A Taste of Liberty
by lamardeuse

Rating: NC-17 for language, sexual content and slash

Pairing: HP/SS

Length:  A little over 100,000 words

Summary: Before the final battle, Harry Potter plays hooky and learns about another world.

Big, Hairy Warning: This story contains SLASH, which is a romantic/sexual relationship between two men. Also, Harry is eighteen in this fic. If you are underage or not interested in this subject matter, please go away NOW.

Archiving: Please do NOT archive this story, or link to it on a webpage, livejournal or other public forum without my knowledge. If you wish to spread the word of this fic (and I'd certainly love you to!) please let me know or do so via e-mail or some other non-public means.  Thanks!

Disclaimer: The characters of Harry Potter, Severus Snape and the world of Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling and her various publishers. The characters and world of Queer as Folk belong to Ron Cowen, Daniel Lipman and Cowlip Productions. No profit is being made from this story. Fuzzy Oathammer is taken from "The Lady Eve", by the insanely funny American auteur Preston Sturges. The concept of the 'body count' Harry speaks about in Chapter 6 is shamelessly stolen from the Due South fic "A Moment of Insight" by the amazingly talented Speranza. Excerpts from "i thank You God for most this amazing" by ee cummings used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this story.

Author's notes:  I am not given to crossovers, but this just struck me as an interesting juxtaposition, for a number of reasons. This story was begun before the release of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and so the events of that book are not reflected in it. There is the mention of one OOTP beastie in Chapter 28, because I couldn't resist.
 
Thanks: To Jim, who has now crossed over into Pottermania; to Barbara, who pointed out that Dumbledore was actually Transfigurations master before becoming headmaster; to all the people who have taken the time to comment on the story and recommend it to others; and particularly to Femme, my Evil TwinTM (or maybe I'm the Evil Twin), who was so supportive and helpful throughout.
 

 
 

 

~~ I ~~

"Come on, Harry!"

Harry Potter sighed as he climbed the wooden steps to the shop. It was the last Hogsmeade weekend before the NEWTs, and Neville and Ron had gotten it into their heads to Floo to Diagon Alley so that they could explore Muggle London. Harry and Hermione had been dragged along; while neither of them was terribly interested in the questionable delights of a world they knew all too well, they felt a certain responsibility to the young pureblood wizards. Without them, the boys would have ended up in six kinds of trouble before dinnertime.

Unfortunately, the effort involved in keeping them out of trouble was exhausting, and Hermione had been driven half-mad before she washed her hands of the lot of them and decided to visit the shops on her own. That left Harry alone to watch over Ron and Neville, and after a day filled with near disasters, he was ready to throttle them both.

"Look, just promise me one thing," Harry said.

The two of them turned and looked at him.

"Promise to keep your bloody mouths shut," he hissed.

Neville rolled his eyes. Ron gave him his well-I-like-that frown.

Harry wished he were anywhere but here.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Comic books. Sodding comic books.

"How old are you?" Harry demanded.

"Lighten up, mate," Ron told him. "You've forgotten how to get in touch with your inner child."

I never was a child, thought Harry sullenly, though even as it was formed he realised it wasn't exactly true. He remembered playing with toys, always Dudley's hand-me-downs, of course. The plastic horses were invariably missing an ear or a leg, and the soldiers had most of their paint chipped off before he ever saw them. Still, it was a childhood of sorts. But Harry never spent much time experiencing childhood, only wishing that it would be over so that he could go out in the world and leave the Dursleys behind forever. Being a boy paled before the tantalising prospect of manhood.

And then, when he'd arrived at Hogwarts, he'd fallen into this strange in-between world, where he was treated as both a man and a boy. He could risk his neck on the Quidditch pitch or in fighting Voldemort, and the next day be docked House points for failing to pay attention in Potions class. He was more of an adult than ever, but also had never so completely allowed himself to be a child. 

Which made him wonder what he'd been before. Very little of anything, apparently.

He remembered, too, that he was now officially done with childhood.  Even though it was only early May, he and his friends had celebrated his "birthday" last week, for by Hermione's careful calculations he'd seen the close of his eighteenth year more than three months early thanks to his Auror training.  In order to cram as many lessons as possible into his already busy sixth- and seventh-year schedule, he had used Dumbledore's Time-Turner to extend the duration of his lessons.  As a result, Harry had lived an extra day or so every week during the last couple of years, and Hermione had decided that he was entitled to an early birthday for that.  So as far as nearly everyone was concerned, Harry was now an adult.

Harry pulled his attention back to the here and now. The shop didn't look much different to those in Diagon Alley. It was piled to the rafters with comic books, mechanical toys, metal figurines, plastic models, and board games of various descriptions. At least here there were no electronic gadgets to tempt the eye and the hand; Harry hadn't brought enough Muggle money with him to pay for any more costly breakages such as resulted from the accident at the computer shop.

Leaving Ron and Neville to their own devices, he decided to have a boo at the merchandise. The figures and models were either designed along historical or fantasy themes. There were row upon row of miniature Roman legions alongside well-endowed superheroes, resplendent in their garish skintight garb. There were board games based on Star Trek and Lord of the Rings – that jammy Tolkien, giving away the secrets of the kingdom – and models of Churchill tanks poised alongside snap-together Batmobiles.

Neville walked up to him with a long, brightly coloured box in one hand. "What's this?"

He peered at it for a moment – damned contacts were drying up again. "Oh. That's a light saber."

"Like a wand?" the other boy whispered.

"No. It can only be used as a weapon. Well, not used exactly, not like this – "

"You mean it needs a spell to activate it?"

