It took vibrating Jasper's phone out of his pocket to find the club where he and Greg had gone. Before that, it took waking his Quidditch Captain, Abria Stepanov, to track down the number. Harry wasn't about to call Greg. He might've been pissed, but he still had enough wits about him to know not to give the other the power to accuse him of asking for anything. 'Hey, you called me, remember?' That's exactly how the morning after would go, if Harry wasn't careful. He had no intention of socializing with Greg, but he was dead set on obliterating the past thirty minutes with as much alcohol as possible. If that meant the risk of taking everything he'd planned to do to Draco, out on a stranger, then he was lost to it. Someone was getting fucked tonight. Either that or take his fists to the nearest brick alley and just start punching. He preferred mindless orgasms over broken bones.

Why not? He'd played nice, he'd gone to therapy, he'd turned down great sex, and had his life threatened three times that week. Seeing the Malfoys, seeing him at his most unguarded, was the breaking point. He deserved one night of not giving a shit about anyone or anything. He'd deal with Draco later, when it was safe to do so. Whatever logic had induced Draco into thinking a meeting with his parents was a good idea, had Harry more afraid of that reason than Draco's betrayal. Sure there must've been a good reason, and simply knowing that hurt like hell, which is why Harry had to stamp out the pain the only way he knew how. Indulgence, pleasure, and as much stimuli as the night could give him. Everything Draco couldn't give him at the moment.

His hands had shaken as he dialed. He wasn't ready to concede to anything Draco had done, but he could admit that his daughter was safe and he was in no state to rip her out of bed and take off with her. That might've been fitting punishment for Draco, but Iece didn't deserve it. Draco had done something incredibly stupid, but that didn't make him a monster and that didn't mean Iece should have to deal with a father out of his mind with anger. The right thing to do, was to leave her sleeping and not expose her to one ounce of the insanity he felt.

Turns out, the club was so underground, Jasper told him to wait at the bar. "You'll never find it. There's kind of a drug scene and the kids have to keep moving. But the atmosphere is great. We'll get you in, but you have to let us come get you, otherwise you'll just keep walking around this shitty neighborhood."

That put a damper on his intentions, but it gave him time to down three beers faster than he could talk himself out of it. Greg and Jasper apparated in the parking lot where he agreed to meet them. All jeans, sporty nylon and leather jackets, and puffing like smoke stacks on gourmet cigarettes, they looked nothing like the professional quidditch players sponsored by an international agency of peace. They looked like young men on the hunt for trouble, and anyone who looked at them the wrong way was fair game.

The way Jasper wrapped his arms around Harry's waist and kissed his cheek, warned Harry that these two had already gotten their party started hours ago. They were mid-swing and both sported reddened, bloodshot eyes and slurred speech that hinted more than alcohol was involved. As Greg stood back, folded his arms and greedily watched Harry letting Jasper peck his cheek, Harry heard Jasper's throaty comment. "Didn't think we'd ever get you out of that chastity belt. You're a free mate, mate. Are you ready for a night you'll wish you didn't remember?"

Harry relished his own answer. "I can honestly say I've already had one of those. I just want to get out of my head and into someone's pants. Preferably not yours or Greg's. I work with you, I'll fuck it up."

Hoots and expletives went up into the night. Greg smirked, as if to say that Harry's morality show hadn't fooled him. He still thought he had a chance and Harry couldn't wait to take delight in proving him wrong. He wasn't going to let Greg touch him, but he'd make sure the guy had a front row seat.

"Finally!" Jasper belted. "Somebody's knickers are coming the fuck off."

They could only apparate so close to their target building. "Wizards are running this one," Greg informed Harry. "They've got the best wards. The place has been active for over a year, and still no one's found it."

Apparently, the rave scene was part of a network of illegal rings that relocated at need. Drug busts were common. Crowds were tied to seedier aspects of hidden nightlife, and the Irish Republic came down hard on club enthusiasts who partied outside the boundaries of their permits. Gang activity, human trafficking, and drug epidemics, fostered government raids that kept gorilla entrepreneurs outsmarting authorities.

"The bloke who runs it is smart," Greg continued to explain. "I heard it's not even a bloke, it's a group of bloody business witches, but they use men to represent them. That way, if anything goes down, a bloke who never had anything to begin with, gets bailed out and set up for life, for taking the hit. And it's all very clever. Police have raided the place three times. They don't find the rave. All they find is a bit of prostitution and hanky panky in the bathrooms. The real party keeps going leagues below. The punishment is lighter. There's tunnels and acres of bomb shelter down there, but it's cut off by wards. Cops only ever find the basement."

"So you gotta know the right people to get in," Jasper added.

"Maybe I don't need to know all that. I'm not looking to traffic anyone or to buy drugs. I just want to mind my own business and have a good time not judging anyone."

As beer jostled in his stomach, he regretted not having a bite of food. They'd had to walk the last block and his legs didn't feel so steady. The rundown neighborhood didn't boost his lapsing confidence any. It wasn't like the other parts of town, where the festival thrived amid Edinburgh's proudest homes and markets. Here in the dark, amid crumbling pavement and a faint hint of sidewalk urine, shadowy houses progressed to decrepit buildings with boarded windows and trash strewn alleys. In his mind, Harry reasoned that a good time didn't have to be had in such a disgraceful setting. Bureaucrats made it so, not people. Illegalizing one's right to pleasure forced innocent people to risk dark, desperate places. It didn't have to be so. Needing an intimate connection didn't come with automatic disgrace. That was stamped upon it by laws and shame.

Well tonight, Harry was looking to swim in it. He was a fucking wizard, what did he have to fear from a grope in the dark?

They got to the building, which looked convincingly empty enough. It was a traditional, three-story block tower that had once held offices and commercial services. But now, outdoor night air whistled clear through an array of empty panes from one side of the building to the other. Harry could see the leaning, modular cubicles abandoned inside, and piles of trash and broken furniture scattered along crushed tiles. Neglected landscaping hid the ground-level of black-faced windows and torn canopies. Broken glass littered the walkway bordering the property, giving credence to the caution tape and signs warning trespassers of full prosecution for their illicit squatting activities. So why didn't the government clean it up?

Harry decided that he was far too sober for this, and committed to not thinking about anything else but the burn of alcohol he was steadily making his way towards.

