Dangerous Things...

Run for your lives...it's Harry Potter fic. Aw, go on, give it a try...it only hurts going down....

The promised fic...for the WizardsSlash and HarryPotterSlash lists. I haven't retrieved all the bunnies, darn it. Can't find them on Yahoo. Some are there...the others seem to have been Lost In Space....

Email: neichan22@gmail.com
ML: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/slashloveandangst/?yguid=133342468
ML2: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WizardsSlash_HarryPotterSlash/
Archive: http://www.squidge.org/~peja/cgi-bin/index.php
Beta: None!
Fandom: HP!
Bunny: Anne
Pairing: Harry/ and....yep, it's him! not enough of him in fic...
Summary: Harry questions the path his life has taken. And one particular person he left behind.
Warnings: Slash. Darkish. Non-conish. Mpreg. By now, you should know me....and run like hell.....
Disclaimer: HP is not mine, more's the pity...if he were, I'd loan him out all day every day and sit back to enjoy the rewards....

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Harry couldn't remember the first time he had been in danger. It seemed a normal part of his life for as long as he could remember. All the way back to when he was a baby in arms, and Voldemort had killed his mother and father.

Death, the ultimate danger, the foundation of the rest of his life. The one event that started it all, the one which he was glad he didn't remember. All the other times were clear as crystal, vibrant with color, scent, sound, memory, details standing stark, bright all these years later. In perfect recall.

Murder came first. From then on, it just seemed he was always running into trouble, danger, taking risks without meaning to. And each dangerous encounter, time slowed, drew taut, sparkled brilliantly, unforgettably etched in his recall, on his soul.

The point being, he was used to being in danger. Danger made him feel things he hadn't known existed.

Like the time he'd fallen into the well. He was four or five then, or was it six? Maybe seven? He recalled the tumble into the old, beige brick lined monstrosity, landing in a few feet of murky, muddy, sludgy water, the oily surface nudging at his chin. Thankfully it hadn't been deep or far from the top, with the many missing stones giving him ample hand and foot holds to clamber up. He'd climbed out, quick as you please. Or flown out. It had seemed so easy, maybe a bit of magic? One of the two, flying or climbing. Did it matter which?

Then there was the time the mad dog chased him, couldn't have been much more than six then, too. Thought he was going to be bitten, savaged, but the dog didn't like the look of the space under the house where Harry'd gone, armed with a short, thin bit of stick that had glowed, just a touch, hadn't it? Harry holding the stick tight, pointing it at the dog, a fragile, glowing twig was all, panting, sweating, pulse racing. The smell of the churned ground, the stink of the dog, of saliva, of fear, Harry braced, toes digging in...and the dog thought better of the sport of chasing the boy and ran off.

And the werewolves...following him, not more than yellow eyes in the dark of the park as he'd dragged his case, suitably shrunken, after himself, brimming with frustration, anger, rage. Hopeless. Skin prickling, tightening over his skull when he saw those feral, gleaming, starved, beast's eyes. But they had been thwarted by his timely pick-up by the night-bus. When Harry had mounted those steps, his blood tripping crazy in his veins.

The bus...yes, wasn't that a funny one. The way the driver sped through the streets, careening Harry from side to side, nearly ejecting him from the windows at each start and stop, each agitated, harried turn... Strangely unobserved by the muggles all around them.

Voldemort....years of danger from him. From his followers. Friends dying, that war, a real danger, taking lives. So many, the first in his mind, Cedric, though no doubt there had been others he just didn't recall now. Cedric, who he'd stood with, side-by-side, and battled for only moments before the tragedy of the older boy's death. Cedric who he'd felt die in his arms, in his soul, in his spirit. Cedric who had made him feel, who had let him wail, cry and shout. Cedric all shining promise...all lightness, kindness...all promise, then dead in his arms.

