Second Place - Drama

Severus blew the long strand of red hair away from his mouth. Bill rolled in his sleep, twining his legs with the dark wizard’s. They Apparated from Harry’s apartment to Severus’ townhouse and had shared a passionate coupling. Severus caressed Bill’s back. He was satiated, but not satisfied. He cared a great deal for Bill, but did not love him. Bill had been absolutely correct with his earlier declaration that they were ‘friends with benefits’.

Severus was at a point in his life that he acknowledged the desire to settle down with someone and devote his life to his beloved potions. Free from Hogwarts and the Death Eaters, he could finally live his life to his own desires.

But Bill was different. He was not content to spend his evenings curled up beside a fire with his lover and a good book and Severus doubted Bill ever could. The cursebreaker craved novelty and excitement. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase provided by the London nightlife, wizarding and Muggle alike. Revealing his true self to very few, Bill’s life was littered with one-offs and failed relationships. Severus wondered when Bill would finally realize that all his sexual conquests were nothing more than hollow victories.

He disentangled himself from the sleeping cursebreaker. Bill made a compatible sexual partner, but the Potion Master never envisioned spending the rest of his life with him. Their odd relationship survived because it was a long distance one; Bill was so rarely in Britain. Even though his job responsibilities emersed him in dark magic, Bill Weasley was a Light Wizard to his core. And if Severus was honest with himself, he would not be comfortable with a permanent partner firmly entrenched in the Light.

An insomniac, Severus slipped out of bed and pulled on a dressing robe. Quietly, he crept out of the bedroom and made his way to his kitchens for tea. His Postal Owl was waiting patiently for him, a “Daily Prophet” attached to her leg.

Tea brewed and owl fed, Severus perused the wizarding newspaper. The third anniversary of Voldemort’s demise was approaching and the newspaper was filled with stories to mark the event. Severus’ eyes narrowed. Rita Skeeter had written an article about the events leading up to the downfall of “He-Who-Apparently-Still-Couldn’t-Be-Named” and Harry, who had single-handedly destroyed the Dark Lord, was not even mentioned. Article after article extolled the virtues of this or that obscure witch or wizard and the boy who had suffered the most was omitted.

Severus snarled at a moving figure of Ronald Weasley flying by in a Chudney Cannons uniform gracing the top half of the Sports Page. It angered him that Bill’s youngest brother had been able to follow his dreams, but because of petty vindictiveness, his Harry was left with no dreams to follow at all.

Severus closed his eyes, seeing shattered green eyes looking back at him. Harry’s rightful place in history would be erased because of a risqué photograph and a jealous homophobic. After all the times the wizarding world had turned their back in him, that tiny, abused little creature risked his life a final time to grant them freedom. By all rights, Harry should have told them all to “go fuck themselves”.

His dark eyes drifted to the Muggle animal welfare calendar hanging on his pantry door. A curvaceous blonde smiled back at him from behind a strategically placed Shar Pei. With a flick of his wand, Severus flipped the pages up in the calendar, revealing the October model.

Corvus, not Harry, he thought. Harry was dead, killed by Vernon Dursley and Ronald Weasley.

Severus examined the calendar image. Those sparkling, playful eyes were just an illusion. It was hard to believe that those innocent eyes belonged to the same damaged little wizard he had met the evening before. How could he have been so wrong about the young man? All those years he had added to the young man’s torment, displacing the anger he harbored toward James Potter to an abused waif that held no memories of the man. No, he thought, Harry James Potter was not “just like his father”. He was nothing like the vindictive, arrogant waste of talent James Potter had been. Severus closed his eyes, the memory of James saving him from a deadly prank gone wrong. For the first time in years, the Wizard’s Debt he had once owed the senior Potter did not anger him.

