December 20th, 1998.

"Harry!"

Harry blinked awake on the couch, sitting up slowly in confusion. The voice was not in his flat, but rather in his fireplace. Hermione looked concerned, but Harry gave a great big stretch as he sat up.

"Sorry," Harry said.

"You were shouting in your sleep," she told him. He could tell she was looking around the room behind him for signs of danger, but there was only an empty takeaway carton on the table and a block of sapele, that was sitting on a pile of letters and bills that Harry was putting off opening.

"Don't we all?" Harry asked. He rubbed his eyes a bit and stood up, dropping the blanket back to the couch. She gave him a sympathetic look, and Harry turned away, promising to be there shortly.

…

Ron and Hermione's flat was on the other end of the alley, beyond Gringotts's and above a textile shop. Harry zipped through the street fairly quickly, keeping his head down and his cloak hood up. He'd thought of offering them Grimmauld's Place, back in the summer when Ron had had enough of the Burrow and wanted to leave, but decided against. It was a giant house for just two people – Sirius had trouble there as a single person – and Harry figured the memories there were a little too sharp and unwanted still.

Their door felt warm as he knocked on it, and it was barely a second before it flung open and Harry was drawn in to a cosy and bright flat. Hermione called hello at him from the sitting room, and Ron was in the kitchen, finishing off dinner. Harry kicked off his shoes and went to the kitchen to chat with Ron.

"Did you hear Cho had her baby?" Ron asked, leaning against the counter with a butterbeer bottle. "Bit early, Mum says, but doing well."

Harry looked around the kitchen for a bottle opener before remembering he was a wizard and using his wand to pop the cap off.

"I didn't even know she was pregnant," Harry said.

"Yeah," Ron replied. He'd turned back to the stove and was stirring the sauce in the pan.

"She and Terry Boot, it seems," Ron said, taking a tester bite. "Celebrated a bit too hard after we won. You won."

"We," Harry corrected. "Huh. Nice that life is starting again after the war."

"Ginny says there will be more," Ron added, with a grin. "Mum nearly had a heart attack when she said it, and I've never seen Neville go so white."

"Oh no," Harry laughed. Hermione came into the kitchen and brought plates out of the cupboard, smiling at Ron's story.

"Oh yeah," Ron nodded. "Then when she was assured that Ginny wasn't going to be having a baby, she turned her attention on us. For years we've been worried about losing our lives, now mum's worried we'll make a new one."

"She probably wants you to wait a few years, that's all," Harry said. "They still think we're kids."

Ron made a face at that, but Hermione nodded.

"I think most of the parents had trouble transitioning between having nearly-grown children and then adults who fought in the war."

Harry didn't have an answer for that, but knew Hermione was right. He'd continued to have Sunday dinners at the Burrow since the end of the war, and it was always a grab bag on how Molly Weasley would be. Some dinners she'd treat them like the adults they were, and sometimes she was feeling a bit off and mothered them a bit more than was really necessary.

"Guess you don't have to worry about little accidents anyway," Ron finally said. He'd started putting food on the plates and Harry was impressed at how good it looked.

"Nah, not really," Harry said. "I'm careful anyway, for other reasons."

He tore the label from his butterbeer and meticulously folded it. Ron, who knew him like a brother, wasn't fooled or uncomfortable about the silence.

"Have you seen Luke lately?" Ron asked, no trace of teasing in his voice.

Harry shook his head, looking around the room for the bin.

"Not since Hallowe'en."

Hermione bumped his shoulder as she passed by to grab cutlery.

"It's fine. I knew it would never be for very long."

Ron had a concentrated look on his face, the same sort he had when he was figuring out a chess match. Harry fought the urge to shift under the scrutiny, and followed him to the table.

"I wanted something after the war with someone who had no idea who I was. Nothing serious."

"I've been best mates with you for years, Harry. And I don't know how you managed to beat Voldemort. You're absolute rubbish at lying."