A series of covert whispers between Greg and a hooded night-creature-person, whose jersey was too exaggerated to reveal his face, got them through a side entrance and down an unlit flight of stairs. The only light, was the wand of a fourth person Harry hadn't known they were following until it occurred to him that a stranger was guiding them further underground. Jasper took his hand. "Hold onto me." And Harry followed, brushing figures who blended with the dark. Apparently, there were pockets of crowds lining the tunnel structures that got them to the lowest parts of the building. The floor felt like bare concrete beneath his shoes and when it began to thud with unnerving vibration, he knew that he'd passed some ward that had made the detection of music impossible.

Dark confines smelled of dust, warm mildew, body odor, chemical resin, and poor choices in cologne. He stifled the desire to hold his breath and told himself that it didn't matter. They'd be out in an open room soon, and he'd have air to breathe. At last his party broke through into a wider space. A DJ's beats seemed to rev up out of no where as they pooled out into a vaulted room with stone walls, pink lights, and pulsating bodies. His ear drums tightened painfully and he tried to think of a spell that would mute the noise. Jasper noticed his grimace, withdrew a clear package from his pocket, and thrust it into Harry's hand. "Protection," he grinned.

Harry looked at the ear plugs given to him. Maybe coming in off the street, without the benefit of being able to adjust to the noise, was normal. He thanked Jasper and put them in. He could still hear the massive, electronic roar coming from speakers mounted along bare walls, but it was less painful.

"Where do I get a drink?" As soon as he'd asked it, he realized it might seem naive. This wasn't exactly a bar. Did people bring their own? How did it work?

"Fire Whiskey's that way, mate." Jasper pointed. Harry followed the trajectory clear into another room, separated by beams the thickness of railroad ties and the length of steel girders. In the negative spaces, he saw that it was mostly dark, but pink and green lights alternated, giving him second-flashes of a tavern-like space filled with young, amped bodies. Compared to that room, this one was just a foyer. People were pressed so tightly into that open floor space, that they looked like wiggling bits of indistinguishable limbs. They were one massive, multi-appendaged creature, erratically shaking to vibration that shook Harry's bones. They thrashed in unison, creating a colony of jerking heads and arms that moved to individual needs, but together created one undulating organism. Harry decided that it would look far more appealing if he were drunk.

He had the overwhelming need to rush everything, to make sure he didn't back out. Instead of fighting his way to the bar, or crowd surfing, or whatever he had to do to get there, he took Greg's arm and pulled him into a kiss. This wasn't how he wanted to play it, but he had no patience tonight. The kiss surprised them both, and Harry gave him two seconds to enjoy it before he pulled back. "That was for the drink you're going to get me. Keep it under two minutes, and I'll give you more."

Greg's eyes darkened with excitement. "You're an asshole, Potter. I like it." He was off, and Harry knew he was flirting with disaster. But he'd get that drink.

Jasper shouted next to his ear. "We don't usually drink at these places, we get smashed before hand. It's not safe. Spit it out if it tastes funny. We'll make sure you get home."

Harry ignored his discomfort. If an assassin's syringe hadn't killed him, he had nothing to fear from a little recreational drug. Yes, it was reckless, but he'd get wasted, get shagged, and get the hell out. His attacker was behind bars tonight, right? He just had to empty this fucking weight from his soul. He had to drink until this pain left his heart, or he was too unconscious to feel it. If he couldn't do the trick here, he'd finish it off, muggle style, with the wet bar in his room.

Greg took too long, but the burn was worth it. Harry didn't care who was touching his shirt or pressing up against him as he felt his blood boil in effervescent reaction. He didn't mind that Greg took the liberty of kissing his neck as he pulled him towards the center of the dance area. Greg was smart enough to entice Harry with a spelled bottle that created more whiskey from the ounces left in it. In this way, he poured, leading Harry into a dance of blurred motion and flirtatious abandon. At least, that's what he thought it was. Harry didn't bother to correct him. He was using Greg to get alcohol, the least he could do was let Greg use him to flirt.

The minute Greg got too handsy, Harry touched his wand and whispered a confusion hex. He staggered away from Greg, watching the other turn, looking about himself for Harry. Amused, Harry knocked into other bodies and new encounters sent him on tangents of distractions. At one point, he followed a pink-haired lady with hair down to her ass, wearing black sequined overalls and no shirt beneath. This was the kind of environment where he could comfortably speculate on having a female, without being worried about committing to it. Whether he wanted her or not, it was nice to feel he had choices again. Draco didn't control all of that. If Draco was going to see his parents behind Harry's back, then Harry would just have to take back some control over his own life. He didn't especially want a woman, he wanted strength. He wanted something that had the power to hold him down and take whatever he wanted to give in return. But he followed the lady for a while without talking to her, simply enjoying what the light did to her hair, which was so so pretty.

He was starting to picture Draco with long pink hair, when someone grabbed him. He thought he heard his name, and as a series of faces went by, each one delivering a kiss, he thought of how easy it would be to dye Draco's hair. Follicles that translucent would drink the die right up, no problem. Not like people who complained of not being able to keep red dye in their hair. Only, he didn't want the dye to be dark pink. It had to stay light, like light, like baby-pink, because Draco was beautiful like that.

Someone's mouth sealed over his and he didn't complain to feel them filling him, or to feel his shirt slide away from his skin. Bubbles in his veins, in his head, kept him buoyant as the crowd seemed to pass him around, leading him by a hand in the waist of his pants. No one was too greedy and everyone was generous, and until they really held him, he kind of couldn't feel anything meaningful. It was nice to be anonymous and completely accepted. If someone wanted to rub against him, he allowed it. He found amusement in thinking that a room full of anonymous gropes was the safest sexual encounter he'd ever had.

In his mind, it only lasted a few minutes before he grew bored and freed himself from constraining hands. That was sweet, but he needed something stronger. The alcohol forced him to have to work harder for tactile stimuli. For that, he needed someone bigger, rougher, and willing to go all the way. He cut a path for himself around the dance floor, looking for exactly that. His search took him from the lights, to other rooms, and tunnels, until he found himself walking a labyrinth of underground connections, all converted to a honeycomb of techno music and illicit activities. He liked being a ghost among them, even if he had to pretend it, without fame, without rules, and wandering wherever he wanted.

