WARNINGS:

SLASH, Anal, BDSM, D/s, Dom, DP, Exhib, Fet, Fingering, H/C, HJ, M/M, MPreg, Oral, Rim, Solo, Spank, Toys, Voy, WIP

-and whatever the hell happens in my mind while writing this.

I accidentally deleted all warnings when I edited the summary. *facedesks.

Main Story Idea and betaed by: SuirenAngel

Written by: NeuroticNeko

This contains no Dumbledore bashing (and he's still alive), no Weasley bashing. This is boyxboy. If you don't know what that means then you shouldn't be here.

To clear things up, Harry is the DOMNINANT in this fic. Don't like, don't read.

Revised 26/10/2017

Grey clouds rolled over the landscape and the first patters of rain hit the gloomy countenance of Grimmauld Place, who, Harry had joked to his friends many times, was exactly like a miserable old man, sitting hunch-shouldered from cold and lack of human attention.

As Harry woke that morning, he heard the rain dashing itself against the windowpanes and groaned piteously. Why today?

He forced himself out of bed and clambered over the many miscellaneous items that littered his bedroom floor to get to the bathroom, hair askew even more than usual. He blinked wearily at his reflection in the mirror and pulled a face.

Ugh, I look dreadful. He wiggled his ears at his reflection. The shadows under his eyes and the dark, stubbly growth on his jawline agreed with the assessment.

A flash of gold broke his inspection of himself in the mirror. Bewildered, he squinted at his reflection trying to elicit another flash and find its source. Nothing happened.

Shrugging, he squeezed out some toothpaste and brushed his teeth. After wiping his mouth on his towel, he padded over to the small radio that hung precariously over one of his many books on Quidditch. He tweaked one of the antennae and the sound crackled to life. "…and for the following three days we will see humid and heavy to moderate showers with less rainfall during the afternoons and evenings. Tonight, the weather..."

Today would be the first day this hermit would leave his apartment in months.

In a busy street in downtown London, Hermione Granger muttered, "Tempus" and worried her lip. It was half past noon and Harry still hadn't appeared yet. Edging closer to the café, she tugged at her blouse and peered at the rain.

Ron was kneeling on the cracked pavement, his carrot top hair peeking out of the cap Hermione had forced upon him. An occasional muggle shot a few shocked - then amused glances his way. Ron squinted at each one, probably thinking that if he looked closely their expressions would say 'how awesome!' instead of 'what the-'

"'Mione -" He muttered ,"Why are they looking at me like that? Li-like I'm the Snape boggart in Neville's grandma's clothes?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Well, if you had listened to me when I was talking earlier, Ronald Weasley, you would've realized that, no, Muggles have no inclination towards wearing ridiculous looking capes with conjured pebbles spelled onto it!" she finished all in one breath.

Ron knitted his brows together. "That's unfair! Muggles believe that all magical people wear starry capes!" -or, at least he had read in a book he had read. Muggles for Dummies, he recalled vaguely, and he had found it under a pile of wrappers beneath his bed. Ron then wondered why he had bought a book. As a rule of thumb, any Weasley by the name of Ronald never bought a proper book. Ron frowned and dredged the memory from his brain. Hm.

...It had been a Yule gift… from Fred and George.

Wow, why am I so gullible?

Ron's face darkened and he muttered absently; "Oh look, the rains stopped" Hermione sighed and cast a curt look at the door. The bushy haired witch was rewarded with a glimpse of unruly raven hair poking around the corner.

"Harry! Over here!" she yelled excitedly, frantically waving. Ron got up, all thoughts of misleading books written by very unreliable magical authors gone.

"Harry!"

Harry grinned and shouted, dashing towards the place that his friends were. After pushing past the throngs of people that milled around the busy street, Harry began to realize that something was awfully wrong about one of his friends; Namely, Ronald.

Was he trying to blend into the wall behind him? Because with all those rocks that looked like they would rather be anywhere but on Ron's cape, the red-head was certainly succeeding in… merging with his surroundings.

At the same moment Ron also realized that there was something definitely off about his friend. "You-" Ron said, and stopped.

"Err- you-" Harry began. How to explain that stars in fact meant pentagrams and not little bits of meteorites that probably were not little bits of meteorites but random pebbles found in anyone's garden? They both stopped and paused to let the other talk first. When the silence continued, Harry spoke first, "Ron you do realize that no self respecting muggle wears something like that onto the street-"

Hermione pursed her lips at Ron. "When I told you that no Muggles would wear that, why didn't you take it off?"

Ron blushed furiously all the way to the roots of his hair. It was not a flattering look.

