Second Place – Action/Adventure

Author notes: A/N: Thanks to the incomparable Sansa for beta'ing this fic for me.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"Fuck," Harry swore under his breath as he twisted the useless knobs in the shower. After a few half-hearted spurts of cold, slightly brown water, he banged the wall in frustration. He ran a hand through his gritty hair and gave up all together on the idea of bathing, wincing at the smell emanating from both him and his second-hand, scruffy, dirty clothes. Harry sighed as he looked closely at the wraith staring back at him in the mirror shards clinging desperately to the wall. He hadn't showered, changed his clothes or eaten a real meal in weeks. He looked down. He scratched idly at a slowly healing cut on the inside of his forearm. His clothing hung from his too-thin frame. Bruises and puncture marks riddled his arms, thighs and feet. But, shooting magically enhanced horse all day would do that to a person.

Harry's appearance bore witness to the lengths he was willing to go to see this assignment through. The now daily nose bleeds and ever present tremor from too much addiction-blocking potion were slowly eating away at his resolve to not give into the shit that he, Jake and Laura polluted their bodies with every fucking day. The drowsy euphoria that Jake and Laura slipped into after shooting up was starting to have its appeal. He knew it. He thanked the gods that this assignment would be done tonight. He didn't know how much longer he could take this. This had to end tonight, or it would end Harry. Either way, though, he was getting the hell out of this shit-hole. He hated this assignment. He fucking hated it.

Harry snorted as he looked around the bleak, dingy two-room hovel he'd called home for the last four months. The crumbling tile and gray, stained plasterboard in the loo were complimented exquisitely by the bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling, Harry thought. Just beyond the doorless frame was a single room with a few stained mattresses, a small hot plate by a far wall, and scraps of clothing and food containers littering the floor. Laura was . . . somewhere, he didn't know and frankly, didn't care. Jake was lolling on one of the small mattresses floating through his heroin haze, chuckling to himself every few seconds. The one substantial piece of furniture in the whole place, a small card table, was covered with plastic bags of this new designer heroin every junkie in the world suddenly wanted, a small digital scale, a few crumpled pounds and some used syringes from the small party the three of them had earlier in the day. He'd thought he could sink no lower than the assignment last year in America where he'd cleaned rooms in an illegal whorehouse running an even more illegal wizarding white slavery ring. Scrubbing semen from places so unlikely that it made Harry shudder to even guess how it had gotten there, had been paradise, comparatively.

He always, always got sent to these shitty dives. He'd grown up in a cupboard, had first hand experience with neglect and forced starvation, could easily move in common Muggle circles and had that scrappy-come-waifish look with which he would forever be plagued. Thus, Harry got these "plum assignments," while the likes of Draco Malfoy frolicked in the South of France tracking down purveyors of expensive dark artifacts while living in sumptuous rooms, wearing expensive clothing and attending outrageous parties. Harry lived in a disease-infested, condemned building while Severus Snape traveled in the New York literary circles and lived in an Upper West Side brownstone drinking expensive wine and listening to avant-garde music while searching for stolen wizarding texts. He'd protested about it once to their section chief who condescendingly told him that everyone had their talents. Apparently, Harry's talent lay in impersonating washed-up, strung-out nobodies with a penchant for intimacy with society's underbelly. Whatever. He was seriously beginning to rethink this whole career choice. But then, what would he do? Seriously? Stare out of the window all day?

After soundly trouncing Voldemort at the tender age of nineteen, he'd found himself stumbling around, suddenly without purpose, chasing away ghosts. So, the idea of working for a covert Ministry run Special Forces Unit focused on keeping nasty wizards from harming defenseless Muggles had a certain appeal. Harry's entire life had been about saving others from themselves—why not continue the trend? Besides, he was under no illusions that just because Voldemort was gone the world was suddenly a paragon of innocence. Harry certainly wasn't. In fact, if he had a shred of innocence, a drop of optimism, left in him he'd roll up into a fucking ball and cry.