Ash found himself released from detainment, along with everyone else, close to midnight. He was two hours away from home and didn't feel like driving the Rover back up the highway tonight. There was too much going on. With all these amazing people walking around, wizards and witches, there literally was magic in the air. He could not be expected to forget what he'd seen and simply slink off to bed as if he was actually going to get some sleep tonight. He couldn't settle for loneliness, which he usually didn't feel. But after all this excitement, his drive back promised to be one hell of a lonely return. No, he wanted to hang around people more. The day had filled him with adventure. The evening brought more, seated in a community hall, next to witches discussing their Wizard news and everything they knew about the recent events of Harry Potter. There was no going home tonight. Not without celebrating. Not without feeding the 'something more' that would just put the cherry on this day. As far as he was concerned, his life had changed. He wasn't going back to the old, and he was in a mood to commemorate that fact.

He hung around the city, bought a beer and dinner from one of the mobile vendors, and strolled alongside the river, watching fireworks reflect in the water. It felt so good, he recognized a certain eagerness building in his stomach. Couples holding hands, passing him by, told him what was missing, what he was really looking for. Companionship. When you felt this alive, you wanted to share it. You wanted to shake someone and say, 'Do you see this too?' Who else could he tell about this dimension within a dimension?

All the folklore wasn't bullshit. All those stories had been based on something. Maybe inaccurate, maybe ridiculous, but still about something someone was trying to explain. It reminded him of the theory that Biblical men and women were trying to explain a future technology they had never seen before. A processing computer, or a space ship. Dimensions crossed for them too. They'd used the translated words, 'It had three brains...' or 'It had five faces...' It took Ash ages to reason out that 'brains' were their only way of saying that the object appeared to think, not some multi-headed monster. And 'faces' simply referred to the front-most part of an object, like a house facing West, or a window facing the park. When studied between the distance of hundreds of years, common sense seemed to lose all shape and definition, thrusting even a scientific person back into the world of confusion. Historical people saw things they couldn't explain, they weren't stupid. It's only the translation of modern thinking that introduces that temptation.

God, he had questions and he felt so awed, he needed to share it with someone. He'd heard so much, he couldn't pursue the answers all at once. He knew he'd have to pester Foster. He'd have to make some gargantuan gesture that Foster couldn't ignore, to have his curiosity satisfied. He couldn't leave the wizard alone now if he tried. If that meant camping outside of Foster's rock-cave dwelling till he died of exposure, then so be it. His bones would claim injustice and he'd haunt that damn wizard forever. Foster was a bastard for ignoring him.

It did occur to Ash that Foster's refusal to speak of himself, or his world, came from a valid need to protect it. But so what. Other non-magical people knew about it. If Foster didn't trust him now, when would he? Ash had saved his life. Not that he wanted to hold it over Foster's head, but dammit, he deserved some slack in their formalities. He deserved to be treated as a friend, not as the fuzz. He should have the right to address Foster as Snape. He couldn't wait to see the look on his face when Ash used his real name. Why it thrilled him to have this little bit of power, he wasn't sure. He could've respected Foster's wishes and pretended not to know. But this would make Foster take him seriously. Foster, who's indifference could be such a stunning blow of rejection, had all the power. It was high time Ash had some.

He'd heard terms like 'muggles' and 'birth-father.' He thought he'd gotten a clear grasp on their meaning in the way they were used. To take full advantage, he'd bought his weight in books that were for sale at the event. He looked forward to the research, and anymore clues about Foster and this Harry Potter. Before all hell broke loose, the witch with the black curls and the nasty attitude, had accused Harry of being the little girl's birth-father. If that word meant what it sounded like, maybe there was a connection to what he'd witnessed when Foster was unconscious. Maybe all people in the Wizard world were anatomically variant somehow, and that was normal, though Foster denied it.

Ash remembered the day he got up his nerve to ask. Foster had been moving about without assistance for a month. Outwardly, his wounds were mere scars, but the venom had damaged his nervous system. His speech, and motor coordination needed more time. He walked with a cane. Ash had had reservations about leaving his granddad's old stick by the bed, but once it proved to be useful as an impersonal tool, Foster took to it. Anything that spared him physical dependency upon Ash, was welcomed.

Bloodwork from the toxicology sample, had come back with a fascinating report. Ash's friend at the AMA, wanted access to the blood in a donation capacity.

"There are antibodies in here that could help snake victims and bloody immune disorders the world over. It's better than spring water, mate. We dropped the HIV virus into it, and the damn thing died. What can you tell us about your patient? Where's he from, what sort of background?"

Ash lied. "He was on the run. I only had him for a few hours before he escaped, I couldn't hold him."

"And what made you draw the blood?"

"I wanted to confirm the poison. I wasn't sure if I was looking at snake bites or not, or if I was treating him properly."

"It's as if this bloke has been ingesting needle-tip amounts of the world's worst venom for decades. His blood is like fortified armor. We think we can save lives with it. We're going to contact the authorities and make sure the criminal charges following this guy, redirects his arrest to one of our facilities. If we need you to identify him, can we count on that?"

He had to clear the nervousness from his throat. "Ah, sure. Certainly, I'll do my best."
After he hung up, he'd taken a long look at Foster's silhouette in the dining room, and wondered where all the lies were taking him. Against lace curtains, the cut of Foster's suit matched the antiquity of an era gone by. Fashion, it appeared, stood still in Foster's world. No matter what clothes he left out for his guest, the other always appeared in his classic attire. Ash had traced the outline of him, from shoulder to waist, to hip, and came to the conclusion that he wanted to hear the mystery of what lay beneath those clothes for himself. He wanted the information from Foster's very own lips.

He'd already made the mistake of pointing out that Foster's clothing surely needed laundering again. As if refusing to waste words on such a trivial concern, Foster had turned from the curtains, dark red sherry in hand, and looked Ash in the eye as he tilted his glass and relieved its contents onto the carpet. Ash kept silent, not sure if his hospitality was being challenged or if the other was simply making a point. With barely a point of his pretty polished stick, the stains evaporated. The carpet lay clean and dry in the next second. Ash never tried to talk Foster out of his clothing again.

But he did come right out and ask for information. "Don't you think it's time we talked? You've been here going on six months, and I still know almost nothing about you."