"No," Harry said, taking the box from Neville and turning it over, "it needs four 'D' cell batteries to make it bloody light up. It's useless. Only a toy."

Ron crept up behind him and poked him in the ribs, and Harry cursed as the box nearly flew out of his hands. "You're a black cloud today, you know that?"

"If that's true, then I've been a black cloud for months," Harry huffed.

Ron stepped around him and regarded him thoughtfully. "Maybe you have, at that. Wonder why that is?"

Harry handed the light saber back to Neville and walked as casually as possible over to the shelf of comic books.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm in love with you."

If he lived as long as Nicholas Flamel, Harry would never forget the look which appeared in the other man's eyes then.

Complete, utter, total disgust. Though whether it was with himself or with Harry, the younger man couldn't know for sure.

"You can't be serious."

Harry had to laugh at that one. "I wish I weren't, believe you me." He stared into the fire. "It just –  happened."

 – Happened over days, months, years – he supposed it started the summer before last, when Dumbledore had deemed it unsafe for Harry to return to the Dursleys. The day he turned sixteen, he'd begun training as an Auror, the youngest in living memory. Working closely with the other man as something approaching an equal, Harry received glimpses into a soul which bore a shocking resemblance to his own. And slowly, against his will, he'd been drawn to a man he never would have thought anyone, least of all Harry himself, could love.

Nevertheless, the feeling had crystallized one moment about three weeks previous to this one. They'd arrived at the scene of another attack – some of the rogue Giants had been in on it, but the unmistakable stench of Lucius Malfoy's sinister brain hung over it as well. The intelligence had been received too late to be of any use, and the house was a smouldering ruin by the time they Apparated in, wands drawn.

Susan Bones, Hufflepuff, home for the Christmas holiday. Her mother, Anne. Her father, Robert. Her sisters, Teresa and Lizzie, first- and fourth-years respectively, both Ravenclaws. All gone, and nothing to do now but hope it had happened quickly, and to all of them at once, so that neither parent nor child had been forced to witness – 

It struck Harry that even his hopes had become monstrous.

In what was left of the conservatory, Harry found the charred remains of a china doll, its crinolines and soft blond ringlets singed but mostly intact. Later, when he had forgotten it in the search for evidence, he'd seen the other man huddled by the back shed, one long finger stroking the doll's hair while silent tears cut pure, gaping wounds in his ash-smudged cheeks. His mouth was moving, repeating the same two words over and over.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. – 

The man standing at the mantel would be humiliated to know Harry had witnessed his moment of weakness.

He didn't yet know that none of it mattered any longer. NEWTs. House points. Stiff upper lips. Unwritten rules about what one was and was not allowed to have.

"I suggest," the older man intoned, "that you make every effort to expunge this – this ridiculous infatuation – at your earliest convenience."

Harry was young, but he suddenly felt decades older than the man before him. "Have you never been in love, then?"

The thin lips pursed. "The Death Eaters do not believe in love." He paused for a moment, as if fighting a minor battle within himself. "Only fucking."

Harry rose from the chair and walked over to where the other man was standing. With more bravery than he knew he possessed, he reached up with one hand and brushed the raven-black hair back, exposing the line of one high, proud cheekbone. The owner of it flinched, but didn't move away.

"You're not a Death Eater any longer."

The older man snorted. "I will be a Death Eater until the day I die. And probably beyond that, if I am so unfortunate as to be cursed with an afterlife."

Harry's fingers glided over pale skin, surprisingly warm to the touch, although he supposed that could merely be the fire. Snape turned to him slowly, as though he were under Imperius but fighting it, fighting.

Snape was always fighting.

That was one of the reasons Harry loved him.

But paradoxically, it was also one of the reasons Snape would probably never be able to love him in return.

The boy moved closer, his lean, Quidditch-hard body giving off heat to rival the flames flickering in the grate. Snape's eyes became even more impenetrable, though there was a fine tremor in the jaw muscle under Harry's fingers.

Leaning in to brush his lips against the other man's, Harry murmured:

"Then fuck me, if that's all you think you have in you."

There was a brief flicker in Snape's coal-black eyes then, one Harry would hold against his heart in the lonely nights which followed. Before it died, Harry read lust, and shock, and passion, and most surprisingly...hope.

But it was all gone in an instant, and in its place was the old, frosty disdain.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for language, Mister Potter. Now get out of my sight."

Harry drew back from him slowly, allowing himself the childish indulgence of imagining the unforgiving pressure of Snape's mouth on his, instead of the barest whisper of contact which had been the reality.

"I had to try," he said quietly. His mouth curved in spite of the growing hole in his chest cavity. "After all, I was taught to fight by the best."

He left without looking back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Rage.

Appropriate, that.

Harry had never been a fan of comic books, but something in the defiant stance of the hero on the front cover called to him. His face was hidden by the typical mask, but Harry fancied he saw something of Snape's sneer in the superhero's haughty mien.

God. Who would have suspected he'd become a romantic in his old age?

He headed to the counter and paid for it, then walked out the door and sat on the steps to read.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"There you are! We hunted all over the shop for you!"

"Hmm?" Harry squinted up into the dying spring sunlight to see Neville and Ron standing over him, their faces cast in shadow.

"Are you on the bollicky planet at all?" Ron demanded.

"Not sure yet," Harry replied. He stood abruptly, then clambered up the steps to re-enter the shop while the two boys stared after him.

Once inside, he made a beeline for the shelves and searched the R's. There were four more issues, including the first ever published. On the cover, Rage howled his pain at the heavens as he cradled a broken young body in his arms.

The man behind the counter was tall and gangly and had a ponytail reaching halfway down his back.