He'd lost his innocence, his optimism, a long time ago. He'd lost it when he watched Ron and Hermione nobly sacrifice themselves for a cause that Harry knew bitterly didn't give a damn about them in the grand scheme. He'd lost it when members of his house, his year, had joined Voldemort and used the knowledge they gained from Harry's friendship to try to torture him into insanity. They'd done things to him, to his body. Brutally taken things from him. No. Harry wasn't innocent. Not anymore. He'd lost it completely when he finally realized that for all of Dumbledore's sincere benevolence, he wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice Harry if it meant freedom for the wizarding world at large. Worse still, Harry realized that if the roles had been reversed, he would have done the same. It was all rather sobering . . . in a mind-numbing, desensitizing sort of way.

He'd been working in this unit for five years now, drifting from one assignment to the next with short visits to his cold flat in between. He'd almost completely shut himself away from the rest of the world. His days were measured by assignments and his "social life" defined by the faceless, nameless people who fucked him. His "friends," or more appropriately, people with whom he had more than casual contact, consisted only of his section chief and the other two members of his "team," Snape and Malfoy. Surprisingly, they worked well together. Harry chalked it up to left over camaraderie from the war, the thing with Snape, and their discovery of shared interests a few years ago during a particularly gruesome assignment in the South American jungles involving very close quarters and the recovery of adulterated Muggle pharmaceuticals. As it turned out, Malfoy liked to fuck Harry, Harry liked to be fucked by Malfoy and Snape got his rocks off by watching. It would be easy, Harry thought, to leave their relationship at that—comfort, sex, and voyeurism. But there was more to it, even though he tried his damnedest to fool himself otherwise.

The steady kerplunking drip of the cold, brown water broke his reverie. Harry blinked. He checked his watch. Three more hours until they met with the supplier he'd been working steadily to meet. Four months of hard core undercover and two months of prior reconnaissance work had led to this. All Harry needed was confirmation that the shit he was buying was indeed magically enhanced heroin and the supplier himself. Then, he could return to his empty apartment, take a scalding hot bath and sink into his own Ministry-sanctioned drug-induced oblivion for a few days. Harry's mouth watered at the thought of clean skin, crisp sheets, mounds of pillows and sweet, blessed vials of Dreamless Sleep lined up in waiting on his nightstand.

Harry looked over at Jake again and shook his head. He was still floating. Jake and Laura had been a good find for the Ministry. They were low-level dealers of the shit that was killing wizards and Muggles alike. There was one supplier and one manufacturer. No one knew who the manufacturer was. The hope was that if Harry could bag the supplier, the supplier would roll over and rat out the manufacturer. But to bag the supplier, someone had to move up the dealer ranks. Harry, of course, had been appointed to the task. His assignment had been to pose as a junkie/dealer, get close to Jake and Laura and move them up the ranks to the point that they would meet with the supplier—no more middlemen. Harry had completed his task.

Harry knew from the moment that he'd met them that Jake and Laura had no idea what they were dealing—they dealt just so they could use. They lived in an abandoned flophouse and cared little about anything other than the next ride. They were grateful for Harry's head for business. Especially, after he'd "helped them" by roughing up a furious buyer who'd discovered that they had tapped his buy. Thank god for Ministry plants and good surveillance. After that, Harry had been invited to party. Once he'd proven himself he'd been accepted into their bizarre little life. He had started to kind of like them. Jake especially—in a funny way, he reminded Harry of Ron.

Harry sniffed and wiped his nose. Shit. Another nosebleed. He wasn't supposed to take the potion more than once a day. Keeping up with Jake and Laura, though, meant shooting up as often as three times a day. It had been that way for weeks. Jake was having a hard time adjusting to the demands and pressures of a successful business. Harry predicted a stay for himself in St. Mungo's when this was all over.

For the first time in hours, Jake rolled over and looked at Harry. He saw the trail of blood from Harry's, or Jade's (as he knew him), nose and the tremor in his hands. He mistook them both as signs of coming down entirely too fast.

Jake got up and wobbled over. "Hey man, you look like night time is coming way too fast. Let's take a quick ride into daylight. Just a pick-me-up, yeah?"

