A/N: I was puzzling out 3-4 chapters at once, so this took much longer than I had anticipated. Next update will definitely be before Valentine's Day. Meanwhile, thank you so much for your patience and your kind words.
In particular, many thanks to Susan Potter, Emileigh, VacantVisage, Loussi, darkfaerie161, Bex Drake, helena, LDH caine, Cleindori, Jenna, Morange, kumak, Purple Raveness, Jane.Jumped, Kittendragon, Mirokuluver's Friend, miadragonlover, Xelena, deedee10, Siri02, Bobbi, louey31, Madd Girl, Love-Of-The-Draconis, AthenaSamantha, TanyaPotter, Cut-Wrist Kate, akuma-river, Beautiful-Boy-Love, Penguin Steps, cdlowe8, ura-hd, Lucius, Hasamaki, TheWingedWhispered, and gizachick.
Harry is awakened by "our dear doctor" pulling him upright by his shoulder and pouring potion down his throat. Harry sputters. "Don't even think about it spitting it out. You have traces of all kinds of nasty things in your system. You were turning green in your sleep. Worried the pants off Sebastian." Apparently, around the full moon, Gabriel's bedside manner is lacking. Not that Harry blames him. Gabriel looks wan and tired.
"You look like you need a pepper-up potion," Harry observes tiredly. Gabriel gives a grin that fails to develop properly and ends up a grimace.
"I've already had three. My metabolism makes short work of them. I'm not sure it's safe to take any more. How do you feel?"
"Fine." Gabriel glares at Harry. In the early morning light, his eyes glint amber and his slightly elongated canines press into his lower lip. It's a scary sight. "Ok, my head hurts and I'm a little dizzy. Ron says I was sick a few times last night."
"You went partying last night?"
"I went wallowing last night." The look Gabriel gives him is nearly kind, but falls short due to the stress of the full moon and the strain of the evening.
"Well, next time you go out wallowing, could you refrain from willingly ingesting enough date rape drug for three people?"
"I didn—"
"Harry, if you were too drunk to register the taste or altered sensation, then you would have died from alcohol poisoning before these drugs even began to take effect. These ingredients aren't subtle."
Harry is silent. Gabriel swears. "You and Lucius are just alike, you know. Stubborn, half-suicidal—"
"You think Lucius deliberately ingested the poison?" Harry interjects. Gabriel frowns.
"Heartsease has a very distinct smell and taste. It smells like rotting flowers and I've read that it makes things unbearably sweet. So while Narcissa may have put it in the bottle, Lucius certainly put it in his stomach." Harry opens his mouth to ask another question, but finds himself silenced.
"Stop talking. Go back to sleep and let the potion go to work. It's supposed to clean out your system." Harry starts to protest, but pair of arms surrounds him and pulls him into a pile of pillows. On the edges of the embrace, Harry sees tendrils of blond hair. Comforted, he relaxes and gives himself over to sleep.
Harry dreams.
The room is familiar. The building has collapsed. There is a heap of rubble in the center. The tip of Voldemort's now fragmented wand can be seen underneath the heap of stone. Lucius is there, clad in his death eater robes, his mask in his hands. His face is fiercely glad, in a way that Harry has never seen before.
Harry, unharmed, smiles at Lucius. Lucius crosses the room and, taking Harry in his arms, kisses him. It is a kiss unlike any of the other kisses they have shared. This is one is slow, deliberate, thorough. It burns, because that is the way Harry reacts to Lucius' touch--- to the man's very presence. Whether he burns with hate or lust or pure want, Harry may never know, but beyond that familiar burn, the kiss lacks the wildness or the desperation of the last kisses he and Lucius had shared in reality. The kisses they had shared in reality were stolen—the collapse of Harry's will power punching a hole in Lucius' composure. As such, they had been intense, desperate – feeding a need that Harry, at least, couldn't fully understand.
This is Lucius kissing Harry as if he has every right to be kissing Harry.
He is everywhere at once—his lips on Harry's lips, his hair falling around them, brushing Harry's cheeks, his body hot against Harry's, his hands on Harry's back. Harry kisses him back without reservation. Lucius pushes him against one of the few walls left intact. Harry's legs wrap around Lucius. His hands tangle in Lucius' hair. Lucius breaks off the kiss, working on the fastenings of Harry's clothing. Harry lets his head fall against the wall. His gaze wanders past Lucius' shoulder—and right into Draco's storm grey eyes.
The shock wakes him.