Crying. Yelling. Sadness. Danger. Harry remembered. Voldemort in the graveyard. Beautiful. Terrifying. Inhuman. Glorious. Hated. Worshiped. Voldemort...who he killed, though not until much later.

Snape....who hadn't turned out to be who Harry thought he was. Saving him repeatedly, hating him, yet, oddly loving him and protecting him in a bizarrely, parental way. Snape, who killed Harry's mentor. Snape who claimed he was entitled to much more than being a simple teacher of children at Hogwarts. Snape who's eyes had gone evil, hollow holes in his face when Harry raised his own emerald ones. Harry standing there, waiting to be killed. Not lifting his wand, not defending himself. Not wanting to. Waiting for Snape to decide if Harry should live or die.

Snape who had fled, a prince in absentia. Leaving Harry in that much more danger. That much more alive. Achingly. Painfully alive.

Giant snakes or basilisks, take your pick....tailing him through damp sewers, like runaway motor buses. Poison-pumping fangs filling his limbs with fatigue, with mind spinning illness. Dropping him to his knees, bemoaning that Ron's sister, that Ginny was going to die because he'd failed her. Failed to save her, to heal her, to notice something wrong with her in the first place....

Dementors....so very cold, sucking at him, at every scrap of happiness he'd had. Vivid even in their grey fog, his own eyes green glass in their swirling murk. Vivid in the sucking emptiness that lived now in the secret memory he had of them, hidden down deep, locked against brighter memory.

The three headed dog.....more forthright, a snapping, barking, chain tugging terror the three of them had escaped, only to fall into the grip of the deadly, tentacled roots of plants under the floor...on the way to play real wizard's chess...and Ron, Ron laying there on the squares of the giant board, where Harry left him...and ran...
Off to save the world. Danger. Danger. Would he, would they live...or die?

Professor Quarrel in concert with Voldie....wanting him, wanting him...

The spiders....

The dragons.....

The mermaids....

Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle. Peter Pettigrew, yech.

When it came right down to it, Harry was always in some sort of danger. He wasn't sure he knew what to do when he wasn't. He wasn't sure he knew how to breathe when he wasn't. And now, safe, bored...he couldn't breathe. He was safe, and he felt like he was dying.

Studying wasn't all that much fun, he'd squeaked by in school with the help of Hermione and Neville. And writing essays...reports...taking exams, none of that gave him much of a thrill. But...the pulse pounding adventure of saving his friend's lives, of racing a dragon, of fleeing certain death, and not dying...saving damsels in distress, or even dear old Ron...those were the times he felt most alive...

Like the time he had to outwit Lucius Malfoy, or be subjected to the excruciating Cruciatus Curse. Now, that had been something. He'd felt invigorated, triumphant, and gods be praised, he'd felt alive.

Not like now. At his desk. Sitting in the Ministry of Magic, sorting through research and case files, planning how to conduct the next raid. Against a dastardly shopkeeper selling unfiltered Baneswort and giving the unsuspecting buyers a nasty case of green diarrhea. Harry frowned. Gah. Disgusting. But hardly exciting. Hardly dangerous. Hardly what he thought he'd be planning or doing three days before his twenty-second birthday.

He was bored. Horribly, terminally, wretchedly bored.

He sat frozen in his straight backed chair. Life wasn't worth living like this. He never had fun any more. He sat in this office. He drank his tea, nibbled his toast. He spoke in undertones. He saw Ron rarely. Hermione was years dead, her unborn babe with her, the scandal long forgotten it seemed. Malfoy, the not so little dragon...a good, gangly foot taller than Harry now, they were civil to each other, had lunch twice every six months.

Snape hadn't been seen in years. Dumbly was dead. Neville had a nursery. Dean and Seamus were married, raising their four daughters, he had pictures to prove the unbelievable fact that Seamus had given birth to all four babies and was the one who changed their nappies, a stay at home mum, while Dean put food on the table and kept a roof over their heads, rather handsomely at that.