"Well what about you?" Ron snapped, embarrassed. "Did you take some Knockturn Alley growth potions or something?"

Harry frowned. "What?"

"You're almost as tall as me now!"

Hermione, who had been staring at Ron's cape, took her first proper look at Harry and performed a rather spectacular double-take. "Ha-Harry! You could be 6 foot now!"

Harry shrugged, wanting to get to the sweet smell of pastry that emanated from the inside of the café. "Maybe I finally got my growth spurt" he joked.

All three of them sighed in relief when a blast of delicious smells in the air hit them. A smiling waitress in a black uniform and a nametag sashayed up to their table and Ron blushed. It was not lost on the waitress. Harry hid his grin behind a serviette and surmised that this, being Ron's first time to a muggle café, thought that she was coming up to flirt with him. Hermione cleared her throat, loudly, and Ron flinched when she quietly spoke with a cold clipped voice, "I'll have a hot chocolate thanks"

"Ah- a-" Ron scanned the menu desperately, "-Black coffee"

"Hot chocolate with marshmallows please " The waitress took Hermione's and Harry's menu's and had to forcibly tug at Ron's until he got the gist of it and sheepishly handed over the chamomile smelling menu.

"Sorry" He whispered under his breath, flicking his eyes up at the waitress, who was already onto the next table.

A few minutes of reminiscing of the past year later, they all felt a little warmer and began removing their assortment of light jackets and in Ron's case, his inspiring-representation-of-the-Moon's-surface cape. As soon as the gaudy thing left Ron's shoulders Hermione grabbed it and stuffed it hastily in her charmed pouch. She drew the string tight and vowed silently to leave it there and never ever mention to him about its existence.

". . . and Oliver Wood? Remember him!?"

"'course I do!"

"He's replaced Avery Hawksworth as chaser for the National Quidditch Team!" Ron enthused, almost shouting.

"Can he perform the Rowntree Counter?" Harry asked excitedly, hands flat on the table.

"Even better than Hawksworth they say!"

Hermione, who was never very excited about Quidditch (unless it involved Ron or Harry, of course) leaned over towards the animated boys and asked,"What's the Rowntree Counter?"

Ron and Harry mirrored each other in guppy-eyed faces of pure shock. "Why, the Rowntree Counter-" Harry began quickly."It's the most famous and-" continued Ron. "It's the English Teams special-" Harry followed."-team move!" exclaimed Ron.

Hermione, however, was most unnerved by Harry and Ron's sudden affinity for ending each other's sentences. Ron's face suddenly paled dramatically. "Bloody hell, we sound like Fred and George!" Harry chuckled.

"Here's your two hot chocolates and a black coffee" The waitress, who's name tag read Cathy, placed the black coffee in front of Ron and hot chocolates in front of Hermione and Harry, adding marshmallows to Harry's drink.

Ron took a sip of his. His vision exploded in black and green hues. "Merlin's beard. . ." He choked and spat out his mouthful of coffee. "This is disgusting!"

Hermione snorted "You're the one who ordered it"

"How can muggles drink this stuff!?" Ron gasped, fervently wiping his outstretched tongue on a serviette. Harry slapped Ron on the back and grinned at him.

Harry picked up his drink and sipped, enjoying the way the chocolate slid down his throat. He offered Ron a marshmallow. "What is this?" the Weasley asked suspiciously.

"Just a muggle sweet" Ron took a nibble. "Ooh, these are good!"

When Harry had gone through most of his drink and Ron was drinking a glass of water, Hermione set down her drink on the table and cleared her throat. Harry and Ron looked up. The bushy haired witch needed to tell them.

"Have you heard from Professor McGonagall lately?"

"Hmm… no, why?" said Harry, through a mouthful of drink.

"Well, she's asked us-"

"Merlin, she isn't asking us to pay the fine for-" Numerous occasions popped up into the carrot-tops mind. Like that time…and when Harry and he had…oh, and that time when…"Ron, shut up!"

"Sorry" Harry flicked his spoon at Ron."She's asking us if we'd like to go back to Hogwarts for an 'eighth year.' We do still have to complete our N.E.W.T's you know"

"I don't suppose she's going to let us off the hook" Ron sighed.

"So this means you both are going?" Hermione sipped her drink, which had cooled down somewhat.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

Hermione nodded, quietly relieved, she had been afraid that after the war that Harry would become a shut-in. It seemed that she needn't worry, Harry had always been resilient.

Harry absently scratched at an itch on his arm. Recently, a few freckle-like spots had begun appearing on his left upper forearm. He hadn't been out in the sun all.

Ron turned and caught him scratching his arm a little too enthusiastically.