The Potion Master thought back on his folder of images tracing Harry’s modeling career and he began to wonder at his own motivations. On one hand, the photographs represented a semi-perverse fantasy about sex with a student – a line Severus would never have crossed as a teacher. Another part of him realized that as long as he could continue to add new photos to the collection, he could assure himself that the missing savior was still alive. But if he was totally honest with himself, revenge against the Marauders also played itself out in the fantasy collection. He could well imagine Potter, Black and Lupin’s reaction to both the idea that Harry was forced to pose semi-nude for money and that the detested “Snivellus” coveted the images.

Severus let the pages of the Muggle calendar slip through his fingers, returning to that month’s blonde. A Wizard’s Debt. There was no Wizard’s Debt large enough to absolve Albus Dumbledore of his responsibilities to Harry. Severus regretted that Lupin was dead; there would be a savage sort of justice to setting the werewolf after Dumbledore during the next full moon.

Severus looked up as a Postal Owl entered through the kitchen window, depositing a second newspaper, “The Quibbler”. Severus smiled despite himself. “The Quibbler” held a dual reputation in the wizarding world. It appealed to the lunatic fringe, but hidden between articles on Crumple Horned Snorlaxes and tap-dancing Hippogriffs, was always a totally unbiased article or two dealing with information the Ministry of Magic did not want the public at large to know. Lovegood and his daughter did not disappoint him. Buried in the pages were articles dealing with Harry Potter’s destruction of the Dark Lord Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic’s subsequent assassination on the young orphan’s character.

Severus suddenly remembered Luna Lovegood had never once wavered in her support of Harry during his final horrible year at Hogwarts, no matter the ridicule his friendship brought her. Could her unbiased articles, published years after the scandal, now open eyes to the truth? Could her stories generate enough good will to permit Harry to return home? And did he even want to return?

Severus swallowed the last of the savory stew and crusty bread before pushing his plate away. He didn’t even blink when the discarded dishware disappeared, leaving behind his half-filled teacup and a pot of lukewarm tea.

“Severus.”

The Potion Master looked up, surveying his surroundings. The staff dining hall at St. Mungo’s was fairly quiet, the lunch shift changes almost completed. He heard his name called again and looked up at two Mediwizards seated several tables over.

“How soon can you provide the Surgery with more of that disinfecting potion? My staff can’t say enough about it…doesn’t dry out the skin as much as the previous batch.”

Severus sorted through his pile of notes, retrieving a battered leather book. He perused the entries. “It’s nearing the end of the month…many critical potions are already on the schedule…but I am sure one of the Senior Apprentices can fit it around this month’s brewing of Wolfsbane and Skele-Gro…Is Friday acceptable?”

The Mediwizard in the crimson robes of Surgical Mediwizardry nodded his head. Severus made a quick notation in his notebook. “Same quantity as last time…or will you require a larger batch?”

“Whatever is most convenient…I know your department resources are always stretched month end.”

Severus returned to his notes. He acknowledged a few greetings with a distracted nod of his head. He reviewed his notes while he finished off his tea. Thankfully his reputation as an unfriendly bastard preceded his move to St. Mungo’s and dissuaded most of his associates from bothering him with mindless social chatter, but there were still one or two who never seemed to get the hint.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Mediwizard in charge of Sports Injuries approaching his table. The dark wizard began to swiftly gather his scattered notes, hoping to make a quick exit, but his intentions were thwarted when a roll of parchment slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor. The parchment was scooped up by the athletic Mediwizard who proceeded to bound to Severus’ table.

“Hallo, Snape….what about those Harpies?”

Severus seized his parchment from the other wizard’s fingers and turned his attention back to his reference materials. If the man wanted to discuss the Greek mythological monster that was half woman half bird of prey, the Potion Master would have been a bit more sociable, but he knew the twit was discussing an all-female athletic team.

“Three hundred and twenty to forty against the Wilbourne Wasps…could have a lock on the championship if they beat out Puddlemere United next week…”

Severus glowered at the exuberant Mediwizard before pointedly examining the front of his own robes.