And here he was, the famous Harry Potter. Bored out of his bloody mind.

Things had to change. He gazed out of the tiny widow in his cubelike room. Missing entirely the slow opening of the door behind him. The tall shadow that stood, immobile, head bumping the top of the frame, taking in the weary cast of his shoulders, the sigh he let out entirely unaware of it. Missing the look of concern, of affection, of stark ownership on the craggy, handsome face.

"Potter." The deep voice was a shock. Harry whirled, gaining his feet, stumbling into the edge of his desk, fumbling for his wand, trying to jerk it out of his coat pocket, only to have it catch on the thread he'd been meaning to clip all week, ripping a great hole as he fought the thread. Raising it still caught in his pocket, the tip sticking out of the seam of his torn coat. Adrenaline screaming through every cell of his body.

Only to see the man in the door way doubled over with laughter. Only to see...who it was.

"Oh, Merlin! Potter!" The velvety voice. Harry felt it wash over him like a caress. Dangerous. Oh Gods. Not now, he wasn't ready. He felt his insides melting.

NO. He wasn't going to do this again. He'd walked out of the man's life a year ago. Furious. Swearing he'd never go back. Not ever. Damn it. And he hadn't. He'd nursed his broken heart in secret. He'd withdrawn from that kind of life, that kind of excitement. He'd backed away from the thrill. From the dark, luscious memories...

They hadn't spoken in a year. Since his last Birthday. When he'd woken to realize he was in the man's bed. A half drunk glass of Fertili-Weed on the bedstand beside him, a queasy feeling in his guts. His body telling him more than his muddled mind what had happened. The aches and pains...the heavy throb of his loins, the slickness...The way he'd felt.

Pregnant. He'd been impregnated. Unwillingly, unknowingly. Unhappily. He'd gotten up, left the apartment, left the man sleeping in the bed, enlisted the help of a mediwitch and gone about his life. Not pregnant anymore. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, walking away from the man who made him feel so much, so very alive.

Getting rid of the baby had nearly killed him. Oh, not physically. He'd been healthy as a horse for all his skinny bones and pale skin. Never sick with more than a cold or broken arm, easily cured with a draught of this or a pinch of that.

But the emotions. The betrayal. The fact he'd terminated his pregnancy...put the tiny growing thing in suspended animation in Poppy's clinic. And never visited the fragile, waiting boy in the gold-scrolled, blue glass jar. Hardly a speck, but Poppy swore to him it was a tiny, itty bitty boy-child waiting until the day Harry decided to go back.

Waiting to be born. With only Poppy to put a hand on the glass, and tell the little life to be patient, Harry would be back. Someday, she was sure. Until then she'd keep the tiny speck warm, waiting.

He hadn't thought of the child in more than two months. Now he could think of nothing else, as he watched the child's father contorted with mirth in the doorway to his office, his broad shoulders filling it to capacity. Laughing over his inability...Harry's graceless attempts to free his wand. The man who had bedded him for years, since the Tri-Wizard Tournament, without so much as asking if he wanted to. Drugged him. Impregnated him without his consent. The man he'd started to love, started to wonder if he wanted to actually tell him. Be his lover...The man who made him feel.

"Oh, damn!" The man gasped. "Oh, fuck me, Potter...you are something else...always good for a laugh."

Only that had never happened, either. Clumsy Harry taking the active role. Fucking instead of being fucked. He hadn't been given the chance. The many times they'd been together, never, not once was Harry on top...and the last time, he had swallowed the tea, not knowing it wasn't simply his favorite Brillings Tea. He was the one on the bottom. The one penetrated. Fucked. The one underneath. Crushed into the mattress, spread, taken. He was the one who sighed, and begged, and writhed. The one who was fucked.

