Chapter Text
Severus feels him before he’s even stepped foot in the bar. The boy’s magic is—has always been distinctive. He’s absurdly, obscenely powerful. But there’s a raw edge to that power that sets Severus’s teeth on edge and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It’s clear Potter hasn’t yet learned what to do with it all.
Still, it’s a wonder every patron in this place doesn’t turn their head, doesn’t shrink away from the thrum of magic they cannot possibly understand.
“If you think surrounding yourself with Muggles will keep me from cursing you right here, you’re wrong.” Potter’s beside him. He hasn’t drawn his wand, but he’s got his hand in his pocket as he stands, legs spread and back straight, by Severus’s barstool.
Severus nods. “I would never presume such a thing.”
Severus has taken a calculated risk, calling Potter here. But, regardless of what he implied in countless Potions and Defence classes, the boy is not stupid. He’ll want to, at least, hear what Severus has to say before attempting to cast on him. But he’s brought his friends. The Weasley boy is reckless and Severus knows Granger can be dangerous. Weasley stands off to one side, arms folded across his chest. His eyes are narrowed, assessing. Granger’s by the door, blocking Severus’s exit.
It’s crowded tonight. A young woman edges in beside Potter, her cleavage on full display as she leans against the side, tries to get the barman’s attention. Her already too short skirt slides up another half inch. Severus has a glimpse of pale thigh, but Potter is not looking at the girl. He’s not looking at Severus either. He’s staring straight ahead and despite his apparent casual posture—foot now propped on the rung of Severus’s chair, hands tucked into faded blue jeans—his body is practically vibrating magic and pent-up energy.
Severus knows better than to underestimate him.
He takes a sip of his drink, crunches a sliver of ice between his back teeth.
“What do you want, Snape?” Potter says then. “Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t Crucio you right now and hand you over to the Ministry.”
Severus sets his glass down. “I am going to reach into my pocket. Not for my wand.”
Potter nods. “Do it slowly.”
Severus takes the slender phial and places it on the bar top in front of Potter.
“What’s this?”
“Do you have access to a Pensieve?”
“Yes.”
“Then take these.”
Potter doesn’t pick up the phial. He tilts his head to the side, narrows his eyes. “And if I don’t care what you have to show me? If I don’t give a damn about whatever memory or explanation or fucking lie you’ve bottled up in there?”
“You’ll know if I’d attempted to alter the memories. And you could have ignored my request for this meeting, you could have brought a team of Aurors with you. But you didn’t. You want to know what I know, what I have to tell you.” He takes the last sip of his drink. “And you want to know why I did it.”
***
“What you showed me,” Potter says. “Does anyone else know?”
“No.”
Potter slides his beer bottle back and forth between his palms. Severus watches his hands; his fingers are slender and calloused.
Potter nods. They’re in West End, not far from Whitehall. This is not an area Severus frequents. He avoids London whenever possible, but the Dark Lord is moving forwards in his designs on the Ministry and Severus has been required in the city more than he’d prefer.
The bar is painfully trendy but, as it’s not a place Severus would otherwise be caught dead in, he considers it reasonably safe. As long as he doesn’t let his guard down, of course—which he won’t. Potter, too, is mindful, alert. The number of wandless, wordless detection spells he’d cast before he even made it to the seat beside Severus was impressive, to put things mildly.
“Why me?” Potter asks. “Why show me? And why now?” The words are spoken softly, but they are bitter, harsh. Potter is angry.
Severus understands. The memories were…unsettling. His drink is already empty. He signals for another. It’s been less than a week since they first met, since Potter responded to his admittedly cryptic summons and came to see what Severus had to say for himself. Since he took the phial Severus had prepared and did not curse or kill him on the spot.
He would have asked to meet again sooner—time is a luxury they no longer have. But Severus has no idea where Potter would have found a Pensieve. The boy is staying at the Burrow, after all. And he had to give him some time to process, besides. Though, Merlin knows, those few days were not enough. Months, a year might not be.
But everything is coming to a head and Severus cannot afford to wait.
“I’m tired,” Severus finally says, choosing his words carefully. “I’m tired of this war and I’m tired of Albus’s games.” Severus does not say he is also tired of being alone.