“Snape?” The other man was confused by Severus’ odd behavior.

“Just checking to make sure no one mistakenly pinned a team rosette to my chest.” His dark eyes bore into his unfortunate associate. “What ever gave you the impression that I remotely care about the current state of Professional Quidditch?”

The Mediwizard blinked, shocked to think anyone would not follow Quidditch as religiously as he did. A Pediatric Mediwitch called out a casual greeting as she passed the open doorway and he took the opportunity to bolt toward her.

“You know, Severus…it wouldn’t hurt for you to attempt to be a tad bit sociable.” The Surgical Mediwizard called over.

“And what would be the profit in that?” he replied; the older wizard erupted into a deep chuckle.

A clock on the far wall chimed the quarter hour. Severus rose, smoothing the wrinkles from his deep aubergine robe, the color-coding signifying to staff and public alike that he was a Potion Master. He missed his severe black robes, but the color-coded robes were essential in a hospital where any manner of emergency – medical or magical – could arrive at any moment.

The tall wizard gathered up several scrolls detailing some of his latest research and he strode across the almost vacant hall toward a 2:00 meeting with the head healer in the Curse Damage Ward. Of all the departments at St. Mungo’s, the Curse Damage wards offered the most interesting of his research projects. Due to the nature of the injuries, many could not be cured with magic at all. Even the potions had to be brewed in Muggle fashion – a time consuming and often frustrating process – the smallest amount of magic could prove fatal to the patient.

A tiny witch, who looked even older than Albus Dumbledore, smiled as he entered the ward; her bright green eyes disappeared into crinkled wrinkles. She motioned him into her small, but spotless, office. The walls were filled with rows of files and scrolls of parchment, each one plainly marked and readily accessible.

“Madam Jones,” Severus greeted her, his voice showing his deep respect for his colleague. Years before, while training for his Mastery, the dark wizard spent thirteen months studying under the tutelage of the diminutive witch.

“Sit, Severus,” Siobhan Jones ordered. “We’ve run into a small complication with the burn salve for Mr. Shunpike. It appears poor Stanley is allergic to aloe.”

Mind cluttered from a long day of research and supervisory meetings, Severus stepped out of the Muggle entrance of St. Mungo’s intending to take a walk in the crisp early evening air to clear his head. He often managed to troubleshoot difficult potions puzzles while enjoying the benefits of exercise and fresh air. This evening, his stroll took him in a different direction from his usual haunts and he found himself standing at a vaguely familiar cross street. A tasteful neon sign halfway down the block caught his eye - Tommy’s.

Glad that he had changed out of his distinctive Master’s robes and into something vaguely Muggle, he pretended to read the menu posted beside the door. Severus peered into the busy pub and recognized the white smudge of Hedwig up on her ledge. Harry could not be far away.

Casting a quick “Notice-Me-Not” charm, Severus followed a small group into the pub and tucked himself in an out of the way corner to survey the dinner crowd. Dressed in plain black trousers and a crisp white shirt, Harry deftly maneuvered through the crowded dining room with heavy plates laden with steaming entrees and mugs of lager from the bar.

Severus watched Harry and the other pretty boy waiters flirt with their customers and watched the customers flirt back. He knew it was only a game to get a larger tip, but the older wizard clenched his jaw as he watched men loop their arms around his Harry’s waist or rest their hands against his arse as they placed their orders. Harry gracefully slid away from most of the hands and Severus realized it must be a common occurrence for the waiters at Tommy’s to be touched. As long as everyone held to his rules, overprotective Tommy’s cricket bat would remain beneath the bar.

The dinner rush disappeared after a few hours and Harry removed his apron. Perched on a bar stool, he counted out his tips on the bar top, passing a percentage to the young man bussing the tables. Tommy exchanged some of the coins for notes and Harry tucked his earnings into his wallet.

“Tomorrow?” Tommy asked, but Harry shook his head.