Harry had already shot up twice today—he couldn't do it again. He just couldn't. Regardless of the fact that Jake and Laura were inherently suspicious of anyone who didn't want to party with them. "No, that last little ride was too much, I think," Harry began cautiously, "We've got to be on our game tonight, mate. Clear heads and all that."

"Come on. Just a little. Just to take the edge off," pleaded Jake.

Harry sighed. Maybe he could just pretend this once. Jake got so fucked up, even when he only wanted to take the edge off, that Harry was sure he could manage it. "Whatever," he said. "You first."

Jake nodded eagerly and reached for a bag from the table and started his preparations. "You sharing?"

"No, got my own," said Harry as he pretended to search for a sterile syringe while surreptitiously drawing a few ccs of addiction-blocking potion, just in case. He shouldn't have worried, though. Jake took far more than the edge off. Harry sighed again and shook his head, hoping that Jake could get his shit together in time for the meet.

Something else that Harry hated about these assignments was that no matter the situation, no matter the bad guy, the fuckers were always, always late and they always made Harry wait outside. In the cold. In an abandoned alley or some other cliché place. Just like the one in which he and Jake were now standing. Well, Harry was standing. Jake was doing a bizarre leaning thing. The kid was still high. He would be worthless. Harry hoped he'd just keep his mouth shut. Harry self-consciously patted his jeans again checking for his knives and his transfigured wand. To Muggles, it looked like a buck knife. Only magical beings could tell it was a wand.

Half and hour later and Jake was getting worse, not better. He'd started mumbling and had branched out from merely leaning against the wall to staggering in abrupt little circles. He'd officially become a liability. Harry swore under his breath. What he should have done was not care. He should have just let the kid stumble around and get his head blown off. But, Harry disconcertingly realized he didn't want to see that happen.

His pulse quickened as he saw a dark, late-model care ease into the alley. He looked back at Jake anxiously, came to a decision, growled and charged over to Jake. "Jake," he whispered as shook him furiously, "Jake! Hey, Jake! Come on, mate. Go home. They aren't going to show."

Jake turned to him with a befuddled expression. "Home?" he mumbled.

Harry looked down the alley again. The car was getting closer, but the driver still couldn't see them. "Yeah, mate. Go on. I'll see you later."

The car stopped and Harry heard the driver's door open. Harry swore again. He had to get Jake out of there. "Come on, Jake. Go home!" he whispered fiercely as he hauled him away from the wall and pushed him in the other direction. He watched as Jake stumbled through the alley and turned the corner.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he turned around to get ready for the meet. Not seconds later, a tall, well-dressed man entered the shadows carrying what looked like a large duffle bag. Harry looked him over carefully. Muggle. Definitely Muggle. Harry relaxed a bit, which was a mistake. He'd been so distracted trying to get rid of Jake that he'd failed to notice that the Muggle wasn't alone.

"You Jade?" the Muggle asked warily.

Harry rolled his eyes. He hated these stupid fucking names he always got stuck with. His last assignment had penned him as "Raven." He highly doubted that Malfoy was ever made to suffer the indignity of being called "Silver," or "Goldilocks."

"Yeah," Harry said in response. He inclined his chin towards the bag. "That the stuff?"

"Where's Jake?" the man asked instead of responding.

"Partying. That the stuff?" Harry asked again.

The man hesitated for a second and then shrugged. "Yeah. Got the money?"

"Yeah," said Harry as he kicked at the bag at his feet.

Harry walked over to the Muggle and gestured for the bag. Crouching down, he started examining each of the bags and rolled them in his hands. "They feel light."

"I don't tap my shit," the Muggle said menacingly.

"It's a fair question," Harry said off-handedly. The Muggle knew it as well and said nothing further during Harry's inspection.

Harry opened one of the bags and pulled out his transfigured wand. The Muggle stood impassively as he watched Jade swirl a knife through the product. The wand was set with a charm to record purity and provide confirmation that this was indeed the magically enhanced heroin they'd been searching for. He lifted the wand and waited for it glow a faint blue while he pretended to inspect the residue on the knife's edge.