Potter nods and takes a swig of beer. His friends are back, too, seated together at one of the small cocktail tables near the entrance. Granger chose the spot deliberately. Clear lines of sight to both the bar where Severus is seated and the door, as well as an unobstructed view through the window to the street outside. They are soldiers. All of them are.
“So, if I believe you—I’m not saying I do, mind. But for sake of conversation, let’s say I do. What now? What do you want?”
“I want to help you defeat the Dark Lord.”
For a long moment, Potter says nothing. Severus wants to reach out with his mind, wants to know what he’s thinking, but he’s certain the boy would feel the press of his magic, so he sips at his drink and waits.
Finally, Potter says, “Why did you do it?”
“He was dying. You know that. You knew it even before you saw the memories.” He is pleased his voice does not crack. Severus will never forgive Albus for what he made him do. Will never forgive himself for going through with it.
“His hand.”
“Yes. He was cursed.”
“The ring was a Horcrux.”
Severus takes a deep breath. So, Potter knows. But of course he does. “I believe so.”
“But how?” Potter says. “I still don’t understand. How could you do it?” His voice is calm, quiet. It doesn’t betray the emotion Severus knows is there.
“I promised.”
“An unbreakable vow?”
“No. Just a promise.”
Potter drains the rest of his beer, upending the bottle, stares down at the polished stone of the bar top. “That fucking bastard.”
The words are unexpected and said with such vehemence that Severus turns his head, looks at Potter. His fingers are clenched, his mouth a hard line.
“I’m sorry?”
“Dumbledore,” Potter says. “He wanted everyone to think you were a murderer.”
“I am a murderer.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“No matter. It was necessary. Shortly, I will be named headmaster.”
Potter’s jaw tightens but he says nothing, so Severus continues. “That was Albus’s plan. I am the Dark Lord’s most trusted, most…loyal follower.” The words feel like glass on his tongue, but they are true, and it was all meticulously, carefully arranged. “The Dark Lord will believe he has control, has influence over Hogwarts, and I will do all I can to keep the students safe.”
Potter is silent for a long time. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the phial of memories. He sets it in front of Severus.
“Did you show them to your friends?”
Potter shakes his head. “They aren’t my memories to show.”
This surprises Severus. He felt sure Potter would relish in the opportunity to share Severus’s weaknesses, his vulnerability, his…cowardice.
“I did tell Ron about George, though—that you didn’t mean to hurt him. You were trying to protect him.”
“George?”
“The night on our brooms. When I left my aunt and uncle’s and we were attacked.” Potter is looking at Severus now. “You cursed off his ear. He’ll have a wicked scar.”
So, it was a Weasley twin, then. “I didn’t know whom I’d hit. It could have been you.”
Potter shrugs. “Could have. Wasn’t though. And George’ll be all right.”
“Who was in the air that night?”
“George was with Lupin, and Fred flew with Mr. Weasley. Hermione was with Kingsley and Fleur with Bill on the Thestrals. Ron flew with Tonks, and I was with Hagrid on Sirius’s bike.”
“And Alastor?”
“Mundungus Fletcher.” There is bitterness, pure loathing in his voice. “Fucking coward Apparated away the moment spells started flying. Left Moody exposed.”
“Mundungus has always been a feckless man. And Alastor…Alastor died doing what he loved.”
Potter’s expression is dark, brooding, as he stares down into his beer. He is only just seventeen, but Severus thinks he’s aged a decade since he was last at Hogwarts, since that night on the tower, since— Severus takes a deep breath. Well, they’ve all lived a lifetime since then.
“It was your idea, wasn’t it? The Polyjuice?”
“Yes.”
“It was a good plan.”
Severus finishes his drink.
Potter is scratching at the label on his bottle with a thumbnail. “All right,” he says then. “Tell me what to do. What happens next?”
“The Dark Lord is planning to take the Ministry. It will fall, and soon. And when it does, you need to be careful. He will be coming for you.”
***
That night, Severus secures the phial of memories in the drawer of his bedside cabinet and wards it closed. Then he climbs into bed. It’s a monstrous old four-poster with heavy damask hangings. But the sheets are a silken Egyptian cotton in emerald green and the pillows are luxuriously soft. As Albus Dumbledore’s murderer and the Dark Lord’s prized Death Eater, Severus has been afforded one of the Manor’s best rooms with a private bath and a small sitting area. Though, Severus knows even the worst of the Malfoy guest rooms are better appointed than his dungeons at Hogwarts.
