The Most Difficult Of All Our Tasks

Chapter the Second – Special Reserve



After the defeat of Voldemort at the hands of Harry Potter, the wizarding world had gone crazy. Harry had had not one moment’s peace after the horrendous battle that had left him limping and shaking, standing over the blank eyes of the man who had tried so often to destroy him.



Every day in the Daily Prophet, some new fact had been revealed about Harry, about how he had “saved us all” and how the Daily Prophet had helped.



Eventually, sick of the whole thing, Harry had quietly vanished. He had simply allowed himself to be swallowed up by the Muggle world and had re-emerged, over two years later, as Henry Greene. He had had the job at The Frog’s Legs almost the whole time he had been Henry. Every so often (on his birthday, on the anniversary of Voldemort’s first fall, on the anniversary of Voldemort’s final defeat, and any other time the Daily Prophet felt like it) an article had appeared, asking where the Chosen One was.



“What will we do,” The Prophet had written, “when we are next under attack? Will The Chosen One come to our aid?”



Harry had snorted at that article. It sounded like they thought he was a superhero.



Every so often Hedwig brought him letters from Hermione and Ron. Mrs Weasley wrote when she could, but taking care of her reduced, but injured, family took up almost every minute of her time. Harry sent ten galleons a month, anonymously, to help her care for Mr Weasley (he’d lost movement in his limbs after he’d been caught by the retreating Death Eaters and tortured), George and to help pay for Teddy, who spent a lot of his spare time at the Burrow.



The letters that were sent from adoring fans never reached him. Hedwig had long ago learnt not to bother delivering them.



Harry never dwelt on the past, on the Might-Have-Beens, purely because when he did, he tended to do something stupid, like try and kill himself. He definitely never allowed himself to consider the What-Ifs, especially concerning the dark, stern man who made Harry need to change his pyjamas regularly as he had wet dreams about the other.



***



Oh shit! Harry thought, as the dark, stern man from his dreams entered the pub.



“Hi, I’m Harry,” said Harry, trying to stifle his nerves, “What can I get you?”



“A bottle of Old Ogden’s – Special Reserve,” came the silk and steel voice.



Harry stood still for a moment, wishing his erection away, before turning and reverently placing a dusty bottle filled with dark golden brown liquid on the counter.



“Twe-twenty galleons,” he stammered, trying not to lose himself in the black eyes. He swallowed.



An eyebrow was raised. “Really? Last time I bought the Special Reserve it was fifteen.”



“Stocks are low,” Harry said shrugging, glad for a chance to sound knowledgeable, “As I’m sure someone who appreciates the Special Reserve knows, the Ogden family were killed in the Battle, and the secret of the Special Reserve was destroyed. Some of the Ogdens by marriage are trying to work out the recipe, but aren’t having much luck so far. Hence,” he sighed, “the price increase.”



The dark haired man nodded. “I had heard rumours to that effect. I believe that they had asked for help from all the potions experts, and whisky experts in the world.”



“That’s so,” Harry agreed eagerly. He leaned towards the other, as though imparting a great secret. “I even heard that Severus Snape had been helping them. If that’s true, I expect new supplies any day now!”



“Such faith,” the other observed dryly. “Any particular reason why?”



Harry blushed. Good one, Harry! Way to be cool! “Not really, except I know he has, well, used to teach at Hogwarts for years and years, and is one of our greatest potions masters.”



“You weren’t taught at Hogwarts?” the customer asked.



“No,” Harry lied. He paused, then asked, “Did you want the Special Reserve?”



The other opened a leather pouch and tipped a pile of galleons onto the top. Harry counted out twenty and handed the extras back.



“Thank you,” the stern faced man said. “Could I have two glasses?”



Harry blindly handed two tumblers to the other. He’s got someone with him! Harry’s mind wailed, eyes searching the poorly lit pub for any sign of someone who might conceivably be with the other man.



The other opened the bottle and broke the magical seal. He filled each glass with a finger of the fluid.



Harry’s customer pushed one glass towards Harry. Surprised, the younger man glanced up. “You want me to try some?” he asked, disbelievingly.



A nod.



In shock, Harry picked up the glass. The amount of fluid in the glass would have cost three galleons had it been bought in the bar. He stared into the depths, noting the thickness of the liquid and the tiny gold flecks that lazily swirled in the whisky, the sign of the true ‘Special Reserve’.



“How many bottles have you got left?” the older man asked suddenly.



Lost in his exploration of the alcohol, Harry didn’t answer for a while. The other seemed to understand, even went so far as to smile softly.



“Er… Sorry,” Harry fumbled under the counter and looked. “Two,” he replied.



“Well,” said the customer, “make sure you get your twenty galleons for them, because the Special Reserve recipe has been cracked!”



“What?! Really?” Harry smiled in joy.



“Really,” the stranger responded. “I’ve helped the ‘in laws’ discover the recipe and the process.”



“You did?” Harry sounded weak.



“I did.” The man affirmed.



“Who are you?” Harry demanded, despite already knowing the answer. It was, after all, the only logical question he could ask.



“Severus Snape.” A pause. “Cheers.”



-- I know you all saw that coming! SP