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Night Flight	By : Massanie Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 77571 -:- Recommendations : 6 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me and I'm not making any money with this story

Chapter List
- 21
- 22
- 23
CHAPTER 22: Requiem for a Dream

CHAPTER NOTES:

Thanks for all the reviews and support so far! You guys are the best, seriously!
I had to do a minor correction in the last chapter, since I got the perspective with the two-way-mirrors wrong. Sorry.

Also, since many of you didn't like the flashbacks, I reedited the last chapter. The content didn't change, though, it is now just written in a normal, linear timeline without flashbacks.
Go back to the last chapter for the summary
Review replies for this story: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/35382-night-flight-review-replies/

It was eerily like a wizarding photo taken and captured from out of the frighteningly vast realm of his nightmares, the dark thoughts and fears that had occasionally tormented him since waking after the full moon a few days ago.
But those wraithlike shadows should never have actually solidified, Harry had never really thought they would, not least because Draco and Blaise had assured him that his friends were safe … Probably. Likely. Maybe.
Maybe not.
Harry shivered, muscles trembling from brutal rage and shock and fear and he knew he should look up into the eyes of the kidnapper looming in the forefront of his mirror like a too-close enemy in the foe glass; he should start negotiating, start trying to free his friends but for endlessly stretching seconds he could do nothing but stare on and on, because there was Hermione – the lively, fiery woman, the beautiful, wonderful, smart Hermione – with her white hands tied together behind her lying on the ground and a gag distorting her red lips, tear streaks running from her terrified eyes, painfully wide and pleading like those of a wounded deer about to be mauled by the hunter's pack of hounds, yet unable to run.
She hadn't ever looked so mindlessly afraid and helpless, not even when the three of them – the much tried and celebrated Golden Trio – had been captured and brought to Malfoy Manor.
What unspeakable atrocities had they done to her that was worse than facing torture, agony and a violent, bloody death at the hands of one Bellatrix Lestrange? The thought that these men – because the one standing so casually in the mirror surely couldn't have managed to overtake his friends on his own – had managed to do what a woman who took pleasure in torturing people into insanity hadn't, made his blood run cold, made him feel feint and sick.
Ron didn't even meet his eyes. And he trembled, like he did only when being faced with the monstrous spiders living in the Forbidden Forest.
Harry felt his throat tighten and his hands spasm helplessly at his side, whether to ball into fists, or twitch with the desire to throttle or snap something, or to wring in agitation, Harry was not sure.
What had they done?
Something inside of him flinched and ruptured and bled out at the sight of his best friends reduced to broken, shivering heaps of fear: pain and horror at this nightmare leaking out of him in rivulets, freezing over quickly with cold-blooded fury and determination so strong and clear and destructive like ice crystals forming in the water that unobtrusively permeated porous rocks until they burst it apart, while his reality narrowed itself down to the task set before him.
Whatever the cost, he wouldn't let Hermione or Ron remain at the mercy of these vile bastards for a second longer than necessary. He would bring them home, see that they'd recover. He would.
Suddenly he found himself able to breathe again, thick, sharp air streaming through his too quickly expanding lungs only to be forced out a moment later, but it was a start. This would keep him function, allow his mind and his body to fall into the deceptive calm he had used when fighting against him, because rage he could drown in dark pools of ice, could ignore even easier than fear and terror, to plan and scheme and keep a leveled head and do what was goddamn necessary. And he could pull it forth and unleash it purposefully just as quickly, yield it like a weapon to enable himself to do things he'd never thought himself capable of.
Like killing.
And Harry had defanged far greater men.
Eyes dry and hard and skin crawling with the surreal surety of what he was physically and emotionally able to do once again and at a moment's notice, Harry raised his gaze to his target, his magic lashing out inside of him against invisible shields, hissing, growling and trembling with the desire to attack like a lion clawing at the bars of its cage, like a mass of cobras and mambas threatening and striking at thin air, like tendrils of power whipping and darting around violently and unpredictably just as accrued electricity suddenly discharging in storm clouds.
It was difficult to keep it all imprisoned when it made him feel as if he was the one caught in his prickling, too tight skin; so alarmingly hard and arduous to not attack the mirror as his eyes found the man standing there two mirror connections apart from him so close and yet unreachable, but he wrapped it up in a coat of iron and thorns and held the parcel of rancour close to his chest, his very being. This wasn't a battle magic could fight. Not yet.