"Have you any more of these?"

Raising an eyebrow, the man inspected Harry's haul. "That's all I've had in so far, but there's a new one coming in a month or so. Get them from across the pond so they take longer."

Harry tried to suppress his disappointment but wasn't entirely successful. "I may not be here in another month," he grumbled.

"Oh. Leaving the country, are you?"

Harry's mouth twitched. "Something like that."

"Well, we've another shop in Somerset if you're down that way." He paused momentarily in the midst of ringing Harry's purchases. "You, ah, like this stuff, do you?"

Hackles he didn't know he possessed rose abruptly. Something of his defensiveness must have translated to his posture or expression, because the man hastily added, "Naw, naw, don't worry, mate, I'm not askin' for a knee trembler back of the shop. I just thought – " He reached under the counter and pulled out a magazine, placing it on the counter. "There's an article in here about the artist and the writer. I don't imagine you'll find a copy – next issue's out tomorrow."

"How much?"

"No charge, mate." He gave Harry a toothy grin. "Monetary or otherwise. We got to stick together, don't we?"

Harry couldn't quite keep the blush from rising to his cheeks as he thanked the man.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione peered at the magazine laying on the table at the Leaky Cauldron. "I didn't know you read The Advocate."

"I don't," Harry said around a mouthful of Irish stew. "And how would you know about it?"

The young woman rolled her eyes. "Heterosexuals have heard of The Advocate."

Harry cast a glance at Ron and Neville, who were thankfully oblivious to the conversation. Since neither alternating nor direct electrical current would operate properly in the magical world, the two were working feverishly to devise ways to make their Light Sabers function without batteries.

Pathetic, really. But then, Harry had just bought twenty quid worth of comic books, so he wasn't in a position to cast stones.

"Well, I hadn't heard of it, and I'm bent as a – "

"Harry!" Hermione lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "For all we know that Rita Skeeter cow's hiding under the table."

"'M not ashamed of it," Harry persisted stubbornly.

"Nor should you be. But the sordid details of Harry Potter's sex life, whatever his preference may be, would be hot copy. Why give them more filth to print?"

"'Sex life'," snorted Harry. "I like that. 'Boy Who Lived Wanks in the Shower''ll make a lively front cover for Witches' Weekly, won't it?"

Hermione's cheeks pinkened slightly, but her inner curiosity burst forth. Leaning across the table, she murmured, "You mean you've never – "

Harry stuck another spoonful of stew in his gob. "Haven't had much time, have I?"

"No, but you certainly would have had the opportunity."

Harry shook his head. "I don't – " want a fuck.

But I did. I would have.

"I understand," Hermione said, laying her small, fine-boned hand over his where it lay on top of the magazine. "You want it to be special."

"I suppose," he conceded. "But it's – well, you know I have a hard time – making connections with people. It's never been easy for me. I can't just pick someone off the street and do...that."

An image of Snape flashed before him, so vivid he fancied the man was sitting at the next table, and had to fight to keep from turning his head to survey the room.

Harry cleared his throat. "When I find someone I care about, it's something I know instinctually, something I feel deep inside – and it's strong, almost frighteningly so. Like with you and Ron. Even if the both of you got tired of me, decided you hated me, never wanted to see me again, I'd stick fast." He shrugged. "Wouldn't be able to help myself."

Hermione's eyes were bright; she squeezed his hand hard. "Don't worry. You're stuck with us, too, you git."

Harry grinned. "You've been spending too much time with Ron."

"I know," she murmured, dashing the moisture from her eyes with the back of her other hand. After a moment, she released Harry's hand and tapped the magazine with one finger. "What's so fascinating, anyway?"

"This? Silly, really," he said, attempting an airy tone. "I picked up a comic book at one of the shops Ron and Neville dragged me to, and it turned out to be about a gay superhero. It was created by a couple of blokes in America."

Hermione cocked her head. "The blonde one's quite the looker. But I suppose I'd be wasting my time."

Harry chuckled. "Afraid so, m'dear. Apparently Rage – that's the hero – is based on a friend of theirs. They all live in Pittsburgh."

"Where's that? I was never much good at American geography."

Harry burst out laughing. "This is an historic occasion! A round of Butterbeers on me!"

"What is it?" Ron asked.

"Hermione finally admitted there's something she doesn't know."

The young woman in question stuck her tongue out at all of them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That night, Harry lay alone in his room at the Leaky Cauldron and tried not to think.

"Are you sure you don't want to come back tonight?" Hermione had asked him earlier. To her credit, her face had shown only a hint of the concern Harry knew she must have been feeling.

"No, you lot go on back," he'd said. "I just want to spend a bit of time – thinking."

"You can think just as well back at school," Ron had said stubbornly, his arms folded.

God. What had Harry ever done to deserve friends such as these?

"I'll be all right," he'd insisted. "If anything happens, I can Apparate back. I got my license last summer, remember?"

Yet another skill Snape had taught him. He remembered being pressed up against the length of his lean body, the physical contact being necessary to help Harry learn to control his direction and distance. If Snape had only known then how much effort it had taken the younger man to focus on the task at hand, he would have perhaps been more forgiving of his frequent errors...

Harry smirked. Who the hell was he kidding?

"Harry?"

"Hermione. Go. Back. All of you." Stung, the girl had turned to leave then, but Harry had whirled her back round for a swift, hard kiss on the cheek. Then he'd given one to Ron and Neville for balance. Good lads – they didn't even flinch any longer when he did that.

And then they were gone, and Harry had a whole night to himself in which to consider his future. To ponder whether or not he had one, for starters.

Perhaps this hadn't been such a brilliant idea.

