Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling and other important people. There is no intention to profit from this story.

Warnings: Slash- male/male love and some moderate amount of sexual situations will occur, if this is not up your ally, does not tickle your pickle or float your boat, you have my permission to not read this.

Pairings: SS/HP, past-GW/HP, RW/HG, NL/?, LL/?, DM/?.

Summary: Post DH-canon compliant but disregards the epilogue. Harry is at odds for what to do with his future. Neville has an upstart business and works with a mysterious potions master. They hire Harry. Complications ensue.

With a 'pop' Harry apparated back into his apartment. Kicking over a few soiled robes, and an empty bottle of firewhiskey he collapsed down onto his couch. Harry slapped an arm across his face and groaned, reflecting on the morning's events.

The day had gone from bad to worse. He had woken up that morning rolling in sweat, from yet another nightmare. His back-up supply of Dreamless Sleep had run out some days ago, and it was abundantly clear he was no longer able to pocket the expense.

Cheap hard liquor was about as good as it was going to get. After all, he wasn't quite capable of making the potion correctly, and it would be damn embarrassing to rely on Hermione's good natured generosity yet again.

Harry sorely missed the Half-Blood Prince's book, he'd have been able to whip himself up a dose in no time. But it was no use wishing for that again, it'd just lead him down the path to darker thoughts.

Head pounding, Harry glanced at his clock. Half past seven, late, again, hequickly donned his uniform issue robes and had rushed to the ministry entrance, and checked his front pocket when horror dawned.

He'd forgotten his admittance ID on his bedstand. The witch at the office for Magical Identification Assessment gave him a temporary security pass (which of course he had to pay for), and he all but sprinteddown the corridor to the Auror office. After a stern reprimand for "incessant tardiness", he joined the other Auror's-in-training in the Duel Court.

Then, as if his morning could get any more hateful, Peterson stood with his cronies and smirked at Harry. Smirked. Not much set him off these days. It was like fifth year all over again.

"So the Boy-who-lived-to-be-late yet again has arrived. Lucky for us."

Though he had accepted the offer into the training program, it was true that it was due to his fame; afterall, who needed NEWTS when killing a Dark Lord would secure you entrance into any job of your dreams?

At the very least, this invited resentment from a few of his team-members. There were those who were decent because of what he had 'done for the wizarding world', but there seemed to be a general agreement that he hadn't properly earned a place among the older trainees.

Patience having waned to a definitive halt, Harry hexed the man.

As Peterson fell twitching and foaming on the floor, he jumped on him with flying fists. Without missing a beat, his peers went rushing to Peterson's aid.

Stunned with a full body-bind he was pulled off, and just as Peterson sat up, blood dripping from his chin, the instructor, burst into the room and furiously escorted Harry to his office and terminated him on the spot.

That was it. The end of his illustrious future as an Auror.

Basically, he couldn't afford it. He had bills, rent, and lawyers fees up to his ears, and oh, bloody hell, Ginny. Ginny would absolutely murder him.

After the war, Harry had barely been able to pick himself up. His friends and the Weasleys' had helped him get back on his feet and arranged for him to live with them, but Harry had politely refused both Ron and Hermione (He would have been a third wheel). Not to mention he could barely deal with his own grief than to be surrounded in that of his adoptive family's over their loss of Fred.

'Harry, are you alright? Do you want to talk about it?' grated on his nerves to no end.

So had begun his grand performance of, 'I'm-Perfectly-Fine-Thankyouverymuch'.

He had obtained a modest apartment above Potage's in Diagon Alley, and took the job as an Auror- which had provided ample income to pay those endless bills, on top of his rather hefty inheritance. The very same inheritance he'd spent the last year draining endlessly from his Gringott's account.

There was something that felt so wrong about having so much money when so many others had so much need for it. The war had destroyed so many families and livelihoods. Thus, giving nearly every last galleon to charities as well as signing over his deed to Grimwauld to become a Home for war-orphaned children,

Harry felt somewhat less burdened by guilt and rather proud of his efforts in the 'clean-up'- as the Prophet was calling it, these days.

The last of the galleons went to pay his Solicitor's fees. In a sense, beyond mere civic duty, Harry had felt it his responsibility to posthumously acquit Severus Snape of all charges. In the process he also managed to fanaggle the man an order of Merlin.

He always wondered what the old bastard would have made of that. If he had survived. That is, if Harry had even tried to do anything, as he helplessly watched the man bleed-out.

It was all he could do, if nothing else, to ensure that the rest of the Wizarding World was aware of his sacrifices.

But no matter what, no matter how much time and money he threw into the cause he couldn't even begin to eradicate the agonizing guilt.

Harry tossed over onto his side, bundling his legs underneath him. His eyes caught sight of a stack of bills on the table across from him.

In retrospect, maybe giving so much of his money, in light of his new circumstances, was not, perhaps the best move.

Harry slapped a hand across his face and sighed. At first he had tried. Really, really hard. He'd given his full effort in trying to overcome his feelings of absolute wretchedness and at least put on a good show of it. The last thing he wanted was to be coddled by the Weasleys, or be a burden to his friends, but it seemed as if, while everyone else was putting in a good effort to recover from their losses, he was being somehow left behind in the dust, feeling as sorry for himself as ever.

It was shameful, but it seemed insurmountable. Everywhere he looked people seemed happy. Even though he reasoned there was still a number of those grieving, generallypeople seemed to get on with life and act almost as if nothing momentous had even occurred. Except for the notable occasions monuments were erected in honour of those fallen, or the banquets and charity drives, and oh god, the damn owls that continuously swept in inundating his rooms with fan-mail, and heartfelt thank you notes, charity requests and even the occasional love letter.

Incendio could only be used so often before his apartment was filled with a hazy lingering layer of acrid smoke.

And then there was Ginny, his wonderful, absolutely phenomenal girlfriend. The one person who seemed to stick by and help him through his erratic swings into absolute black depression. She would help him pick up his apartment, or cook him dinner, or make love with him, or even just be there. Her mere presence was an attempt at comfort.

Of course, it was this same fantastic person who was pressuring him to take the Auror job and to go to the ministry events. To be seen in public shaking hands with important people. And…to make a life with her.

And this is what he felt the worst about. All the pressure from everyone pulled at him. Everyone expected things, wanted something from him. And Ginny was wonderful.

And Ginny was just awful. And he couldn't bare it anymore. Things began to slide with everything around him. First it was the bills not getting paid, then it was the mess piling up, and the nagging from Ginny to move in with him, or the nagging to pick up the place, to wash his clothes, or wash himself, or eat for once, and then it happened.