"Mate, you okay there?" he asked, concerned. "I'm fine" Harry said, albeit uncomfortably, he tried not to scratch them again. The spots were really itchy.

Hermione glanced over and frowned. "Harry, what are these?" She inquired, looking curiously at the spots that littered his forearm. Taking her wand from the pouch, she leant under the table and cast a quick illness detector. "These don't seem to be a sickness or rash, Harry, what are they?"

"Freckles?" he chanced. "Harry! Freckles aren't itch-" Hermione's eyes widened, she had caught a glimpse down Harry's shirt when he had tried to move away. "Harry! These are on your chest-" She grabbed the back of Harry's t-shirt roughly. "-and your back too!"

"What? But I swear they were only on my…" Harry had looked down his front. The spots had spread from his left forearm and down his front and back. He pulled the sleeve of his right forearm up. Nothing, yet. What are these?

"You haven't been sunbathing on the beach have you?" Ron asked. Harry really didn't want his friends to worry about him any more than they already had, so he spoke quickly. "Uh-yeah; I went to the beach a lot last week! I must be itchy from the sun burn" Hermione and Ron weren't convinced (they both knew it had rained quite a bit the previous week, Harry seemed to have forgotten in his hasty reply), but they both let Harry have his deserved privacy. For now.

Hermione cast another suspicious glance at Harry, who, was nervously fidgeting in his seat. She was going to search all her books for this mysterious thing that Harry had seemed to catch as soon as she arrived home.

"Waitress!" She gestured at the table and all three stood up, ready to leave. When they got outside, it had begun sprinkling again and they all put up their umbrellas.

"Stupid things" Ron growled when he tried to push his umbrella up, but failed miserably. Harry grinned at his friend and offered to help.

"Thanks mate" Ron said when Harry opened his for him.

"I don't get why Muggles insist on these strange contraptions." A spell would be so much easier. As if reading his mind, Harry spoke, "Muggles don't have magic remember?"

Ron nodded and then brightened up. "Hey, Harry. Do you think me and Hermy could visit you at Grimmauld place- OW! What was that for!?"

"Never, ever call me Hermy!" Harry grimaced. That looked painful. You would've never thought that those two were going out by the way they were acting."Yeah, you guys can come. Next Sunday?"

The rain had gotten heavier and Harry had been forced to hail a taxi home. Sitting there, with the windshield setting a steady rhythm, Harry pondered over the past two weeks.

The days following the defeat of Voldemort had been strange, almost frozen in time. Minutes, seconds, days had trickled past like thick syrup and Harry had been the small ant stuck in the substance, slowly drowning. It seemed so surreal. Thoughts plagued his mind, day and night.

Was Voldemort really gone? Had Harry really been the one who had killed him? Killed Voldemort?

And there had been moments - dark, terrible moments. When the snake-faced bastard had plagued his mind, his every waking thought, his every sleeping thought- and he had been terrified. Terrified of sleeping, terrified of his nightmares, his dreams, more terrified than ever before. Because when he succumbed to the darkness behind his lids, Tom Riddle would coagulate from the writhing shadows, reanimated, revived by his faithful Death Eaters, and this time, Harry would be the one who's chest exploded in violent green…and he would fall to the cold, hard ground. Lifeless. Pale. Dead.

Somehow, and for some reason, weak sunlight had slipped through the tightly drawn curtains and despite the pain it would bring, Harry had poked his head out from under his sheets and stared at his room like a startled lamb, taking in his surroundings, breathing in the smell of unwashed body, of him. As if the tendrils of mist curled tightly around him had loosened, Harry had taken stumbling steps towards the bathroom and had sat at the bottom of the shower stall and stared numbly at the swirling water for what, must, have been hours.

He might have stayed there, if not for Kreacher. Evidently having not forgotten about his Master, the house elf had appeared silently inside the shower stall and started rubbing his Master's skin unforgivingly with soap and a scrub. Kreacher's Master had been like a pillbug, hiding for safety. Kreacher had allowed him that. But when the pillbug shows any sign of unrolling, it's up to the house elf to grab the ends and stretch, and Kreacher would not let any of the House of Black to be likened to an insect.

The time spent in the stall had been a turning point for Harry. It was a moment of perfect clarity- he was sitting buck naked on the tiles, the water turned on too hot and spitting onto him, his skin was being vigorously chafed, the shower wall was stuck uncomfortably to his back and his butt ached from sitting in the same position for too long. …What... was he doing here? Why was he sitting here? Harry stared sightlessly at the misting glass walls, his hands were spread flat on the tiles- as if he were grasping for something that wasn't there.