The spot before the dinning room curtains, was Foster's favorite spot. He never opened them, but planted himself in whatever illumination filtered through the fabric, as if direct sunlight would've been too much. The light always struck Ash as being too white around him because the sunlight was perfectly golden and wonderful outside. But for some reason, Foster took his muted. His eyes hardened wordlessly if Ash attempted to make the room brighter and more cheerful, as if were a lifeform that thrived only in partial spectrum.

In their sixth month together, he still did not eat with Ash at the dinner table. In those first weeks, he'd been bedridden. The full extent of his paralysis did not reveal itself until he was strong enough to stay awake through Ash's examinations. He accepted Ash's help only as much as he had to. While he could use his stick to get a hold of anything he seemed to want in the way of food and drink, he still needed help to the bathroom. The few times Ash had waited to see if his help was still needed, he was met with glares that demanded privacy.

Ash had to learn to read the man's silence. He had to learn to communicate through unvoiced tension. Back then, his guest was still more man than wizard, and the boundaries never made themselves clear to Ash. It took him weeks to realize that the extra gold he found by his bedside each week, was as much payment for his silence, as well as for the accommodations. Foster shut himself off in his thoughts and did not like to be brought out of them. When he spied him with open books and scribbling indecipherably with his working hand, he understood that Foster was never idle. Not even when he stood at the window, still as stone. The window was stage one of plans being born. The books with blank pages were stage two of plans connecting together. Ash's heart sank at the thought of stage three becoming actualized and Foster leaving him without ever giving him more than a glimpse of who he was.

So he'd blurted, while his guest stood at the curtains, "I saved your life. You were going to be arrested. The least you can do is talk to me."

Without turning, Foster let his words slide, soft as shadow and just as dark, into the room. "You are safer without knowing anything about me. I am repaying my host in kind. Take the hint."

Something about his tone, struck Ash as unusually tolerant. Normally, if Ash got a response at all, it was clipped and embellished with unnecessary sarcasm. He felt encouraged, which was how he was learning to communicate with Foster.

"Will you at least answer questions that have nothing to do with your crimes, or the police?"

"What is it you wish to know, Mr. Hastings? You'll forgive me if I don't rush to ingratiate myself by telling you everything you wish to know. Self-preservation dictates that the both of us would be better off left exactly as ignorant as we found one another. Before you ask, make sure it is in your best interest to know."

Fair enough. Ash remained at the table, forgetting his own meal. "Why won't you share a meal with me? I've done everything in my power to make you comfortable in my home. My housekeeper doesn't cook like this for me, you know? I'd love it if you joined me at the table for a change."

Foster's straight back mocked him as he heard, "Not wise. I'm going to be leaving soon. I'd rather not become any more accustomed to the company of others than I already have. You're a smart man, surely you see the logic in that."

Ash did, and he hated it. "I've asked for nothing from you so far. I think it's a small reward."

"Ask for another."

Ash pressed his lips together, thinking. "What's the tattoo about? What is the significance?"

"Occult."

"Like a secret society?"

"Like one, yes. That is not the most representative of words, but it is one that you will comprehend."

"Does it have anything to do with why those people were trying to kill you?"

"That topic is not exemplary of our agreement."

"Okay… I've seen you move things without touching them. With that stick. You have no reservations about letting me see you use it. Does that mean you're what Reuse calls a wizard? She claims it's magic and that she's a witch who has the sight to let her know."

When Foster was slow to respond, Ash felt embarrassment creeping into the conversation. He was about to apologize for his venture into fantasy language, when Foster replied, "Your housekeeper's magic registers to me at three-quarters of her potential. If she were to carry a gifted child in her womb, she could regain an eighth of what has been diluted through nonmagical breeding. If she practiced any of the crafts handed down to her with consistent discipline, she would trigger dormant strains to awaken within her. By the end of her life, she could regain fifty percent of the abilities currently lost to her line. Genetics are only one side of the magic. The other is practice. It's what imprints the genes to begin with."

Ash nodded to himself. Of course, Foster had put more thought into his housekeeper than into Ash as a deserving host. Maybe if he padded around the house in barefoot hosiery, he'd get some attention from this man too. He was out of patience.

"Are you a man or a woman?" He thought he saw Foster's back tense. Good. He knew how to be an insensitive asshole too, though he was not as polished as Foster at it.

His guest's voice dropped an entire octave when he bated Ash. "You seem to imply that there is a reason to doubt what you see before you. Is the risk of offense worth taking?"

'Hey look', Ash wanted to say, 'We're talking like real people for a change. I'll risk it.'

Instead, "You know that I took care of you when you couldn't take care of yourself."

"There was never a moment when I couldn't take care of myself, Mr. Hastings. To your expertise, my condition may have appeared quite dire and alarming, but I have resources that would've seen me mended and functioning irrespective of your treatment, if left alone."

"I saw something. Quite unusual. I'm a doctor, it's only natural that I have questions. Well, anyone would have questions."

Foster turned stiffly, and measured out toying words. "To have questions, is one's right. To demand answers, is one's folly. What did you see?"

Ash knew a dare when he heard one. "I saw both. Male and female. One after the other."

Instead of feeling the rush of relief, after months of not knowing how to broach the subject, Foster's stare filled him with greater, colder uneasiness.

Ash added, "Please understand, I'm only asking in a professional capacity. Doctors see aberrations all the time. Hell, a percentage of the population has to be fixed before parents can claim to know if they have a boy or a girl. It's that common. But what you have, well, I've never seen a documented case like that before. Is it because you're a wizard, or whatever Reuse says you are?"

Foster was still on Ash's first question. He would not be rushed ahead, no matter how uncomfortable his stare was making Ash. "Then I am that. It is of no consequence to you. If you must address me, you may refer to me as Mr. Foster, as you have been doing."

He sipped his sherry, his eyes never leaving Ash.

"Are all wizards like that? Possessing hidden equipment, perhaps?"

"That is absurd."

"Then you are unique among them? I only ask out of medical curiosity. I came to this village five years ago, and I'm still an outsider. I was told to respect the people's folklore and culture, and that wizards and witches are taken seriously here. But I was never introduced to one properly."

"And how would you know? No proper wizard or witch advertises themselves to the ignorant."

"Which is why your company intrigues me so. I saw what I saw. I'd hoped I'd taken care of you well enough to gain your trust in telling me the truth about it."