He couldn't seem to feel the way about her he knew he ought to, and suddenly all his years of dreaming of a normal life, of having the family he'd never had, deteriorated in one fell swoop.

For the sake of sheer peace of mind he continued the act of being the Boy-Who'd-Slain-Voldemort, and had continued going everyday to his job where he was constantly berated, and had continued to at least try to seem interested in having sex with Ginny.

And the nightmares persisted. And the effect of dreamless sleep was waning, and the headaches, and nausea were catching up to him.

It was all he could do to keep down a proper meal these days, let alone prepare one for himself. Drinking helped. A bit too much really, and he'd begun to show up late for work. He stopped responding to Hermione's incessant plea's to get himself evaluated at St. Mungoes, and stopped responding to Ron's invitations to the pub. He had even begun to resist going out into public unless he absolutely was forced to by an often fretting and overly interfering Hermione.

Much to the audible protests, Harry had even banished Kreacher to Hogwarts, not even able to cope with the care of his grumbling old house elf.

It was pathetic. He felt pathetic, angry and alone. And now he had a rent check coming due, and not a sickle to pay it with.

With that thought, he grabbed his half bottle of ghastly cheap vodka, and passed out on the floor, pillowing his head in a pile of soiled uniforms.

That night he was awoken by the heat of flaring flames from his fireplace, and internally groaned as Ron stepped into his room dusting off ash from his jumper.

"So its done then, you finally got yourself canned, then, mate?" a brief look of concern flitted over his face before he grinned at Harry.

Harry grinned back, feeling the hardly used muscles contort his face. He couldn't help it. Even in the sourest of moods a grinning Ron was infectious.

"Don't tell me. You hexed that git, Peterson."

"Sure did."

"You know the prophets going to have a good header for you tomorrow, Hermione's in a right state. I had to practically restrain her from coming over here. You really owe me one for that. And I think you better prepare for Ginny to tear you a new one tomorrow, mate, when she overheard Hermione, she about flipped her lid. It wasn't pretty."

Harry yawned and sat up, inviting Ron to take a seat across the couch.

"That place was bloody awful, she knew that. I should've quit ages ago," Harry leaned back and eyed his empty bottle wistfully, "I think she'll understand."

Ron paused for a moment looking uneasily at Harry.

"I know you don't want to hear this, Harry, we're all a little worried about you. I mean you've kind of gone to pot. Look at yourself, mate, its not…" Ron stood up and gestured around, "this, mate, is not… it's not healthy."

"Ron-" Harry began, rolling his hand over his eyes.

"Harry, look. I'm supposed to tell you she'll be coming over here tomorrow morning at eight-o-clock." Ron looked apologetically at his friend and shook his head, "You should at least get yourself a bit cleaned up before she comes. And you know I'll be here if you should want to… you know," Ron looked nervous, "talk or anything. Good luck, mate."

"Fine, goodnight." Harry sniped, as Ron stepped into the flue.

It was awhile yet before he registered that Ron has wished him 'good luck', and not

'good night'.

"Nice of him, couldn't bother to stick around to hang out with us, eh?" He muttered to the bottle leaning up against his knee.

At least the bottle would be good company.

Ginny arrived punctually, as she said at eight-o-clock, stepped out from the flue and looked around with a pinched face of barely disguised disgust. She flipped out her wand and did a few cursory tidying spells and spotted Harry, across the room snoring away, drooling into a pile of clothing. Wiping off some miscellaneous debris, she calmly sat down on the couch beside him and shook Harry awake.

Harry rolled over and looked bleary eyed at the fiery red head, and promptly sat up.

Mistake. Too-fast, too-fast. Sit up slowly next time. Head pounding, he shook himself, and attempted to focus in on his patiently waiting girlfriend.

"Oh, hi Gin. Shit. I'm sorry, I forgot you were coming over this early."

"Harry. We need to talk."

"Gin- I'm sorry about the job, really it wasn't-"

"Harry, it's more than that." Ginny said quietly, combing back Harry's messy locks gently from his forehead, "Harry, I can't do this anymore."

Harry tried to process what she had just said, but gave up and stared dumbfounded.

"Gin—what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that, Harry, I love you, but this isn't working. We both want different things. To be entirely honest, I'm not sure you even know what you want, but its not me. Not anymore. You're so unhappy and I—"

"Ginny, you're the one thing that makes me happy. You can't do this." There was a part of Harry that wasn't entirely sure if what he was saying was even how he really felt.

"Harry, please, don't make this harder than it has to be. You need to get your life straightened out, and I'm going to be gone next season for training anyway."

Harry gaped, "so you took the position. You didn't even ask me! You'll be gone for 6 months!"

Ginny furrowed her brow indignantly, "Harry, you have no room to speak, you got yourself fired, and you care about me? And what I want? I don't think you do!"

Harry floundered for something to say as Ginny stood up.

"Look, I meant what I said, Harry. I love you. And if you get your life in order, maybe one day we'll be able to be friends again. But I can't be the one to fix you," Ginny's voice broke, "please, Harry."

"Ginny, I never asked you to fix me. Please don't do this." Harry begged, surprised to find hot tears running down his face.

"Harry, take care of yourself."

That he was head down between the knees, gone for it, was no surprise to Ron when he flued in that evening.

"I'm sorry, mate, I didn't know if she was really going to do it or not. She'd been talking about it, but you know, you two really had something for awhile…I should have-"

"Shut it, Ron. I don't want to talk about her," Harry rasped.

"Fine, I brought some new fire whiskey. Noticed you were out. Hermione says I enable you, but I say, what the hell. Lets get shitfaced, eh?" Ron humoured, tentatively resting a supportive hand on Harry's shoulder.

It became obvious over the next few days that Harry was going to have to do something about finding a job. Bills and Final Notices were reaching gargantuan heights, and his landlord was getting nervous about the creditors popping over.

Mrs. Weasley sent a short note, that she still loved him and was sorry for what happened with her daughter, and that he was still her son no matter what- always welcome in their home. Which, of course, sent Harry spiraling back down into the black despair he had just barely pulled himself out of.

He was so angry at Ginny for abandoning him, right when he needed her the most, and yet, he knew she was right. He could never have been brave enough to end it himself. Somehow thinking about her hurt less than thinking about the final death blow to that dream of normalcy he'd once sought so desperately. He'd clung to that dream even when it had faded, and he reasoned, the hurt he could have potentially caused Ginny may have been much worse if they had continued to prolong this parody of a happy relationship much longer.