Not while there were who knew how many miles between him and his enemy.
Immediately Harry's mind turned and leapt into action, instincts and logic forcing his misplaced emotions behind a precariously fragile barrier as he started struggling for plans, ideas, notions – anything to keep his friends safe and to bring himself closer to his enemy.
His eyes rushed over the drama being played out in front of him, greedily taking in every ounce of information, registering the man in the mirror next to Hermione's frail-looking form, but dismissing him as an immediate threat to himself and his friends almost instantaneously, because though his wand was easily reachable in the black holster at his side, laced with silver runes for protection and strength, his stance was relaxed, unconcerned even and his arms were folded behind his back – secure and confident in the knowledge that Harry couldn't do anything to him over the delicate magical connection of the two-way-mirrors.

But it also worked the other way round: with one mirror-connection between the bastard and Hermione and Ron, and another one to Harry himself, he couldn't attack either.
He also couldn't have tortured his friends and so logic dictated that there had to be another wizard whom Harry couldn't see within the mirror's frame. And an invisible threat was hard to fight.
His heart thumping, Harry's eyes rushed over the interior of the room that so cruelly held his friends captive but there was no sign of this mysterious other. Instead a flicker of uncertainty twitched through his body as something else registered in his mind: It wasn't a room at all.
There was a neat row of small, oval windows opening to the endless darkness of the night, deeply embedded into a white, concave wall of metal; there, a line of luxuriously wide, comfortable chairs sat enthroned beneath the soft curve of luggage racks; unmovable and rigid and turned towards the windows as if they were unwilling to witness what was happening there. And oh, how he could emphasize, Harry thought even while the realisation struck like lightning: It was one of the pricier classes of a plane, though someone had removed the chairs in the middle row to make room for the grotesque and cruel play now taking place on this makeshift stage, only leaving the incisions in the dark blue-grey carpet where chairs should have been anchored to the floor.
It was a drama with only one spectator – Harry – played on a stage that was unsettling and confusing and ominous because it was the height of muggle technology used by wizards, of all people. Even worse: most likely they were pureblood wizards using muggle technology deliberately. That was dangerous and frightening and just so plain wrong! And not only because they should reject everything muggle based on their age-old traditions and beliefs: no, technology and magic simply didn't mix well, a common knowledge amongst wizards and Harry knew it by heart as well – Hermione had recited Hogwarts, A History often enough.

Nonetheless these kidnappers had intentionally chosen a plane as a bolthole. But why … why … a plane? Where were they taking them that a portkey couldn't so much faster and more efficiently? Not for a moment Harry believed this to be a coincidence or a simple convenience and not knowing the reason made his stomach clench uncomfortably but before he could figure out the motivations behind this seemingly unreasonable chess move, that soft Italian lilt that Harry started to hate from the bottom of his heart, resounded again in the wide living room.
"Mr Potter," the man spoke clearly, careful of the exact pronunciation of every single syllable "I am very pleased to finally meet you."
Harry dragged his gaze to the man in the mirror next to his friends again, uncomprehending how he could sound so polite and civilized while kidnapping and torturing two teenagers to…