“Can’t work tomorrow, Tom. Have a shoot in the afternoon…probably run quite late…” Harry made a soft clicking sound with his tongue and Hedwig landed on the slender shoulder.

Harry passed by the hidden Severus and grabbed a jacket from a coat hook near the dark wizard’s head. Hedwig turned her head, curious amber eyes looking directly at the charmed wizard. She chirruped softly.

“What’s the matter, Hedwig?” Harry gently stroked her feathers to calm her agitation. “There’s nothing there. It’s just a shadow.”

Severus ran his fingers down the calendar image of Harry as he nibbled on a toasted crumpet. His dreams the night before had been filled with beautiful green eyes and that shy, seductive smile. What in the name of Merlin was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he shake the memory of his former student from his mind? There were alarms going off in his subconscious and Harry’s parting words echoed in his mind – “just forget this little Gryffindor whore ever existed”. The dark wizard’s head ached; in requesting him to forget, had Harry condemned him to remember?

His attention was drawn away from the calendar as Bill entered the kitchen, dressed in a deep navy blue business robe. The Cursebreaker gave him a quick peck to the lips before snagging the half-eaten crumpet from his unresisting fingers. Devouring it in two bites, Bill gave Severus a wicked grin.

“I have back to back meetings scheduled for the entire day. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Don’t wait up.” Bill collected a briefcase from the kitchen countertop and Apparated to Gringotts.

Severus summoned his appointment book from his study and perused the entries. He had an unusually light schedule today, nothing so urgent it could not be rescheduled.

Dressed in nondescript Muggle clothing and wearing a Glamour Charm, Severus Apparated into the alley beside Harry’s apartment building. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt compelled to investigate Harry’s personal life and he hoped that it was not a sign he was becoming a besotted idiot. He had awoken that morning with a feeling deep inside that something was off balance - that something was going to happen that he needed to prevent. The tall man would just let his skill and cunning as a spy take over. Severus had learned years before never to ignore his sixth sense.

Standing in the foyer, Severus stared at the door buzzers and the names beside the buttons. A quick glance at his watch revealed it was nearly seven-thirty in the morning. Had the younger wizard already left for his first appointment?

Severus pushed the button to Harry’s apartment. After a moment, Harry’s soft voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello?”

“Edith?” Severus asked in a disguised voice, reading off a name at random from another nameplate.

“Sorry, no,” came the disembodied voice. “You have hit the wrong button. I believe she is in 3A.”

“Oh, my mistake. Terribly sorry to have disturbed you.”

Severus exited the building and took up a position across the street. Harry had not left yet and, hopefully, he would continue to act the Muggle and travel in Muggle fashion, allowing himself to be followed.

Severus cast an invisibility charm and crept into the Life Drawing studio at a local university. The room was full of easels and drawing supplies, the smell of oil paint and chalk hanging in the air. A few students were trickling in as Harry introduced himself to the instructor. He was pointed to a small curtained alcove to disrobe.

Once the classroom filled and the students arranged their charcoals and pastels, Harry emerged wearing a bathrobe as a coverall and a pale gray thong concealing his genitals. Harry climbed a raised dais and twisted his body into whatever position he was instructed. Every ten minutes, he would change his pose. Severus was amazed at the control Harry had over his body.

Drifting unseen through the classroom, Severus peered over the shoulders of the art students. It was sad, really. Harry wasn’t human to the majority of the artists; he was just a disjointed set of body parts. Only a few of the sketches breathed any life into the stoic figure. As the class began to pack their supplies, Harry retreated to the curtained alcove for a cup of tea, only to emerge at the start of the second class repeating the cycle of poses again.

At the end of the second class, the instructor thanked him and pulled a few notes from his wallet. Harry agreed to return at a later date to model again. The slender wizard emerged fully dressed from behind the curtained alcove to a deserted studio. As he headed toward the door, he paused for a moment close to where the invisible Severus was standing. Harry sniffed the air in puzzlement at a subtle herbal scent lingering in the room. Potions, he thought, and then quickly dismissed the notion. It was probably just a student’s cologne. His bright green eyes seemed to bore right through Severus before shrugging and heading down the hallway.

