My Past Will Always Catch Up
Allansha Ke Kiri
Chapter 1
His music was different from theirs. His act was just as different. Where they danced, and stripped, and teased, he just danced. Even that didn't quite describe what he did. His act was a teasing of their imagination. Of what could be, if only he allowed it. He was a living fantasy upon the stage, and no one was allowed to touch him.
His music wasn't particularly loud, or particularly fast. It was erotic, with a deep beat felt in the soul. A pulse pounding through him, urging him ever higher until the climax.
Tonight's song started soft, a barely there whisper of things to come that rose with the light, revealing him alone on the stage, lain out as though asleep. With the light up, the music rose from it's soft, haunting refrain. And he rose with it.
Lust hung in the air, tinged heavily with arousal left over from the previous acts. It soaked through the room, it's scent deepening as he pulled them deeper into his fantasy.
Tonight was different. Magic. It wasn't strong. Or threatening. A presence somewhere in the room watched him, but it was a taste of what he'd left behind, of what he let himself feel so rarely.
This wasn't the first time someone had come to see him. To see the Potter look-a-like. They all went away again, unhappy, displeased. Disheartened that he wasn't their vanished savior. They couldn't even get relief with him. He never took anyone home, unlike some of his coworkers.
The magic was different. Familiar in that distant way a face is familiar, but the situation around that recognition impossible to place.
Doesn't matter.
Nothing mattered anymore. He would dissuade them like all the rest and continue on his way. Harry Potter didn't exist on this stage. He didn't exist off it. Harry Potter was gone.
These thought spun around his head as he ground against the pole in the center of the stage. His eyes flashed out among the viewers, not looking for the wizard in their midst. He'd never have seen him anyway.
His eyes were dark, predatory, losing their usual blankness the moment he was on stage. Someone once told him he was temptation made flesh, as though that would change him mind about them. He couldn't see through the stage lights, but they didn't care. Each look could be for them. Just for them. It was their fantasy. He was just along for the ride. It didn't matter if they were picturing him in another situation. That was the point. A personal fantasy mass produced.
Money flashed at the end of the stage. A glance revealed where the highest bills were, and as the music changed, he slid down the pole. On all fours, he crawled to the edge of the stage, taking time to make each movement flow into the next. Letting a touch of that predatory gaze filter into his prowling.
More than one person had told him he resembled one of the large cats, beautiful and deadly, but impossible to stay away from. He never told anyone his animagus was a panther. Only Ron and Hermione knew, and they were dead.
At the edge of the stage, he sat up, sliding his hands up the stage, up his thighs - still fit and shaped well from dancing, up along either side of his cock encased leather pants as his head fell back in silent ecstasy.
They hesitate with the music, and he breaths through it, chest rising in the silence, falling with the next beat. Nearby, someone groans lowly. Another bill dropped onto the pile slowly building before him.
His hands continue up his torso, bare but for the oil slicked over him. They glide up as his teeth catch his bottom lip, pulling into his mouth, biting down as his hands brush his chest. His neck.
A deep breath, and his hands mess his hair on their way into the air. He rose to his knees, stretching up, straining as though someone, or something, held him taut.
He could feel it in the air. Their lust. Their need. Their desire. It was a drug he never tired of. The power he had over them, intoxicating. More bills spread before him.
Gradually, the music lowered again. He leaned back, gently lowering his back to the stage, his legs still twisted up on either side of him. The backs of his hands brushed the stage above his head. Another pause allowed him to hold the position, the casual languidity of the pose.
Again, the music rose and fell, taking his torso with it. His hands never left the stage, and his head only rarely. He knew what it looked like, had perfected it until it was exactly what he needed. That was the point.
He was a living, breathing fantasy. Something they could see, but not touch. Never touch. That wasn't allowed.
He wasn't much of a dancer. He didn't really dance on stage. He had sex under the lights, in front of dozens of people. But his partner wasn't someone they could see. They didn't care that he felt nothing, during or after, and their stench followed him backstage, crumpled bills held tight in his hands, and tucked into his pants - a show to keep them interested.
Some of the others had seen his act. One of them raked eyes over his slim figure. They'd done it before, as had others. It wasn't anything new. He ignored them all, and they let him be.
Sliding into his chair, he gazed at his disheveled reflection. He'd let his hair grow a few inches over the years, just enough to make it obey him. It fell about his head in gentle ripples rather than the unmanageable mess of his school years.
If he had to run again, he'd grow it longer. Maybe pass for a girl for awhile, just until he was sure he was safe. He didn't want to leave yet. Tentative as they were, he'd put down roots here. He didn't hate anyone, even if he wasn't particularly close to anyone either.
But, the magical signatures were getting more common. His own had been locked tight within him for years, hiding from discovery, but that wouldn't stop a strong wizard from feeling him within the same room. Someone like Dumbledore. Or Voldemort. If they tried. And then he'd be dragged back.
Best to leave before that.
Leaving England entirely would be his best option, despite the paintings of regret that garnered. He pushed them down, sealing away with everything else he'd constantly tried to forget over the years.
The other dancers moved around him, keeping up an easy chatter. They continued to include him in their banter, despite his short responses. Despite his continued refusal to connect. A small, almost unheard part of him ached for it, but he knew better than to give in. It would only hurt more when he left. And he'd had enough pain to last a lifetime.
