"Ron! Come down here!" Mrs. Weasley's shout was heard throughout the house.

"Coming!" he bellowed back, slamming the lid of his trunk down and dumping his books unceremoniously on the bed before darting out into the hallway. His half-unpacked trunk was left in his room, the one he'd shared with Harry the summer before. Harry. His fists clenched at the thought of him. Harry was the reason everything had gone wrong in his life.

It had been a mistake to sit in his compartment in first year. If he hadn't, then he and his family wouldn't have gotten tangled up in this and they wouldn't be on Voldemort's hit list because they were close to Harry. He knew Hermione had her own reasons for wanting to sever ties with Harry, but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that her parents were muggles, and if they were attacked there was nothing they could do to fight back. He also suspected that she was tired of being 'just' Harry's best friend, like him. They were always in the shadow of the Boy-Who-Lived, even if they were unique.

He would never admit it, but deep down he knew Harry hadn't asked for this to happen, that it wasn't his fault, and he had no control over what was happening. Look at Sirius though. He'd gone to the Department of Mysteries to save Harry, who'd decided to play hero and 'rescue' his 'captured' godfather, and been killed as a result. That was all Harry, he told himself.

Hermione had warned him to be careful, and he hadn't listened to her. Everyone who knew Hermione knew she was almost always right and how should then have been any different? No, Harry had paid her warning no mind, and Sirius had paid the ultimate price for loving his godson.

Shaking off his dark thoughts, he trooped down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the Order was assembled around the kitchen table, waiting for him. His step unconsciously became more pronounced as he strode over to the only empty seat, not far from the door.

Eyes followed him as he swaggered over to his chair, and continued to look upon him when he'd seated himself. Even the Order members who'd never met him could guess who he was, or at least whom he was related to. His distinct flaming red Weasley hair and freckles were a dead give-away.

Snape watched him saunter over with a sneer on his face, astounded by the show of arrogance from someone so, well, average. Ron had never been exceptional in any of his classes, wasn't graced with the greatest looks, and certainly wasn't filthy rich and spoiled silly. The only things he seemed to excel at were chess and strategy. His flying was acceptable, but it was nothing compared to Potter's.

He really had nothing significant to be arrogant about.

Molly Weasley watched her youngest son with unmistakable pride in her eyes. He might be average, but in her eyes he could do no wrong. The task he was about to be asked to carry out also added a bit of shine to her gaze. Friendly and generous she might be, but no one ever said she was a saint, or free of prejudices and expectations.

…

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. Wonderful timing, I must say. I was just about to arrange for a conversation with you." Dumbledore offered his withered hand, and Ron shook it.

"Sir, I was wondering, this wouldn't have something to do with Harry, would it?" he asked, already knowing exactly what the Headmaster would say.

"As a matter of fact, it would. I would imagine you've been in contact with him?" The redhead nodded, hoping that this wasn't about him breaking things off with Harry. He hadn't told anyone yet, and he hoped he wouldn't have to until he had Hermione to back him up.

"I have, but he didn't reply. Why?"

The wizened old man continued conversationally, "Well, Mr. Weasley, I and several other Order members have agreed it would be better if you were to keep an eye on him and relay anything significant you learn, if you would be willing? We are going to be contacting Ms. Granger with the same offer, if you'd like to talk it over first?"

Mind made up, he replied, "That won't be necessary, sir. I'll do it. You want me to spy on him, is that what you're getting at?"

Indecision warred on the old wizard's face as he struggled to come up with a subtle way of saying yes. "In essence, yes. Think of it as looking out for his best interests, if you will. It's not going to hurt him if you're doing it for his own good."

Ron smirked. "I see. Well, I'll do it, if that's what you wanted to talk about. Am I done here, then?"

Looking relieved, Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Weasley. It is greatly appreciated. Now, if you would be so kind as to relay our request to Ms. Granger for us?" Ron recognized the roundabout way of telling him to leave, and went along with it.

"Of course, Professor. I'll be going, then."

He stood and left, his swagger greatly increased. He was almost strutting. In his corner of the table, tucked away not far from Dumbledore, Snape sneered in disgust. Weasley was far too full of himself. That would have to be remedied, preferably in front of a large audience.

…

Harry woke slowly, stretching. It was only when his hand touched smooth, soft flesh that he registered that he wasn't in his bed. Snatching his hand away, blushing crimson, he rolled off the couch, out of Viktor's arms. The Slavic man was still asleep, unaware of the wandering hands that had bumped into his lower stomach, near a region that few had ventured to before.