God, it was happening, he realized with a suddenness that left him reeling, almost made him stumble and fall… he was being forced to mate, forced to endure such a close bond not with Draco and Blaise with whom he had found it so comfortable and nice, but with this ambitious, pretentious devil. How was he to do that? Feel nothing but that icy coldness and sadistic pleasure after being allowed a glimpse of a golden dream of possibilities? How could he allow his heartbeat to synchronize with one beating so calm while its owner ordered such atrocities and have him leeching off his magic?
But how could he not, if it was his friends' lives being at stake...
It really was ironic that despite placing Harry in this gruesome situation by giving him such a choice, the man was in appearance a strangely very human aristocrat that didn't look at all like a cruel sadist or a future dark lord.
In all honesty, Harry had half expected another snake-faced abomination, and was left with a sense of hollow disappointment when a rather unremarkable gentleman greeted his vision – he had learned long ago that it was easier to hate if the object of your loathing couldn't really be seen as a person anymore, just an abstract personification of anything dark and evil. But in defiance to his imagination the man standing there like a statue of black marble was no grotesque monster but a wizard like any other: neither extraordinarily pale nor tanned with short dark hair that just started to grey, silver strands mingling with the blackness. An elegant, tight dress robe hugged his narrow frame, falling down his lean shoulders like a dark waterfall interwoven with barely visible symbols and swirls of dark grey and blue.
Somehow his innocuous, dignified appearance seemed so profoundly, fundamentally wrong in the face of his actions so far.
But his features were plain and stony and the smile on his face was so unpractised and off, his stance so straight that Harry couldn't escape the feeling that this man was merely reciting rules of etiquette and decorum he had committed to memory without understanding the meaning behind them. Even Snape had lines on his face that proved he had smiled and laughed and frowned in his life; this man's expression still held the smoothness of someone unused to showing much emotion. That might make him more dangerous even than Voldemort, who for all his power had been felled by his own insane rage and fear and ever-growing narcissism guiding all his doings, destroying his reason.
At least this dominant Vykélari might be rational enough to make negotiations possible. Cold enough to consider the consequences of his actions even over the crude, raw threats Harry was about to make.
Even so, Harry licked his dry lips, trying to at least keep the snarl and disgust from his voice and speak as clearly and evenly as possible as he fixed his opponent with a venomous glare he hoped to be cold and determined and not betraying the fast beat of his heart that clamoured in his ears and thumped in his throat almost painfully so.

"If you hurt my friends, I not only won't mate with you I swear I will find you and – with every ounce of magic within me – I will rip you apart!"
And he allowed his magic to force his mask and markings forward, the energizing lines on the skin along the sides of his ribcage and around his eyes, and he shook forth the feathers in his hair and felt the claws sprout from his fingertips, curvy and sharp and dangerous, dripping and hissing with poison, to remind the other that he had the power to back his threats, too.
Unmovable and unimpressed, the Italian regarded his changes with a kind of scientific curiosity. "Are you not even interested in learning my name?"
The question took Harry aback, not having expected the man to just ignore his threats. Nonetheless Harry shook his head in answer, terse and tense. What would a name change? It translated to nothing but the insignificance of being able to address your enemy, the meaningless ability to put a name to the face you never wanted to see again. In the end, Harry would still be required to leave Lanai Manor behind, to betray and leave Draco and Blaise and that thought burned so surprisingly hot and painful in his mind, that Harry let it go immediately.
He'd rather kill this nameless nobody than give him his body and his magic and allow himself to be used as a weapon. He'd rather kill again before unleashing another powerful monster on the wizarding world, even though he was so battle weary, so tired of fighting and blood and death. But first, he had to safe Ron and Hermione and he didn't need a name for that.
Besides, it had been so much easier to think about ridding the world of Lord Voldemort than killing Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"I really couldn't care less."
The man clicked his tongue disapprovingly as if offended by Harry's discourtesy, even while he tilted his head and let his appreciative, hooded gaze wander over every expanse of naked skin visible over the waistband of Harry's pyjama bottoms, making him feel uncomfortably exposed and cold despite the warm night air. He could feel his skin crawling with the need to cover up and his fingers curling at his side with the distaste of being stared at like a beautiful piece of jewellery in a shop window, but he refused to cow and fold his arms around himself in a vague attempt to hide his state of undress, straightening his posture defiantly instead.
"It is better for you not to know for now anyway." The other hummed for a moment, a tiny, pleased and pensive sound from deep within his slender throat. Then a sharp-edged smirk cut his lips wider, dark amusement creeping into his eyes and the angles of his expression.
"Your markings are beautiful, young submissive." He complimented, sounding taunting to the younger Vykélari's ears, and Harry felt the disgust tighten his stomach, never having hated the degrading label as much as in that very moment.
"However, contrary to your wild assumptions, I am not particularly interested in a mating between the two of us. I am almost thrice your age and hardly an appropriate mate for a sweet, young submissive such as yourself." With a vague sweeping wave of his hand the Italian gestured from Harry's feet to his bare chest, reducing his worth to a warm body filled to the brim with iridescent magic.
It made Harry's blood boil and rise into his cheeks and he made a jerky, abrupt step forward, before the realisation of his helplessness set in again. How he hated those mirror connections right now, hated that he couldn't raise his magic around him as coldly gleaming swords, long, sharp spears and heavy, spiked maces and show him how very much not submissive Harry was, how deadly an error it was to lay hands on those that Harry cared for so very much, whose presence in his life he valued and needed as a crucial part to his sanity. But his hands were hopelessly, tightly tied and in the cold, hard-edged knowledge of it, Harry's steps froze, having nothing to encounter the Italian's self-satisfaction with.
"Don't play games with me!" He growled bitterly, his helplessness and the humiliation at being described this way in front of his most trusted companions gnawing at him, etching at the friable façade about to crumble away from him. The fear of what his magic might do if he lost control, of what these men might do in retaliation was like a knife of frozen venom in his guts, searing, sickening, petrifying. He just wanted for all of this to end, just wanted to know Ron and Mione safely back in England and for this to never have happened.
But it had. And it was Harry's and the Slytherins fault for involving them when they had known how dangerous it might become even while placating them and downplaying the immediate danger. It was only right that Harry would accept the responsibility and fix it in whatever way he must.
How he wished he could dare to look at them now, reassure them that all would be well, that he'd take care of everything and not feel that horrible tinge of maddening uncertainty; but he didn't know if he would be lying and then there was that guilty knowledge that Ron would rather die than have Harry knowingly walk into a trap that might very well cost him his freedom. Hermione as well.