Not very surprisingly, after several attempts at evading his friend, Hermione sent a howler whizzing through his window. It bounced off his head and flew erratically about. He'd attempted to incinerate the blasted parchment, but had more success catching his wallpaper on fire.

"HARRY JAMES POTTER,"it shrieked,"OPEN YOUR WARDS AND LET ME THROUGH YOUR FLUE, THIS INSTANT! I WILL NOT STAND BY AND WATCH YOU RUIN YOUR LIFE!" With that, it burst into flames and cinders rained down to litter his floor.

A red faced Hermione burst into his room the second he let up his wards. She seemed momentarily surprised to find that she had actually gained access to his rooms and stood staring at him rather enigmatically. Instead of the immediate furious lecture he had expected, she threw herself at Harry, and held him in a tight embrace.

After a moment of disbelief, Harry awkwardly wrapped his arms around her in kind. She released him and lowered them both onto the couch.

"Harry, I've been so upset for you. I can barely stand to think of how you feel right now. I should have been here more often, than I have. Can you forgive me?"

Hermione was damn unpredictable at the best of times, but for once, he wasn't going to question it.

"Er… yeah? I mean, I'm okay, really, Hermione. It all looks worse than it is." Harry defended, attempting to casually release himself from her hold.

She held fast. He was going nowhere. She squarely looked him in the eye, "Harry, your apartment is a flood of unopened letters and bills, and what is that…Harry that is not clean," she scrunched her nose while quickly banishing a bowl on the floor, "that was curdled, Harry. You do know that a first year could magic away most of this mess, right? I mean, really. I can't believe you haven't been evicted."

"I'm getting around to it," Harry muttered, feeling sufficiently chastised.

Hermione released her grip on Harry, and reached down for her satchel, retrieving from its deep-spelled confines an official looking envelope.

"Harry, I have a letter for you from Headmistress McGonagall. She says she's been trying to contact your for a few weeks with no response." Hermione took in a deep breath, "So, she requested I hand deliver this to you. She says its of immediate importance. That means, don't just toss this on the table for later. Harry will you promise me that you'll be serious about looking after yourself better? And don't just say you will to placate me. Really mean it, alright Harry? We all love you, and want you to be happy, that's all."

"You say 'be happy' like it's so easy to do," Harry whispered petulantly, "Look, I know you think I feel sorry for myself, but I don't, okay, I just… Don't worry about me, okay? I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Promise me, Harry." Hermione's stern expression seemed momentarily reminiscent of McGonagall which in turn sparked his curiosity as to the missive.

"Right. I promise. Now what were you on about with that thing from McGonagall?"

"Headmistress Mc Gonagall, Harry. I'm not entirely sure, though it may involve the fact that you forced that poor elf into slavery at Hogwarts."

Harry rolled his eyes, "Right, poor Kreacher, must be just awful for him."

Hermione kissed him on the cheek, and flued back home, leaving Harry to ponder his letter.

Mr. Potter,

It has come to my attention that Hogwarts has acquired an addition. Assigning your house-elf to our staff without a pre-approved contractual agreement is insufficient for his continued residency and employment, thus I must insist your authorization in person, no later than Tuesday, 3:00 p.m.

It would also be an unqualified pleasure to speak with you again, Mr. Potter, for you have been greatly missed. We are currently rebuilding with expedience and have had enormous success in re-establishing parts of the castle we never dreamed of seeing again. The viaduct, and the Hufflepuff corridor are still undergoing excavation, but we have completed the third, sixth and seventh floors. We are so proud to announce that we may be just nearly ready to re-open all parts of the school safely for the upcoming school year.

I do expect this letter was successful in reaching you this time, as I have little doubt to ' determination when she has set her mind to a goal.

As always, keep well,

Prof. Minerva Mc Gonagall

Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

For once, Harry was the one on time. He'd been given the password into the Headmistress's office, and stood taking in the slight changes while pointedly ignoring a certain portrait that kept clearing his throat, trying to grab Harry's attention.

Harry understood, he really did. The old man had been strategic at balancing the whole picture when he had made his choices. Like a game of Wizarding Chess with Ron- always 10 steps ahead, knowing his next move and taking it, sacrificing other pieces for the ultimate Check-Mate. The late Headmaster, Harry had realized, had made these sacrifices for the overall good. The lives of few were a fair trade for the lives of many.

Hell, the man himself, had died for the cause. And Harry had been his willing accomplice.

And of course, Harry himself had died for the cause. When he had realized he was willing to lay aside his life to vanquish the embodiment of evil that loomed overhead, it had terrified him. It was a part of him that realized, as the snitch finally had revealed "I open at the close" and dropped the stone into his hand, that the unloved child who'd taken up this great destiny from the tender age of eleven, whom had been forced to grow up faster than most, was now a man. A man surrounded by the ghostly apparitions of those whom had loved him, and it was now his turn to do more than what was expected, but what was right.

In the end, it was not that Harry resented the old man for using him, but more that he resented not being informed of the truth before the man had sacrificed himself. That he had to learn this from Snape's memories, had hurt. Rationally, Harry understood his reasons, and even more so, understood the man's lack of options. It was juvenile to harbor feelings of resentment toward his dead mentor, but still. The man has used too many good people, many of which were now dead due to his machinations. Realistically, he hadn't killed them, the monster responsible for that, was dead.

Harry had just been a pawn in his personal war against Voldemort, like many others, but it still rankled.

Harry had forgiven him for all of that, but still had yet to do so for one particular misdeed perpetrated by the old puppet-master.

Harry's lingering feelings of anger were on behalf of the singular man whom he desperately sought to find in this office that afternoon.

Finally, after another "ahem", an exasperated Harry looked up to meet the twinkling gaze of Albus Dumbledore.

"I don't really want to talk to you, you know."

"I'm certain you believe you're correct in not wishing to do so."

Blimey, it was irritating, that whether alive, in his head, or in a portrait, the old codger was always a master at manipulating language to his benefit.

"Harry, I was wondering if you noticed anything peculiar while you were studying the office?"

Harry had noticed, since he'd been anxious to see it from the moment he gained access, and was rather disappointed by its lacking.

"Er…all headmasters' get a portrait right?" Harry asked, after awhile.

Dumbledore nodded in affirmation, "…Despite the duration of their tenure, yes, this is correct."