Outweighed by a good three or so stone of aggressive muscle and sinew. His one-time lover possessive, controlling, loving, taking. Treating him like he was owned. Since the first, a harrowing secret, Harry agonized knowing what he was doing was wrong. His erstwhile lover, untroubled, impregnating him without his consent. Harry couldn't forget that. His heart started to pound, to race faster, faster as he looked up into that dangerous face.

And never once trying to contact him after Harry left. After he fled the home he'd come so close to asking the man to share, pregnant with the man's child. Not one time, not a single message. Not an owl, not a chat by the fireside. Not a word sent through mutual friends or acquaintances. Discarded.

In fact, if Harry hadn't watched the tales of the man's exploits in the Wizard's Weekly...he might have thought the man dead. But every week there was a story of him. Of his accomplishments. Of the records he set, his team's winning streak. Of the lovers of both sexes he was squiring around. Seeming not to miss Harry at all. The romances and the breakups. Teary eyed men and women. Though ~he~ wasn't teary eyed. Only his short term lovers. Just like Harry had been. Devastated. Used. Violated. Wronged. Left all alone. And he'd never felt so alive. Never felt...so much.

Harry hadn't dated since. Not a single kiss. Not one night of passion since. He'd stuck to friends, and rarely even that. A few meals shared. Mostly it had been work and little else. No games. No Quidditch. Definitely no Quidditch.

Until now. Now the reigning king of the match, the world champion of the world championship team stood before him. Contorted with glee. Still handsome as hell. Still hurting him with every chuckle. Uncouth. Raw. Blindingly, beautifully masculine. Huge.

Towering over the skinny-boned Harry. Dark hair razored every bit as short as Harry remembered. Looking all bristly, all male, yet if memory served, soft as fine fur. His wicked lips, full, hot, sucking.... Harry had felt that hair, that mouth so many ways, on so many parts of his body. He fought not to let out the tiny sound of anguish rising in his throat.

But, of course the man heard. His dark, dark eyes meeting Harry's. His mirth fading, leaving him shining with health, with vigor, with everything Harry felt he'd lost. Serious. Quiet, his gaze soft. Hungry. Life brimming in him.

It hurt. Blazingly. The knife of loneliness twisting in his gut. That mobile mouth, the tongue that had tasted him everywhere, the now intent, predatory look, the strong chin, the sweep of long, black lashes. The big, big hands that had held him, manipulated him, squeezed him, played him like a fine instrument during their frantic, slow, heated, groaning times in bed, making love with another man, his only lover. His only man.

He should have been guilty, the man was Hermione's not his. Hermione. Who had died, with child herself. Her body unable to support the magics she needed to stay alive in the war with Voldemort, and be pregnant at the same time. This man, who's child had, in a way, killed her. Killed the teen-aged Hermione. While Harry slept with her lover in secret. While Harry's body parted, opened for the flesh that had also parted and entered her body.

The man had mourned her, Harry was sure of it. Sure he saw the anguish in the dark, reserved, passion-hiding, Slavic eyes when Hermione died.

The big man had mourned, yes. Only to, years later, force Harry into the same boat. Not asking. Not suggesting. Slipping him the potion. Getting Harry with child. While Harry needed his magic to work, to stay alive, to prepare for the return of the Deatheaters...if they ever did return....

Harry gave up, dropping back into his chair, landing off center, hard, the rickety wood creaking alarmingly, before dumping him onto the floor with a resounding crack as legs went wobbly and broke, the seat falling away under him.

"Harry!" The rich, sweet, chocolate-y voice, laughing again, the huge frame on one knee, as Harry lay stunned on his back, his wand still trapped, his other arm caught under him, his legs splayed out, his glasses skittering across the floor, leaving him virtually blind. Watching the dark shadow descend over him.

"Harry?" The man who never had an awkward, humiliating moment in all his life. The man who's physical gifts made him the best Quidditch athlete of the last thousand years. Graceful, deadly. Kneeling between Harry's splayed legs, pressing just so, his knee, just there, a threat against his balls, close, pressing, just enough so Harry knew who was in control...and who wasn't. The slow smile, blurred by Harry's glasses-less vision, grew as the man saw Harry understand the message.

