A/N: I don't own anything. Also, I'm not a native speaker, so I am sorry about any mistakes and I am always grateful for feedback.

Chapter 2

Harry hated the Potter luck.

Everyone was always referring to his incredible luck for getting out of all kinds of sticky situations. However, no one ever appeared to remember that it was the same luck that got him into those messes in the first place. His luck was incredible alright, continuously switching from incredibly bad to incredibly good and back around again, getting him into the worst kind of situations and then promptly flipping around and getting him out of them again. In reverse, whenever anything really good happened in his life, he knew the Potter luck would come around and ensure that he did not get too comfortable.

Well, it certainly kept his life interesting at all times and made boredom pretty much impossible.

Case in point, not even three months had passed since Voldemort's defeat - he had finally dared to hope for a life without obligations - and here he was, tied to a chair, by Muggles of all things. Not that he wasn't glad that it wasn't some kind of Death Eater faction that had captured him, but still, he could have done entirely without to be honest.

Especially, as he couldn't use his magic to get away.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, he had been in a state of shock, trying to get used to the idea that it was over, he had done it. They had won. Voldemort was gone. He was finally free to live his life, a life after Voldemort, something he had barely dared to hope for. It had taken him a while to get over the vertigo.

And then his mind had burst into a flurry of activity, considering options, dreams, possibilities. First, he had gotten a flat right off the Leaky Cauldron in the Muggle World. His own place. Something to make everything seem more real. Somewhere just for him and his thoughts, though at that point, most of his time had been spent helping with the restorations, organizing funerals and attending trials. But whenever he got to his flat, he had a few moments for his own grief, of quiet and contemplation and memories. He had kept the flat secret, even from friends and allies, and for the first time he did not feel any guilt for keeping something - anything - of his life entirely to himself.

Then the Potter luck reared its head.

In the weeks after the battle, he had felt a kind of disquiet in his magic, neither in the way it usually warned him of the worst kind of danger nor in a way that might suggest a loss in its strength. Just a certain unsteadiness. For as long as he could remember, his magic had been a soothing, steady background hum in his mind - even at the Dursley's, long before he had had a name for it. Only during his worst moments - Sirius - did his magic turn tumultuous.

This waver in his magic had terrified him, especially when he had felt his magic start retreating further and further into his core. Between the restorations and the funerals it had still taken him a while before he actually went to visit Madam Pompfrey. She had been horrified and had called for a mediwizard from St. Mungo's for a consult.

There had been a lot of tests and prodding, discussions and theories. Additional specialists had been called in. And then more tests.

As it turned out, his magic was working to recalibrate itself so to speak, trying to find a new balance without the effects of the horcrux to be constantly isolated and counteracted. And hadn't that been a kick in the teeth. Madam Pomfrey had practically been spitting nails when she and Mediwizard Biran realized what was causing the imbalance. Apparently, there would have been options for the removal of the horcrux, options beyond him walking to his death like a gullible fool.

Additionally, the final battle itself had also taken a toll on his magic. Even though he had been able to dodge most spells aimed at him, he had not been able to entirely escape the magic and the intent behind the curses. The spell currents that remained with each casting, whether a spell reached its intended target or not, had been thick in the air that night. The currents of numerous dark and light spells cast during the battle had taken a toll on his naturally grey magic and thrown it out of whack. And last but not least, the Avada itself.

Mediwizard Biran and the specialists had devised a treatment plan to help support the balancing of his magic. It had included rituals and a strict potions regimen, as they had agreed that any additional magic cast on him directly might turn out to be harmful rather than helpful.

They had been adamant that he was to start the treatment immediately. Harry had been informed, that the treatment would be a shock to his system, as it would pretty much remove any kind of previous structure his magic had fallen into over the years. The treatment would allow his magic to form an entirely new balance, without any outside disturbances. Accordingly, he would probably be out of it for quite a bit, while his magic settled back into his core.

Even though Harry had not been amused in the least, he could concede that there was a distinct lack in his usual instinctual magic. The bone deep relief he had felt at the news that this could be fixed had almost taken his breath away. For once in his life he would actually adhere to the recommended treatment plan. Because he treasured his magic unquestionably.

They had agreed that Harry would start the treatment at St. Mungo's and stay there in the beginning. He was to remain in a magically stable environment, especially during the initial phase of the treatment. As soon as his magic smoothed out, he would be moved to Hogwarts - he had argued that St. Mungo's and Hogwarts should be at least kind of similar regarding the day to day magic use happening around him. Harry had no interest in staying at the hospital indefinitely even though he wasn't too thrilled about returning to the site of the Final Battle right away either.

After the treatment, he was to refrain from using any magic for a while to give his magic some time to settle. According to the healers, his magic should be sufficiently reliable again about two months after the start of the treatment. Unless there were any exacerbating factors that might induce stress or fluctuations of his magic, as Madam Pomfrey had pointed out sardonically. Well, she had been treating him for years, she was used to his luck by now.

They had started the treatment as planned and the final procedure had been a ritual designed to support the stabilization of his magic. Harry had not been lucid after the first few rituals, so he was not entirely sure how much time had passed at that point.

Unsurprisingly, this was not enough for the Potter luck.

Even though he had barely had any meaningful contact with anyone for weeks at this point - all of them, him included, far too busy to take the time to get together, and in the case of Ron and Hermione actually glad to be able to separate for a bit after seeing each other day in and day out for months, living in a tent - they had apparently heard of the treatment somehow.

His wonderful bloody friends - though he was not certain whether he wanted to call them that at this point in time - and the remaining Order members had decided to start making decisions for him while he was in no shape to object. For some reason, they had decided that he should stay with his relatives while he recuperated.