"So you've seen Snape then?" Harry figured the dour man was probably avoiding Dumbledore by hiding out in a portrait somewhere else in the castle. "Does he ever, you know, say anything?"

"No, Harry, I've not yet been privileged to converse with him since before my passing. I suspect in due time Severus will make his appearance."

"Oh. Where is he then?" Harry pressed on, confusion knitting his brow.

"I suspect, my dear boy, that Severus has yet to become available to take up occupancy in his portrait." Dumbledore smiled cryptically.

"What does that mean?" Harry asked, but the old man did not seem willing to elaborate. "Fine, well if you do see him, tell him that I'm sorry."

"I assure you I would be pleased to pass on the message."

"Okay, thanks, but just so you know, I DO understand. And its not like I think you expect me to cut you some slack. It's just that- I think he- I mean- I think WE all should have been more aware of what your plans were before we agreed to go on with them. So that's why I don't really want to talk to you. Or forgive you. "

"Perfectly understandable given our circumstances. I'll be right here when you're ready, Harry, take care." And with that, he closed his eyes and seemed to fall back to sleep, just as McGonagall entered the office.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter, I hope you weren't waiting long," Taking a seat behind her desk, "I haven't heard from you in far too many months, I hope you are keeping well?" She eyed him from over her spectacles perched low on her aquiline nose. Harry shifted uncomfortably and the Headmistress gestured for him to take a seat across from her desk.

"Well enough, Headmistress." Harry attempted to mask his expression, and looked down to pick at a spot on his sleeve.

"You may dispense with the act, Mr. Potter," Harry glanced up with a recalcitrant look at the aged witch as she leaned forward, and clasped her hands before him on the desk.

"I am aware of your recent dismissal, and was informed of your rather undignified actions," she pressed her lips together disapprovingly, "I suppose, however, you must have a few alternative situations for yourself? You must have amassed quite a few offers you are considering?"

"I am," Harry assured her, matching her sternly leveling gaze.

Even after defeating a Dark Lord, and a year of intense Auror training, Harry still maintained a healthy respect for his former Head of House. Fortunately, for the time being she seemed pacified and turned her attention to the documents she summoned from within her desk.

"I must admit I was alarmed to find your House-Elf lurking in the kitchens. It did engender some concern that you would have dismissed his services without some sort of explanation."

"I just thought that Hogwart's could use all the help they could get. He's not very pleasant, but he works hard. And he's been sort of um… cross since I removed him from Grimwauld place. I couldn't really send him back there, now though."

"Yes, I can't imagine he would be very nurturing around infants," McGonagall smirked, "well, if that is all, I simply need your signature on the line, though if ever you shall require him returned, you are still legally his Master. He will be able to apparate to you at any call. As long as that as clear, we shall be happy to employ his services. This is rather too generous, Harry. Few wizards are apt to part with their servants. Most of Hogwart's elven staff consist of families that have left no heir to inherit, and are appointed here by the Ministry."

Harry winced at the word, 'servant' and his thoughts blinkered over to a fourth year Hermione handing out S.P.E.W. pins.

Harry scribbled his signature at the bottom of the agreement, and assured the Headmistress that he was happy to assign the old House-Elf to Hogwarts as long as his services would necessitate.

"Now Mr. Potter, I really do have pressing matters to return to. Though if you would care to, you are more than welcome to explore our reconstruction efforts around the castle, and I do trust you remember your way around."

Harry nodded, and they stood up to shake hands.

"I think you'll be pleased to find all we have accomplished in so short a duration. Until later, dear boy, keep yourself healthy, and I do wish for you the best of success in finding another career path. You will undoubtedly persevere, as you always have done."

After perusing the Great Hall and catching up with Professor Flitwick, busy deciphering the charmed wards around the trophy room, he quickly gleaned that though the dungeons were still a caved-in wreckage, the sixth and seventh floors were now completely accessible.

With that, Harry was unsurprised to find himself working his way up to the seventh floor corridor, particularly motivated to seek out the Room of Requirement. The way up the moving staircase was like a memory from a long forgotten dream of his days regularly negotiating his way around as a student on his way to the dormitory. The portraits occasionally nodded to him in recognition, and he felt the pull of longing the comfort of Hogwarts had always engendered within him.

As Harry approached the seventh floor, he reflected that his bourgeoning yearning to track down anything remotely related to Snape was quickly turning into a bit of an obsession. He knew exactly what he'd come here to do, and it was more than a passing investigation of the Castle's reconstruction.

Sliding the palm of his hand over the rough and ancient stones of the empty wall before him, he felt his gut butterfly with anticipation, then after several moments vacant of any glimmer of response, he knelt to the ground in disappointment. Apparently, willing the door to appear was not enough. Perhaps the damage that Crabbe has produced with his poorly handled Fiend-Fyre had irreparably destroyed the entrance.

Harry grimaced, and recalled the old book with a sense of unparalleled longing. As usual, thinking of the book inevitably conjured the ghastly image of Snape, pleading for Harry to 'look at him' in his final seconds.

If he could have only saved that damn book, he'd have something, anything of the dead man. He could barely fathom why it meant so much to have at least some memento other than those taunting, phantom memories, but the man had died and was utterly gone. Haunted by his inability to obtain the closure he sorely felt was due; he wanted to scream at the man for seven years of treating him like scum, when really he'd been discreetly protecting him all along. He had also wanted to thank him for secretly planting the Sword in the Forest of Dean despite great personal risk.

More importantly, the man had truly known and loved Harry's mother. He had also given him his memories enlightening Harry as to how to finally complete the fulfillment of his destiny.

Mostly, he wanted to apologize for hating and never trusting him even as he lay prone in Harry's supportive arms, being bloody useless as the man passed his final breath. He wanted to apologize for not knowing enough back then to be sorry, as he continued to hold the empty ruined shell of the man's body, hands covered in the blood still gurgling up from the torn throat.

With this last thought, Harry glanced up at the wall and was stunned to find the door to the Room of Requirement, fully corporeal. If a door could be sentient, he would have admitted to a shiver of anger and fear emanating from its glow. Harry stood up shakily, pressed against the entrance and stepped inside.

The room was a charred disaster. Piles of ruins lay in his path. Harry carefully maneuvered his way around, tripping over the blackened remains of various tomes and ancient artifacts, when a glitter of something among the wreckage caught his eye.

Harry levitated some of the debris out of his path, and kicked over what appeared to be a demolished dining table which underneath lay the magically crumpled silver of Rowena's diadem.