In the end, it was this relinquished honesty that inspired Foster to lower his drink, cross the floor, and take the opposite seat at the end of Ash's table.

"I will share a meal with you, Mr. Hastings, if you let this discussion drop. Suffice it to say that no, not all wizards are equipped in such a manner. Our men are men and our women are women. But our magic can blur the lines and even amongst ourselves, that is an extreme that one would not normally choose. Like my tattoo, and the injuries that you so graciously tended, what you observed is nothing more than a vestigial trait from a life long left behind. Just as my identity requires censor, you will not be privileged to the history that has caused these various injuries and traits to come into being. You may think that I am ungrateful for your concern, I am not. I am simply making an optimum situation out of a rather difficult one, and sparing you any further legal implications in the process."

Ash blinked back his surprise. But he still had to know in basic terms. Foster's skin was too smooth, his manner too pointed, and his demeanor too reserved, in spite of having a whip for a tongue. His appearance seemed overly dramatic, from the resin-black hair to the sweeping coat and busy modesty. Something was off. There was too much elegance in his hands and in his walk, in spite of partial paralysis. It was as if he'd used his body to stage excellence before the eyes of others all his life. It was a form of vanity and intimidation all at once. Ash couldn't put his finger on it, but he could make Foster say it.

"Do you see yourself as a man, then?"

Foster waited. He allowed Ash to hear the after silence of the question, and what he was really asking.

Finally, with narrowed, glinting eyes, he responded. "I understand that you have never knowingly looked upon a magical person before. I understand that your hospitality did not come with voiced expectations, yet you have expectations all the same. Let this sink in, Mr. Hastings. I will not be paying for your discretion and care, with the likes of my body. At no time will you be allowed to satisfy your curiosity by any means other than questions, and you have already exhausted your limit where those are concerned. Whatever you saw when I could not conceal it from you, do not let yourself be further distracted by it. It does not, and will never, have anything to do with you. To consider such a thing, would be of little use to either one of us. Do not fix your mouth to ask me to sleep with you. Ever. If you do, however charmed you are to have a wizard in your home, my stay will end as abruptly as it began and you'll be left to find enchantment elsewhere. Do you understand?"

At the time, Ash had to agree. But he'd learned two things from Foster's response. How curious and attracted he was, in spite of his own logic and background. And that Foster was fucking harsh. Never? Ever? Wasn't that a bit much, for someone who not only saved your life, but kept you from going to jail, possibly prison?

He didn't have to sentence Ash to the realm of Neverdom. It would've just been more humane to let him think that the idea was simply 'unlikely.' Ash could get a lot of mileage out of unlikely. But 'never' stopped everything cold. It's not like Ash could ever forget what he saw. There was nothing vestigial about those details. Fully formed, fully functional in appearance, and different genders at different times.

Ash had known the likelihood of ever getting a chance to examine such a phenomenon ever again, which was why he'd deliberately touched and prodded and seen what he could while he'd had Foster under. It had all been strictly professional in context. He'd had to make sure it was real before he took a chance on approaching Foster. Just in case. He was a doctor, after all. He had to be sure of what he was seeing before he could make any kind of educated decision.

No matter how many times he rationalized his actions, he still felt guilty. And to hear Foster's declaration of 'never' echo in his memory, made him more bitter about it. If Foster wasn't a woman, then why was he acting like one, keeping Ash at an arm's distance? It was somehow worse than being told that he was simply not attracted to Ash.

It was just the sort of entanglement of guilt and loathing that had Ash driving the town, going hours out of his way, looking for a soothing substitute. At the time, he'd had no choice but to finish his dinner with Foster, in bland conversation. He took revenge by enjoying the way Foster's hair fell forward, like a woman's when he bent over his stew. A very large and prim sort of woman. Of course, the well-formed masculinity peering out from Foster's face, made him undeniably male, bold and hard where any female would be soft, and straight-edged where most women were rounded.

In his mind, Foster's straight jawline curved, and his lips, pausing over his spoon, were ribboned with wine red softness.

Ash had driven the town in search of a big-boned, dark haired beauty, who could've passed for Foster's sister. His first wife had been damn-near anorexic, and thin women only made his heart hurt. Their protruding rib cages haunted him with his ex's stage three diagnosis. A diagnosis that disappeared the minute the divorce came through, as if he'd been her cancer all along.

His second wife had taught him that he needed something with meat on her bones, and someone happy to be in her skin, no matter how excessive that skin was. It was more flesh to hold onto, to warm against and feel enveloped by. If nothing else, Foster's cruelty showed him how lonely he'd become. That he'd been willing to shelter a potential murderer, rather than stick it out alone, cushioned his self-loathing. Loneliness could drive a person to do anything. It wasn't a crime to need human contact. Foster hadn't said a word about his sexual preference, simply cursed Ash with 'never.'

Never.

He didn't deserve that. No man walking around with a fucking vagina, was going to tell him never! He's the one who should be saying never.

He had no memory of how he'd actually found the place, whether it came from a lap dance, a midnight cocktail conversation, or a number scratched on a napkin. All he knew was, it came in handy when he needed it, which wasn't often. Sporting a Scottish Gaelic name, The Lorrar, was a lounge that he'd visited a dozen times since moving there. He'd never wanted to make a habit out of it. Being two hours away from his house, it wasn't exactly a convenient drive. However, the people who ran it knew how to give him the service he wanted. He could ask for any type, and it was provided.

The place was legally an escort service, with permits publicly displayed and registrants medically documented. It wasn't a crime to exchange money for sex, but it was illegal to organize it. With recent laws changing, the service got tricky. No one could prove that any escort was a sure thing, and the lady or gentleman in question was certainly free to decide how far they wanted to take the evening.

Now, five years later, with the knowledge under his belt that wizards were real, Ash felt fairly giddy when he turned into the parking lot of The Lorrar. Tonight, he would ask for something different.

Lights were ambient and the crowd deceptively thin. He had enough experience to know that the manager ushered her customers from the lounge as quickly as possible, and that the rooms upstairs must've been bursting with festival spillover. Pretty girls working the bar were new to him, but the strawberry blonde pouring over calculations in her ledger, greeted him like an old friend. She was a classic, right down to letting just enough gray tell her age while she batted super black, false eyelashes at him and bit down on her cigarette holder. She held it between her teeth and asked him what he was in the mood for. Ash knew those things had gone out of fashion before she was born, but she was nothing if not retro, and wore the 60's matte lipstick and hive to prove it. She'd told him once, she was all about giving people their fantasies, and she made a great living at it.