He never wanted to see that kind of horror and guilt in their eyes, and surely those feelings would be there, dark shadows cast on the brightness of that burning flame and strength that made them unique.
And still, Harry would do anything. Anything. If only they lived.
The man nodded his acknowledgement, accepting that Harry's nerves were too raw to deal with anything but a direct approach; yet the pure insolence and defiance, the challenge in the submissive's every word seemed to incur his displeasure and the man's nostrils flared and his upper lip twitched in the smallest, vaguest hint of a snarl, before he proceeded in a cruelly detached tone of voice "I have a son, only eight years older than you. You will mate him."
Cruel but direct. Harry still preferred it to any vague hints and nebulous allusions. But Merlin, it was grotesque, the casualness in which he was being informed that he would practically marry a man eight years older than him – which would make him twenty-six. Informed, not asked or ordered as if there were not the slightest possibility of his famous luck or any other fortunate circumstance or action of his preventing it from happening.
Harry swallowed past the dryness in his throat before banishing the disturbing thought from his mind with a determined shake of his head, stubbornly telling himself that it really didn't matter: if he couldn't get close to Ron and Hermione's kidnappers quickly enough to free his friends while avoiding a mating, he wouldn't allow his intended, whoever that turned out to be, to live long enough to abuse his magic.

Harry couldn't hand a greedy, unscrupulous monster a weapon this powerful and let him live, couldn't allow another Dark Lord to arise, this time because of him.
If only Blaise and Draco might perhaps forgive him for the betrayal he was about to commit… but how could he expect them to, having promised them to stay at Lanai Manor and let them court him and be honest with his two kidnappers turned suitors. When he was turning his back on them after this wonderful day and crushing the vague notion of a future together, the vapour of an idea that, if he was honest with himself, was there in his mind; nothing more than a new-born dream obliterated and washed away by the breach of trust Harry was about to commit.
And that thought almost made his magic break out of his control, spreading into his muscles and mind, embedding itself in every fiber, urging and pushing to force him to search for the two dominants that might save him, but not his friends. The need, the overwhelming desire, was there but Harry could recognize the source now, could understand that the two Slytherins would not let him leave and do what he had to. He pushed it down, strangled it ruthlessly and wrapped it into more steely determination. No amount of wailing and lamenting would change anything.
Hermione and Ron might die if he sought out Draco and Blaise for help.
"Fine." Harry finally spat. "But it won't happen if you hurt my friends any further."
By that, the Italian didn't seem too bothered. "Since I am just as unwilling as you to see harm come to such fine wizards I think we will come to an agreement, don't you?" He flashed Harry another sharp-edged smile full of teeth. "For as long as you do what I say, your friends won't be hurt and you … won't have to go on a suicide mission. A win-win situation, is it not?"
Harry clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, swallowing the harsh words and curses and threats waiting impatiently at the tip of his tongue.
"And you will let them leave…"
"… As soon as you mated my son. "
Decidedly, Harry shook his head, venturing to take another glance at his fellow Gryffindors' still cringing forms but they didn't react to his or the man's words and Harry wondered if they had been deafened. A new wave of righteous anger flooded him as he gazed back at that much too neutral face.
This plan was entirely unacceptable. If this man had his way, Harry would have to give himself over and relinquish any last shreds of control he was currently possessing even before his friends were out of harm's way.
"No. An equal exchange! I'll come to you and you'll let them leave. Immediately."
"And have you apparate away the second they leave? I think not. And apropos apparition: before you do something rash and get a nasty surprise: do not try and apparate to your friends. We put them on a muggle vehicle traveling through the air. A plane, if I am not mistaken."
"Yes." Harry hissed, his eyes gleaming with an unholy, green fire.
"My apologies, I should have known that you would be more acquainted with those. But did you know, Mr Potter that it is impossible for a wizard or even House Elves to apparate onto a plane? Due to its speed and the, though very short, not neglectable travel time of apparition you would reappear behind the plane instead of in it and since the air temperature is so very low at such a height, you might actually not be able to raise your wings and fall to your death. A tragedy that would be very hard on my family. Alas, the one currently taking so excellent care your companions might just go mad with grief and who knows what he might do then?"
Disbelievingly, Harry could do nothing but stare for a moment or two. He was being told not to commit suicide? He had never even thought of taking his life to resolve this whole mess. Not once!