As he did, though, he heard a sharp intake of breath. It wasn't from the Muggle. Fuck. The Muggle wasn't alone. How the fuck had he missed that? Worse, the thing with him was clearly not a Muggle, because Harry was sure he'd recognized the wand. His suspicions were proven correct when he heard a raspy voice call out, "He's a wizard! Kill him. Now!"

Without hesitation, the Muggle pulled out a gun and fired in Harry's direction. Harry was faster and rolled away quickly. Just in time. Grabbing a real knife from his back pocket, he threw it at the Muggle and watched it imbed solidly in the Muggle's jugular, killing him within seconds. At the same time, and with the other hand, he shot a Stupify in the general direction of the other man's voice. He didn't know if his hex hit its mark, because seconds later burning pain blossomed in his shoulder. The Muggle had gotten in a parting shot and Harry hadn't been fast enough to avoid it.

"Fuck," Harry screamed both in pain and frustration while he watched the other man steal farther into the alley. Harry scrambled to his feet and lunged as the man reached for the bag. This was not the time for fancy spells. Sometimes, you just had to get physical. Running on pure adrenaline, Harry ignored the pain in his shoulder and the blood oozing down his arm as he rushed the man and kicked hard. The man recovered quickly and kicked back. Soon they were both on the ground and rolling about in a heated tussle. Harry tried to lift his wand arm, but the next thing he knew, he was on his back next to the dead Muggle. He tried to kick away the surprisingly strong man on top of him, but it was no use. Harry couldn't even get a good look at him. The man was hidden in the alley's shadows.

Pushing backwards, Harry began wriggling on his back hoping to get close enough to reach for the knife lodged in the dead Muggle's throat and use it again. As he rocked back a bit farther, a swath of light spilled across his face and highlighted the viridian green glow of his eyes. Time seemed to stop for a moment as the man on top inhaled sharply and started panting heavily. Perplexed by what the man was doing, Harry's hands stilled. Harry was completely unprepared for what happened next.

Half a second later, the man pushed himself flat against Harry to keep him from moving. He leant down farther and peered into Harry's eyes, as if searching the depths of his soul. Harry saw the faint glow of white teeth as lips stretched across them in a gruesome smile. The man viciously tucked the hand and forearm of Harry's hurt arm underneath him and pushed down harder, further immobilizing Harry's limb and causing him to grimace and howl in pain. The man lifted his hand and swiped one long, tapered finger across Harry's bloody shoulder. Harry cried out and watched in horrified fascination as the man, who's face was now partially captured by that same swath of light, brought the bloody finger to his lips and suckled. The man let out a shuddering moan and rocked his hips in a perversely sexual manner. He leaned down again and for the first time, Harry caught a glimpse of his attacker: ice blue eyes that seemed to penetrate him with an unearthly glow and lustrously white fangs now tinged pink with Harry's blood.

Harry's eyes went wide with fear. Holy mother-fucking, mother of God, he was fucking pinned by a goddamned, fucking vampire. The vampire peered down. There was something different about his gaze. Harry felt a warm rush of . . . something go through him. Everything around them started to melt away. All Harry could see or feel was the vampire. Harry's body willed him to struggle, to get away, but his brain was too caught up in what he dimly determined was the vampire's thrall. He was transfixed, paralyzed, as the vampire with ice-blue eyes slowly lowered his head and began lapping languorously at Harry's bloody shoulder.

With each lick, an intense wave of pleasure-pain roiled through Harry. He moaned as his eyes fluttered closed and his mind floated closer to oblivion.

"POTTER!" the voice sliced through his mind, startling him. "What the fuck are you doing? Get the bloody hell out of there. Resist the thrall, you nitwit. Get. Up. Now!"