He sat down in his chair and pointedly stared at Harry, sipping his beer.

"Fuck off," Harry said, smiling. "Thanks for dinner."

"Welcome," Ron said, digging in. It was quiet for a bit as they all enjoyed dinner, but Harry knew that the topic of dating wasn't over.

"Seriously though, Harry," Hermione finally continued. "Now that you're back, are you going to start dating again?"

Harry took his last few bites and stalled for a bit before answering. Dating in the muggle world was one thing - he was relatively anonymous and he'd been able to find someone who wasn't looking for a serious relationship. In the wizarding world, however, he didn't even know if gay people were accepted. He'd read the rumours about Dumbledore in Skeeter's book, and they weren't all together favourable.

"There's two issues with that, Hermione," Harry said. "Who else is gay in the wizarding world, and is it even safe to tell anyone that I am?"

"I actually looked that up," she said, with a sheepish look. A flick of her wand conjured a small whiteboard, and she started drawing circles on it.

"You did not consult the library on Harry's sexuality," Ron stated. Hermione ignored him.

"I think if you look at this mathematically, your chances at finding a successful wizard to date are unfortunately rather slim," she continued. "Or any wizard, regardless of his success."

"What a cheery start," Harry said, sitting back in his chair. He wasn't quite sulking, but hadn't come to dinner expecting a lecture.

"According to research, there are 58.5 million people in Britain. 14.5 percent of those are males between 15 and 39 years old." She continued filling out the circles and Ron offered Harry another butterbeer.

"Of that population, then we take into the account the 200,000 witches and wizards in the UK, and narrow down to that age range. 29 thousand."

Hermione was in full lecture mode, and though she looked like she was enjoying it, Harry crossed his arms.

"I don't like where this is going."

"They say about 2% of the population identify as queer, so 580. Given that the AIDS epidemic has killed a large number on the muggle side, and the low birth rate for our year and the ones before due to Voldemort's first rise to power and... well, you really don't have a lot of choice that are very close to your age."

The circles she'd been drawing had been getting smaller and smaller, to the point that the final circle that overlapped all the rest looked more like a dot than a circle.

"This is a terrible pie chart, Hermione. There should at least be pie," Ron said.

"It's a Venn diagram, Ron. There's no pie," Hermione said.

"Seems like there's no dating either," Harry said, unsurprised and yet still disappointed.

"Well," she sheepishly told him. "It's not that you can't date at all. It's just that you might end up with someone older. Or younger of course, though that's not technically legal, but statistically speaking. Probably someone older."

Harry ran his finger along the scarring on his right hand, digesting what she'd said. Nothing was a surprise, except for the exact numbers, but it was interesting to know that she didn't seem to object to him dating someone older.

"I'm thinking about it. But the Prophet's chasing me for an interview right now, and I'd rather not give them something to talk about that I can't control."

"It is utterly ridiculous that Rita Skeeter is still in business," Hermione said, an annoyed look on her face. "She thinks absolutely nothing about ruining someone's life."

"Right, but the Prophet is the only paper that people really read," Harry said. "So, I either do their interview, or wait for someone to out me and then read their rubbish opinion."

"Or beat them to it," Ron said, tapping his chin. "There's a new paper starting up at Hogwarts."

"How do you know this?" Hermione asked.

"Ginny," Ron shrugged. "Run by…who was it. The younger Creevey brother. Maybe you could interview with him."

"Maybe. I'll think about it," Harry said. Ron grinned a bit, knowing that Harry was closing down that conversation.

"How was finishing your NEWTS?" Harry asked, in a blatant change of topic.

"Easy," Hermione said, sounding almost disappointed. "It's a few interviews, over a few weeks."

"That's it? And you have them all now?"

"Even I do," Ron said, arm slung over the back of his chair. "Got asked all about the spells I used in the last year, given some scenarios where I'd have to use some skills and tell which ones I'd use, that sort of thing. Brewed a potion."