In an effort to distract himself from harsh realities, he immersed himself in the Rage comics, tearing through all five issues, then reading them all again more slowly and thoroughly. The artwork was standard comic fare, but the subject matter was not. Rage, Gay Crusader, with the help of his loyal sidekick Zephyr, protected the citizens of Gayopolis from harm, repelling gay-bashers and other criminals with ease.

Sometimes, it appeared, he also shagged men senseless. With considerable skill, at that.

He turned to the end of the first issue again.

Harry stared at the images of Rage and his young lover, J.T., and wondered if anyone would ever touch him that way.

Kiss him.

Caress him.

Invade him.

Oh, sod it, Harry thought, leaping from the bed and stripping off his clothes. He could do with a shower, and his now painfully evident erection could do with a little attention.

He emerged from the shower feeling a great deal cleaner and much more clear-headed. Standing in front of the mirror over the dresser, he finger-combed his damp, unruly hair until it resembled something more appealing than a rag mop.

Flopping back down on the feather bed, he set the comics aside and thumbed through the magazine. There were two articles connected with Rage, the first an interview with artist Justin Taylor and writer Michael Novotny. The second was an in-depth profile of the vibrant Pittsburgh gay community, of which the two were celebrated members, thanks to the international success of the comic. Although Harry knew it was silly, he still felt a bit of a shock at recalling there was a whole other world out there, a world which carried on spinning oblivious to wizards and Death Eater attacks and Voldemort's plots.

Perspective, that's what you need, my lad. Potions Masters aside, it's not inconceivable that there's a man on the planet who'll find you attractive. You don't need to meet the love of your life to get yourself buggered.

And you're not dead yet.

Harry Potter began thinking again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"What do you mean he didn't come back last night?"

Ron gave Hermione a fish-eyed glare. "Well, you don't bloody see him here, do you?"

Hermione laid her fork on her plate, having suddenly lost all interest in her kippers. "We have to tell the Headmaster. Suppose something happened to him?"

"And suppose he was on a boozeup last night and is sleeping it off at the Leaky Cauldron?" Seamus Finnegan hissed. "Do you want him in even more shite than usual?"

"No, of course not," Hermione hissed back. "But Harry has borne a terrible burden this year, what with trying to carry on as normal while performing Auror duties at the same time. He hasn't been himself lately, not since..."

"Since Susan," Ron finished for her.

"I think that was just the last straw, really," mused Hermione. "Add to that the knowledge he's Voldemort's number one target, and I'm surprised this hasn't happened sooner. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes for all the world."

Ron frowned. "There's something you're not saying. Out with it."

Hermione speared a kipper and pushed it about on her plate. "I don't know for sure. But I have a theory."

"I would be very interested to hear any theories you may have, Miss Granger."

The small knot of seventh-year Gryffindors turned as one to look up into Professor McGonagall's unsmiling countenance.

It was Neville who said what they were all feeling most succinctly.

"Bugger," he muttered.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Pittsburgh? She thinks he's gone to bollicky Pittsburgh?"

"Have you anything against Pittsburgh, Severus?" Albus Dumbledore enquired calmly, as he stroked

Fawkes' feathers with a gentle hand.

Snape pinched his knife-sharp nose between thumb and forefinger. "Apart from the fact that it's located in America and brimming with Muggles, no, Albus, I'm sure it's rivalled only by Bermuda and Corfu as a prime tourist destination."

Minerva chose that moment to stick in her oar. "Hermione believes he had a motive for going there," she told him in her annoyingly lofty tones.

Snape crossed his arms. "And what, pray tell, might that be?"

McGonagall treated him to her frostiest stare. "She thinks he may be looking to lose his virginity."

Snape hadn't been entirely sure he still possessed a heart, but if he had it stopped beating in that moment.

"Well," amended McGonagall, "she didn't put it in exactly those terms, but they had been discussing the topic during their outing to London."

Snape kept his expression as calm as possible. London had been enough of a risk; now he was thousands of miles away, in an unfamiliar city?

And Snape knew exactly where to assign the blame for this one.

Stupid, stupid, stupid...

Albus set Fawkes back on his perch and regarded Snape levelly. "We know this much: Harry paid a visit to Gringott's yesterday and withdrew five hundred Galleons, which he then converted to a mixture of pounds sterling and US dollars. Since he would have paid in cash, we have no record of any purchases he may have made. And as for tracing him – "

Snape sighed. "Quite impossible, I know. Location charms bounce off the blasted boy."

"You assured that yourself by administering that potion to him in Fifth year. It wouldn't have done for him to be whisked away by Voldemort so easily."

No, thought Snape angrily, by all means let's make it more difficult, so that Potter has a bit longer to wait before the damned axe falls on his pretty neck.

McGonagall thinned her already thin lips. "Normally, I'd say wait for the boy to slip up and use a spot of magic; the Ministry would have him pinpointed in two seconds flat. But he could be casting spells as we speak and we'd never know it."

Snape rounded on her, the fury bubbling unexpectedly to the surface. "It was ridiculous to continue treating him as a child when he was acting as a fully fledged Auror. Would you have had him defenceless last summer when he took part on the raid against Crabbe?"

Minerva narrowed her eyes. "No, of course not," she bristled. "I'm merely – "

" – stating the obvious?"

"Well, it would seem we will have to resort to more mundane means to retrieve our Harry," Dumbledore said brightly. "But retrieve him we shall. Or rather," he added, turning to Snape, "you shall, Severus."

Perhaps if he pinched hard enough his nose might fall off altogether. He'd never been particularly fond of it. "Surely you jest."