Well, he'd certainly gotten Snape's attention. It was such an odd gift--completely unexpected, in fact. That snarky voice rolling through his head every once in a while, the fleeting flashes of strong emotion, of uncontrolled blood lust that sent a jolt straight through his consciousness. Snape's voice and his errant emotions had become a part of Harry in a way. It was a byproduct of an ancient spell used to defeat Voldemort. Somehow Snape had been caught in the backlash and both had received this unexpected gift in return. After initial incredulity and anger over the invasiveness of it, Harry had mellowed, had learned a measure of control over it. Over the years he'd even grown accustomed to it, found he'd been thankful for it now and then. Now was one of those times.

Half way around the world, Severus Snape sat in elegant library in a Fifth Avenue flat sipping tea from a fine porcelain teacup, dressed in black cashmere, and discussing the existentialistic parallels between Camus and Twain. He was the youngest person in the room by approximately twenty years and had only been invited to this rather exclusive literary society, because of his extensive library, his "savoir faire" appearance, and his ruthlessness in obtaining very rare, very expensive books. He could be quite charming when forced. His eyes scanned the room as he shifted his weight and relaxed in the plush, overstuffed armchair. He was peripherally aware of the discussion, but found it rather boring. His attention was focused elsewhere. There was supposed to be a new member tonight—one that was rumored to sell ancient, stolen wizarding texts to unsuspecting Muggles. Just as Agatha Smalley began dithering about the parallels of "personal truth" in Huckleberry Finn, Severus felt an intense pain rip through his right shoulder. Wholly unprepared for it, he nearly dropped his teacup as he hunched forward in pain.

"Severus? Are you quite all right dear?" asked Agatha in her lockjaw, uppercrust East Coast accent.

Severus smiled as he stood stiffly. "I'm fine, dear, just a twinging muscle. I think I overdid squash today with Jerome Martin. I'll just move to the other room for a moment and see if I can't work it out."

Agatha smiled benignly and returned to the topic at hand as Severus quickly strode to the other room. It was Potter. And, wherever he was, he was in trouble. Severus nearly lost his footing as waves of intense pleasure and pain rolled through him, leaving him gasping at its familiarity. His stomach dropped. He would recognize that feeling anywhere. Hell, he'd caused that feeling more than he cared to admit. Goddamn, sodding hell, Potter was hurt and cornered by a goddamned vampire. Would the stupid brat ever learn to look after himself? "POTTER!" he called out through that abominable link he had to the brat, "What the fuck are you doing? Get the bloody hell out of there. Resist the thrall, you nitwit. Get. Up. Now!"

Snape's barking snapped Harry from the thrall. He winced as the vampire, or Ice as Harry decided to call him, continued to lap at his shoulder, pushing the point of his tongue into the wound with each pass. Harry had one shot at getting away and the timing had to be perfect. Taking the time to do a quick assessment of the situation, he realized that Ice still thought him lax and yielding. As a consequence, he'd let up a bit and was now arched over Harry, fixated on his current task.

"Potter? Are you listening to me? GET UP NOW!"

"I'm working on it you goddamned son-of-a-bitch!"

"Work faster! You're mucking up my assignment with these hysterics."

"Shut the fuck up! I'm trying to concentrate," Harry growled in his mind.

Finally, blessed silence.

Harry closed his eyes and willed away the pain and pleasure before readying himself. With one swift movement, he brought up one of his knees and thrust hard, hitting Ice squarely in the groin. It was a girly move, but at this point, he'd do anything to save his pathetic little life and get Snape off his back. Knowing the element of surprise wouldn't get him much further, Harry quickly rolled out of the way and with a low roundhouse kick, knocked the struggling vampire off balance again. Harry scrambled for his wand, prepared to incant the only known spell to destroy a vampire, but Ice rose quickly and dove for Harry. Harry sidestepped him and shot a different spell in an attempt to stun him. Ice growled and charged Harry, forcing him up against the opposite wall. They tussled back and forth as both growled and clawed at each other. Harry screamed when Ice dug his hand into his now freely bleeding shoulder. It was all Ice needed. He flipped Harry and knocked him against the wall hard. Harry felt dazed as his head connected with the jagged bricks behind him. He pushed back as hard as he could while Ice continued to struggle for control, but it was no use. Harry knew he was at Ice's mercy. It would be up to the vampire if Harry lived or died. Harry noticed the way Ice was licking his fangs and didn't like his odds.