Harry returned to his apartment for a short while, re-emerging freshly showered, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Severus almost lost him in the Underground, but managed to catch sight of him at the last possible moment. The older wizard remembered the telephone conversation and was mildly surprised to discover Cheaton’s Bodyworks was not an exercise facility, but a large showroom of motorcycles, motor scooters and racing bicycles.

Harry made his way to the back of the large warehouse and through a milling crowd of curious spectators to where a photo session was set up behind makeshift privacy screens. A scantily clad redhead approached the small trailer tucked in the corner for a costume change as the technicians adjusted the lighting. A large street bike was pushed into the lighted area and attached to hidden bracing for support.

A large, tattooed mountain of muscle turned toward Harry, a pleasant smile softening his rough features. He caught the slender model in a one armed hug. “Well if it isn’t the ever adorable Blackbird…I wondered who Malcolm snagged to fill in for Stephan at the last moment.”

“Hello, Dil. It’s been ages. Malcolm said Stephan fractured his skull. What happened?”

“Went to go see Arsenal play with a couple cousins…you know what kind of crowd that attracts…got clipped in the head with a bat…bastard’s lucky it didn’t kill him.” Dil was matter of fact. You didn’t have to follow sports to know some teams attracted a violent following and you attended live events at your own peril.

An assistant called out for Harry, ready for a wardrobe fitting and makeup. Dil ambled toward the lit stage, another assistant brushing out an unattractive shine on the big man’s forehead. He studied the bike as he waited for the female model to return from her wardrobe change.

Severus settled into the edge of the crowd, his glamour charm firmly in place. With so many hangers on, he could easily escape detection. He was curious about the Muggle photo shoot and wasn’t entirely sure if the focus of the shoot was the wide variety of motorcycles Cheaton’s seemed to sell or their extensive line of leather and denim clothing.

Harry emerged in leather trousers so tight they were a second skin and an equally tight black t-shirt with a manufacturer’s logo across the chest. His always-erratic hair had been calmed into a deliberately tousled nest and just the merest hint of makeup made his skin and eyes glow. The tell tale scar was hidden beneath a layer of concealer.

Severus could see that Harry was on edge. The sprite reached into his messenger bag for his cell phone and punched in a number from memory, but whomever he wished to contact was unavailable. Harry tossed the phone onto the top of his messenger bag in irritation. Another cell phone chirped in the distance.

The photographer stalked over to where Harry was leaning against a column. He caught Harry’s shoulder and spun him. Harry noticeably blanched when the man leaned into his face, close enough for their noses to brush, hot breath on his cheek.

”I know you don’t like working with me Birdy, but we’re both professionals. Malcolm didn’t tell you I was running the shoot because he needed a model to fit the clothes and knew you wouldn’t come. Don’t try calling him again; he won’t answer….For some unknown reason, he still thinks enough of you to keep you on his books. Don’t you dare give me attitude or fuck up this shoot…”

Harry pulled himself up to his full meager height and returned a surprisingly effective sneer. “No worries, Quentin…as you say, we’re both professionals…and as long as YOU keep it that way…. Malcolm never told me what time you needed me, so I hope I haven’t held up your shoot…”

“No. Still have a few more indoor shots with Chrissy and Dil before we light the outdoor shots…” The photographer sipped from his water bottle. “Was rather surprised Malcolm sent you…you haven’t worked much lately…thought you’d retired.”

“You know there’s not a lot of call for me, Quentin. I’m too short and too feminine…I can’t imagine I’m going to do too much for Cheaton’s testosterone rich image.”