"I'm afraid not. You and Minerva alone among the staff are best suited to perform this task, as young Harry feels a special – connection – to you both."

Oh, Albus, thought Snape. If you only knew, you'd have my guts for garters.

"But as I was an absolute peril in Transfiguration class back in my day, I'm afraid it will have to be Severus. My skill in Potions does not rival yours, of course, but I believe we can manage until your return."

"Albus," Snape began, wincing slightly at the pleading undertone which crept into his voice, "if I understand you correctly, you're charging me, on the questionable hunch of a student, to go to America, find a boy who in all likelihood does not wish to be found, and drag him, kicking and screaming, back to dear old Hogwarts."

Dumbledore assumed a pleased expression, as though Snape were a snot-nosed first year who had just performed his first successful spell. "That's essentially correct."

"Oh, well, that's all right then," Snape spat, turning to go.

"Severus."

Snape stopped, but did not turn back.

"I would ask one thing."

There was a brief silence. Finally, Snape muttered, "You may ask."

He could hear the smile in the old man's voice. "Thank you. I would ask that you be – kind – to the boy." He paused. "And to yourself."

Snape stiffened. "That's two things."

"They are not mutually exclusive," Dumbledore countered quietly.

Snape's reply was to exit the room as swiftly as possible.

 

 

 

~~ II ~~

"Excuse me. May I try these on?"

The tall, sandy-haired man turned to Harry and smiled. "Let's see what you've got, sweetie." He made grasping motions with his hands, prompting Harry to pass them across the counter.

Odd. Perhaps in America, the staff was required to inspect your potential purchases first.

"Where are you going with these?" the man asked. There was a disdainful sniff in his tone.

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he said, "I – thought I'd visit some of the clubs tonight."

"My God," the other man gasped. "I hope you've got a damned good fake ID."

"An ID?"

The clerk nodded sagely. "Stating you're twenty-one." He gave Harry the once-over. "You don't look a day over sixteen."

Harry shifted defensively. It wasn't his fault those blasted Dursleys had stunted his growth. "I'm eighteen," he muttered. And I've been risking my life in the fight against evil for nearly seven bloody years, he amended silently.

"Don't get your shorts in a knot, darling," the older man cooed, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Back in the dark ages, I enjoyed a little underage mayhem myself. But there's no way I'm letting you leave here with these clothes."

Harry frowned. "I have the money – "

"No, no, no," the man soothed, "it's not the money. It's the clothes. They're not you. Or I should say, they're too you. If you're going clubbing, we'll need to age you up a little." Stepping around the counter, the man laid a familiar arm around Harry's shoulders and led him toward a rack of dark shirts and tight-fitting trousers. "No jeans. No t-shirts. Let Emmett Hunnicutt be your style guru."

Harry couldn't suppress a grin at the other man's infectious enthusiasm. "And you would be – Emmett Hunnicutt?"

Emmett grinned back. "In the flesh, doll. In the flesh."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After the fifth head swivelled appreciatively in his direction as he walked down Liberty Avenue, Harry knew that Emmett was indeed a style guru of the first order. Once he'd finished with Harry, the older man had pressed a card bearing the name and address of a nearby hairdresser, and told him to ask for Lars. Lars, as it turned out, was not a tall, well-muscled Swede, but a tall, extraordinarily skinny African-American man who added another couple of years to Harry's apparent age beyond those already conferred by the trendy clothes.

Oddly enough, seeing himself in the mirror brought a huge thrill, but also a pang of regret. For the first thought which popped into his head was, I wish Snape could see me like this.

He wondered if Hermione and Ron had had any luck covering up his disappearance. It was unlikely at best, which meant Harry probably had no more than a couple of days of freedom before someone came to take him back to Hogwarts. He wasn't quite sure what he planned to do at that point; he tried not to dwell on the inevitable 'we're so disappointed in you' lectures and loss of House points. Not that the damned Cup meant anything to him any longer, but he hated the thought of letting his fellow Gryffindors down. They deserved their enjoyment of childish things, for as long as they could. Some of his happiest memories were of Quidditch matches or foolish games in the Common Room. Simple things.

Harry stopped dead as shop sign across the street caught his eye.

Bloody hell. It was Michael Novotny's comic store. He'd read about it in the Advocate article.

Racing across the street, he tried to assume an air of practiced nonchalance before entering the shop. He remembered the day in Flourish and Blott's with Gilderoy Lockhart, when the man had dragged Harry into the spotlight without so much as a by-your-leave. The feeling of embarrassment and discomfort then, as at any time he was reminded of his unwanted celebrity, was intense.

But no-one knew him here. The man standing behind the counter was the celebrity in this world.

And he deserved the respect Harry would have liked to have been shown.

"Mister Novotny?"

The man looked up. He was about Harry's height, with a kind face and a youthful appearance. "Yes?"

"I – my name is Harry Potter, sir," Harry said, extending a hand which the other man took without hesitation. "I just wanted to let you know I've read your work and I've enjoyed it immensely."

Novotny's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "Don't tell me you came all the way from England to tell me that, because I won't believe you," he said jovially.

"Well, no, not exactly, though one might say you and Rage had a hand in my choosing Pittsburgh as a destination."

The other man's eyes widened. "God, what a terrific sentence. You should be reading Homer, not queer comic books."

Harry laughed. "Well, I am familiar with quite a bit of Latin and other – obscure languages," he said. "But your work was a revelation in a different way. Suffice it to say it was what I needed right at this moment in time."

"Well," Novotny said thoughtfully. "That's got to be one of the nicest compliments I've ever had. Thank you."

"Have you any copies of the sixth issue?" Harry asked.