His eyes had changed the most, still the brilliant green he'd inherited from his mother, but empty husks. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then he didn't have one anymore. Or, if he did, there was little enough of it to matter.
He'd been nothing since Ron and Hermione were killed. Since the worst of the grief left him empty. They say that time was the best healer. Not for him. Time had only turned him into a shadow. Someone going through the motions, with only the occasional interest in his surroundings. Surviving.
His friends had been his sanity in the chaos surrounding them. They were the single bright spot in the darkness present in every aspect of their lives. When they died, they took everything with them. His sanity. His care. His reason to fight. They'd been the real heroes of the war. The saviors of the savior.
A smirk twisted his lips, amusement flickering dimly before it faded like everything else. It didn't matter anymore.
Reaching down, he pulled his bag into his lap. Inside was his wand, always near, but never years. In five years, he'd accessed his magic half a dozen times, when the pressure was too much; when he needed to feel something; when the nostalgia, the shame, was at its strongest.
Now, his hand slipped in, wrapping fingers around the cool wood. The rush of magic was calming, but dangerous. He knew better. A wizard was outside. They could feel it, feel him. And yet, his grip only tightened.
Who is it? He wondered.
"Raven?"
He glanced up, blinking at Jake - not his stage name - as he leaned against the vanity. He released his wand, letting it disappear into the depths of his bag once more.
"Want to come out with us?" Jake asked. "Just getting a drink, maybe complain about work. Just hand, you know?"
"No. Thank you." He always turned them down, but they always kept asking. They never let him retreat away from them completely.
"You sure?" Jake asked. "We'd like to have you. Really."
"I'm sure," he said, casting about for something today. "I'm not a big drinker."
"Aight." Jake shrugged. "You don't have to drink, you know. But, I don't want to push you." He grinned. "Maybe another time?"
"Maybe."
Still grinning Jake crossed to another dancer, draping himself across their back. Soon after, laughter rang in the room. Jake was one of the few who respected his distaste of physical touch without question. He never tried to initiate anything, though everyone else was free game.
Their evening ended an hour later. Fully dressed, they left the club and went their separate ways.
"Bye, Raven, see you tomorrow."
He waved back, content with the silence as he broke away from the crowd. He heard them whispering after him. He didn't need to hear the words. They thought he was hurting, that he was broken by someone years ago. All their attempts to fix him had failed, but he'd become the pet project of them all. It would be touching if he could eel anything other than unceasing numbness.
They were right, of course. He was broken. He'd shattered into a thousand pieces scattered on the wind with no hope of recovering any of it.
And all the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again.
The night closed around him, broken only by the occasional streetlamp. The tension slowly bled from him the further from work he walked. The dark had never bothered him. His cupboard was dark, and it was the only place the Dursley's never touched him. Night was the only time they left him alone. It was the only time people couldn't stare at him, or whisper behind his back. The early hours after midnight when everyone was snug in their beds were the only times the hallways of Hogwarts were free of noisy, curious children who just wanted to look.
The night had been a sanctuary for him, protecting him from them even when he'd been one. Even now, it was an armor. He could huddle down in his coat - light because even in the summer the nights were cool, and no one so much as glanced at him. Just another kid out too late. He hadn't been a child for years, but the night allowed him to blend it. To become invisible enough.
He turned down another street, content with his solitude, already thinking of his warm bed. The nothingness of sleep. The quiet of his apartment.
A crash caught his attention. It wasn't unusual. Even at this time of night, stray cats prowled, knocking things over and startling themselves away from the bounty they'd found. If not a cat, raccoons were still common in the city.
Nothing moved in the dark. Shadows stretched across the street, giving nothing away. And yet, his neck prickled. Something was wrong. Turning away, he slipped his hand into his bag. Knife or wand?
A knife would do him little good against a wizard, but a wand would draw pointless attention if it were a muggle. He'd have to leave immediately.
His fingers wrapped around his wand.
"Stupefy!"
He didn't have time to react. The years had dulled his reflexes. The world faded and spun as he collapsed to the ground
Grimmauld Place was loud. Too loud. Too busy. Too crowded. For the moment, his tears were dry, but it wouldn't last. It never did. Across the room, Crookshanks huddled down. He hissed at anyone who came near him, scratched anyone who tried to touch him.
He knew. He'd known as soon as they returned. Before, likely.
Harry was the only one he allowed near, but even he wasn't allowed to touch the feline. They shared a grief, and neither would be comforted out of it.
Crookshanks stared at the door like it was a rat he was waiting to emerge. His tail - as bushy as Hermione's hair - twitched behind him. Nothing drew his attention from the door, and nothing drew Harry's attention from the cat. Time passed unnoticed between them, absorbed as they were with staring.
Finally, with a sinking feeling, Harry realized what Crookshanks wanted.
Harry stood, limbs heavy and hard to move. He'd been sitting too long. How long had it been since he'd last risen? Since he'd done anything but sit and stare?
"Harry?"
He ignored Molly, moving towards the door that was Crookshanks' sole focus.
"Harry, what are you doing? Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
He opened the door. Crookshanks bolted through the opening before it was more than a crack. Harry watched him go. The feline never stopped. Even before he lost sight of it, Harry knew the cat wouldn't come back. Without Hermione, there was nothing to hold him here.