Wonderingly, he examined it and lay it back down. It seemed ages ago, though really it had only been less than two years since he had destroyed the old horcrux, and escaped the inferno that had nearly claimed himself and his friends. He unwillingly trembled as he recalled that Crabbe had fallen to his death not far from this spot. Imagining the ghost of Crabbe haunting this very room, chilled Harry to his core.

Holding his breath, he looked up to find the transporting Vanishing Cabinet looming before him. Repelling away the last of the clutter blocking his way, Harry suppressed a sense of apprehension, and with his heart drumming with anticipation, Harry adroitly eased open the cabinet door to discover the potions book still intact.

He quickly pocketed it within the confines of his robe, and left Hogwarts that day, with a sense of renewed hope.

That night, Harry pored over the Half-Blood-Prince's neatly scrawled script in the margins with fervor. It was like reclaiming a long-forgotten and cherished friend. Finally, after several years of refusing to incorporate his knowledge of the true identity of the writer with that of the Half-Blood-Prince, the two melded into one and Harry could feel his shiver of excitement as his memory lent the man's silver guilded tongue to the voice of the long forgotten teen's clever commentary.

It was almost like Occlumency lessons, with Snape's voice floating through his skull. Except this time, the voice was welcome.

An owl flew into his window, distracting Harry with its scratching against the glass. Reluctantly, he put the book aside, and allowed the bird to come fluttering in to perch upon the arm of the sofa. The letter in hand, Harry sat down once again, studying the recognizable script addressed to him.

Harry,

How are you doing? It's been ages since I've seen you! You're probably wondering how I've been doing and have heard that I started my own business.

Harry faltered, and looked down at the signature. Of course. Neville Longbottom. He recalled his astonishment, when Ron, now working with George at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had told him they often hired out their potions orders from Neville Longbottom.

George had informed him that sometime in the last year, his old school-mate had formed an up-start potions business. When Harry had remarked his disbelief that the very student most disastrous in the potion's classroom had proceeded to venture into the same line of work, George, of course, further explained that Neville worked with an actual Potion's brewer.

Neville, on the other hand, was in command of multiple greenhouses and a flourishing plot of land dedicated to gardens hosting a various array of magical flora.

He defended that though the potions were more expensive than those of his competition, they were masterfully concocted and the efficacy was vastly superior.

The business is splendid, but it's a ton of work. We're still in the new stages of product development and marketing to the shops around Diagon Alley. We have a few solid clients, though, so that's a start.

You must think it's funny, that me, of all people, owns a potions making company. I have to say, after the war I wasn't sure what I was going to do, and Headmistress McGonagall offered me the Herbology position at Hogwarts. I really didn't want to teach. I'm not so good at that, and I could never have been as good as Professor Sprout. Then, when Gran passed away, it left me kind of in the dumps, and I just sort of started planting stuff to keep myself from feeling too bad about things. It occurred to me that this was what I wanted to do, and then I met Mr. Fipe. We decided that since he was trying to make a living off of brewing, and I, off of growing and selling to local vendors, that we would do better as a team. It proved cheaper for both of us, and though he may be a hard task-master, he's bloody brilliant and I'm lucky that he even agreed to work with me.

I have to admit, Harry, I don't always believe what I see in the Prophet- but I did catch an article that claimed you attacked another Auror! Of course, you know I don't put faith in those articles, but I did hear you were out of a job. I'm sorry about that, you know. I remember you had always talked with Ron and everybody about becoming an Auror. I'm sure it's probably too late to ask you this, since I'm sure you've probably got a million other better job offers, but I do need help.

You see, my partner, Mr. Fipe is busy all the time with the brewing, and I've got my hands full trying to keep up the gardens and the book-keeping, and we're not extremely profitable right now, so it's been kind of a job trying to keep up with getting the other ingredients. It's funny, I never really thought about how much potion making entailed until I ended up in the business. If you would consider it, I can't think of anybody better to be a Gatherer. Of course, if you took on the job full-time we would make you partner. I have to admit, it won't be entirely profitable right away, but when it is, and I have confidence that it will be, you'd be provided a third of your share. I can't offer you a steady pay cheque or anything, but if you'd move out here with us, it'd be free room and board. We try to subsist off of what we can, so it's not easy, but we get by well enough.

If you're interested, I'll owl you the coordinates. Right now, everything is warded to protect the gardens from intruders, so you won't be able to see anything until I re-code the ward to allow you entrance.

I hope you'll consider the offer, and if you don't want to do it, I'll completely understand. Take care, Harry, hope to hear from you soon.

Neville Longbottom

Longbottom's Pharmaceuticals

Potion Production and Distribution Co.

Harry had to admit, he was intrigued by the offer. He knew little of what the position would entail, but would be thrilled to abandon his currently declining situation in favour of one that would offer a new setting, and maybe a good challenge. And for once, the job was offered based upon his own merits, and not those of his fame.

He found himself quickly penning a reply for Neville to forward the coordinates, and sent the owl back on its way. He could barely contain his satisfaction with the idea of alleviating his friends' smothering concern over his lack of employment. Particularly Hermione's anxiety for him would be one less burden to bear.

Awhile later, Neville's owl was back with the coordinates and a time to meet the following day.

Harry fell asleep that night for the first time in months, with the potions book tucked securely under his pillow, feeling resolutely that life was going to be better.

When he apparated to the coordinates, he took a sweeping look around, taken aback by the sheer vastness of the rolling terrain. The short, chalky grassland was mostly void of any settlement for miles around, and aside from a few grazing sheep far off across the valley- seemed relatively uninhabited. A gust of sweet, earthy wind whipped around, and Harry took in a deep breath, swelling with a feeling of tranquility.

"So, it's pretty isn't it?"

Harry turned around to stare at the grinning man behind him. A windswept looking Neville stood, hands in pockets, leaning back upon his heels. He was clad in a rather dusty looking suit and his trouser knees looked a bit threadbare, but he held an air of confidence that was alien to the Neville Harry had known.

He remembered the shy, stuttering, introverted young man that was always hanging just outside the tight-knit trio, and re-evaluated him for the first time in years.

This was the man, whom had led the student resistance seventh year at Hogwarts, the brave figure who had made a stand against Voldemort and drawn up the Sword of Gryffindor to slay Nagini.

"Hi, Neville, you look…er," Harry paused and gestured at his friend, "good."

Neville flushed, "Er. Thanks, Harry. It's been awhile."