He is exhausted. He should go to sleep. He should put those damned memories back in his head. It is beyond foolish to keep them out. Especially now, especially in this house. The Dark Lord is not here at the moment. Severus can feel his magic a mile off—the cloying, saturating press of it. But he does not know when he’ll return. It could be hours or days. He has other safe houses. Other residences Severus, despite his elevated status, isn’t privy to. But this place is crawling with Death Eaters and should that phial fall into the wrong hands? Severus shudders to think. Still, he doesn’t want the memories. Not now, perhaps not ever.
So, he takes a deep breath and focusses on strengthening his Occlumency.
***
“Were you there? At the wedding? Did you—”
“No,” Severus says quickly. “I was…needed at the Ministry.”
Potter nods. “And Scrimgeour is dead.”
“Yes. The Ministry is lost and I…I am headmaster.”
“That’s good then,” Potter says after a moment. “That’s good.”
“And you? You are staying somewhere safe?” For the Burrow has been compromised; Potter cannot return there.
“Grimmauld Place. We were lucky. Kingsley sent warning. The guests had time to Disapparate. We were able to get away.”
“I know. The Dark Lord was displeased.”
“Two Death Eaters caught up to us afterwards, though,” Potter says then. “We’d Apparated into London to get our bearings, decide what to do next.” He takes a paper coaster from the stack on the bar top, turns it over in his hand. It advertises ‘Distinctively Black’ Guinness. “I’m still not sure how they found us. I shouldn’t have had the Trace on me at that point unless Vol—”
“No!” Severus stops him. “Don’t say it. Don’t say his name.”
Potter glares. “Why not?”
“Because that’s how he found you. Because he’ll find us.”
The boy’s mouth opens in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“The magic is similar to the Trace. But there’s a tracking spell attached. Anyone who says the Dark Lord’s name, he will know.”
Potter’s gone pale, but he nods. “Makes sense. Not as though anyone on our side goes about calling him the Dark Lord.” He tilts his head. “Present company excluded, of course. He thinks it’s a bloody act of defiance, saying his name.” Potter shakes his head. “Fucking egotistical bastard.”
“I’m afraid the Dark Lord will never be accused of humility.”
“No.” Potter snorts. “I’d say not. Impressive bit of magic, though. Sounds like the dark magic detection spells Kingsley’s Aurors have been working on.”
“The theory is likely the same.”
“Pity I can’t create a detection spell for pre-existing spellwork.” Potter drums his fingers on the smooth concrete surface of the bar. “That type of magic only works when a spell is being cast.”
“Magic always leaves signatures,” Severus says. “There are echoes, footprints…”
“I’m good at reading magic,” Potter says, and Severus doesn’t doubt that. “I can feel it in the air. I can tell when spells have been cast—where, what type of magic was used. But time and place matter, Professor.” Potter’s lip quirks, a half-smile. “You taught me that. And I can’t sense magic across the country.”
“You are hunting Horcruxes.” It’s not a question. Still, the revelation settles coldly in the pit of his belly. Severus knew—had known for a while that Albus’s fears had to be true. After all, Severus knows the Dark Lord.
Potter looks at Severus for a long moment, considering. As though determining if Severus can be trusted, deciding how much he should tell him. He makes a decision. “I am.”
“How many?”
“There are four left. I destroyed Riddle’s diary when I managed to kill that basilisk my second year.”
Severus nearly laughs. How could he forget? Harry Potter singlehandedly dispatching a mature fucking basilisk when he was twelve. “And the ring.”
“Yeah. Marvolo Gaunt’s ring. Dumbledore destroyed that one, but he killed himself in the process.” Potter’s voice is harsh. He is angry at Albus.
“I killed Albus,” Severus says because it’s true.
“He was already dead. I think it’s time we both accepted that.” Potter’s drink is gone. The barman asks if he’d like another and he nods.
Severus orders a second as well. He’d like to get drunk, but that would be unwise. While he will return to Hogwarts in a week or two’s time to begin preparing for term, he is still currently at the Malfoys’. He’s been in Wiltshire since 30 June, since the night on the tower when everything changed. When he had to flee the castle, when he had to flee his home.