"You brewed a potion," Harry repeated with obvious disbelief.

"I know how to brew a potion, Harry," Ron said, flinging a bean at Harry from his plate. "While you were mucking about in the muggle world, I got myself all sorted and am a graduate of Hogwarts."

Harry grinned as he held his bottle up to his lips.

"Hermione made you, didn't she?"

"Of course she did," Ron laughed. Hermione looked slightly affronted, but also amused.

"It's important, for future jobs," Hermione said. She pushed her plate away and conjured up her familiar jar of blue flames, holding her hands around the edges to warm them.

"I don't think anyone hiring Harry Potter is going to care much," Ron said. He snatched a chocolate frog from the pile Harry had brought and opened it carefully. Harry watched the frog poke its head out, before making a wild jump toward the blue flames.

"Perhaps not," Hermione admitted. "But it would be a shame not to, when it's being offered. Besides, I think you'll enjoy talking to McGonagall again."

"I probably would," Harry agreed, "but I'm not set up to interview with McGonagall."

He'd finished his butterbeer and reached for his own chocolate frog. The fireplace was warming up the room and Harry could hear chatter below as people whizzed by Diagon Alley on broomsticks.

"Who else could do it though?" Hermione asked. "It's not a Ministry program."

"The only other headmaster," Harry said. "Severus Snape."

Ron's eyebrows rose in surprise, and they heard a large crack from the logs in the fireplace. There was a silence at the table, no doubt as Ron and Hermione remembered the last disastrous time Harry and Snape had to work together.

"Bad luck, mate."

…

George's wand glowed under the lamp light in the evening. The spalted dogwood's lines and markings intermixed with the spruce wood that Harry had added to create a pattern like a river. It was slightly thicker than it had been when George first brought it over, but Harry had replicated the shape of the original fairly well, even though the middle had been swapped.

He held it up to the light for one last look before pointing it at the coffee table.

"Reducio," Harry said, satisfied when the table shrunk significantly. It was a little loud though, so Harry took some light sandpaper to the wand near the bottom joint of mixed woods. He had the tv on again, a silly talk show that he wasn't really paying attention to, but that at least gave some noise in the background.

"Engorgio," Harry tried again. The coffee table smoothly grew back to its regular size with the faintest whoosh. He smiled, and then pointed it toward the kitchen. "Accio apple."

It came sailing through the air and made a satisfying thwack in his palm.

"George will love that," Fred said, crossing his arms in his frame.

"I still have to have him test it," Harry told him, switching out the light over his desk. He left the wand there, and flopped on the couch with the apple. Fred, whose portrait was on the side table, nodded.

"It'd be good to have him back to full strength again," Fred said. "I think you'll have more work coming your way too."

"Yeah?" Harry asked, finishing up the apple. "How's that? I haven't told many people I do this. It's just a hobby."

Harry used his own wand to summon a blanket over, draping it across his lap and legs.

"Ginny runs a support group at Hogwarts," Fred explained. "She's not announced it, of course. But there's one or two people that, er. That aren't themselves anymore."

Harry felt his stomach twist a little. Of course there were others affected, he'd known this and witnessed it with the Weasleys. But he'd left the wizarding world not long after the mad month of celebrations, and missed out on life returning to normal and people coming to senses with the losses.

"Don't look like that, Harry," Fred said, "we knew what we were getting into. Most of us at least."

"That's the thing," Harry said, glancing up at his desk and noticing the recipe card glowing slightly around the edges. "Not everyone had a choice."

"Well, technically you didn't either," Fred pointed out.

Harry got up and walked back to his desk, pulling the recipe card off the board. The first line had been filled in, and said 10:20, NEWT Paperwork. Harry picked up a quill and slowly crossed the line out, as if he'd completed the step.

"I couldn't not do anything," Harry said, tracing the edge of the card with his fingernail. "I'm off to bed."