They hugged somewhat awkwardly in greeting, and Neville explained, "Its good of you to help me out, I have to admit, I was kind of surprised you agreed to come. So, um… just wait a moment, I sort of just got the hang of this…I just have to re-code the ward, so you're allowed in. Mostly, Mr. Fipe has been the one to enter our clients and my other friends, but he is elbows deep in brewing right now…"

Neville flourished his wand, and Harry took in a gasp as the curtains of the ward flickered and fell to reveal just over an acre of sprawling botanical gardens. There was a cottage housed beside several greenhouses, with a short pathway that spiraled around multiple fenced in seeded plots and carefully manicured rows of shrubs, leading up to a weathered shack. The old stone hovel stood behind a veil of curling vines, and smoke emanated from a small chimney.

"Bloody amazing, Neville."

His friend flushed and looked pleased, "well it's all pretty small right now, but we have some room to extend out."

Inside the cottage, Harry took a proffered seat at the table in the kitchen across from Neville and accepted a cup of tea. Harry took a sip, savouring the aromatic combination that seemed to flourish almost decadently, and sighed.

"This tea-" Harry began, taken aback.

"Yeah, it's good, right? Mr. Fipe puts it together himself. Wait 'til you try his bangers and mash. And his treacle is without words," Neville grinned, "he may be sort of a cantankerous old coot, but I've put on about two-stone since he moved here."

Harry nodded gratefully as Neville topped off his cup.

"So, anyway, the plants I can take care of, and Mr. Fipe does all the potions bit. For awhile we tried to scramble money together to pay for the rest of the ingredients in town, or by mail-order. The thing is, some of the properties of the stuff are time sensitive, or magically delicate, and really costly. So to procure what we need, we've had to hire free-lance Gatherer's and they're either always a bit dodgy or outrageously expensive," Neville smirked at Harry unevenly.

"Mostly, we have private client's for now, and they're willing to pay what we ask solely due to the quality. As it is, we mark our prices just nearly to cost. We're trying to expand out to a bigger market- you know start off with some of the proprietor's in Diagon Alley so that we can maybe eventually pocket more of the money, but in order to do so- we have to have a reliable source for the harder to acquire ingredients." Neville poured himself another cup.

"That's where you come in. You have to understand, at first you're not going to really see any payment," Neville paused and nervously wrung his hands.

"We make due with the gardens in back for supper most nights," he steeled his expression into a look of determination, "but it will pay off. If you agree to become our third partner, we can significantly lower our overall expenditure, and lower the wholesale value of our wares. That'll mean we can branch out to a wider market."

Harry sat back and marveled at his friend. Neville's business lingo had taken him for a loop.

Neville met Harry's marvelling gaze with one of hesitancy and expected disappointment.

"So, er…when can I move in?" Harry asked, setting his cup back down onto the saucer.

Neville beamed with gratitude, "Harry! Right away! You mean you really want to do this? Thank you, so much, I didn't expect-"

His friend shook his hand enthusiastically.

"I can't wait to get started, Neville, it sounds like a great opportunity. Thank you for offering it to me. Really."

Neville led Harry around for a tour and explained to Harry more specifically what his job would entail. Finally, they came to the old shack behind the gardens. Neville rapped upon the door.

After no response from within, Neville looked awkwardly at Harry.

"Mr. Fipe must be…er, in the middle of a delicate potion or something… I wanted to show you where you'll be staying. I know the place looks kind of small from the outside, but it's spelled to be a bit roomier. If you don't mind, I thought it would suit you well for now to stay in the spare apartment. You see, part of what you'll need to do is occasionally assist with the around-the-clock potions' prep, so it'd be easiest if you had access to the lab."

"It's hard to believe that this place actually has more than one room, let alone, an entire potion's lab," Harry muttered, crossing his arms, "Have you warned him that I'm utter rot at Potions? I don't know how much help I'll be."

"That's not true, I heard you were absolutely brilliant at Potions, sixth year, weren't you?"

Flustered by the undeserved compliment, Harry thought uneasily about his borrowing of assistance from the Half-blood-Prince.

Suddenly the door to the shack swung open nearly hitting Harry square in the face. He tumbled back for a moment, before an arm shot out to balance him. The hand immediately released him, and the man before him leveled him with a look of churlish impatience.

"Markedly graceful, is he?" The man quirked an eyebrow at Neville, who once again flushed and looked sheepishly away from Harry.

Okay, graceful, maybe on a broom, Harry thought, smirking at his friend's flattering description.

"This is the man, you're so sure will be sufficient for the job?" He eyed Harry with a look of poorly-disguised doubt, "Well, Mr. Potter, I was informed of your arrival. I'd expect you wish to see the place?"

Standing before Harry was a towering, middle-aged man with short, graying, sandy-blonde hair and a rather non-descript face with piercing cobalt eyes, a squashed nose and square jaw. His stained robes hung from a nearly skeletal frame. Nevertheless, he had an imposing air about him, and Harry felt a keening sense of recognition.

"Um, er…" Harry began, feeling coherence scurry out of grasp.

"Hmph." The man ushered Harry and Neville inside, "I sincerely hope your capability to perform your assignments, will prove to be more successful than your pitiful attempts at articulation."

While Mr. Fipe swept back to his steaming cauldron, Neville shot a sympathetic smile at Harry, and whispered conspiratorially, "He's kind of a git, but like I said, he makes a mean pudding."

"I am not a git, Mr. Longbottom, I merely can't abide incompetence. And if you insist upon defamation while my back is turned, you are feebly indiscreet, and shall receive no pudding."

Instead of looking reprimanded, Neville's face split into a broad grin, and he practically dragged Harry out of the lab and down a narrow hall.

Harry took in the surprisingly large interior and followed Neville, suppressing a rather excitable gulp, "Doesn't he… you know, kind of remind you of anybody?"

Neville looked back at Harry for a minute with an indecipherable look on his face, and for a moment, Harry had to suppress a thrill of sheer irrational glee.

Impossible. Harry shook his head to clear the idea.

"Well, yeah, sort of. But at least Mr. Fipe doesn't treat me like I'm an utter cock-up. He takes some getting used to, but he's kind of…well," Neville paused considering, "well he's not nice, but he's really decent. And I think I'm pretty damn lucky that he took me up on this whole thing, considering his talents."

The room was modest, and freshly painted. There was a washstand next to a cot by the window, looking out on the rolling valley below. In between a small book case and worktable was a dresser with bottles on top.

Harry liked it. It felt more like home than anywhere he'd been since Hogwarts.