He wasn't going to find wizards and witches here, but he would find magic. It was as good a way as any to celebrate his access into Foster's world. When the words stuck in his throat, a drink appeared without his having to order. He wet his throat gratefully and she tapped her long nails over the pages of her numbers.

"Out with it," She coaxed him. It was her job to read people. "You never hesitate, you always know what you want."

She had a bit of an accent that he couldn't place.

"Natasha, it's good to see you. It really is."

"Same here, Boss. Repeat service always makes us happy. No boyish brunettes for you tonight?"

That's what he liked about her. To the point. He thought about asking for privacy, but said what the hell and turned up his drink. "I'm having an incredible night. I need an incredible experience."

"Two girls? You splurging?"

He laughed, but he couldn't quite make himself say it. "What would you think if I asked for something different?"

She scratched him with her nails and said, "I think I'd need a little bit more information."

He took a deep breath, unsure why this was starting to feel like a challenge. "I'm curious."

"You want a man."

He winced. "Don't say it like that."

She slapped her hands with laughter. "I made you blush!"

"How can you tell that about me? Seriously, what vibe am I giving off? My masculinity is at stake."
"Honey, your ass is at stake. You've been working your way up to this since you started coming in here. We thought we'd let you figure it out for yourself."

"Look, I love women. I just… there's someone I been wanting to ask out, and I want to be sure it's what I want."

"Did you come here looking for the sure thing, or to play chicken with boys? Cause if you don't know, you're going to be pretty sore if you don't get a happy ending."

He stared from his glass to her. "Are we even talking about the same thing?"

"You wanna get laid, but don't know if you're ready for a man. You want to test the waters. He might be gross. If he don't work out, you can always go back to my girls. Did I get that right?"

"How did you know?"

"You're not the only midlife crises we get around here. Sheesh, it's hardly a challenge. Give me something to work with, Boss. What don't you understand about 'I'm a fucking expert?'"

"That's not very lady-like."

"Ladies are extra, you know the rate. And I do have a guy you might like. But he's tied up at the moment. Literally. He's a little too advanced for you, but he's a nice kid. He'll take it slow for you. You want him to be the virgin? Name's Kevan, one of our best. That way you can maintain the illusion that you know what you're doing. Or, you can ask him to teach you. No shame in that."

At this, he looked down. She had no shame, not that he wanted her to, but he was not prepared to be the blushing one. He was sure his face must've been more colorful than the fireworks downtown. Apparently, the idea of using a man to adapt to an intimate encounter with Foster, however hopeful, thrust him back into the stone age of his sexual confidence. Had he really come here to practice holding a man? To see how far he could go before his sensibilities called him back?

Foster had practically bitch-slapped him into keeping his hands to himself. If he wanted another go at it, if he stood a chance, he'd have to be sure he could handle it. He'd have to be sure that the urge to touch Foster, to hold him, could actually go somewhere. Ash had to know what he wanted for himself. If time spent with a man went no where, then fine. There was always women. But if he liked it, if he knew how to make it work without flinching, he might bring more certainty to whatever game Foster was playing. Where there was a vagina, there was a man trying to get in, and he wasn't going to let homophobic repulsion keep him from it. Foster clearly saw himself as a man, so Ash would have to take the approach of a man lining up with another man. At this point, painfully excited by the thought, it didn't matter who had what bits. Ash simply didn't want to look stupid and inexperienced when he took another chance with Foster. After seeing what Harry Potter showed everyone in that tent, there was no going back to pretending that he could happily live without touching Foster.

He looked up at Natasha. "Yes. I want him. Get me Kevan, your best guy."

Turns out, Kevan was booked for the next hour. "Have another drink while you wait, on me," Natasha said. "You taking Kevan out, or you want a room here?"

"Here will be fine."

She patted his arm and left the table. Not wanting to dull his eagerness, he nursed his one drink and practiced the idea of touching another man sexually without flinching. He'd need his best poker face. He'd forgotten to ask how old Kevan was. It wouldn't work if they guy was too young. She'd said he was experienced, so he got points for that. He needed Kevan to be of a general build and weight comparable to someone over the age of thirty. That was as close as he was probably going to get to a match to Foster. He wondered if he was overthinking it.

When twenty minutes passed, and his fantasies were just making him stir crazy, he let them go and looked around the room. Escorts talked casually with clients, and with each other in paper-lantern corners. Soft music set pace to everyone's conversation. A shadow blocked his view, and a male bartender he'd never seen before, said, "Natasha says your room is ready. Kevan will be with you shortly." He pushed the card bearing entry codes in Ash's direction.

Ash palmed it and stood up. He knew where to go. He thanked the guy and headed for the stairs. Palms sweating, he decided to take the elevator instead. He felt how strong the drink had been when he had to hold himself up next to three other people who entered behind him. Amid strangers making out and stumbling against him, all the wrong buttons were pressed. It gave him an eyeful of what was going on, on the other levels. One of the floors appeared to be a rented party. Something that looked like a sixty year-old man sporting a coat of gray pubes, while chasing a young woman wearing only her underwear, ran across the open doors. Ash tried to keep his drink down and hurriedly pressed for the doors to close before anyone else could get on.

The next stop opened onto a quieter corridor. There were people standing in a tiled hallway, all queued up for the use of a bathroom. Black lights illuminated white shirts and brilliant teeth. His eyes didn't have enough time to adjust, but he thought he saw groups of people huddled together. He knew he did. He had encountered that room before, and had never had an interest to explore. The Lorrer catered to all kinds of people, and he didn't judge them. He knew there were shirtless men in compromising positions in those shadows. They were not lined up to go to the bathroom. They were lined up to get their share. He could only imagine the kind of free-form service being offered on the floors of those cold tiles.

He found his room and rinsed his face in the sink. He was really doing this. With a man. That first encounter decades ago didn't count. That had been out of desperation, not choice, and it wasn't the same thing to him at all. In the room, he couldn't sit still, he couldn't watch TV. It was an okay room, all things considered, but the point was sex and while he wasn't doing it, that left too much time to doubt himself. If this Kevan guy didn't show up soon, he wasn't sure he had the patience to see it through. Something very edgy and unsure was starting to knot in his stomach.

