Chapter Text
Saturday 26th April 2008.
Harry sat in an armchair in the study at Grimmauld Place, staring into the open flame in the fireplace. He had always found something so entrancing about watching a fire rage before him—regardless of how contained it may be. It was almost calming in the way the flames danced and the colours flickered; in how something so beautiful and serene could also cause so much devastation.
Not unlike himself, he supposed—although there was nothing beautiful about the fire raging within him. He had always felt it there—propelling him forward, giving him a purpose—but these last few years he had started to feel that fire become wild, uncontrolled, and it scared him.
He thought things would have gotten better after the Battle—after Riddle and his Horcruxes were gone—when he was finally allowed to know loves perfect ache, but it was as if he couldn't have peace without leaving some ashes in his wake. Every time he felt like he had any semblance of calm and control in his life, something burnt around him.
He swirled the glass of firewhisky in his hand before taking a large swig, the amber liquid burning as it went down his throat. He should've expected his thoughts to start down a dark path this week, it was only a few days until the 10th anniversary of the Battle. The invitation to the memorial was already ash in the fireplace, it would almost be a poetic metaphor if he wasn't feeling so pathetic.
In the past few weeks since he had gotten the invitation, that fire inside had only burned hotter, and he was desperate for a release. A controlled dousing of the flames, that was what he needed—control. He had tried all his usual, acceptable methods and nothing had worked. There was one thing he knew would allow him both the physical and mental release that he needed, but he wasn't sure where to start with it anymore.
In simple terms, he needed a shag.
Harry leaned back in the armchair, and ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair with a sigh. A small, self-deprecating laugh left his mouth as the memory of his first time out after he and Ginny had broken up came to mind. Seamus had clapped Harry on the shoulder and told him to cheer up because he could have his pick of any girl. If only it was that simple.
There were many reasons why they had gone their separate ways, one being their sex life. Over their years together it had become less and less frequent, but when they did try it was like a constant battle for dominance—neither wanting to give up control. Mostly it just ended in anger on Ginny's part, and frustration and guilt on Harry's. She never seemed to understand that, after years of having no control over his body, he wouldn't—couldn't—give it up to anyone again.
Seamus was right in that he could easily find a woman who wanted to come home with him—he was the chosen one after all—but, the issue was that his private life didn't always stay private, and he wasn't going to risk his preferences being front page news. In the 2 years since he and Ginny split he had used a muggle escort service a few times, but had never really been able to let himself get into it fully because of his magic. Nobody really knew why, but after Voldemort died, Harry's magic surged, as if it had been broken from a cage. The Healers came to the conclusion that it was a lingering effect from the Horcrux, that it had actually put a dampener on his magical core that was no longer there. Because of this, Harry's magic sometimes became a visible—almost corporeal—thing, especially when his emotions were heightened. Like, for example, when he finally got the release his body was craving.
Just as he was wondering whether it would be worth the risk of trying it again, he remembered a report that had crossed his desk for approval a few days ago. It was a cut and dried case that Ron had covered where a woman had reported her husband for paying for sexual services—which was rare, but not actually illegal in wizarding Britain—so he had only skimmed it with the plan to read it properly later. They had to interview him just to ensure nothing else illegal was going on, but he knew the man to be quite prejudiced about blood status, so there was no way he'd been using a muggle service.
Moving to his desk, Harry opened the magical drawer that was linked to the one in his office at the Ministry. He found what he was looking for and spread the pages from the report across his desk—quickly skimming to the relevant section.
AuW: How did you become aware of this service?
CG: This particular service is quite exclusive, if you must know. It is only shared through word of mouth, and those who know it would not go around sharing it with just anyone.
AuW: And what exactly was it that was shared with you? I'll take this time to remind you of the anti-deception jinxes placed on this room.
CG: Well don't think that you can go and use it willy nilly just because I'm being forced to tell you about it.
AuW: Of course not, now please explain to us what you were told.
CG: It is a new, very private agency. No one knows who runs it, but they offer a number of services. All identities and information about the… ahem, sessions… are protected by a new spell it is said the owner invented. Think of it like an unbreakable vow, only with less deadly consequences.
AuW: How do you contact this agency?
CG: One must get a blank piece of parchment and speak the words "da mihi voluptatem" whilst drawing a figure of 8 on the parchment with their wand. A questionnaire will then form on the parchment, which will instantly disappear upon completion, and be replaced with confirmation of timings once reviewed. Quite a clever bit of magic really, the gentleman who owns it must be from a strong magical background if you ask me.
That was all Harry needed to know.
After he stuffed the report haphazardly back into the drawer, he grabbed some parchment and did as the man had said without a moment of hesitation—this was exactly what he needed. Ink started to bleed onto the parchment before him—not dissimilar from how it had in Tom Riddle's diary. It was quite a detailed questionnaire, and a trickle of doubt started to creep into Harry's mind, but he quickly pushed it aside knowing that this option was better than the alternatives. The brief introduction at the top of the page explained that there were privacy spells woven into the initial spell and the questions themselves.
It took him around fifteen minutes to complete all the questions, and he felt his face beginning to burn from both anticipation and embarrassment. He had never really had to describe what he liked in this way, and when he was finished he ticked the last box without allowing himself to overthink what he had written. The ink faded away, and he sat staring at the blank parchment for a few minutes before getting up and pacing behind the desk, his hand moving to run soothingly through his hair. The man hadn't said how long it would take to receive confirmation, and Harry's mind began to race.
What if they rejected him?
What if this was all a big joke?
What if they sold his secrets for the world to see?
What if…
Ink started to once again bleed onto the parchment, and Harry nearly fell over in his haste to grab it. He scanned the words a few times, making sure he was reading it right. It said that they had accepted his request and a member of the agency would be with him in one hour, along with a few details of how to adjust any warding to let them in.
One hour. It both felt like not enough time, and far too long to wait.
Harry couldn't remember the last time he had actually felt this excited for something. A small voice in the back of his mind reminded him just how pathetic that was, but he wasn't going to let it ruin this. Looking around at the mess in the room, and then down at his clothes—an old band T-Shirt of Sirius's and tartan pyjama pants that had both seen better days—he kicked himself into gear to make himself, and the house, more presentable.
An hour later, Harry was showered and back in the study in black slacks and a white t-shirt. He stood by the fireplace with a refilled glass, feeling equally more presentable, and more anxious—having absolutely no idea who he was about to meet. As much as he knew he was paying for this woman's services, he still hoped that she would enjoy it. Alongside the element of control, Harry found his pleasure through that of his partners—in exploring their body and learning what would hit the right spots for them.
His hand once again went back to running through his hair, dispelling some of the nervous energy as he felt the wards on the house shift behind him. He took a deep breath before turning… and completely freezing at the woman in front of him. Panic, embarrassment and confusion coursed through his body.
"Potter?" she gasped.
His mouth went dry as he took in her raven hair and red lips before reaching her eyes—a brown so dark they were almost black. They stood there for a few moments just silently staring at each other, Harry desperately trying to reconnect his brain to his mouth, until he finally managed to choke out a question.
"What the fuck, Parkinson?"