"Neither could we," Fred said. "Don't blame yourself too much."

Harry offered a half smile and Fred grinned at him.

"Leave that to people who are good at it. Snape, for example. I'm sure he'll be happy to blame you for whatever you can think of."

"Good night, Fred," Harry told him, flicking a curled-up wood shaving at the portrait.

….

Harry laid in bed later, naked with the blanket scrunched up beside him as his hands wandered down his chest toward his navel. The candle light flickered over his body, muscles strong, scarring from his shoulder all the way down his right arm to his fingertips, shiny in the light. Harry didn't see it, his eyes tightly shut as he thought of another muscled body beside him, roughened fingers skimming over his skin and tracing along the v lines on his hips. Harry grabbed his cock with his left hand, pulling up so the skin covered the head and pre-cum gathered. The wank was slow and steady, a firm grip with the barest twist at the top.

He'd never been a loud person when having private time, and that hadn't changed in his own flat.

Harry switched his grip as he sped up, cockhead slipping through the circle of his finger and thumb as he moved faster and faster, hips raised and face tilted up, remembering the feeling of long hair against his cheek. It was different; the absence of doom and danger in the background making it more relaxing and yet also more intense, evidenced by the low groan that escaped when he came.

He used magic to whisk away the remnants of the night, and pulled all the covers up to cover himself. Harry fell asleep contently, and, unnoticed in the sitting room, the crossed-out line on the recipe card disappeared.

…

The Waterstones was just busy enough that their conversation was not easily overheard, but that they weren't crowded to the point of people bumping into them. More importantly, this one was near to both Diagon Alley and Alice's flat.

Alice, a regular board game fiend who Harry had met in a gay bookshop back in August, had brought Battleship.

"I don't know where you're from," Alice offhandedly said. "D4. I mean, you're from England, sure enough. But you're not really from here."

"Miss," Harry said. "Of course I'm from here."

"Not really though," Alice said with a smile, and didn't explain further. A young boy, sitting at a table across from them with the remnants of a cookie on his plate, was staring. It wasn't clear whether the boy was staring at the game of Battleship happening, or at Alice.

"H2, and stop analysing me," Harry told her. He took a sip of his coffee, the paper cup almost a little too hot still to hold.

Alice grimaced and gave him the finger, which Harry took to mean that his guess was a hit.

"You're right, in any event," Harry answered. He sat back in his chair and waited for Alice's next guess, watching the people walk around them. "It was a good autumn away, but this isn't really home."

"E9," Alice said, staring at Harry. It was a piercing stare, and Harry found it hard to meet.

"Home's where your bloke's at?"

"I don't have a bloke, Alice. Hit." Harry rolled his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a flash of memory to a dark winter night nearly a year earlier, fire and damp, sweat and fear.

"Come on, I know Lukie was just a rebound. I bet he's weird like you," she continued, ignoring Harry. "Mysterious, not bothered by bugs or spiders or things that go bump in the night."

"There's plenty of things that concern me in the dark," Harry said, though he was fighting a smile. "H3. You make me sound like I'm a vampire."

"No, not a vampire," Alice immediately corrected. She followed Harry's eyesight as a pale man in a dark cloak passed by, charcoal black hair disappearing in the collar. "Definitely an Addams."

"If I'm an Addams, you're Kate Winslet," Harry said, nodding at the board. "What of H3?"

Alice sat back in the seat and crossed her arms. "You sunk my ship. Knobhead."

Harry grinned and gave her a smug look. "Another?"

Alice checked her watch and was about to answer when a slightly inebriated office worker bumped into their table, giving Alice a disgusted look.

"Fuckin' freak."

Alice told him to fuck off as he wandered off, then slumped down into her seat.

Harry bit his lip in anger, itching to get up and confront him. It wasn't the first time he'd been around Alice when some pillock had said something hateful, but he still didn't know what to say to make her feel better. She'd definitely made it clear that she didn't want him acting like her white knight either.