Harry slides out of bed and slips into the adjacent bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face and looks at himself in the mirror. The face of Jonathan S. Scryer stares back at him. Harry wonders how long it will be before he can give up the comfort of this mask. It has given him what he has craved since he was fourteen and the Prophet started publishing article about him in earnest and what he longed for desperately since the war—anonymity and the chance to be free of the burden of his legacy.
No, he tells himself, it gave me the chance to hide from it. It gave him a chance to pretend to be just like everyone else, but he was indeed, only pretending. He would never be like anyone else, would he?
"I'm not going to a dinner party given by your father and that is that," Harry says.
"You should meet people like you," Draco says. His voice is thin.
"Those rich, pureblood snobs are hardly like me," Harry scoffs. Draco slams his fist on the table.
"Damn it, Potter, stop not giving yourself airs!"
"Excuse me?" Harry asks, blinking.
"You heard me. Stop trying to be like everyone else. You're like the prince in that stupid Muggle story with the pauper. When are you going to realize that you aren't like everyone else?"
"What?" More blinking on Harry's part.
"It's fraud, that's what it is. It's a downright lie. Your family is as old as mine and just as respected. Your father marrying down to a Muggleborn was the scandal of a generation. And even if you were not a Potter, you are still the Boy Who Lived to Kill that Mass-Murdering Wanker. You are special, Potter. Stop slumming and get over it." Harry can only gape at Draco in shock. Draco sighs, and runs a hand though his hair. "Stop staring at me. Go put some dress robes on. You are going to dinner if it kills you. "
"You are special, Potter… Get over it." Draco's voice, laced with disgust and weariness and maybe even a little bit of pride, echoes in Harry's head. So maybe Harry hadn't asked to be chosen to be the regarded as the savior of the wizarding world. So maybe Harry hadn't asked to be born into Pureblood society, as Draco insisted he had been. So maybe Harry hadn't asked to be designated the heir of the Malfoy family, as Lucius insisted he had been, but he was. And Harry hadn't asked to love Draco Malfoy, but he had.
He winces at the thought and turns his face away from the mirror as if that would shield him from thoughts of loving Draco and the pain they carry.
But another voice arrests his impulse to turn away, to hide. It is Michael's voice.
"You're too damn important to Lucius to be a coward."
Harry looks into the mirror again There is no point in running. Not only is his disguise now worthless, but what good is a disguise if he insists on hanging around the only people who would have seen through it anyway? Besides, he has been running in circles and he was right back to square one: afraid, and hiding from his past and Lucius Malfoy. This is not me, he thinks. Harry James Potter is not a coward. Harry James Potter does not run and he does not hide. He fights.
So fight, answers that small part of him that sounds like his voice with Draco's drawling tones. Or are you waiting for someone to shoot a Dark Mark into the sky?
Harry grins— and underneath that grin there is a new resolve.
"The time of hiding is finished. Return, Harry Potter."
With a feeling like cold water washing over his skin, Jonathan Scryer fades and Harry Potter appears in his place. Harry spends a long time studying his reflection as if he has never seen it before. He is slender and wiry—and short. He winces, having forgotten that particular detail. His face is oval—the set of his jaw is strong, though the shape of it is delicate. His eyes tilt at the corners and burn brilliantly green. His hair was as long as it had been a moment ago, except it wanted to form soft waves around his face. Then there was the lightening bolt scar, which stood out white against otherwise tanned skin. Harry is shocked to realize that he is actually good-looking. Or rather, he is shocked to find that he considers himself as such. He had always assumed that people who thought he was attractive were mildly deluded. The idea that maybe that is not the case is an intriguing one.
He slips from the bathroom into Lucius' bedroom. It is morning, but only just, as if the events of last night had unfolded in the space between hours, outside of the normal bounds of time. In the large bed, Lucius lies unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The simple fact that Lucius is still breathing fills Harry with immense relief, though the traces of the anxiety brought upon by his dream are still there. Harry drifts to the window. The day is picturesque. Harry cannot remember having seen the grounds of the Manor unfold so perfectly against the backdrop of a never-ending sky. Evan Rosier is a serene accessory to the view.
The first few months of their acquaintance, Harry had thought that Rosier was a second-year, blond Hufflepuff named Elaine. Even after they had been properly introduced, it had been a long time before Harry was able to connect the bright, bubbly Elaine to the reserved and often taciturn Evan Rosier. Shadow seemed to go beyond the realms of an ordinary metamorphagus. During the war, he had been invaluable—formless and nameless, he had moved through Voldemort's ranks with unparalleled ease.