Slowly, he straightened up in one smooth movement, his spine stretching one vortex after the other, his shoulders squaring in proud defiance, his chin raising at last.
Yes, not even two months ago he had willingly walked into his own death, at peace with that lack of future because there had been no other option, no other way. His life force had been entangled too tightly with that evil snake and to kill the one meant to kill the other, too.

Suicide had been an acceptable solution then, the only one.
But damn it, Harry wanted to live! For so many reasons that someone in his position couldn't really name but knew to be there nonetheless; someone fighting with the deep rooting despair, the claustrophobic oppression caused by walls of tribulation, fear and helplessness closing in. When the past seems to fade away like the consciousness of someone drowning and the mind is unable to focus on anything but the current situation. There were faces and impressions and fleeting images and odours hovering behind his thoughts, Draco's kiss and Blaise's lips, arms around him and Ginny's roguish laughter, Hermione's eye-roll when she thought he and Ron were especially dumb, feathers not his own caressing his skin, the wind in his hair while flying, the fresh sweet smell of ozone after a storm…
All things worth living for.
No, Harry didn't plan on dying. Didn't even ponder what he might do if it came to a situation where he had to decide between his friends' and his own life because that would imply the possibility of such an ending and he refused to believe that the probability was above zero.
"Wouldn't want that." He murmured with a painful smirk. "I won't try to apparate to them. And I won't apparate away from you, I wouldn't even know how to with my wand still in Britain. But I will only give myself over once I know that my friends are free and well."
The Italian shook his head, the dark eyes drilling into Harry with the intentness of a hawk.

"After the mating." He insisted, his tone still polite but each word a rigid and inflexible statement of tenacity and persistence in and on itself.
"With no guarantee that you would free them afterwards? No!" Harry argued vigorously. "The way I see it, I am the only trustworthy person around here, since, out of the two of us, I am not the one with a history of kidnapping and Merlin knows what else!"
With a sigh the dominant Vykélari in the mirror unclasped the hands he had held behind his back the whole time, a gesture that shouldn't really be threatening, but was. Nervously, Harry watched as the thin fingers crept like spiders towards the wand holster at the man's side. But it wasn't opened.

"I see that those useless two dominants were rather lenient with you. Well, let me explain your position, then, sottomesso, I don't think you really understand."
With a cruel glint in his onyx eyes, he took a step towards the mirror, and with it Harry, tilting his head like a vulture eyeing its prey. "I control your best friends' very future," he drawled, his voice infinitely colder, "I hold their very life in my hand and it would do them well if you were a bit more mindful of that fact. Beyond that, you should start exercise the demureness and obedience of your kind. This defiance will not be tolerated."
It took a moment until Harry noticed his nails digging painfully into the palms of his tightly clenched fist; and yet a while longer until he could get his fingers to straighten out once again. Oh, how he was sick of these dominants thinking they had the right to control him, sick of them seemingly believing that the inheritance had changed his character and gave them the questionable right to put a label on him. Even Blaise and Draco had thought that way, still did to a certain extent, never truly believing him to be capable of protecting himself. A week ago he had been a war hero, damn it!
The rage he felt over that injustice filled his very being, ripping through his chest like a knife, squelching every voice of caution and thusly loosening his tongue until words spilled forth that never would have left his mouth if not for the combined agitation at this whole fraught situation and the Italian's harsh words.