He knew even then that he’d be back—when Albus’s master plan came to fruition. But it will never be the same. Not now. Not when he is the most reviled man in all of Wizarding England—second only to the Dark Lord himself.
Severus has never been popular, but there are people at Hogwarts he counted as friends. Minerva, Filius, Argus, Aurora. And now— He take a large swallow of whisky. The alcohol burns his throat, warms his stomach. But it won’t do to get drunk. He doesn’t think the Dark Lord is in England, presently, but he can’t know for certain, and he can’t afford complacency while sleeping under that roof.
“You okay?” Potter reaches out, places his hand on Severus’s arm. He pulls away again quickly, but Severus still feels an echo of heat beneath his shirt against his skin.
“I, yes. Only thinking.”
“Yeah,” Potter agrees. “I’ve been doing a lot of that recently, too.” He traces the line of curved script on the label of his beer bottle with his forefinger. “So, if we’re keeping score, I made him drink poison.”
Severus looks up. “What?”
“Dumbledore. I poisoned him.”
Severus does not know what to say, does not know what Potter is talking about, so he waits for him to continue.
“That night—the night he died—we’d gone looking for a Horcrux. Dumbledore thought he’d found the location and we Apparated to this cave on the coast. Inside was a lake and so much magic. Fuck Snape. There was so much magic. Terrifying magic.”
And Potter proceeds to tell him one of the most horrifying stories he could possibly imagine.
What the fuck was Albus thinking? Taking a sixteen-year-old student alone to that place? Severus takes a deep breath; he realises his hands are shaking. “You are not responsible. He never should have done—you should not have been there.”
Potter laughs, but there’s no humour there. “No. Likely not. But he was dying. And I know now that Draco had finished that cabinet. He was going to let the Death Eaters in and you…you—”
Potter doesn’t say it. But Severus understands, knows he’s right.
“We were out of time, and I had to know. I had to know what I was up against.”
***
“I’ll have a cider,” Potter tells the waitress when she stops at their table. “Whisky for him.”
The girl walks away and Severus looks at Potter, raises an eyebrow.
“What? Were you actually going to order something else? I’ve never seen you drink anything but whisky.”
“Whisky is fine,” Severus concedes and Potter smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.
“How does it work?” Potter asks once the waitress has returned with their drinks and left again.
“What?”
“The messages.” Potter takes a blank strip of parchment from his pocket, flattens it out before him on the marred tabletop.
“The principle is similar to sending a message by Patronus.”
“Right,” Potter nods, sipping at his drink. “Far more subtle though.” He fingers the parchment, running his thumb down its length.
“Yes,” Severus says. “Discretion is one of my many talents.”
Potter actually laughs. “Good thing, that. And Patronuses can be useful, but as far as messaging goes, you might as well send a Howler. Can you show me? How to do it?”
“I can.”
“Good.” He takes another long sip of cider. “Because while it’s brilliant to be at your beck and call,” he looks sideways at Severus, “it would be nice to be able to respond every once in a while. Or, you know, send my own message.”
“Before I show you, however, you must…” Severus stops, considers. “It is imperative that we are careful. I can’t have messages appearing out of thin air before me when I’ve been called to the Dark Lord.”
“No.” Potter shudders dramatically. “That could be a problem.”
“To put it mildly.” Severus drinks his whisky. “Let’s say, unless I specifically state otherwise, you can assume it is safe to respond immediately to any given correspondence you receive. But any other time…”
“You’ll be back at Hogwarts soon, though, right?” Potter says, cutting him off.
“Yes.”
“Safer there.”
“Marginally.”
“Marginally…” Potter repeats, thinking. “And there’s clearly a locational component to your spell.”
“There is,” Severus says, unsure where Potter is going with this.
“Can we tweak it? Make it even more specific?” Potter rolls the strip of parchment into a coil. “Rather than have the message appear in the air in front of me—or you. Can we direct it to appear on our person? In a pocket or the folds of your robes?” He smooths the strip or paper out again. “Less risk.”
It’s a good idea.
“Perhaps,” Severus says, already considering the requirements of such magic.
“Also, we should key the parchments.” Potter murmurs something and a message appears before him on the previously blank strip. Severus sees Apparition coordinates and the name of the bar in his own narrow, precise hand.