Eventually, Harry's eyes drew away from the walls and focused somewhat on the bedraggled creature in front of him. The house elf busy scrubbing his legs was soaked. Water buffeted the bat-like ears and drenched Kreacher's numerous folds of skin. The bloodshot eyes blinked constantly as the water dripped from the wrinkled forehead - but the proud house-elf did not stop his enthusiastic rubbing - even as his Master ripped the soles of his feet away from the terrible itch.

When Kreacher had bundled Harry into a bathrobe that weighed a ton and looked like someone had ripped the hide off of an alpaca, and he was huddled in it, sitting lifelessly on the couch, he wondered. As dust motes drifted in the sunlight around him, he wondered. As people outside his windows chattered loudly and carried on with their lives, Harry wondered- and felt something besides numbness. Anger.

What was he bloody doing?! He should be out there, celebrating harder than anyone else! Didn't he deserve the right? Hadn't he suffered enough? Hadn't he woken enough times in the middle of the night, screaming, crying, bleeding on the inside?

A simmering of anger swirled around in Harry's stomach. He pulled at his hair in frustration. He had killed Voldemort himself! He had!

Voldemort was never going to come back!

He stayed there, for a while, resting his head on his knees. Later, he'd hitched up his robe and shuffled down the stairs, one at a time. On arrival to the kitchen, he'd sunk to his knees and hugged Kreacher tightly around the waist, sobbing.

Kreacher rolled his eyes at the antics of his master and grumbled, "I didn't hack at their legs with kitchen implements for nothing"

"Mpmfh?" Harry mumbled through Kreacher's sack-like tunic.

"I was just wondering if Master Harry would like to put me down now"

Ron and Hermione stood in a comfortable silence after Harry had left. "Did you-?" Hermione began. "Yeah, he's changed," she sighed, "It's not just on the inside, is it? Even though he's matured… I think he's changed the most on the outside."

"I swear that growth spurt is unnatural!" Ron added. Noooooo! I can't even be taller than him anymore! He cried silently on the inside.

"His voice has gotten deeper."

"His hair looks even messier than before" So perfectly windblown! Ron grumbled in his mind.

Hermione gave Ron a strange look. "What?" Ron demanded. "Never known you to be so observant," Hermione huffed. Ron blushed, "H-hey!"

Hermione smiled and pecked Ron on the lips, leaving him speechless on the sidewalk, rain pelting down on him when his grasp on the umbrella loosened.

Ron was in a decidedly pink coloured haze but when a particularly big raindrop hit him square in the eye, he snapped out of it and realized his was still standing in the middle of muggle London. A place he'd never been before. "Wait! Wait up! I don't know how to get back home!" He yelled after Hermione's back, which was quickly being swallowed by the masses.

When Harry slipped unnoticed into the mysterious Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Kreacher was cooking.

"What are you making?"

"Kidney Pie" Kreacher replied, rather irritably too, he had wanted to surprise his master (and eat some himself, he couldn't do that now that Master was back).

"Why don't we eat it now?" Kreacher's ears perked up. His master had said we. Kreacher was a con man by heart and knew he'd be able to cheat his way into a slice of pie. If his Master asked why, he'd just say that Master said he could. He had said we, after all. Kreacher loved it when people left loopholes in their conversations. He cackled. When they got to the table however, Harry sat down on one mahogany chair, pulled out another and gave permission for Kreacher to sit.

Kreacher sighed. His master was, in two words, too nice. Kreacher had been looking forward to a good battle of the wits. Shrugging noncommittally he reached for a slice. Oh well. Pie was pie.

While eating, Kreacher noticed, like he had in the last few weeks and cast an appraising eye over his Master. Since Kreacher had seen him this morning, Harry's magic had grown. To the house-elf it was palpable, the magic swirled and condensed in odd clumps, detaching itself from Harry and then whirling back in to mix with the magic inside him. Kreacher could see it, building up in Harry's core and it was preparing for release.

Soon though, the potent magic would be apparent to anyone who set eyes upon the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. It had already showed itself in Harry's eyes, making the verdant green impossibly greener, Harry had shot up and Kreacher knew that it would not stop - not until that day - and Harry's voice had already started to deepen. Kreacher knew that he'd have to start pain relieving potions, in secret of course. You couldn't tell a wizard. They'd just hyperventilate and hurt themselves in the process. He bit down on his piece of kidney pie, satisfied with his judgment of wizardkind.

