HOW I LOVE YOU


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or King of Fighters. Nope.

Shout Out: Seventh chapter already. I had a ball writing it, despite the hard themes contained within, but nothing that a good dose of our intrepid duo couldn't cure. R.A. Cross - Orochi as a muggle hater. Oh, wow. Let's just be happy he didn't meet Voldemort. But so true in retrospect...Overall, Iori is beginning to dig his hole. And it all starts so very innocently, too.

Warnings: AU-verse, SLASH, Iori gets to digging and cuteness ahoy.


The return to his temporary lodgings was silent. Even shopping for the ingredients for the cookies and dinner didn't lift Harry's mood or tugged his thoughts away from the Orochi-sized problem.

Yamato-san was very helpful in his answers, but Harry was still confused over Orochi's attitude toward humankind, and him apparently being some kind of a special exception to the rule, yet again. Exasperated, Harry shook his head.

What he wouldn't give for having Hermione here right now. She would've had answers for this mess –

Grimacing slightly, Harry put the last of the groceries in the fridge before pausing.

At least a month passed already and it still hurt. It still hurt to remember her beaming face looking up to Ron, like he held the answers to all world's problems in his eyes. Harry swallowed. A month, a day and sixteen hours since he had died and returned back to the living, all for her. He gripped the fabric on his chest, the knuckles whitening as he bowed his head.

It was nothing as easy like the train station bullshit he had expected. It was a walk across what seemed to be the deepest ravines of hell, fire and brimstone, each step stripping him of a little bit of humanity in process. He literally sold his soul, if only to return back among the living. In comparison with that endless ravine, covered with jagged rocks, bloody red sky with ominous gray and black clouds, shrouded in despair and hopelessness, going against Voldemort was a walk in the park. If he had gone in with his garments snow white, when he had finally found his exit, those garments were tattered pitch black garments that may or may not once assembled some kind of garments. Of course, the change wasn't visible on body, except for his eyes, but if there would be one to look at the state of his soul, Harry supposed he would be found wanting.

Sometimes, he still felt like a monster in a human skin. He remembered Ron's incredulous, angry stares that night when he chose to leave their quest in order to be safe, the coward. He remembered Hermione's terrified eyes when he went head to head with the dragon in Gringotts, forcing the beast to acquiesce to his demand and carry them out. He still felt the perverse joy that coursed in his veins when he witnessed Voldemort's triumph over having taken over the Ministry of Magic successfully. When he stood in the ruins, among the ashes and smoke, and Voldemort's corpse six steps away from him, he looked more like a demon than an avenging angel.

It wasn't hope, joy and love that guided him out of the plains of misery he had found himself in when Voldemort had killed him. It was desperation, wrath and fear – an outright terror what would happen to her, if he had given up now. So he hadn't. He hadn't given up, and in an exchange, he had lost everything.

Why would he be an exception for Orochi, pathetic as he was? Yamato-san was right - Harry himself couldn't have done anything to avert Orochi's wrath to his fellow humans' idiocy when concerning planet and her resources. If he had been really desperate, he could've accidentally exposed the wizarding world to the Muggle one, but the price for it would be high, and nothing could guarantee that the two factions could live alongside each other peacefully.

And all of it happened because Voldemort somehow decided to have a heyday with Harry and apparently superglue to him a snake-attraction curse.

There was also Iori to consider. The tall musician could be termed a strangle amalgamation of Weasley children - brown eyes, red hair - blood red, instead their more ginger-shaded one, tall and built like a brick house. Harry flushed as he looked through the window, absentmindedly noting the sun setting behind the horizon and dipping the streets below into the darkness, interspersed with reluctantly turned on lights. The gray wool underneath his hand was soft, yet did nothing to warm his fingers. Iori was tall like Bill, and muscular like Charlie, but his body was more defined, looking a lot less rough than the dragon tamer's, though Harry didn't have any illusions that Iori couldn't hold his own against his opponents. His hair was also sinfully soft, and accentuating the strong facial features, even if it was in a strange cut, sometimes reminding Harry of some kind of sleeked-down rooster's crown. His eyes were brown that sometimes reminded Harry of a chocolate when Iori was relaxed enough, and another time, they were like strongest exotic colored steel. His neck was always enclosed in a thin collar with a silver buckle that made Harry wonder the significance of – if it had any. It should've looked ridiculous on such strong guy like Iori, but instead, it accentuated that particular body part's pale skin and sinews, teasing and taunting any outlookers with the secrets it held within its appearance.

If Hermione saw Iori, would she left Ron for him? Iori, despite all his gruffness, brash manners and outright rude remarks was surprisingly calm and quiet guy, and girls always appreciated musicians, didn't they? Something with musicians being more romantic than ordinary guy folks. Shaking his head at the inane thought, Harry relaxed his hand to let go of the hold on the soft woolen pullover on his chest and turned to the cabinets in order to gather the ingredients for the cookies. 'Hermione isn't that kind of a girl.' He thought to himself, a small fond smile stealing itself on his lips. She had a chance with Viktor that fourth year, and Harry would have known if something had happened between the silent Bulgarian and the fiery Gryffindor bookworm. But she didn't - she let Viktor go, even when the guy came back in England to help the rebellion, that wasn't even his concern in the first place. She had chosen to go with them – Ron and Harry, while she could've gone with her parents into hiding on the another end of the world.

Harry still couldn't understand just what was Hermione seeing in Ron – the youngest male Weasley wasn't a good fit for the brainy witch. Harry freely admitted that he also lacked in that department - hell, he doubted than any males could compete with her intellect-wise. But Ron also had an emotional range of a teaspoon. He was a messy eater, brash, quick-tempered, jealous and very awkward when it came to apologies.