Severus takes the parchment from him, feels the magic woven on top of his own. “You did this?”
“Yes. I’ve used a similar spell before. This way, even if someone else sees, it will appear blank. We need to reuse the parchments, though.” He glances around but no one is paying them any attention, so he takes his wand from his pocket and conjures a second strip of the heavy paper. “One for you and one for me.” Then he waves his wand in a tight loop and the new piece of parchment shimmers briefly. “You need to code it. Something that would never be said by accident.” He laughs. “Like ‘Harry Potter is a bloody genius’ or something.”
“I must admit,” Severus says, looking at the charmed parchment before him, “reports of your intelligence appear to have been understated.”
“Wow,” Potter says. “Coming from you that’s just, wow.”
Severus can’t help but laugh. Then he thinks about the words to use to key his parchment. “All right,” he says. “I’m ready.”
***
“We found something!” Potter slides into the booth across from Severus, flashes a brilliant smile. It’s the happiest he’s seen the boy look since—since… Severus isn’t sure.
“Huh,” Potter says then, glancing around. “I’ve been here before.”
Severus opens his mouth. Closes it again. Had he his drink, he would have spat it out. He does not ask when he had occasion—between Hogwarts and Horcruxes and war—to come here. Nor does he ask what brought Harry Potter to this particular corner of Soho, though he finds he desperately wants to.
Severus does not go out often. His life is not conducive to such…social indulgences, and he has always been a private, solitary person. Still, he is not celibate, and he knows the places men go to pick up other men.
Practically speaking, they are here because—like all the places Severus has brought Potter to—it’s the type of establishment of the Dark Lord would never deign to consider. His prejudices, after all, run far beyond mere Muggles. Severus can only imagine what would happen should the Dark Lord discover that his most trusted soldier prefers to fuck men. Nothing good, surely. But Severus conceals so much. His sexual proclivities, after all, pale in comparison to his loyalties and betrayals. If Severus is honest, however, this is not the only reason he selected this bar. London is, of course, full of the types of seedy and unsavoury places that would send the Dark Lord into conniptions.
But Severus is not sure what he expected. He is not sure what he wanted. Tension, as per usual, between them? For Potter to be uncomfortable, to feel out of place?
Whatever it was, he did not expect Potter to come to a bar for gay men and say he’s been here before.
“Tell me what you found,” Severus manages once his brain has finished processing this particular detail about Potter. Their drinks arrive. Severus picks up his glass, stares down into the golden-brown liquid to avoid looking at Potter.
“Oh, yeah, right—R.A.B.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I told you the Horcrux Dumbledore and I found in the cave was a fake. But inside of it, there was this cryptic little note.” Potter pulls a locket from his pocket, sets it on the table before Severus.
Something cold unfurls in the pit of Severus’s stomach. “I recognise this,” he says, turning the locket over in his hand. “I’ve seen it before.”
Potter frowns. “I knew right away it wasn’t Slytherin’s. When I took it from Dumbledore after…after he’d fallen. I could tell it was different than the one I’d seen in Hokey’s memory.”
“Hokey?” Severus says, trying to keep up
“Hepzibah Smith’s house-elf,” Potter says, as though Severus knows whom he’s talking about. “At one point, she owned both Helga Hufflepuff’s cup and Slytherin’s locket. But she stupidly showed them off to Riddle and he killed her for them.”
“To turn into Horcruxes.”
“Presumably. But someone got to the locket before Dumbledore and I did, and they replaced it with this.” Potter takes the locket back from Severus. “And, they left a message.” He flicks the locket open and there, wedged tightly in the space where a portrait should have been, is a folded scrap of parchment.
Severus’s hand only shakes a little as he unfolds the note. Then his breath catches in his throat.
It’s been decades, but Severus would know that handwriting anywhere.
“Hey, you okay?” Potter asks after a long moment, and Severus realises he’s gone very still.
“R.A.B.,” Severus says. “Regulus.”
“You… Oh my God…” Potter pales. “You knew him. We had no idea who it could have been. It was only luck we noticed a little nameplate he’d affixed to his door at Grimmauld Place. Regulus Arcturus Black.”
