The Most Difficult Of All Our Tasks

“The Most Difficult Of All Our Tasks” was begun prior to HP7, however I have altered pieces to fit in with the events in that book, with one notable exception – Severus does not die. Oh, and also, Draco isn't Lucius' son - believe me, it matters to the story.

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
(Rainer Maria Rilke)

Chapter the First – Henry James Greene


“Hi there, my name’s Harry. What can I get you?”

The customer at the bar eyed up the man standing in front of him. Not bad, he thought. Wonder if I can screw him?

The man who had once been “The Boy Who Lived” ignored the assessing glance he had been given and looked expectantly at the other for his order.

“Oh, right. Double Old Ogden’s,” the customer said, then added, “And have one for yourself.”

“Thanks,” Harry answered, but poured the golden fluid into only one glass.

“You not drinking?” The other queried, as he sniffed the fire whisky.

“No,” Harry gave a slight smile to seem friendlier, “Not whilst I’m working.”

Oh well. The man thought, and moved away, looking for some other young man to share his bed that night.

***

Thank god! Harry thought as he sank wearily onto his bed. It had been a long night, and being eyed up by his customers was definitely not part of his job description. Slowly he tugged his worn black boots off, wriggling his toes in the socks. It took him only a few moments to strip completely, leaving an untidy pile of clothes on the warped bare floorboards. He sank down onto the complaining bed and rubbed his temples.

Harry’s flat was, quite honestly, a dump. Its one (and only one) redeeming feature was that the rent was cheap. It was reasonably close to where Harry worked, although apparating made that fact unimportant. The flat consisted of a small bedroom, a tiny bathroom, a miniscule kitchen, and a microscopic hallway, all decorated in the same, soul destroying dirty beige.

He got back up with a groan and staggered into the tiny bathroom. Fifteen minutes later he was showered, the scar that remained hidden all day was once again on display, looking slightly too pink as he’d had to scrub to get the flakes of dried on concealer off it.

Bed, Harry thought, and slid between the sheets. He was quickly asleep.

***

In the morning, Harry rolled over and fell out of his bed, an all too common occurrence for him.

“OW!” Shit! Wonder what the Daily Prophet would say if they say the famous Harry Potter now, on the floor, wrapped in his sheets, stuck!

Harry sniggered, and set about untangling himself. He managed to do so and stood up, ignoring the clunks coming from his spine as it readjusted to being upright, and not being tortured on damaged bed springs.

Before he had been so rudely awakened, he had been dreaming a rather pleasant dream, involving sex and a man who made him feel safe and sexy and … He looked at his pyjama bottoms.

Soaked. Again.

He tugged them off, grimacing. Then took another shower.

Once completed, he set about creating Henry Greene, bartender at “The Frog’s Legs” Definite Alley. First he put the coloured contacts into his eyes, light brown, so his eyes had a strange green brown hint to them. Next he brushed his hair from his face and checked the hair dye was ok. Not bad. I’ll need to re-do it next week. His third task was to put on the glasses he still needed, although the horrible round ones had long been replaced with slightly rectangular, thin wire framed ones. The last task for his face was to apply concealer over his scar, blend it well in, then dab powder over it. The result was impossible to detect, especially with his slightly longer mousy brown hair flopping over his forehead.

The disguise continued in his clothes. He wore items that “Harry Potter” would never have been associated with – skin tight tops with baggy, but clearly expensive combats, and tattered, but again pricey, boots.

He selected his favourite top – a black sleeveless top, made of the softest material. It had a chunky silver zip down the front with a large hoop for the zipper. He pulled it on and tugged up the ring, stopping just below his pecs. He grabbed a pair of loose black combats. They had come from the same shop and had matching chunky zips and hanging strips of material on them. He finally grabbed his new black boots – these had silver wire instead of laces and looked brilliant with his top and trousers. They were soon on, the spare wire wrapped around the ankle part of the boots.

Now to do some shopping, Henry Greene thought, and left his small flat.

-- Hope you stay along for the ride. SP.