On the way back out, Harry glanced over at the strange, austere Mr. Fipe, enrapt in his brewing. The man, though he never looked up, seemed to acknowledge Harry's studying gaze.

"So, I take it you found your rooms acceptable."

Harry answered in the affirmative, and both he and Neville wished the surly man a good day.

Harry made short order of wrapping up loose ends, packed his meager belongings, and cast a few cleaning spells before notifying his landlord that he would be breaking his lease. The bills were mostly taken care of with the last of Harry's savings, and he thanked his lawyer to be done with the rest.

Sending an owl to Ron and Hermione, as well as one to the Weasley's explaining his accepting a new career and change of address, he looked around for the last time, and apparated back to Sussex Downs.

When Harry arrived at the shack, Mr. Fipe opened the door, and with a look of disdain, gestured Harry inside. The man looked ragged. Red lined eyes were encircled by dark bruising, and he appeared to have an almost permanent worry line indented between his brows. Even the man's hair seemed to stand on end, and his shoulder's sagged with exhaustion.

For some reason, Harry felt himself unwillingly compelled to stare at the man.

"If you would, Mr. Potter, deposit your things in your room, and assist me when you're finished. I have a deadline to meet, and three potions that need tending."

Harry followed his command, and met him shortly in the lab.

"You know, I'm not aware if Neville told you, but I'm not very…er that is, I'm not good at Potions."

The man barely looked at Harry as he wordlessly cast a spell to temper out the flames under one of his cauldron's and manually continued to stir another.

"Your incompetence not withstanding, I imagine you are capable of taking instruction?"

"What can I do?" Harry questioned, stung by the man's animosity. He barely knew the man, and he was already being an utter git.

"I need you to complete the draught for the Chelidonium Miniscula.I have just added the celandine and it has rested for 9 minutes."

Harry paled, and gawked at the man.

"Um…so is there like a manual or are you going to just tell me what I need to do?…"

Mr. Fipe looked up from his potion and smirked.

"So it's established you can't even brew the most basic of droughts. I wonder how it is that the the Savior of the Wizarding World is even capable of possessing such a title. I'm sure it's too much to expect you've the ability to stir, while I prepare the Papaveraceae?"

The man's deep gravelly voice lashed over Harry and he paled. Wishing to sink into the floorboards, he wondered where Neville had gone off to. Instead of angry, the man seemed rather bemused by his discomfort as Harry took to stirring the contents of the cauldron. This was not the first impression he wanted to make.

They worked side by side in silence for awhile, Fipe, occasionally wordlessly corrected his stirring, or adjusting his cutting technique, while the potions continued to simmer calmly. As new elements were added, Fipe would summon over new ingredients for Harry to prepare and after awhile he found himself falling into a routine and measurably relaxing in the man's daunting company.

Neville knocked on the door, and eased himself in holding a basket of herbs that he set down on the work table and began to sort. When he was finished he quickly connected eyes with Harry and nodded before exiting with the empty basket in hand.

Finally, with two of the potions completed, Harry was assigned to the task of bottling. Surreptitiously he glanced at Fipe to find him looking approvingly at him.

"It seems, Mr. Potter, that you've managed sufficiently today. Tomorrow, you'll be required to fetch some items for the upcoming orders. I have composed a list for you. Lets hope you'll be able to manage that without any hand-holding."

"Er, thanks," Harry nodded awkwardly as Fipe handed him the parchment.

That night they dined in the cottage with Neville, and Harry found himself entertained, watching the easy banter between his friend and Mr. Fipe. It seemed Neville was able to let the churlish man's barbs roll off, and respond intelligently and with a measure of fondness. He was admittedly puzzled to how two such entirely different men could engage in such civil rapport. And Neville was right, the man's cooking was incomparable.

It was unlikely. Hell, it was impossible. But there was something about the man that clawed at Harry's subconscious. He was so like Snape. His mannerisms and condescension were dead on. And how coincendental was it that he could brew with such mastery without actually holding the title of Potion's Master? Of course, he looked nothing like the man, but his stance and even the way he swept when he walked, was eerily reminiscent. In Auror-training he had been taught to see through the guise of nearly any glamour, and there were tell-tale signs of Polyjuice. He saw no revealing flicker of underlying features, so there couldn't be a glamour, and with Polyjuice, you still retained your own voice. Snape's voice had been smooth and hypnotic, the coarse-voiced Fipe couldn't hold a candle to that. He's dead, you watched him die, Harry tried to convince himself once again. Just because he may be a bit of a git, does not Severus Snape make, he reasoned.

And besides, in what world would Severus Snape knowingly choose to work with and be congenial toward Neville Longbottom? With that convincing argument in mind, Harry tucked his potions book in the top drawer of his bureau, and sat down on his cot to review his list for the next day.

Harry slept fitfully that night, as his nightmares returned full-fledged. He woke up panting in a cold sweat, to a short rap upon his door. There, silhouetted in the dark of the entryway stood Fipe.

"I assumed you'd require a sleep-aid." Harry accepted the phial, and downed the contents.

He awoke that morning while it was still dark, and noted wistfully he could've slept for another hour or so. He remembered last night with a rush of humiliation and wished he had remembered to put up a silencing charm around the room.

Oh hell. There was no way he was going back to sleep now, it was four-o-clock, and he had to be up in another hour anyway to start on collecting the ingredients on his list. He wandered down the hall and sat in the lab. There was a little makeshift kitchenette in the corner, and he put the kettle over a flame. He could have heated the pot with a warming charm, but he'd always felt more comfortable doing household tasks sans magic.

As he sipped on his tea, Fipe quietly entered the lab and summoned a cup filling it from the kettle before sitting down across from Harry.

He smoothed a hand across his ruffled hair, and settled back in his chair.

"Good Morning," Harry tentatively offered.

"Whats good about it." The man replied, tersely. Okay. Not a morning person.

Harry found himself once again becoming disturbingly transfixed upon the rumpled, heavy-lidded man across from him.

"I, er… didn't disturb you too much last night, did I?" Harry asked, timidly.

"That would depend on your definition of 'disturb'. Do you mean the furious tossing about in your cot or the hysterical shouting?"

"Er, yeah. Sorry about that. Um…I should've…er, I'll put up the silencing next time. Thank you, by the way. For the potion."

The man harrumphed and summoned some small vials from off the shelf and handed one to Harry.

"From now on, I will brew your Dreamless Sleep. And you will take it every night. For now, Pepper-up, Mr. Potter. You best be fit for the day. I need the Runespoor eggs by sundown."