“He was a year behind me at Hogwarts.” Severus takes a long swallow of whisky. “We were…close. We took the Mark together.” He feels oddly numb. He has not thought of Regulus in years, but now a rush of memories comes flooding back. “But he wanted out. I told him the Dark Lord would have him killed, but this…” He looks down at the note penned in Regulus’s fussy script. “I don’t understand.”
“He was killed,” Potter says. “But not by Riddle. Regulus found out what he was doing with the Horcruxes and figured out where the locket was. But that lake… Fuck Snape. I told you about the Defences woven around there. I can’t believe he got as far as he did. And he drank the poison—he wouldn’t let Kreacher do it.”
“Kreacher is…”
“The Black family house-elf. He’s still at Grimmauld Place. That’s how we found out what happened. Regulus took Kreacher with him, but he ordered him to take the Horcrux and escape—even when the Inferi began to attack.”
Severus feels ill. “Inferi…”
“I’m sorry,” Potter says. “I didn’t think… But of course you knew him. He must have been very brave.”
Severus snorts. “Brave, yes. And an idiot. Idealistic foolish bastard.” He finishes his whisky. He could use another. Or three. “So, what happened to the actual Horcrux? Where is it now?”
“That’s just it. It was at Grimmauld Place for years. Kreacher tried to destroy it like Regulus asked him to, but he couldn’t. I understand why, obviously—bloody awful magic—but he kept the locket safe. Until we started cleaning out the house two years back, that is, when Sirius came back. Anyway, Hermione found the locket in the drawing room, but we had no idea what it was. Just one more cursed and clearly dangerous artefact like so much in that blasted house. But before it got tossed out, Mundungus Fletcher stole it.” Potter runs a hand through his hair. “Who knows what else he took—that arsehole. Anything that could turn a profit, most like.”
“Undoubtedly,” Severus agrees.
“Anyway, we asked Kreacher to track down Mundungus. Hopefully he’ll be back later tonight.”
***
“Did you sleep with my mother?”
The question surprises Severus, though, perhaps it shouldn’t. “No.”
They are back in Soho. It’s been only two days since he last saw Potter. Severus should be at the castle. He should be brewing. He should be preparing for term. He should be doing any of a number of things aside from drinking with Harry Potter. But he can’t seem to stay away.
When he messaged Potter earlier that evening, asking to meet, Severus told himself it was to see if the elf had returned with Mundungus. He also wants tell Potter that the Dark Lord is becoming increasingly obsessed with wand lore—that Severus found he has murdered the wandmaker Gregorovitch, but he does not know why.
Instead, they have done little more than sit side-by-side at the crowded bar, making snide remarks about the pretty boys and obnoxious hipsters, the closeted businessmen and pretentious uni students all looking to get drunk or fuck or both.
“Regulus?”
“I...yes.”
Potter nods.
Severus must be drunk. Potter too. Or else he would not be asking these things. And Severus wouldn’t be answering.
“I bet Sirius loved that—if he knew, that is.”
Severus picks up his drink but, finding it empty, sets the glass down again. Yes, drunk. “For all Regulus sought the approval of his family, he truly enjoyed pissing Sirius off. So yes, I believe your dog father was aware of our... relationship.”
Severus thinks Potter might get angry, upset at the insult.
But he only smiles and says, “‘Dog father.’ Good one.” Then: “You loved my mother.”
“Yes.”
“And Regulus?”
“…No.”
And after all this time, talking of Regulus. Hearing Potter’s story. Knowing what happened to him those years before makes Severus...nostalgic, and a bit sad, he thinks. But he never loved Regulus. He was infatuated with him, was attracted to him, was jealous of him—as he was of so many of his classmates who had things Severus could only dream of. But he did not love Regulus Black.
“Has Mundungus returned?” Severus asks, changing the subject. He does not want to talk about Regulus and he does not want Potter—emboldened by alcohol and increasing familiarity—to ask him any more about his sex life.
Potter’s expression darkens. “No. After everything I know elf magic can do, I thought…” He picks up his drink, downs the rest. “But it’s been over forty-eight hours and nothing. Not yet.”
***
Potter sits down beside Severus. He’s windswept and pink-cheeked and ridiculously beautiful. Severus doesn’t stop himself from looking—one quick glance up and down his body.
Potter’s lips quirk, and Severus looks away again.
“You’re late.” He’s been waiting nearly twenty minutes for Potter to appear—sitting here nursing his drink and wondering if he should message him again. Wondering if something happened, if he should Apparate to Grimmauld Place looking for him.