Never mind that Madam Pomfrey had specified that he should not switch between locations of strong and weak magical saturation. Not like his opinion on the matter had been considered - or asked really.

He could barely remember the trip from St. Mungo's - though Merlin only knows how they got him released, as he was sure Madam Pomfrey and Mediwizard Biran would have ripped them apart - and there were some recollections of Ron and Hermione explaining their reasoning. As far as Harry understood, Ron and Hermione were going to leave for Australia soon to look for the Grangers. They felt it was too much of a hassle to keep him at St. Mungo's during that time - and didn't the Headmaster always say, there were extra protections at the Dursleys' for him? - completely disregarding the fact that they had not been involved in his treatment or hospital stay at all. It hadn't made much sense to him then, and it didn't make any more sense now. Actually, he was rather spitting mad, furious.

They had dropped him off and disappeared right after. He had realized that none of his 'rescuers' had thought to inform his relatives of his return to their home, as signified by his Aunt's screeching when she found him in one of the beds the next morning.

The adjustment to the lack of surrounding magic had thrown him into a semi-lucid state for a while afterwards. What he did remember however, was his Uncle's yelling and threats. And then there had been strangers. He was not sure what had happened, though he could mostly guess. He remembered his Uncle's satisfied expression in the hallway as Harry was carried outside. There might have even been some money involved for all that Harry knew or cared.

Harry had lost track of the proceedings for a while and he guessed they had traveled, as he had felt the strain on his core, before they had finally stopped. He had focused what remained of his awareness on soothing his magic and keeping it as tightly coiled into his core as he could.

He had been shocked brutally out of his focus by pain. Not physical pain - he had learned years ago that physical pain could rarely ever compete - but it felt as though something was ripping at his very center. He had frantically checked on his magic, to find it in chaos though not directly affected by whatever was happening. No, whatever was slowly, excruciatingly ripping was something else entirely.

He could feel something - a warmth he could only barely remember ever having felt - seep into the spaces his magic usually occupied, moving outwards. Not knowing what was happening Harry immediately reached for the warmth pulling it in, coiling it with his magic at his core. More and more and more. He coiled the warmth around - not into - his core as though it were an extra layer around it, before he lost consciousness entirely.

When Harry came to again, his magic was still coiling smoothly in his core and the warmth had formed something of a protective layer around it.

Ok, so that was good - whatever that warmth was, it felt like a part of him, something that should be right where it was, similar to his magic but not, and Harry had lived by his instincts and intuition for as long as he could remember, so he was damn well going to stick with it.

Not so good was the cold that had his limbs shaking. Limbs that seemed to be tied to a chair.

Which brought him back to his current problem and how for once in his life he could not rely on his magic to get out of it. He could not simply magic his way out of the ties and walk away. For one, he would prefer to not hinder the recuperation of his magic as Biran had emphasized that using his magic at this point would set back his recovery significantly. Additionally, he did not think he would have been able to actually walk at all.

Someone - a man going by the voice and the shoes he could see off to the side - was gripping his arm and saying something, yelling more like. Whether it was aimed at him or not, he did not have the strength to sit up or react. His arm was let go and the man was moving away, a door slamming, then quiet.

Though Harry was pretty certain there was still someone in the room with him. Then a small, feminine hand was pressed to his chest - his naked chest, well, that explained the cold at least - and there was a constant stream of lilting words. Something was reaching for him, something intangible - electricity? - prodding somehow. He snorted to himself, quite haughtily to be honest, and slammed his shields down. A loud gasp. The hand and the damn prodding vanished.

He lost track for a bit then. The prodding returned - he suppressed a shudder and made sure his shields were impenetrable - then something with a bit more force - liquid, it felt oily somehow - and then again - heat, too dry - and again - the electricity again? - and again and again and again. Merlin only knows how long it went on. Harry was aware sometimes, but mostly focused inward, sometimes he slept. It might have been days.

At some point he would really have liked to forcefully 'prod' back. Though, better not irritate these people before he could at least get some kind of read on his situation.

He might have drifted off again, but abruptly came awake when someone grabbed his hair and pulled up his head. He peeled his eyes open as far as he could and did his best to convey utmost contempt with his eyes. The guy who had grabbed him was saying something, though it sounded unintelligible. It might have been a different language altogether or Harry's brain might have just decided to go on vacation, but even though he did not understand a word, he could certainly recognize greed when he saw it.

So the guy, or people as the case might be, wanted something from him. Well that was just bloody perfect, wasn't it.

The door on the other side of the room opened and another man entered. Harry's instincts immediately kicked into high gear. This one was dangerous, truly dangerous. He could practically see the air around the man shimmer - not a wizard though, that much was easy to tell. Harry kept his eyes fixed on the man - as much as he could - and he noticed a barely there hesitation right after the man stepped into the room. Something was off, Harry could practically feel it. This man was dangerous and he didn't belong here. So Harry's position might either be getting better or a whole lot worse.

He barely registered the man's quick movements across the room - Merlin, he was fast - before the hold in his hair disappeared as the guy in front of him just collapsed. Before his head could even start to fall to rest on his chest again, Harry felt two fingers slip underneath his chin, holding up his head. Blazing green met shadowed black.

Harry felt the warmth around his core lurch forwards at once and an answering heat - firelifelightheat - from the man in front of him. A connection practically slammed into place. A connection that - though it felt rather comforting - also felt very much permanent.

Harry saw the man's eyes widen slightly, a conflicted look flitting across his face for a brief moment, before a smugly satisfied grin took its place.

"Well, this certainly is a surprise. Wouldn't you agree, beautiful?"

Harry absolutely despised the Potter luck.

To fai. pailin : Thanks for your review! Your question about what happened to Harry's magic actually got me to write a far more elaborate explanation than I had planned originally. Hope you like it :)