"I'm officially sold out," Novotny said, leaning forward a little and lowering his voice, "until the next printing. But I always keep a couple stashed away." He retrieved one from under the counter and slid it across to Harry. "Don't tell anybody."

"Thanks," Harry said, grinning. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm damned good at keeping secrets."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"The special today is the Jolly Roger. That's three jumbo fish sticks with a side salad and fries."

Snape looked up at the waitress standing over him and was unpleasantly reminded of Molly Weasley.

"Does this establishment have a teapot?" Snape asked coolly. He'd spent the entire day roaming about Pittsburgh's gay village sustained by nothing but his typical paltry breakfast. A couple of hours ago, he'd made the mistake of wandering into an infernal place known as "Starbucks" and been served the most ghastly excuse for tea he'd ever encountered. A paper bag immersed in a cup of tepid water was not tea, but one could hardly expect Americans to know the difference.

The woman's mouth quirked. Retrieving a pencil which was lodged behind her ear, she said, "I think we might be able to dust one off, Jeeves. Is that all you want?"

Snape treated her to one of his medium-strength sneers. "I would prefer if it were filled with tea leaves and boiling water when it arrives," he drawled.

"Well, you're gonna get a coupla Lipton bags, but I can manage the boiling water. I'll even throw in the cup for free." She paused. Snape noted idly that her violent pink t-shirt read I love fags. "You sure you don't want anything to eat? You look like you haven't had a decent meal since the '80s."

Snape bit back the urge to voice his doubts that this restaurant could in any way be connected with the provision of 'decent meals', but at the last moment he remembered his purpose for being there. "No, thank you," he said, in as polite a tone as he could manage. "But I would like to ask you a question, if I may."

The woman jutted one hip to the side, indicating she was willing to park herself for a few moments. "Ask anything you want, honey. I might even answer you."

Snape reached into his jacket pocket. The Granger girl had provided him with a recent snapshot of Potter, and he'd charmed it to remain motionless. Unfortunately, he couldn't charm away the blasted smile which defied the power of a mere photograph to contain it. Snape resisted the desire to run the pad of his thumb over the surface as he passed it to the waitress. "Have you seen this boy?"

She studied it for a moment. "Cute. He yours?"

Snape's throat closed over. "Pardon me?" he croaked.

"Your son."

"Oh. No." As though he needed a further reminder of his advanced age. "I'm his – professor." He had figured on sticking as close to the truth as possible. "He's a student at a rather exclusive boarding school in Scotland. We believe he – became separated from his friends, and is now somewhere in Pittsburgh."

"Ran away from school, huh?"

Snape pursed his lips, then nodded curtly. "In a manner of speaking."

"Well, I haven't seen him, but there's somebody who might've – hey, Sunshine!"

Her loud call pierced Snape's left temple and exited through his right. A handsome young man rose from a booth near the back of the restaurant and approached, then gave her a generous kiss on the cheek. "Hey, Deb. How're they hangin'?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," the woman – Deborah, he assumed – said, her eyebrows wagging suggestively.

Good Lord. Not quite Molly Weasley after all.

"You seen this kid?" Deborah asked, handing over the photograph.

"Mmm," the blond man said appreciatively. "I'd certainly remember if I had."

Snape stopped his hand from yanking the snapshot out of the whelp's grasp.

The young man's gaze flickered from the waitress to Snape. "Who wants to know?"

Oh, bollocks. This was more conversation than he wanted to have with Muggles. Sliding from the booth and drawing himself up to his not-inconsiderable height, he extended a hand to each of them in turn. "Severus Snape."

"He's the boy's teacher," Deborah explained.

The man arched one blond eyebrow. "Oh yeah? And how do we know you're not a pimp out trolling for his runaway property?"

Bloody hell, Snape thought, and looked to Deborah for assistance. To his horror, the woman was also patiently waiting for an answer, her pudgy arms folded over her ample bosom.

"I have credentials," Snape said weakly, fumbling in the back pocket of his trousers for the wallet he'd created for himself. A drivers' license, birth certificate, letters of introduction, credit cards – all false, of course, but completely verifiable in the Muggle world. The wizarding community was not without its computer hackers.

"Okay, honey, okay," the woman soothed, patting Snape's arm. "Look, have you talked to the cops yet? The police?" she added, at Snape's blank expression. "I know somebody on the force – "

"No," Snape interrupted. "We – that is, the school doesn't want the police involved. This is a very – delicate – matter. It would be – imprudent to alert too many people to the fact he has – run away." No lies, but a messy web of half-truths. So be it.

"Oh yeah?" Deborah said, scowling. "And what does the boy's family have to say about it?"

"He has no family," Snape snarled, momentarily forgetting himself. "We are the closest thing to family he's ever known."

"Then why did he run?" Deborah persisted.

Because he doesn't want to die just yet, Snape thought.

Because instead of behaving as an adult, I turned him out on his ear.

Because when he finally decided to fall in love, he made the worst possible choice.

"It's complicated," Snape said aloud. "He's a very – gifted student, and he's taken on increased responsibilities in the past year and a half. This has put a great deal of strain on the boy. He faces many challenges in the near future, and we believe he just – "

"Decided to go get fucked," the young man supplied.

Snape tried not to display his shock, but he was certain it bled around the edges of his stoicism.

"I know how he feels," the other man said. "I've been there."

"I doubt it," Snape drawled, unable to help himself.

The lad's eyes actually danced with merriment. "God, you have to meet Brian. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know what he's going to look like in another ten years." Shaking his head, he said, "All right. I'll keep an eye out for him. If I see him, I'll tell him you're here, and that you're looking for him. You have a hotel?"