With that, the man, excused himself, and Harry felt a longing sense of regret. There was no way he was going to ever be able to earn the respect of this man. He had made an utter fool out of himself, and could barely string two intelligent words to say to him. Yet, though he made it seem like an imposition, the man had offered to brew him Dreamless Sleep, when he could've offered a simpler, less complex sleeping draught.

Harry spent the better of the morning studying the geography of Burkina Faso. It would be a bit of a trick to apparate so far with little knowledge of the terrain. He also readied his supplies, a dagger, his wand, dragon-hide gloves, charmed water-proof boots, a bezoar in case of accidental poisoning- since the three headed snake was known to be venomous, as well as an indestructible box lined with a warming charm and soft towels to safely encase the egg.

When he arrived in the thick of the jungle he summoned a tracking charm and honed it to see only the color orange- leaving the rest monotone. Harry had learned this particular charm in defense classes during Auror training- it has always reminded him of the old muggle reruns Aunt Petunia had been so fond of on the telly.

As the sun fell lower in the horizon, Harry had tripped his way through endless swamps, been nearly devoured by a ravenous alligator, and stung and bitten by numerous species of insects.

Weary, and hungry, Harry had nearly given into defeat to set back for the nearby village when he suddenly he heard a rustling beyond the pond. Using a sonerous, he keyed into a hissing conversation taking place just to his left.

At last, Harry quietly maneuvered his way through a dense patch of spiny foliage when he caught site of his prey. Or rather, it caught site of him.

The shimming orange snake slithered up from its nest slinking toward Harry.

"[We have a visssitor, what sssay we try a bite?]"

"[Dearessst Sister, I would firssst sseek to ssspeak with it.]"

"[Not very robussst, I sssay a wassste of energy.]"

Easy. According to text- the first was the Planner, the second the Dreamer and the third the Critic. Harry swallowed back his reticent terror, readied his mark on the Critic from the obscurity of the tall grass, and leapt out like a cheetah, slicing off the head with a silver dagger. His heart thudding, sweat dripping from his neck, he eased his way defensively stepping before the writhing creature.

The Runespoor- now only bearing two heads wailed in horror, and coiled in on itself.

"[I do not wisssh to kill you!]" Harry spoke, syllabic parseltongue naturally weaving itself from his words.

"[Then ssspeak [predator] and ssay what you have come for.]" Hissed the Planner.

"[How is it you come to find usss, and ssspeak our tongue?]" Spoke the Dreamer.

"[Never mind that, before your sister regrowsss her head, bare me an egg, and I will let you live.]"

From out of the mouth of the second head was deposited a shining ebony sphere, which Harry, thankful for his dragonhide gloves, quickly seized and delicately set into the protective box.

"[Devilissssh human! I will dessstroy you!]" Seethed the third head of the Critic growing back from the decapitated neck.

The Runespoor lunged at Harry, nearly sinking dripping fangs into his thigh, before he apparated back into the nearby village nearly splinching himself in panic.

Success and adrenaline pumped through him, as he set off back to Sussex Downs that evening. Maybe Fipe would show him a little respect after this. For once, Harry had used his capacity for action-first, dumb-luck second and managed to complete his assignment.

The following days were spent assisting Neville in the gardens. His herbology knowledge was limited, but his friend was graciously patient. The summer sun was unusually hot for the northern climate and cooling charms were quickly diminished in the searing rays of the sun.

Sweat dripping down his back, Harry worked, tenderly fitting the bulbs into their proper places, before covering them back up with a small amount of sod, and carefully applying a drop of fertilizing solution.

Kneeling in the dirt, gardening was almost peaceful. He was transported back to those times at the Dursley's in the summer, when his only escape was tending Petunia's flower patch. It was working like this, working too hard to think too much- it was a soothing balm to an aching conscience, a way to forget an unsolvable problem. These last few days Harry had definitely isolated his problem.

The man had cloistered himself in the lab since obtaining the runespoor egg, with barely a word spared to him. It had seemed over meals, that he had become even more congenial to Neville, and more disparaging of Harry's attempts at conversation. The more he was thwarted, the greater his desire grew to be recognized by the bastard. His frustration at gaining Fipe's acknowledgement seemed to display itself with an increase in his obsessive tendency to stare at the man.

Much to Harry's dismay, Fipe had seemed to take notice. Every time he found his eyes falling to the man, he was thwarted by a mocking gaze in return. The man had even had smirked once or twice at him over supper, while Neville wasn't looking.

A clearing of the throat broke his reverie, and he looked up startled to see Fipe standing before him.

"Have you a moment? I require your assistance."

Harry looked up speculatively from his kneeling position and the man standing so close before him, and was momentarily caught off guard by the man's strange expression- before it was quickly masked with one of disinterest.

Nearly admiring. Harry swallowed.

"What do you need help with?" The charged moment, dissipated as the man stepped back when Harry stood up and wiped his hands off on his shorts.

"Stirring. I'll show you how it's done properly this time."

Harry followed Fipe into the lab, blinking to adjust his eyes from the dilating effects of coming in front the bright summer sun. He was led to a cauldron with an oddly opalescent concoction.

"Take it."

Harry looked up to see Fipe offering him the ladle. The domineering man took a step close behind Harry, and placed his calloused hands over his own.

"When you stir," the coarse gravelly voice whispered against the back of his neck, "you place your hands level with your chest, elbows out for balance." He corrected Harry's position, and edged close behind him, to the extent that Harry felt the front of the man's robes brush his backside. A rush of heat having nothing to do with the temperature rippled through Harry. He awkwardly made to inch forward out of the sheer energy that seemed to tie him to the presence behind him.

"If you rotate counter-clockwise for several moments, you will notice the viscosity change, you will be able to smell it." Fipe leaned forward for just a brief second nearly pressing his full body against Harry's back. Breath raising the small hairs at the nape of his neck, Harry sharply inhaled- a shuddering anticipation filling him, before Fipe stepped away completely.

The silence between the two men as they continued to work was palpable with tension. Harry had never felt so flustered and out of sorts. First, this strange man, whom he had barely known for two weeks was nearly hostile, almost congenial, and now sadistically teasing him.

And he had responded. Horror of horrors he had felt himself grow half-hard with the proximity. It wasn't as if the dawning realization that he was quite possibly attracted to men was enough- it had to be such an unattractive, old and bastardly man. One whom he worked with. Beating down his feelings of horror, nausea and confusion, he paid mind to his 'stirring' lesson and realized the draught was complete.