Ice leaned in towards Harry's neck, his mouth open and fangs extended. Harry let out an involuntary whimper, flushing immediately in embarrassment.

"Yes, it will be quite painful, I'm afraid," Ice said as he chuckled at Harry. "I have the ability to make it quite pleasurable, but your pleasure does nothing for me. I prefer to revel in your pain. And I know you. You will struggle for all you're worth. It will be a pleasure to drink you dry—Pity I can't take your magic, too."

Harry moaned as he struggled again. He tried to connect with Snape, but heard only static.

Ice leaned in again and Harry made a piteous attempt to fight him off. Both stilled, though, at the sound of approaching Muggle footsteps and sirens. Ice hesitated. Harry could tell he was struggling with whether to run. Harry took a shaky breath. He couldn't physically fight Ice, but maybe there was another way. By sheer force of will, he got himself under control and ignored the pain.

"You know, if they find out that you make that shit I was buying tonight, and that you're a vamp, you're in for a rough ride. You know what they do to vamps, don't you? Especially one's like you that do such nasty things to such innocent little Muggles. Don't look so surprised." Harry was, of course, bluffing about Ice being the manufacturer but the way Ice stiffened at the mention of what would happen if he were discovered told him he was right.

Ice leaned in close, nipped at Harry's ear and whispered "My, my, and here I thought you might play nice. You are delectable, aren't you? I so love to play like this." Ice licked the side of Harry's neck and inhaled deeply, "So sweet. So much power. . . . . So alone. I wonder if anyone will even miss you?"

Harry felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. "Fuck you," he hissed as he pushed as hard as he could and spit in Ice's face.

The Muggles were getting closer. Both Harry and Ice turned their heads in the direction of the shouting and the wailing sirens. Ice relaxed marginally. Harry knew he'd made his decision. He was going to bolt and Harry wasn't going to die at his hand. Whether he was going to die, though, was another question altogether.

Ice chuckled darkly as he wiped the spittle from his face with one long, elegant finger. He pushed hard against Harry, practically crushing his chest. His arousal became more pronounced at Harry's wide eyes and short panting breaths. Smearing his finger along Harry's bottom lip, Ice smirked. "Another time, perhaps. Jade," he said before kissing Harry brutally and darting into the night—the drugs long forgotten.

Harry felt himself slide down the wall and fall into the haze of white static. He thought he heard the echo of someone screaming his last name, but it seemed so very far away. As he began to slip away, he wondered idly what the world would think if it knew that Harry James Potter, apparent heroin addict, died in a filthy Muggle alley during a botched drug buy.

Awareness came slowly. Voices clawed their way through the softly buzzing haze currently swirling through Harry's brain. He strained to discern what he was hearing. Two people. Men. Chattering about inconsequential things, Harry thought. He heard the flip of magazine pages. The sound of leather soled shoes pacing lightly across the floor.

"Shouldn't he be awake by now?" one of the voices asked.

The other voice—the one that belonged to the pacing shoes, Harry surmised—didn't respond except to halt his pacing briefly.

The first voice sighed. "This is boring," he said, "I'm missing an incredible party for this, I hope you know. It's not like I have all of the time in the world to keep popping over here. You don't either, you know. Shouldn't you be stalking about that awful little club?"

"Shut up Draco," the second voice growled.

Ah. Malfoy and Snape, then. Harry tried to speak, or even open his eyes, but his body was completely unwilling to cooperate. After much effort, he managed to flex his shoulder, which turned out to be a colossally bad idea. Pain burned through him and caused a low gurgling moan to escape. The pacing stopped. Harry heard the scrape of a chair across the floor. Malfoy and Snape were hovering over him—Harry could feel them there. He forced his eyes open for a second and tried desperately to focus on the black and blonde blobs hovering over him before his eyelids fluttered closed on their own accord. The last thing he heard before falling back into the whirl of white haze beckoning him was Malfoy's voice saying with a snort, "Wonder Boy lives. Happy now Sev?"



Artificial Life- Chapter 2

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