He picked Harry up, easily, lifting the small weight of Harry, not an ounce heavier than he'd been in his seventh year. Lifting him, light as a feather, up into the great, hard-soft, gentle, steel-strong arms.

So their faces were close. So Harry could smell him, the faint scent of some herb, the stronger scent of the man. The man whose hand cradled his bottom. Holding him. Picking him up out of the ruin of his chair. The man too big for this office. The biceps bulging against Harry's back, his side. Belly to groin, groin to buttocks. Harry's heart thundered. He was sick, sick and...aroused. Ashamed. And aroused.

Giggling in the doorway. Heads peeking 'round the frame, indistinct faces. Secretaries, wizards, witches, Aurors. Peeking in to see, not the boy who lived, the boy who was old news...but the man, the athlete, the one the only, Viktor Krum. The one who was news now.

Viktor Krum, who had his hand splayed over both of Harry's nether cheeks, fingers digging in, curling intimately, brushing so slowly, a hidden, very public feel of Harry's vulnerable parts. His other hand buried in Harry's riotous curls, clenching into a soft fist, bending back his neck. Pressing Harry to his chest. Kissing the top of his head. While Harry panted with fright, with excitement. Gasped. Didn't know what to do....

Viktor smiled at them, the giggling men and women who eyed him like he was a god. Harry knew without seeing that Viktor smiled. He saw it in the wide-eyed faces. The tilt of the heads. The simpering 'coo's of both men and women spectators.

"Oh, go on..." Viktor said, his tone dark honey, his words teasing, hiding the lie. Freeing his one hand from Harry's hair. "Go on, now." Waving them away, his voice sweetly, flirtatiously commanding, daring them to disobey. "Let me have time with him..." Then...

"I've missed you Harry." A whisper of gliding promise. The frisson of fear, excitement, joy, terror, lust...love, singing through Harry's trembling body.

And the indrawn breath. Harry's own not the least.... He made the effort to squeak in protest. To say, no, to beg them to stay, no don't go. Please.

But obedient, they shuffled back. Leaving him, speechless in the arms he'd fled one year ago. In the arms of the man who was his last, only beloved. The arms of the man who had taken him without his consent. Who had made him feel everything. Including fear. The man who he dreamed of. Who he stroked himself to the memory of. The man who he wanted. And wanted to run from. The man who was danger. Dark and fierce.

Arms that had no right to hold him, to restrain him, to cuddle him, to make him feel so safe, so loved, so...warm. Arms...like manacles, like chains. Arms that made his blood sing.

"I have been talking to Aliksander James..." The silken murmur against Harry's bent throat. Blinking, confusion...

"Who..?" Choked out of Harry's mouth, lashes fluttering... who? He didn't know....

"My son, Harry. It is time for my son to be born....I've given you a year...." Viktor said. The fine white teeth grazing over Harry's neck, his shoulder, behind his ear. Biting. Harry moaned. The rhythm of his heart picking up, wild, frantic.

No. Oh no. No. The boy in the gold and blue glass jar.

Harry closed his eyes. Strained. No.

And Viktor kissed him.

No. No he didn't want to.... He didn't.

Hot mouth, eating at his own, plunging thick and deep, swathing his mouth in the taste he could never forget. Sucking on him, his lips, his tongue. Pushing him down onto his back, still clothed, though that mattered less than anything. Harry straining up, into the the huge body bent over him.

Between his legs, big hands, strong hips, and Viktor, hard, long thick, frightening. He was Viktor's. Again. Without even being pentrated by more than the man's tongue, he was Viktor's again. No.

Oh. N...yes. He was alive. Yes. Alive. He was Viktor's.

All he had to do to stay alive was....

Aliksander......

And Viktor kissed him.

neichan