"Tell me about this world of yours," Alice finally said. "Do the Addamses care if someone is an Alice, or was an Alex?"

"Not an Addams," Harry pointed out. He looked around the room again and took a moment to continue. "I don't know, to be honest. I don't think so."

"You're not out there," she said, and it was definitely a statement and not a question.

Harry put his pieces down and sighed.

"To my friends. That's it."

Alice also put her pieces down, and took another sip of her drink. She'd been a helpful friend since they'd met, introducing him to Luke and then providing an ear to listen when things didn't work out.

"You're working yourself up for a big reveal," Alice said. "But you'll always be coming out to someone. It doesn't end in one go."

Harry thought that was probably true for most, but also felt that because of who he was in the wizarding world, it probably would be just the one chance that he got.

"I still think it's not going to go well," Harry said.

"Well, just do what I do," Alice told him. "Talk to them as if you've always been out and as if they're the daft ones that have somehow forgotten."

Harry huffed in amusement.

"Is your man out?" she asked, finishing her drink.

"He's not my man," Harry reminded her. "I don't think so though. Maybe he is. It never really came up."

"So, you spent a bunch of time with him getting down to business, and never bothered to work that out," she laughed. "Tale as old as time."

"There was a major thing going on at the time that was more important," Harry said, tossing a battleship at her.

"Uh huh," she nodded. The clock in the café chimed for two pm, and Harry started boxing up the game. He didn't have work to go to, but she did. Alice, who always seemed to have a good idea of when was best to drop the conversation, didn't continue along that line. She helped pack up the game and fished around in her purse.

"Do you have money for the tube? I'm short."

Harry frowned as he pulled stuff out of his pockets. He had a few sickles, and a 50p coin, a quill nib, a few very short strands of unicorn hair, and two ice mice wrappers.

Alice blinked at the lot and took the 50p.

"Dragon coins, silver threads, and weird mouse wrappers. Say hi to Uncle Fester for me."

…

December 24th, 1997

Hermione's yell of his name had barely finished before Harry snatched the candle off of the gravestone. The black swaths kept coming, landing in a semi-circle around them, and he knew that Snape still stood beside him, disguised to look like a confused muggle.

"You see," an arrogant and silky voice said, "it's not just the Dark Lord's name that tracks your location. One touch of a stone, and here we are."

Lucius Malfoy had not bothered to wear his mask, either because of fashion reasons or because he thought this would be the end of Harry and he wanted Harry to see him make good on his threat from five years earlier.

"The pub," Harry said instead, tossing the candle up in the air. Hermione disappeared in an instant, and in the second of distraction from his answer and the flying candle, Harry spun round, grabbed Snape, and disapparated.

They landed in a small room, dark and cold, wide wooden floorboards with white walls. It was the safe house Harry had prepared for, though Snape was a wild card.

Hermione, as expected, had gone somewhere else.

"What did I just throw, and why are my fingers burning," Harry barked, struggling to get his jacket off.

Snape, who had pushed himself away from Harry immediately upon landing, was also staring at his own arm with a stricken look on his face.

"Did you touch the stone with your hand?" Snape demanded, yanking the buttons off his cloak as he tried to get the fabric off of his right arm. Harry saw that the gloves Snape had thrown to the floor had holes in the fingertips.

"No? Yes, I don't...I can't remember."

Harry had conjured a bucket of cold water and shoved his hand in, but the burning persisted and he felt like his nerves were on fire.

"It was vapour poison," Snape distractedly said. "It stole all the oxygen in a thirty-foot radius." He bumped up next to Harry and shoved his own arm in the cold water, the other still holding his wand. Snape began murmuring in Latin under his breath, and Harry recognised that this was not according to plan, and that they were in trouble.

AN: Finding the wizarding population isn't an exact science; this is my best guess.