Hurriedly, he went to his room and got dressed. Slipping into the bathroom, he showered quickly and was on his way to his room when Viktor appeared, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed.

"Are you ready to go to practice?"

"No."

Viktor walked by him, into the bathroom, and promptly slipped in a puddle of water on the floor, falling on his bum rather harder than was good for him. "Argg!"

Sheepishly, he muttered, "Sorry, Viktor."

The ebony-haired Bulgarian scowled at him. "Right. Like you really mean that." He stood gingerly, wincing, and hobbled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

…

Practice later that morning was rushed, and they didn't have a chance to shower before Volkov herded the team, including the trio of women, into the main locker room and forced them to make themselves comfortable. For Harry that meant on the floor leaning against Viktor's legs, head leaned back and eyes closed. He wasn't sure if it was normal to be so physical with a friend- after all, Ron had never been like this, constantly touching him, bumping shoulders, slapping him on the back, running fingers through his hair in an oddly soothing gesture. It reminded him of the way people were always ruffling his hair. Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, Remus, they were all guilty of it.

Yawning, he stretched out, shedding his practice robes and top, leaving him sweat-lathered and bare-chested, leaning against the young Slav's legs casually.

Kaishoff had to blink a couple times to get that image out of her head, reminding herself that she had a boyfriend already, and that Harry was quite obviously playing at least part-time for the home team, figuratively speaking.

"He's quite the sight, isn't he?" Ivanova murmured from her left.

"Too bad he's taken," she added slyly, shooting a significant look at Viktor, who sat slumped against the cool metal of the lockers, idly playing with the raven-headed Brit's hair.

Kaishoff shrugged. "He's not half bad, but I agree. Those two haff been glued to each other since Harry got here. I vould haff to be blind to miss that, especially after so long." She gestured subtly at the pair, and Ivanova nodded, then turned away, satisfied, to chat with Zograf.

She shot one last look at the two black-haired athletes, and smiled. It wouldn't be long now; those two were positively joined at the hip.

Volkov loudly asking for silence interrupted her in her musings on the progress of operation Get-Harry-And-Viktor-Together, and she turned her attention to him. The room quieted, and he continued, "Vell, team, ve haff our first match next veek; Harry vill only be here for two before he goes back to school and that damned Ministry law keeps him from attending all the practices. Are ve ready?"

"Yes," the team replied.

"I can't here you…" he said.

"Yes!" they bellowed.

"Vot are you, a bunch of mimes?"

"YES!" they roared, and Volkov blinked at the deafening noise.

"I think ve are ready."

Harry sat on the floor, shirtless and barefoot, leaning against his bedpost. He was examining himself in the mirror, for the first time since he'd arrived here in Bulgaria, and was shocked by the change in himself.

His hair had grown out a bit more, falling in his eyes like a glossy black curtain. His eyes were darker; worldlier than he remembered, yet at the same time reflected a playfulness and confidence he couldn't recall ever being there before. His shoulders had broadened a bit more, and he'd filled out more, coaxed into the impressive new form by three square meals a day and the brutal physical training he'd undergone with the team. The next Quidditch practice after he'd gotten the tattoo on his back, Levski had commented on it, and Taila Levik, surprisingly, had said it looked good on him.

The only thing he could think to say was 'thanks'.

Absently, he willed his wings into existence. He'd only called on them three times since arriving here, uncertain how Viktor would react to seeing them. He'd almost asked him about them numerous times, but was afraid that he didn't want to hear the answer, if there even was one.

Standing, he stood before the full-length mirror and raised his wings, entranced by the rainbow of colors that shimmered across his wings when the lamplight caught them. Pulling them closer around himself, he took the tip of one in his hands and ran the silky feathers through his fingers in wonderment.

Stretching his wings, he pumped them cautiously, extremely aware of the flexing motions his extremely well developed shoulder muscles made as they were put to use. A blast of air tore through the room, sweeping papers off his bedside table and rustling the pages of the textbooks he'd left out. The curtains on his window swayed, and a shaft of light caught his eye, blinding in its intensity.

Holding up a hand to block the bright light, he took a step back, both to eliminate any chances of a muggle seeing his unnatural appendages and to get himself out of the light's path.

A knock sounded on the door behind him, and he whipped around, reaching instinctively for his wand. The door opened, and a familiar head of short dark hair appeared, eyeing his wings with an unintelligible look in his eyes.

"I vos going to see if you vanted anything to eat, but I can…come back later, if you vant." He held up a plate, shooting a look at Harry's bare torso.

"No, that's OK."