Quentin laughed, running a knuckle along Harry’s jaw line, ignoring the flinch. “Don’t be daft, Birdy…in a few hours time, you’re going to be the half-dressed bitch hanging off Dil’s bike…there’s still a market in some circles for your tight little arse.”

Severus could see the muscles in Harry’s back tighten as the photographer winked at him, conspiratorially. “Alistair’s offer still stands, you know…fifteen hundred quid’s nothing to sneeze at…he could make you famous.”

“No!” Harry replied sharply. “I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of since I was thrown away at sixteen. I’ve been kept, but I’ve never been a rent boy. And I’ll starve before I accept fifteen hundred pounds from Alistair so he can film me being gang banged.”

Severus blinked. He must have misunderstood something in their conversation. Muggle slang was often hard to comprehend.

“Fair warning, Pretty Bird. Alistair’s got his mind set on you…you know his taste for little queens …and he doesn’t like to be disappointed.”

Chrissy sauntered by and Quentin followed her, shouting out directions. Harry reached for his cell phone, but drew his hand back before touching it. He worried his lower lip as he stared pensively at the exit sign.

The shoot moved outside to a mocked up street scene set up in a bright alley. At the photographer’s direction, Harry stood in the foreground, straddling a bright red motor scooter, looking enviously at Dil, astride a huge, chrome machine with the redhead in a tight cat suit perched on the back.

“Envy, Birdy,” the photographer shouted, “Show me envy.”

“And exactly what am I supposed to be envious of? The bike? The bird? Or the bloke?” Harry shot back to the amusement of the crew, giving an impish grin before schooling his features into a look of desire.

Severus was once again amazed at how perfect the masks Harry wore were. He began to wonder how many people had ever seen the real man and he was intrigued. He liked this most Slytherin of Gryffindors.

Severus cast a concealment charm and shifted uncomfortably from his hidden perch on a pile of motorcycle parts. The photo shoot had gone on for hours and through many changes of models and wardrobe. The theme of the shots had noticeably drifted away from heterosexual fantasies. Quentin banished all of the casual observers and had dismissed most of the assistants and the female models, moving in the privacy screens to create a proper barrier. Harry was currently half dressed, draped over the muscular Dil, looking for the world like a bitch in heat. Severus felt the unexpected burn of jealousy in his chest.

And finally even Dil left and the rest of the crew broke for dinner.

Harry looked at Quentin for dismissal, but the photographer smiled a feral smile. “Private commission, Pretty Bird. Two hundred quid, tax free.”

Harry shook his head. “No. I’m done with that.”

Quentin caught the slender model, his fists clenching the waistband of Harry’s tight black trousers. He pulled the young man roughly against his body. “No choice, Luv. You do this or I’ll make sure Malcolm blacklists you…you’ll be nothing but a rent boy in a month.”

Alone with Quentin, Harry was draped over the motorcycle, his trousers unzipped, revealing a tantalizing treasure trail beneath his naval. Slowly he peeled the trousers down, revealing more of his sparse but toned physique. When Quentin paused to reload film into his camera, Severus could see the haunted look in the dulled green eyes.

The Potion Master was struck by the desolation in Harry’s life. He was even more trapped by his reputation in the Muggle world than he was in the magical one. Harry’s striptease should have been erotic or playful, but knowing that it was coerced, it was horrifying.

Harry was naked, back arched, perched impossibly on the motorcycle seat. His finely muscled thigh hid his flaccid penis. Quentin was growing irritated.

“Fist yourself,” he ordered briskly. “No one’s going to pay to see that dead thing between your legs.”

Harry’s hand moved between his legs, wrapping his hand around his unaroused cock. Quentin continued to shoot. Severus found himself wishing the degradation would just end. His thoughts drifted toward hexing Quentin and bringing the shoot to a halt, but he knew Harry would be more horrified that someone knew how low his life had sunk than actually participating in the shoot. Severus reminded himself that a spy did not get involved, but his heart told him to “sod off”.