Harry put down his fork, feeling a little unnerved by the glances that Kreacher were shooting at him. Things were happening, he didn't know why or how. The Saviour's instincts, honed by living every year of his life on edge, told him that great changes were occurring. He too had noticed that he was getting taller and his voice was starting to deepen. …He'd put it down to him finally being able to relax, eat good food and not have to worry about someone killing him in his sleep - but it was worrying.

"Thank you, Kreacher that was great"

Kreacher dipped his head and whisked the plates off the table top, balancing all the plates on his spindly arms and trotting towards the kitchen sink.

Harry let out a satisfied belch and headed for the bathroom.

Harry flicked his finger over the calendar and reassured himself that Ron and Hermione's visit was in fact tomorrow, and he hadn't made a terrible blun-

Wow. It was his birthday.

Not knowing what to do, he padded down two flights of stairs (he slept in Sirius's old room, on the third floor) and was greeted with the sight of Kreacher snapping his fingers with gusto. The house-elf spoke, "Master Harry? Breakfast is-" Harry, however, had already plunked himself down onto a chair and taken a huge bite out of his toast, "-on the table."After eating his fill, he looked up to see Kreacher still working madly. "What are you doing?"

He was ignored. Shrugging, Harry left the room, telling himself he'd come back later and see what Kreacher was making… a cake maybe?

Harry stroke into his bathroom and picked up his brush and toothpaste. Looking up at the mirror he started brushing his teeth. Halfway through, he noticed that the rather large sleeping shirt he had on revealed his right shoulder. He frowned.

Last night, he had woken abruptly, his right arm felt like little ants with their feet dipped in itching powder had been crawling all over them. Too tired to keep himself awake, he had ignored the discomfort and fallen back asleep. Now Harry knew what it was.

The strange spots had multiplied and crept up Harry's right forearm. What the hell was happening to him?

When he had wiped his mouth on his towel, he left the bathroom and laid down on the bed. He was turning eighteen today and he couldn't give less of a damn. Harry turned on his side and pulled a book from one of the precarious piles that were relatively close to his bed and began to read.

After wasting a couple of hours, Harry got up and stretched his muscles. He grimaced, feeling longer and taller than he was used to. The Boy-Whose-Hair-Hated-Him walked over to the wall and measured himself. He had grown a whole centimeter overnight. He wondered about what was happening to him. It couldn't be natural. Like Ron had said. Sighing, he pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind and decided to investigate what Kreacher had been making.

Peering around the house, he figured that Kreacher was probably out buying groceries and crept into the kitchen. He searched through the fridge, the pantry, the trash can, the oven; Nothing. Suddenly and with a flash of inspiration, he looked inside Kreacher's sleeping place.

Packages upon packages of vials were scattered among Kreacher's blanket. Harry frowned and picked one up, swirling its contents. He recognized it as a pain relieving potion. Were these for Kreacher?

"Kreacher does not understand what Master Harry Potter is doing ransacking Kreacher's sleeping place" Kreacher had silently appeared behind him, without the distinctive crack! that came with an apparating wizard or witch. Damnit! Oh well, too late now.

He held up a vial. "Kreacher, who are these for?" Harry asked, trying to shift the subject. Kreacher looked at Harry oddly. "For Mr. Harry Potter."

"Why would I need them?" Harry questioned, he wasn't planning to be in pain anytime soon. Kreacher kept staring at Harry and he felt uncomfortable. "As your Master, I demand that you tell me why I-"

Harry's vision clouded with red and knives stabbed at his chest, ripping a pained groan from his throat. All his muscles contracted in pain. He writhed in agony. Dimly, trough a rushing sea, Harry heard the words, "For now" and his sight; smell and hearing disappeared behind the loud sizzling that was erupting from every pore of his body. He could still feel everything, though he wished he couldn't. Through the burning fire that ravaged his every cell and twisted his guts he felt himself lifted up and put onto the couch.

He cried out. He wanted relief; the pain was too much, too great. He was going to go insane. Suddenly, a cool liquid was poured down his throat and the raging fire quieted. Though only a little, Harry was grateful. His last conscious thought was Thank god for Kreacher.

Then the darkness overcame him.

Oh my god. Why did no one ever stop me? I re-read this piece today after having forgotten it ever existed and was so astonished by my writing and annoying author's notes that I couldn't stop myself. I had to sit down and edit this until it met me (new standards).

If you would like to see what has me cringing so hard simply go to the next chapter and read the author's notes. If you can survive that without stabbing your eyes out then I will congratulate you.

I'm not sure if I will continue to edit this fic - don't get your hopes up. However, I do have a long 3 month break coming up... you never know what may happen.

A chapter that is a long time coming may be arriving soon.

NEXT CHAPTER: HARRY WAKES UP?