Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry felt hundreds of syringes penetrating his skin at three-second intervals. Each one spread a wave of heat through his body, making the summer night even more unbearable.

Knowing sleep wouldn’t come tonight, he stood up from the bed with a sigh and opened the guest room, careful not to touch his skin. Clammy footsteps echoed through the dark hallway as he walked into the kitchen light.

The cabinet door creaked open. He took a crystal glass and filled it with cold milk.

It was a Saturday night at the Potter's cottage. Although perhaps "mansion" would be the most appropriate term. The grounds were still and silent, and both inhabitants and servants had gone to sleep. Harry estimated it was approximately three in the morning.

He and his mother had arrived three weeks ago, as the summer holidays began. James spent a few days in the city leaving everything ready at work for his absence. From what Harry had been told, Ford was launching a new convertible car model, and his father was one of the lead engineers. However, everyone needs a break from time to time.

After gobbling up the milk, he left the glass in the breakfast bar with a clink. He thought of leaning against it to feel the marble’s coolness, but the incessant stinging reminded him it was not a good idea.

Okay, I need some a i r.

Harry opened the main door. Outside, the white noise of the night filled his ears; crickets and the soft wobble of tree leaves. He sat down on one of the small wooden steps, hands hovering over his skin but never scratching. God knows it would only worsen the situation.

Away from the city and its light pollution, Harry could finally see the stars. They were there every summer, but he never got tired of watching. If he concentrated, the spots of light came down and dangled in front of him. And maybe he could touch them.

A snort startled him.

He turned, but released the tension once he saw it was only one of Grandma Euphemia's horses. Bello was near the corral door, neighing and dancing on his wooden legs. He gave him the middle finger.

Ron and him had ridden it in the afternoon. Just before they collapsed onto the grass, covering it with their sweaty bodies and ignorant of the evil red ants crawling over their body. The sunscreen her mother had put on him did nothing to keep the tiny jaws from clenching against the children's skin. He shudders at the memory. The only comforting thought is that Ron also got the same fate.

He was about to return to the house when he heard another noise, this time coming from the narrow servant’s bathroom. The distance wasn’t great, maybe a few meters, but the darkness embracing the road made him pause.

It was probably nothin-

He heard it again. And again, and again. Harry frowned. It sounded like something was hitting the wooden wall.

He looked at the front door for a moment, then towards the bathroom. With a shrug, he decided to investigate. No one could call him a coward.

The earth silenced the footsteps, but a pointed rock reminded him he was barefoot. Little by little, groans reached his ears. They weren’t very high, as if the person was running out of air. He quickened his pace, thinking perhaps someone was in danger.

The groans grew louder in front of the bathroom door, and a deeper voice joined.

Harry could be thirteen, but he wasn't stupid. Instead of opening the door and risk being dragged into whatever was going on inside, he peeked through a slit of yellow light between the door and the wall; as if it couldn’t be closed completely.

At first, he failed to give shape to what he was seeing. It looked like a moving piece of silk, but that didn't make sense.

He narrowed his eyes.

The silk turned to skin and its luster to beads of sweat. It was a bare back. The muscles moved rhythmically, pushing something - or holding it. Suddenly, rough hands slipped through the gaps between his torso and arms. They were hugging… no. Scratching him.

The whimpers increased and the implication tore a gasp from Harry's lips.

He had only seen something like that in the magazines his classmates had shown him in the dark corner of his school cafeteria. However, what filled the pages were curved, hairless figures. Not strong muscles and hairy calves.

The bodies moved. Now instead of giving him their backs, Harry could see their profiles.

He realized he recognized the figures.

It wasn’t difficult to deduce they were servants. But Harry would never have imagined finding Tom in such a compromising state.

His face was compressed in concentration. Sweat trickled from his furrowed brows to his parted lips. His body was the image of tension as he pressed the other man against him.

Forgotten were the burning bites of ants, now the burning came from elsewhere.

Grandma Euphemia had hired Tom two summers ago. The stables were understaffed and Tom proved his hands were more than competent in caring for the horses. He had brushed and cleaned Bello's hooves before Ron and Harry rode him. Tom was splendid in his job, and Harry hated him.

He didn't know where that antipathetic attitude that seized him every time Tom entered the room came from. He felt an itch inside, as if a mosquito had bitten him in the bowels. His hands became restless and his mouth disrespectful.

Tom never reacted to his sharp comments, choosing to ignore the young man with an indulgent smile. And Harry hated him.

As if he felt he was being watched, Tom turned his gaze to the door.

Harry stopped breathing. He knew he had to hide, but his legs were frozen. His breathing became harbored and his face scorching.

Tom showed no surprise. Instead, a subtle smile stretched his face. It was not friendly. Rather, it was like a cat who had just caught its prey. He licked the other man’s ear, never stopping his movements or taking his dark gaze off the young boy.

When he had the nerve to wink at him, Harry ran.

He couldn’t close his bedroom door faster. His chest was heaving and his pants were tight.

What had he just witnessed?