"I might be a submissive Vykélari but I submit to no one! And I hold your very future in my hand: besides absolutely being able to overpower and kill you I would only need to go to the authorities with a pensieve memory of this and have your ass thrown into prison!"
This time, Harry knew he had gone too far even though he wouldn't for the life of him be able to say what made him realise this overstepping of invisible boundaries. The other man didn't flinch, didn't snarl or glare at him, his posture was unchanged as he stared at him for long moments in complete and utter silence, quiet and motionless yet ominous and oppressive like the literal calm before the storm.

Maybe it was that chilling silence when there should have been further reprimands or threats.
"Well, then…" he said finally without a care in the world, uncharacteristically friendly "I guess I don't have anything to lose anymore, do I? I might as well enjoy myself for now…"
And his cold gaze turned away from Harry, sweeping over Hermione's and Ron's forms on the ground of the plane towards something hidden from the Gryffindor's view outside of the mirror's frame behind his friends.
Suddenly a surprisingly loud droning snapped into existence, sounds and noises from within the plane that had previously been quietened by privacy charms becoming audible again. The deep buzz of the aero engines and the rushing wind outside, and little, heart wrenching sobs and whimpers that he had never heard any of his two friends utter before and hoped, begged anything or anyone that might be listening, never to have to again.
Then the real nightmare began, triggered by a simple, neutral "Crucio", murmured with the bored voice of an announcer at a train station.
For a moment Harry didn't know who had been hit for both Hermione and Ron started screaming, one shrill and full of terror, one a bit deeper but not less horrifying, together it was a cacophony that speared Harry with the destructive power of an expulso, digging itself deep into his chest and ripping at his heart with sharp, tearing claws, leaving him breathless and cringing.
And Ron convulsed on the ground, writhing with the all-overpowering agony of the curse, shouting and screaming himself horse in seconds, past all sanity and coherence. Next to him Hermione rocked herself back and forth, hands covering her ears and eyes clenched shut tightly against this horror scenario while she screamed and screamed and it was so incomprehensible, so unreal. It must be a nightmare…
Harry's magic erupted out of him, finally escaping his control or, more accurately his control vanishing in the face of the torture of his best friend. It raised and whirled around him, whipping about and cutting through the air in the search for his enemy, beating against the mirror in a useless attempt to get through. There was no warmth this time, no sparkling sensations calming him and cradling him, only angry, overwhelming fear and need, the need to do something, to act, even though Harry knew he couldn't.
"STOP!" Harry shouted, loud and raw, horror clogging his voice. "Stop it!"
But the Italian only looked down at him – and when had he fallen to his knees? – and Harry knew he wouldn't, could see it in the darkness there of those onyx eyes that this devil would really stop at nothing to get his submission and … anything. Anything, if only… Ron and Mione… "I'll do it! Please stop, I'll do it – I'll do it!" He begged through the storm of his magic that had started to rip apart the curtains that had covered the two-way-mirror, that accursed thing, until all there was left were fine threads whirling around in a maelstrom of creams and whites with Harry at its centre.
Tears ran down from his burning eyes as finally, finally an eerie silence settled again, the privacy spells up once more and he could see Ron's convulsions stop, leaving him shivering and trembling on the ground and Hermione, sweet, strong Mione still rocking herself at his side, but her cracked lips thankfully closed.
Slowly he managed to reign in the energy streaming from his body and gradually the pale threads sank to the ground, forming a perfect circle around him.
The fright and shock was still weighting down on him as Harry looked up to the Italian an eternity later, who seemed so much darker now for what he had done and even while Harry gazed into those cold, stony eyes and listened to the orders he was given, he knew that he would end up killing him. As certainly as he had known that he would be the one to kill Voldemort.

Because such a man could not be allowed access to the vast amount of magic frizzling under Harry's skin.

CHAPTER END NOTES:
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!
The next part is not going to be up for at least 4 to 5 weeks, sorry guys! But you might remember my coughing issues a while ago? Yeah, well, it became chronic. I am going to Denmark for the next three weeks to hopefully take care of that. Not going to have internet, neither a laptop. So, no writing… aaaaand no review answers (and no reading reviews either, which makes me kinda sad).
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Night Flight