"Yes," Snape said, handing over one of the Sheraton cards he'd brought along. "The room number is written on the back." The young man took the card and handed back the photo.

"Okay. But if he doesn't want to go with you, you're not going to see me trying to persuade him."

"Please," Snape said, hating that he had to beg. "You said that you understood his – motives. Do you have any idea where he might go?"

"One word," the young man told him. "Babylon." And with a wink, he left the diner.

Deborah studied him, a revolting sympathy in her eyes. "I'll get you that tea. And the special. You're gonna need it."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Hey."

Justin looked up at Brian, then followed the line of his gaze down the street.

"That pose look familiar to you?"

The dark-haired youth leaning casually against the lamppost was dressed to kill, his dark hair and clothing accentuating his otherworldly green eyes. He appeared to be about Justin's own age, maybe a little older. Must be new in town, because he sure as hell would have remembered him – 

"Oh, shit," Justin breathed. "That's the kid."

Brian raised an eyebrow. "What kid?"

"There was a guy in the diner this afternoon showing his picture around. He claimed he was the kid's professor, and that he'd run away from some British prep school."

"You don't sound convinced."

Justin shrugged. "There was something weird about his whole story. For instance, the kid's supposed to be eighteen, but he sure as hell doesn't look eighteen to me."

"There's only one way to find out." Striding forward, Brian approached the young man like a panther on the prowl. Justin watched the kid's eyes get bigger for an instant before the mask fell back into place.

Definitely hiding something, he thought. But what?

"Hey, kid," Brian said, one big hand landing on the lamppost right over the youth's head, "how old are you?"

The young man lifted his chin. "How old do I have to be?" he countered smoothly.

Brian's mouth curved in an appreciative smile. "Come here, Justin," he said. "We have ourselves a live one."

The boy's head turned in Justin's direction, and Justin was startled to see the look of recognition on the handsome face. "Justin Taylor?"

"Yeah," Justin answered warily.

The boy broke into a guileless grin which restored his youth. Holding out a hand, he said, "Harry Potter. I hoped I'd have a chance to meet you and compliment you on Rage."

Justin shook his hand warmly, then nodded toward Brian. "In that case, say 'hi' to Rage." He felt the heat of Brian's displeasure sear the top of his head. "Or rather his alter ego, Brian Kinney."

The kid – Harry – skewered Brian with his bottle-green gaze. "Merl – heavens. There is a resemblance, isn't there? Oh, I'm sorry. Pleased to meet you," he said, extending a hand.

Brian frowned at Harry's hand, but didn't take it. "Who the hell are you, Little Lord Fauntleroy?"

"No," the youth replied, "merely well-mannered."

"Two snaps," a voice behind them purred. Justin bit back a laugh.

"Emmett! Hello!" Harry exclaimed.

"Oh, you look edible. Spin for me," Emmett ordered. Harry spun obediently, the lamplight bringing out the chestnut highlights in his hair. "Very nice, very nice. Did I tell you Lars was a genius?"

"Harry!"

Brian rolled his eyes as Michael approached with Ben in tow. "Jesus Christ, does everyone know this fucking twink?"

Justin watched Harry's face fall at Brian's words.

"Leave him alone," Justin said, giving Brian a slap on the arm. "You like twinks, remember?"

"Only certain ones," Brian returned, his gaze feral.

"You're the only people who know me here," Harry said, his voice so low Justin had to strain to hear it.

"Not the only one," Justin corrected. "There's somebody looking for you. Somebody from your school."

Harry closed his eyes briefly, and for an instant Justin thought the young man appeared to be older than all of them put together.

"Bollocks," the kid breathed. "I was hoping for a day or two, at least."

Justin dug in his pocket and fished out the hotel card, then handed it to Harry. "I met him today at the diner. He seemed pretty eager to get you back home."

"He?" Harry asked. Then he turned the card over, and his breath caught. "My God. This is Snape's writing. Snape is – here?" Those piercing green eyes lifted to Justin, searching for something. Justin had seen that look before.

In the mirror.

Hopeful. Desperate. Madly in love.

Shit. The guy had to be at least forty.

Not that he was one to talk.

"Yeah," Justin said, nodding. "That was his name. He really your professor?"

Harry's lips curved enigmatically. "Among other things."

Justin tried not to think about the implications of that statement. "Listen, I told him I'd just pass on the message to you, not that I'd help him drag you back to England. I did tell him he might find you at Babylon, though, so you might want to steer clear of it."

"But I heard it was the best place to go," the kid said, unable to hide his disappointment.

"It is," Brian confirmed. Justin was tempted to hit him again.

"Where are you all going?" Harry asked. Nobody answered. "Oh. Well, then – "

"Come with us," Justin blurted.

"What?" Brian spat.

"If he's there, we'll – help you." Justin searched the faces around him for allies. "Right, guys?"

"And how the hell are we supposed to do that?" Brian demanded. "I came out tonight for a little fun, not to cause an international fucking incident."

"There won't be an incident," Justin persisted. "Snape said he doesn't want the police involved."

"Great," Brian said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "That makes me feel so much better. And don't tell me – " he turned to Harry " – your professor just happens to be six-four, weighs in at two-eighty and is a professional wrestler during the summer holidays."

"He's pretty tall," Justin admitted, "but he's pale and skinny, about fortyish. Looks like he's been living in a dungeon his whole life." He laid a hand on Brian's arm. "I bet you could take him easy."

"Blow me," Brian snapped, though there was a definite sparkle in his eye.

"Maybe later," Justin whispered.

"Oh, dear," Harry was saying, his expression serious. "I hadn't thought of that." Justin raised questioning eyebrows at him. "Well, it's only that – he's tougher than he looks. I wouldn't want any of you to get hurt."