He took the plate, opened the door, and let the 20-year-old in. Viktor leaned against the doorframe, watching him. Seating himself on his bed and leaning back against the headboard, he asked suddenly, "Do they bother you? The wings?"

Viktor blinked then shook his head slowly.

"No. I am not accustomed to seeing them, though, forgive me if I'm staring."

"OK. I was just wondering," he said, staring at the wall a couple feet to Viktor's left. He set the plate aside, and patted the bed beside him. "Sit?" he questioned softly, eyes refusing to meet the other's gaze.

"Alright."

Viktor sat beside him, perhaps a bit closer than was normal between friends. His arm brushed Harry's stomach, and both were suddenly very aware of the youth's state of undress. Clearing his throat, Viktor raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Er…" Harry trailed off, unsure where to start. He twisted his fingers in the blanket, refusing to meet the Bulgarian's gaze and let his true feelings be known.

"Viktor…do you feel anything? For me?" he added belatedly, realizing the wide spectrum of answers available for that question. Eyes darkening, the elder of the two nodded, slowly.

"Yes."

"Er…good, because, well, I think- I think I feel something for you, too." He finally looked up and met Viktor's intent gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. Those gorgeous eyes were looking at him with lust, with longing, with desire.

Wordlessly, Viktor leaned in; closer than both remembered ever being, and paused, only inches away from the younger man's face.

"Are you sure?"

"Hell yes," was the growled reply.

Their lips met slowly, tantalizingly. Harry stopped breathing, and the world melted away. The only things were that perfect body, those amazing hands, those tempting lips. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he deepened the kiss, running his tongue along the older man's lower lip.

Those amazingly soft lips parted, and he slipped his tongue inside, mapping every niche and crevice in his mouth. A hand snaked into his hair, fingers twining in his longish locks. Viktor drew away, and he growled, deep in his throat, eyes clouded with desire and pent-up emotion.

With torturous slowness, those lips shifted from his own to his jaw, trailing kisses across and down his neck, to his ear. He stopped there to nip and suckle on the ear lobe a moment before working his way back to his mouth, then down to nip lightly at his neck, leaving marks everywhere he went.

"Mmm…" he groaned, then paused, gasping, to plant a long, slow kiss on his lips.

They remained that way for a long time, cautiously mapping each other out and fulfilling the desires that had burned in their minds for the better part of a year and a half.

So they were when they fell asleep hours later, and remained all night, with Harry's wings wrapped protectively around the two young lovers.

…

On Tory Island, a dark, imposing castle stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the storm-tossed Atlantic Ocean. Only the top two floors were lit, though the occasional flare of floo travel on the first floor was visible every so often.

In his dank, waterlogged lair, Lord Voldemort was having a bad day. His Death Eaters were useless, his inner circle was incompetent, and the dementors were giving him a headache. At least, he assumed it was the dementors, though he was puzzled as to why it was only now affecting him.

Perched on his skeletal throne in the converted Ballroom, he watched his Death Eater guards harass Wormtail with a twisted sense of satisfaction. A spike of agony in his head caught his attention, and a hand flew to his forehead. Gritting his teeth, he leaned back on his makeshift throne and willed the pain to go away. It did, but returned only moments later, burning under his skin. Sucking in an agonized breath, he snarled as images assaulted his mind.

A dark-haired teenager entwined with another, taller boy, their lips pressed together in a deep, slow kiss. A wandering hand, a nip to the ear, a trail of kisses across a strong jaw. A gasp of pleasure, a slow, unsteady intake of breath. The edge of a dark, colossal wing as it enveloped the pair in a safe haven of feathers and flesh. A pair of vibrant emerald eyes sliding shut, a set of serious dark brown orbs fluttering sleepily.

Potter.

He slumped in his ugly, misshapen throne, the pain too great, engulfing him as he fell into the abyss of unconsciousness. His guards, noticing the sudden quiet and the limpness of their Lord's serpentine body, rushed to his aide. Glaring hatefully after them, the sniveling, traitorous rat that was Peter Pettigrew scurried away into the shadows of the castle's narrow corridors.

…

Volkov slammed a Bludger at the target, smirking with satisfaction when it slammed into it with a thundering crash. "Seventy-eight!" he crowed triumphantly, brandishing his Beater's bat proudly. Harry, snorting, took up his position in front of the target as well, hefting his bat in his left hand, unusual considering he was right-handed.

Thump. Smash. Crunch.

"Eighty-one!"

Volkov glared half-heartedly; secretly he was satisfied to see Harry so enthusiastic about the sport. Levski, hovering nearby, smirked and elbowed him in the ribs. "Vatch out, Anjay, or Potter vill be beating you out of the first Beater position. He's bloody brilliant."