Voldemort had spent quite a lot of time looking for the last Rosier. Both Rosier's father, Evan Sr., and his grandfather had been Death Eaters and Voldemort saw the last Rosier as his personal right. However, custody of Rosier, the Only, went to Alphard Black, who raised the boy with a combination of Pureblood tradition and stealth. Evan had gone through Hogwarts each year as a different student, switching names, gender and houses. He had been in Ravenclaw twice, every other house once and had spent a year each at Beauxbatons and Durmstang.
Rosier entered the room of requirement silently. His features were deliberately blurred and indistinct, except for his eyes. It was unnerving and looking at him made Harry feel a little queasy. As Draco had instructed him, Harry gave a short bow and extended his hand. "It is an honor to receive Rosier, the Only." Harry and Draco had quarreled over those words. Harry had thought they were just plain rude but Draco had insisted that "the Only" was indeed Rosier's proper title, since he was both the Elder and the Younger. Rosier had taken his hand and returned the bow.
"Rosier is pleased to accept your invitation."
"I'm sorry to say we haven't met before."
"Oh, but we have," Rosier replied, the corners of his blurred mouth turning up in a smile.
"Have we?"
In a moment, Rosier was gone, replaced by a beautiful brunette with startling blue eyes. Harry started, recognizing a girl he had asked on a date in his sixth year. "You gave me flowers, once," Rosier said in a voice that Harry remembered all too well from adolescent fantasies that suddenly seemed too recent for comfort.
"You said they were your favorite," Harry replied. There was a word for how he was feeling, though "embarrassed" seemed to fall painfully short of describing it.
"And so they were," Rosier replied, curtseying. By the time he had recovered from the curtsey, he had changed back to the young man with dark eyes and blurry features.
"I came to offer my services," he said.
"Malfoy mentioned something like that," Harry said, fighting to recover some composure.
"It's not in my interest to have Voldemort in power. I do not wish to serve and he will not accept that."
"What are you offering?" Harry asked, though after his personal embarrassment, Harry already had a hunch about the kind of help Rosier could give them.
"You need spies, I heard. After what happened to Severus Snape, no one would dream of turning against Voldemort." The recollection of what befell Snape made Harry wince.
"We do have an unfortunate dearth of information regarding Voldemort's movements," he admitted.
"I can help."
"Name your terms."
"I work according to my own methods and provide you with information in a timely manner. You do not mention my name or my affiliation to anyone. As far as you're concerned, the last Rosier is a myth—a dark Pureblood escapist fantasy." Harry chuckled at that last bit.
"Can I see your face?" he asked.
"No, that is for my protection. If you don't know what I really look like, then you cannot betray me—even accidentally." Harry frowned, though he had to agree that Rosier's precaution was probably a necessary one.
"Alright. We have an agreement," he said after a moment's pause. Rosier bowed.
"Until we meet again, I will remain your Estranged Friend."
"I was wondering how long it would take you to return to us," Rosier says, not looking at Harry. Harry blinks. "It is good that you have found your courage. Welcome back, my Estranged Friend." There is something strange in Rosier's voice. It is warm yet impersonal, amused yet serious, but it has conviction and that conviction gives Harry the strength not to turn away when Rosier's eyes meet his.
"Though you are a bit shorter than I would have imagined." Harry turns to see Sebastian entering the room. His voice is thick with sleep and his hair is tousled, but he still looks perfect in a way unique to Malfoys and their relatives. His smile gives way to something more serious, and Harry is reminded of the remote young man he glimpsed at the bar.
Harry bows to Sebastian and extends his hand. "Harry Potter, lately of Hogwarts." Sebastian returns the bow and takes Harry's hand.
"Sebastian Hornby of Rose Hill. It is an honor to meet the Man Who Defeated Voldemort."
"It is no less of an honor to meet a true empath."
"Come, there are things I'd like to discuss with you." At the look on Harry's face, Sebastian laughs. His smile is the slightest smirk. "You've had a talk with everyone else. Now it's my turn."
"But Shadow has been standing watch all night—"
"Proper Rosiers do not need to sleep. Go on. You have your own business to attend to," Shadow says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. With a glance at Rosier and one last glance at Lucius' sleeping form, Harry follows Sebastian out of the room.
Already working on the next chapter, which should be in up in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, review!
With Love,
J. Silver