Harry hardly needed to touch himself before he was coming, back arching and eyes fluttering shut, Remy's name tumbling into the overheated air between them like a prayer. With a groan, Remy came as well, slumping over him and gasping for breath, muscles quivering in the aftermath.

After a few moments of being crushed into the mattress, Harry wriggled out from under the heavier Cajun and snorted softly at the dead weight that had previously been his lover, shoving Remy to one side and curling up against him with a contented sigh. He flicked a tired glance at the clock and nearly winced.

"Late," he muttered.

Remy chuckled and attempted a leer, but it was too exhausted to do much but fall short. "Or early, dependin' on which side a' de clock you're lookin' on, mon chèri." He tucked Harry closer to his side and buried his nose in the wizard's hair. "Can ya sleep now, or does Remy be needin' ta tire ya out some more?"

Sleepy emerald eyes fluttered open, and Harry smiled at him in return, just slightly—neither of them was much for smiles, really, right now. Then he buried his face in the curve of Remy's shoulder and mumbled, "Night, Remy."

Sighing softly, Remy settled them deeper into the pillows and closed his eyes as well. "Nigh', mon amour. Sleep well, an' dream a' me."

Harry sighed, shoving down all of his worries and locking them away. Their time together was too precious to waste with misgivings and doubts.

Nevertheless, his skin prickled slightly, as if in foreboding, and he had to fight off a shiver of unease. Something was about to happen, and he couldn't tell if the outcome would be good or bad.