He closed his eyes and saw Foster standing at the curtains. Foster shrouding himself in silence. What would it take to see all that composure undone?

Foster would later have a reason to leave, return, and leave again. It would be months later that Ash would piece together that Foster's stance at the window was more than that of a recovering man slowly regaining his balance. Foster's assessment of life around him, had extended far beyond Ash's curtains, down to the soil itself. In perfect stillness, his intelligence, had looked down the village roads, seen evidence of strife, of half-burned churches, rebuilt homes, and hollowed out schools. He'd tasted stagnant moisture suspended in the air and felt the limp of crippled wildlife hiding underbrush. It was through him that Ash would learn how scarred the land really was, having endured the wars of wizards and men long before Ash's arrival. He would allow Ash to remain in his life as he gave himself the purpose of reviving poisoned earth and monitoring the water from his seaside shelter.

In the end, the only way Ash could stay in his life, was if he agreed to be Foster's middle man. He would take the bottles that Foster provided and give his best sales pitch to get his neighbors to use them. Foster advised him to focus on one person in need, and the results would do the rest. Trying to hold onto Foster, Ash convinced others to try these new nutrients in their gardens, or add these vitamins to their water. He had them checked out, and could find nothing more threatening in them than what a bottle of multivitamins contained. Eventually, the villagers held him responsible for the health of their crops, the healing of their livestock, and the return of their hunting grounds.

Ash never lied to them. He always said he wasn't the one to take credit, and when they demanded to know who was, he pointed over the ridge from his house. "There's a man by the sea. Likes to keep to himself, but he's brilliant. He knows I'm a doctor and gives me things to give to you, that's all. He's always bent over something he's brewing. I can't get him to come out."

"Well give him our regards," his neighbors answered collectively and pressed baskets filled with homemade dinners into his arms. "A man that hard at work, 'ought not be disturbed then."
And that's how Foster made himself useful to the people in the village. Without ever meeting him, he remedied their infestations, their colds, and their scandalous symptoms, from the privacy of his
book-lined cave near the water. Ten months in, Foster produced the deed to the land and offered Ash a contract to host a storefront in the town market on his behalf. He would never make an appearance, but he'd pay Ash to staff the place with two reliable workers who would stock his herbal therapies and keep them available to the public. When Ash explained that it wasn't that simple, there needed to be permits and licenses. The Food and Drug Administration would be required to approve of everything. He was met with the argument that the village was full of magical people who waited for no one. He insisted that he held Wizarding credentials and would take his offer elsewhere if Ash was not interested.

Rather than let anyone else move in on his relationship with Foster, Ash relented. He hired part time workers and instructed them on how Foster wished for his greenhouse and shop to be ran. He gave himself a leave of absence, which meant only that he wasn't obliged to keep track of his work hours, as the surrounding populace knew how to find him anyway, and did. He and Reuse cleaned and set the place up till they could find reliable help. Their efforts were rewarded by gold. Reuse bought herself a pre-owned Volkswagen and Ash installed a hot tub.

Now, Ash lay across the bed with his eyes closed, just to ease the tension. His hand slid to the pressure in his testicles and he squeezed, knowing that was not going to do a damn bit of good. He suddenly knew what he wanted. And it wasn't Kevan. Why hadn't he allowed himself to see it before? A room full of men, allowed to be men, allowed to get their fill of anonymous hands, tongues, and hot openings in the dark, was exactly where he needed to be. He knew what happened in backrooms. It was an atmosphere far more conducive to exploring his sexuality than setting up arranged sex. The minute he didn't like something, he could just walk out. Get his kicks, then walk out. It was that simple.

Back on the elevator, he told himself not to think. Those men knew their own. They might smell inexperience and fear on him, fear of losing his license, his reputation. They might reject him. He had to be serious about grabbing dick. He had to be okay with someone grabbing him. That lower level was where he could put himself to the test. Natasha hadn't mentioned it, but then she'd been trying to provide him with a premium experience, not the gutter-most.

He braced himself for awkwardness. For being outright shunned, or worse, ignored. At one time, he knew his looks could get him any girl he set his sights on, provided he kept her laughing and distracted by displays of affection. He tended to take on his father's laugh lines with age. And while he could no longer run a mile in under seven minutes, he could still run one. These men were said to be harsh when it came to bodily perfection, and he wasn't sure if he was up for that kind of competition. He wasn't sure how to work his way around a man. Aside from the obvious carnal appeal, he would have to learn from scratch. If that meant being the wallflower for the first time in his life, then it was a start.

This time when the doors opened, black lights revealed only half the people as once before. Ash could see that the queues were gone, and that the place wasn't one big restroom. It was designed to resemble one, though, with stalls containing cushioned benches instead of toilets. There were cubicles, floor to ceiling mirrors, swings, and bodies writhing against pillars that rose up from the floor. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that it was a very large open space, not even halfway filled to capacity. With so many men walking around shirtless, and their goods visibly air packed to their thighs, he expected the place to smell like sex and armpits, but it didn't. It smelled of new, synthetic carpet. Of new textiles and renovation. Of industrial glue and fresh paint. It was just another playroom for specialty clientele. He spotted a few women, but the men far outnumbered them.

He attracted stares, but they weren't unfriendly, just inquisitive. The floor seemed to be throbbing to a beat of muffled music, like someone having a party beneath eight inches of concrete below. The soles of his feet vibrated. The first touch came at him from behind. Not at all aggressive, but courteous in the way that it tapped him. A blue color tube hung around the young man's neck as he offered his hand to Ash, who shook it. He couldn't be sure of any discernible features in the shifting light, all he could do was stare at the twenty-something who fell back into the arms of an older man who lifted him by placing one hand between his legs from behind, and swung him around while gnawing at his neck.

That, Ash decided, was hot. The couple seemed to invite him to stare as they found a broad pillar and continued making out. Far from offended, Ash's stomach warmed to the idea. He got it. This place was a meat market. People didn't come here to be swept off their feet. They came to be handled out of their minds. He was pretty sure all he had to do was make eye contact with the right person. Wishing he had one of those glowing blue cocktails he'd seen the guy holding, he licked his lips and headed for the black lit cubes he hoped was the bar. He never made it.