Iori also seemed to sometimes have an emotional range of a teaspoon, but his table manners were impeccable. Check on quick temper and awkwardness, too. Foot-in-mouth was apparently curse for redheads, causing Harry to suppress a small snicker when he fetched a bowl to mix the ingredients in. What he wouldn't have given to have the two introduced to each other…fireworks would be guaranteed!

Or not. Harry huffed, annoyed when he remembered that Iori wasn't Ron-like slouch in intelligence department. Truthfully, he began to like Iori's company, even if his Hermione-like tendency for perfectionism when the song writing was concerned drove Harry to the brink of reason and beyond. He was a serious guy, but still funny, even if he probably didn't mean to be. He still had that kind of humanity within, a small ember of gentleness and concern that warmed Harry when he was on its receiving end.

Humming the melody of what he began to think of as their song, Harry set out to make the white chocolate almond cookies with cranberries.


Iori couldn't help but smirk when he stopped at the front door of Harry's apartment.

His plan, if it worked, would guarantee him a song out of it at in a record time. As a bonus point, he wouldn't have to worry about his little companion, and additional bonus point, it would embarrass Harry into one of those fetching little blushes that so amused Iori.

Of course he would have to sacrifice some of his own dignity for it, but Iori was a tough guy and Harry was a certified bleeding heart.

Inhaling slightly and keeping a hold on his latest gift – alright, first! – gift to his roommate, he entered.

"I'm home!" He called out.


Harry heard Iori call out the greeting.

"Welcome!" He called back, curious on what Iori had been doing the whole day. Not that he didn't appreciate having some free time from song writing, which he was still pants at, but the song was important to Iori and for him to disappear for a whole day without any prior notice was strange enough.

He turned around to get the second to last round of cookies out of the oven.


The scents wafting in the air were divine. Sweet and spicy, and warm, and Iori found his feet leading him to the kitchen unfailingly. He should've gotten used to the pleasant aromas when Harry was cooking, but it always warmed some cold piece of his heart to take a short moment to enjoy the smells and guess what they were.

They weren't the fare of Iori's childhood, but a mixture of different cultures. Of course, the rice was still prevalent, but Iori enjoyed potatoes, seafood and meat in different shapes or forms. However, the cookies were quickly becoming Iori's Achilles' heel.

Chocolate cookies. Coffee cookies. Peanut butter cookies, Iori loved them all.

They almost diverted him from his evil plan.

Almost.

But the sight that greeted his eyes definitely didn't.

Entering the kitchen, Iori paused at the doorstep, just watching, letting the hold on his gift go. It was quite firmly saddled on his shoulder right now, as quiet as he himself was, only it's slight weight reminding Iori that it was here.

The mellow light shrouded Harry's form in a gentle embrace. Harry's soft gray sweater and dark brown trousers were a stark contrast to the vanilla yellow of his apron, the wide ties knotted into a simple bow enhancing the slender waist. The wizard's hair was as messy as always, tied into a half-ponytail with some bangs escaping their confines, framing his face.

For a moment, Iori was speechless. This was a sight he should've been used to already, but right then and there, it was as if he was seeing it for the first time.

"Give me fifteen minutes, I will prepare a quick stir-fry, okay?" Harry's voice floated to him.

It was an ordinary voice. One that stumbled over the Japanese language, making more mistakes than not.

It shouldn't have had the power to enchant him so.

Swallowing, he stepped closer, half-afraid that the scene would vanish from him, like some kind of a cruel daydream.

'This was not in the script! Abort! Abort!' His brain screamed at him, blaring all the klaxons of rationality, but Iori was deaf to the voice of reason.

"Hey." His voice was low as he crossed the threshold, and with a few steps, found himself behind his benefactor, embracing that temptingly trim waist and inhaling the intriguing scent clinging to the green-eyed youth's back of the neck.

"Be my boyfriend."


Thunderstruck. This was how it felt when bolt of lightning crashed through your body, Harry supposed, when his body froze in Iori's hold.

Those strong arms were holding him close to the warm torso and enveloping him in the scent that was some kind of spice mixed with something that was definitely Iori. The red hair was tickling the side of his neck, so soft and so temptingly close. And the voice. Iori didn't know, but his voice could be used as a lethal weapon. That purred-out proposal was enough to melt any sane woman's bones into puddle. If Harry had thought Snape's voice was good, the double spy had nothing on Iori's own timbre.

His jaw opened, working uselessly as he struggled to find an answer, but his mind was curiously blank of everything but Iori.

'Be my boyfriend.' Why did such a simple phrase have to re-roll through his brain in a continuous loop of heat and sin?

And why did it sound so damn logical?

"Ah - Are you sure?" The weak query escaped Harry's mouth, and immediately, Harry wanted to bash his head into the nearest hard surface. Not 'no', not 'what the hell', not 'are you out of your mind', but a pathetic, wobbling question whether Iori was sure, as if Harry was a Victorian-timed damsel in distress, waiting for her paramour's assurance that he is well and truly in love with her.

The hold on his waist tightened, and Iori's right hand sneaked across Harry's chest to press their bodies even closer together. Harry was acutely aware of Iori looming over him, but for some reason, he wasn't irritated like he would have been with anyone else.

Then, something else brushed his other side of the neck, a little bit warmer and a lot softer and fuzzier nuzzling his ear.

Hastily, Harry lifted his left arm, and just in time, too, to steady the kitten that was about to tumble on the hot tray he had just pulled out of the oven.

His face set into the stone.

"Iori." He turned around to look into those brown eyes. Brown was truly an inadequate description of the color of Iori's eyes. It was more like walnut, caramel and gingerbread mixed in with a dash of cinnamon, so warm and sweet. He allowed the kitten to climb down his arm and into his hold.

"You didn't just ask me to be your boyfriend in order to smuggle in your cat?"


/To Be Continued/