"Why?" Emmett asked. "He know kung fu?"

Harry's eyes took on a faraway cast. "Worse. Much worse."

"What the fuck is worse than kung fu?" Michael demanded. "What is he, some kind of superhero?"

Harry barked a laugh. "I suppose you could say that, yes. But then, I'm not without my – powers – either."

"Well, we don't have to worry about him, then," Justin said, hooking his left arm around Harry's waist and the right around Brian's, then steering them both toward the entrance to Babylon. "After all, what hope does one lousy Snape have against Rage, Zephyr, J.T. and Harry Potter?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"So," Justin said conversationally, "how long have you been fucking Snape?"

The mouthful of beer Harry was swallowing went down the wrong way, and he began coughing uncontrollably. Justin helpfully whacked him on the back.

"You haven't, have you?"

Harry struggled to regain his voice. "I'm sorry, but I don't see how that's any of your business."

The blond man leaned back against the bar. "Then why did you make it sound like you two were lovers?"

Harry frowned. "I didn't – "

"'He's my teacher, among other things'?"

"Oh. Well." He'd honestly been referring to their work against Voldemort, but he couldn't exactly tell this man that. "I didn't mean it quite that way."

"Let me guess. You've got a crush on him, and he doesn't know you're alive."

"Oh, he knows I'm alive," Harry said, chuckling at the other man's choice of words. "He just doesn't want to shag me."

"I know it's none of my business, but I've been there." He nodded down the bar, where Brian and Michael were engaged in conversation.

"Brian?"

"You got it. He fucked me when I was seventeen and told me I'd never forget him."

"And you haven't," Harry ventured.

"Nope," Justin said brightly. "It's a blessing and a curse, believe me. We're together, we're apart – " he grinned " – sometimes we're apart when we're together and together when we're apart. It's not healthy – fuck, he's not healthy. Men like Brian Kinney should come with a Surgeon General's warning."

"But you love him."

"Yeah. I even believe he loves me, though I might be deluding myself."

Harry took another sip of his beer. "If you could go back, would you do anything differently?"

"You mean, about Brian being my first?" Justin gazed into the crowd of writhing bodies on the dance floor while the music pounded around them. "No. Every time I try to imagine my life without him – Christ." The blond shook his head. "I can't. It's like asking me what I'd be without my art." He grinned evilly. "Or my cock."

He leaned in closer to Harry. "You probably don't want my advice, but I'll give it to you anyway. Don't go after this Snape, at least not until you've had a few experiences. Grope a few guys your own age. Get fucked. Have fun. Then, if you ever do get what you want, you won't be tied to him for the rest of your life."

Harry managed a thin smile. "You've obviously never heard of practicing what you preach."

"It's too late for me," Justin sighed, watching as Brian approached them. "I'm hooked." He didn't sound entirely unhappy about it, but Harry refrained from pointing this out.

Nor did Harry bother to mention that 'the rest of his life' might end up being considerably shorter than Justin might predict. That said, it followed logically that the fun and groping and fucking had best begin as soon as possible.

"Come on, Harry," Justin called, as Brian tugged him toward the dance floor. "Time to get your ass in gear."

Draining the last of his beer, Harry set the bottle down on the bar and moved to follow them.

He managed two steps before an iron vise gripped his arm and hauled him backwards. Stumbling, he collided with a hard, solid body. A body he'd memorized during hour upon endless hour of Apparition practice.

"Not so fast, Mister Potter," Snape growled in his ear. "What is the correct American expression? 'Your ass is mine,' I believe?"

 

 

~~ III ~~

Shit, shit, shit!

"Brian, wait. Harry's in trouble."

"That's his problem," Brian grumbled, still holding fast to Justin's arm.

Justin dug in his heels and pulled back, breaking the other man's grip. "I promised him I'd look out for him. You go ahead if you want."

Brian muttered an oath. Then he muttered a few more.

And then he followed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When the time came, Harry thought he'd crumble like a stale biscuit under the force of Snape's personality.

He surprised two people when he heard himself retort, "I offered you my ass four months ago, and you didn't want it. Now, as the Americans say, 'it's up for grabs'."

Snape's hold on him tightened convulsively. "Idiot boy. What are you hoping to accomplish here in this Muggle backwater?"

"I thought that was patently obvious," Harry bit out. "There's a back room in this place that makes the late-night sessions in the Astronomy Tower look like a kindergarten class."

Without breaking contact, Snape whirled him around so that they were face to face. "If it's a casual buggering you're looking for, there are doubtless several dozen Hogwarts students who would be all too willing to perform the noble service for the Boy Who Lived. Choose one of them and get to it."

"That's the last thing I want: 'I Deflowered Harry Potter' on the cover of the Prophet. At least no one knows me here."

Snape sneered. "Yes, I'm sure the near-certainty of acquiring a sexually transmitted disease is a fair price to pay for anonymity."

Harry leaned in close, close enough to detect the other man's spicy scent. "I've got a pocketful of condoms. Don't worry about me." He chuckled at the expression of discomfort on his professor's face. "Besides, what the bloody hell does it matter? I could be dead by the summer. What's a dose of the clap or even AIDS on top of that?"

"Don't say that," the other man snapped. Harry frowned, startled by the heat in his tone. But when Snape spoke again, his voice had returned to his typical derisive lilt.

"Is that what this is all about, Potter? A childish display of self-pity?" Harry's jaw tightened, and Snape smirked. "The weight of responsibility pressing too heavily on those thin shoulders?" He jerked Harry closer and laid his mouth against the boy's ear.