Rolling his eyes, Volkov replied, "He's been beating me since the veek he joined the team, Ivan. Potter's got moxie- I vouldn't get on his bad side if he's not tied down, in a coma, or completely hammered."

Ivan nodded his silent agreement. "I vill second that."

Volkov just shook his head and gripped his Beater's bat, preparing to take his turn with the targets again. Viktor, who was practicing his barrel roll, split his attention long enough to see Harry's ninety-three hit, and whistled.

Harry was going to be a force to be reckoned with once the team was done with him. What better battle training was there than Quidditch practice?

…

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was a patient man, and an expert tactician. One thing he lacked, however, was the ability to stay cool when everything was spiraling out of control. His Gryffindor Golden Boy had vanished; there was no sign of him at Privet Drive, and it looked as if he'd been gone for a while.

He'd sent Tonks, Moody, and Mr. Weasley to question the Dursleys about Harry's absence, but he wasn't holding out much hope that they'd know where to find him. Sighing, he reached out a withered hand to pick up a small, palm-sized golden orb. Gryffindor scarlet smoke swirled inside it, forming different shapes and images every couple seconds.

A scrying orb if ever there was one, and it was set to Harry James Potter.

Pressing his palm flat against the cool glass-like surface, he muttered the aforementioned name and looked directly into the smoky interior of the orb.

"Legilimens," he murmured.

The smoke seemed to shift anxiously for a moment, undecided, before it swirled and vanished abruptly, bringing to the surface a single image. It depicted a raven-haired, emerald-eyed youth, lying on a soft crimson material that he assumed was a bed spread or a blanket. The edge of something smooth, glossy, and black edged into the image, contrasting with the smooth, tanned skin of his bare torso. Pushing aside his curiosity at the unknown, he concentrated instead on what was clearly visible behind him. A well defined, athletic upper body was sprawled beside him, face buried in the youth's chest, though it was clear that he was the elder of the two. Only a head of short ebony hair and the edge of the man's face was visible, but he could see that the two were close, intimate even.

Worried, and frustrated by the fact that the only way he could find of discerning Harry's location didn't offer any useful information as to where he was, the Headmaster set the orb back on its ornate stand and sat back in his overstuffed chair.

Fawkes, eyeing his master, warbled a few soothing notes in the hopes of alleviating the wizened old man's dark mood. He was rewarded with a tired half-smile and a few absent-minded words.

"Thank you, Fawkes."

…

The rain lashed against the windows, a steady rhythm against the glass. It was storming again, though the two dark-haired young men neither noticed nor cared. Emerald eyes opened slowly and blinked sleepily, then rose to meet the steady dark brown gaze of the other.

"'Morning, Viktor," he murmured, stretching languidly.

"'Morning," was the reply. He smiled lazily at the English youth, and relaxed into the warmth of the other man's arms.

"How long have you been up?" Harry asked, noticing his alertness and the amusement in the other man's eyes. Viktor half-smiled and answered.

"A vhile. You vere sleeping; I didn't vant to vake you."

"Ah." His stomach growled; interrupting anything that might have happened otherwise. "I'm starving. I don't suppose you know how to make blueberry pancakes?" he asked with a hopeful smile.

Viktor shrugged. "I can try, if you vant." He got to his feet, disentangling himself from Harry, though his hand lingered on the other's thigh, where he'd set it to help himself up. As he stood and stretched, he noticed that he was half-naked, something he didn't remember being when he'd appeared in Harry's room the previous evening. Shrugging, he grabbed his abandoned shirt off the floor by the bed and walked out, draping it over his shoulder instead of putting it on. He tossed it into his room on his way down the hall.

He started to make breakfast, and was mixing batter for the pancakes when a pair of Quidditch-toned arms encircled his waist from behind.

"Mm," Harry purred, deep in his throat. "Looks good."

Viktor, smirking, twisted around until he was facing the younger man, whose arms were still wrapped loosely around him. With far more confidence than the night before, he tilted his head down (damn that pesky height difference) and planted a chaste kiss on the youth's lips.

What started as an innocent good morning kiss turned into a full-out snogging session, and it was to them leaning against the counter, hands roaming and mouths open, that Volkov apparated into the living room, fully clothed and with a scrap of parchment clutched in his hand.

…

Hope you enjoyed this chapter- it took a little urging to get this finished. I was originally going to end it sooner, but I myself enjoy long chapters and I just had to add in the Harry/Viktor at the end.

Merry Christmas to everyone, by the way!