Severus drew his wand and directed a charm toward the last three rolls of film the photographer had shot. The simple illumination charm caused the film cartridges to glow softly, effectively exposing the rolls of film to light, obliterating the images they once held. He sent another spell to destroy the film still in the camera.

“That’s it, Birdy. Give us a show.” Quentin leaned in and adjusted one of Harry’s hips. Harry shifted his center of gravity so as to not fall off the bike. He looked over Quentin’s shoulder as boot heels echoed in the empty warehouse. Two men entered the vacant motorcycle dealership, one dressed in expensively tailored clothes with too many gold rings and the second, obviously hired muscle.

The color drained from Harry’s face and he scrambled off the motorbike. Off balance, he stumbled. He snagged the discarded trousers and tried to clothe himself, but the man with the rings had another agenda.

“Alistair,” Harry whispered, unable to evade the much larger man.

“It was so kind of Malcolm and Quentin to let me know you were here, don’t you agree? You’re a very hard bunny to find.”

Harry’s eyes flashed in utter contempt at the photographer. Quentin accepted a thick envelope from the bodyguard and hurriedly packed away his gear. Harry realized that Alistair had been the private commission, but the photographs were not his desire; Harry was.

“Don’t fight me, Pet. You’re not going to win.” Alistair wrapped his arms around Harry’s thin hips, pulling him into an embrace, but Harry had other ideas. With Seeker reflexes, he spun, his hands curled into fists. With a wild swing, one fist landed on Alistair’s face, causing blood to spurt from his nose. The bodyguard trapped the struggling wizard. Alistair smiled, blood staining his teeth. It was a frightening smile.

“You little bitch. You broke my nose…you’ll pay for that.” Holding a handkerchief in one hand to stanch the blood, Alistair stroked Harry’s smooth skin with his other.

“Leon’s not here to protect you. All he’s done is saddle you with a flat you can not afford and can not sell….I’ve watched you grow up Harry, and I’ve waited for you…You used to moan so prettily when you rode my fingers…I can’t wait to hear the sounds you’ll make when you ride my cock.”

Alistair grabbed the hair at the nape of the young man’s neck and forced his head up. Harry continued to struggle as the man violently claimed his mouth and throat. The bodyguard’s hands were not idle, the broad hands fondling Harry’s testicles.

A spotlight shattered as Harry’s wandless magic erupted, but he was too terrified to focus it properly. Quentin took one last look and bolted for the door, guilt creeping into the recesses of his brain.

Severus broke his vow to merely observe and not get involved. He quickly shed his obscuring charms and glamours. If he didn’t act swiftly, one, possibly two, men would rape his Harry.

Tears of frustration blurred the emerald eyes as Harry continued to struggle against the inevitable. All his nightmares were coming true and he was unable to stop it. He could not control his wandless magic and his wand was useless, tucked in his messenger bag. Alistair was known for keeping toys, using them to enact his violent sexual fantasies upon – often in front of a film camera. Harry knew of two former toys who committed suicide to escape the torture.

A heavy metal door slammed, causing the struggling trio to turn toward the sound. Severus stood, his most menacing Death Eater glare firmly in place. His hand clutched his wand, hidden in a shirtsleeve, but to the Muggles, it appeared to be a firearm.

“Get your fucking hands off my pet,” he snarled, using a voice that would make many adult wizards soil themselves. The bodyguard took a step back and Harry twisted free. Harry’s shock at the Potion Master’s unexpected appearance was overridden by a sense of overwhelming relief.

“Corvus,” Severus barked again, snapped his fingers once and pointed to a spot at his feet.

Harry wasn’t stupid, and was in no position to over think Severus’ strategy. Mindless of his nudity, the sprite dropped submissively to his knees beside Severus’ jean clad form. Never breaking his eye contact with Alistair and the bodyguard, Severus petted Harry’s head, carding his fingers through the sweat soaked locks.

“Brat,” he murmured affectionately and Harry smiled.