All he saw was shadow. All he felt were muscles. The mouth that clamped over his was very young, very strong, and very insistent. There was the temptation to draw back, to proceed with caution, but there was also the pressure to crash on ahead. Sink or swim. It was just flesh, and he had to prove that he could handle a man. He had to make himself ready to do this to Foster. It was all about gaining experience and being prepared. Ash felt solid arms enclose him, and a fabric covered, pulsating body invite him to drive his erection against the man's thigh. A thick hand covered his own and drew it to the stranger's crotch. Ash explored, mindful of how his brain recoiled, thought about it, and recoiled again. But there was something intriguing about feeling another man's penis expand so fast in his grip. It was one thing to congratulate himself on his own endowment, but another to hold all that force of blood and hardness apart from himself. He decided he was being squeamish, and slid his fingers against the silken tube of iron flesh, in earnest. Moans and wet breath sprayed against his ear. The stranger's weight crumpled full on him, and he heard the man plead for him to continue exactly like that.

No one interrupted them, and Ash thought this was rather like a beginner's course, as he kept up his actions. The man seemed happy to have what he was getting, and gradually, the fear of having to deny someone a blowjob, or worse, softened. By the time another's chest pressed against his back, and another hand caught his swollen bulge from behind, he was in a zone too pleasurable to turn back. At least three bodies rocked against their own friction and Ash was far from minding it.

Two blue martinis and an hour later, he was on his fourth victim. He hadn't come that many times, but he'd made sure others did. He was learning. Turns out, he was good at touching men the way he wanted to be touched. His affinity for the anatomy he shared with them, put him leagues ahead of his experience with wives and girlfriends. The current mass of slender torso and straining limbs, heated against him, responded to his strokes with a throat full of tremulous, male cries. In the dark, the man was a dervish of scattered dark hair, wire rims, and blistering lips. With the others, Ash had let himself be kissed, and enjoyed the play of it, but this was the first one he dared to enter as deeply as he could. And allowed to enter in return. The guy was a great kisser. His lips quested, warning gently before they pushed Ash's mouth open. His tongue slid inside so silkily, Ash took delight in the chills it gave him and sucked receptively to show himself that he could handle being penetrated in this manner. The guy's jaws were strong, and conveyed his insistence to eat his way deeper into Ash.

It was more sex, using only his mouth, than Ash had ever thought possible. These young people were amazing, with all this new sex energy. The whole experience of giving himself so completely to the act of kissing another man, was new to him, and he threw himself into it.

The guys mouth, in texture and taste, was like the sweetest white Tilapia he had ever tasted and it melted on Ash's tongue. He couldn't believe a human being tasted like something that could actually be ingested. He should've been ashamed to make the comparison, but that was a really delicious, naturally sweet fish, and he wasn't. His scientist's mind told him that it was a pheromone phenomenon, not a reality. Evidently, chemically, he and this young man were sexually matched. He could tell the guy was young by his build and his eagerness, and the way he lost control when Ash sank the hilt of his hand deep behind the boy's balls and wedged it as far into the seem between his ass cheeks as he could go. Even through his pants, the young man seized against him, fighting to maintain contact with Ash's mouth as his body jerked and emptied itself against Ash.

The guy's shirt had long since disappeared and his naked chest sealed itself in fused sweat against Ash, who continued to stroke him through his pants. The guy's release had been so strained and violent against him, Ash rather liked the challenge of holding him in one place while he finished, and wrenching the very last out of him as he pulled through the fabric.

I could do it, he thought. I could put this guy in my mouth. He's clean. He tastes great, and he comes like a freaking locomotive. All power, no breaks. No regard for who's holding him and what sort of damage he's doing. He had to admit, he liked that.

In the next second, Ash feels cool air come between him and the body embedded against him. He hears air burst from the young man, a gasp, like he's being punched. Ash's head splits as his ear drums follow the gradient distortion of a megaphoned voice and a fire alarm. Lights hurt his eyes. Someone trips over his feet, and two people go down in front of him. Others run past. He reacts to the sound of firearms by ducking, but his arms are caught in the grips of two men who hold him from behind. Through a blurred haze, he gazes at the man he must've been kissing. Shirtless, dark-haired, and glasses askew, the young man looks back in confusion. His arms are wrenched behind his back as well. He has trouble standing under the onslaught, and the uniforms accuse him of resisting. His arm is nearly twisted from its socket. His red-eyed stupor is so thick, that he blinks innocently at the stick that has fallen from his waist and onto the floor. To Ash, he looks like a man who does not know where he's at, or what he's doing there. Across from one another, they are both handcuffed. They are both in shock under the lights. His eyes barely focus on Ash. He barely registers what's happening, or that he's now seeing the man he was just kissing. The uniforms shove him around and march him away.

Ash can tell that the young man is too stoned, too drunk, or too something to recognize him. But he is horror stricken to realize that he, himself, isn't drunk enough. That boy had the luxury of not knowing who he was, but Ash couldn't say the same. He recognized the wizard who had ripped thoughts from his audience's minds earlier that evening. He was hardly likely to ever forget that face, having seen it in death and in life. That was Harry Potter. He'd just made out with Foster's Harry Potter.


A/N: I feel like I crawled up a mountain to give you these last two chapters. I wanted to show you that last scene months ago, and had to patiently write my way to it. This completes the first leg of this HP novel, and boy am I tired and blissed out all at once. If all goes well, there will be at least four of these "legs" spanning roughly the same amount of chapters. I'm going by instinct and intention. When everything is planned out, the story loses valuable, spontaneous connections from one event to another, and the story can't grow organically. This is a huge commitment, and I had reservations about doing it. But my love of these characters won out. I'd appreciate anything positive you can tell me that you've gotten out of this.

I realize there are things that readers don't like, and there's no way for me to make every reader happy. Think of it like being a guest at a feast. It's your choice, you can skip dishes that you don't like. You wouldn't want someone lapping up your meal, then spending the evening complaining about that one dry dish that you didn't get right. Be gracious, especially if you've made it this far. Enjoy what you can, skip over the rest. This is an enormous amount of work. It's meant to be fun, not perfect. Not serious. Not even highly logical. Just a fun adventure where the emotional stakes are high. No matter how sophisticated we think we are, we're just kids playing in a sandbox. So let's play! :-)