Potter shrugs. “Kreacher’s back. He found him.” He signals the barman for a drink. “Whatever he’s having,” he says, nodding at Severus’s half-drunk whisky. The man raises an eyebrow at Severus. He doesn’t need Legilimency to know what he’s thinking, to read the implication there. Severus glares and the barman turns with a smirk to get Potter his drink. Potter doesn’t seem to notice. Or he’s good at ignoring it. Then again, he never seems to mind the stares, the disapproving looks they get when they’re together. He supposes Potter is used to it. Being noticed.
“Mundungus said some Ministry official took the locket from him. And you’ll never guess who that Ministry official was.” The sheer vitriol in Potter’s voice takes Severus aback, and when he looks at him, Potter’s eyes are dark, his jaw tight.
“Who?”
“Dolores fucking Umbridge.” He shakes his head. “So now we get to break into the Ministry to get Slytherin’s locket back from that evil little toad.”
The barman returns with Potter’s drink. Asks Severus if he’ll have another. He nods and the man walks away, but not before casting another sideways glance at Potter.
“He thinks we’re fucking,” Potter says.
“Yes,” Severus says carefully, expecting Potter to be horrified, repulsed.
But Potter only looks amused. “A lot of people do.”
They spend the next half hour reviewing details Severus knows of the Dark Lord’s takeover of the Ministry. Which Death Eaters he’s installed into which Ministry positions, who Potter will need to be careful of, and who’s purportedly under Imperius.
Potter knows more about the inner workings of the Ministry for Magic than he has any right to. Though, Severus supposes this won’t be the first time the boy’s broken in. Potter seems to have the intricacies of the Ministry’s floorplan committed to memory, and Severus finds himself impressed as he rattles off the locations of interior lifts and corridors, entrances and exits, and ticks off Ministry employees on his fingers. Not only does he know the precise location of all main departments, but he also knows the best ways in and out, as well as the routes to take to avoid being seen.
In the end, Severus sips at his drink and considers what Potter’s said. It’s a good plan. Mad, yes. But Severus can’t imagine how a plan to break into the Ministry and steal a fucking piece of the Dark Lord’s soul from the Senior Undersecretary could be anything but.
“When will you go?”
“So, er, that depends. Do you have any Polyjuice on hand?”
***
Severus, does, in fact, have a supply of Polyjuice.
“The benefits of being on good terms with the resident Potions Master turned spy,” Potter says, taking the small flask with a grin.
Severus scowls. “Wait until you’re ready to take the potion before you add the hairs. Though, the effect should last at minimum six hours once ingested.”
“Well, if it takes us any longer than that, we’re already fucked,” Potter says far too brightly.
Severus doesn’t want the boy to go at all. He still cannot believe, is furious at Albus for leaving this task at his feet. But, at this point, what’s done is done. And the Horcruxes must be destroyed.
“Term starts on the first of September,” he says. “I am returning to Hogwarts and will not be at risk of being called away in the days leading up to the students’ arrival and during the first week or so of lessons. It should be safe to send messages. Let me know when.”
***
It’s the second day of classes when Severus receives word from Potter. Things are going as poorly as expected at Hogwarts. The students are intolerable as always, but now many are clearly encouraged by Severus’s confirmed status as ‘Death Eater murdering scum’ to act even more intolerable than before. And his fellow faculty members are all out to make his life as miserable as possible. Severus understands. But it’s, well, miserable.
He’s only just sat down for what feels like the first time all day when he feels the fizzle of magic and pulls a scrap of parchment from his pocket.
The note is hastily scrawled.
It’s done, but Ron’s hurt. It’s bad. Please come. Forest of Dean.
There’s a line of Apparition coordinates. Severus doesn’t have time to wonder why they haven’t returned to Grimmauld Place. Instead, he grabs a few phials from his cupboard—blood replenisher, a calming draught, pain potion. There isn’t time to go to the hospital wing and he’s not sure what’s needed besides.
Luckily, he doesn’t encounter any rogue students or combative colleagues as hurries up from the dungeons and out the main doors to the Apparition point just beyond the castle’s wards.
He lands in a wooded area. Potter’s coordinates, at least, were good.
Severus can feel a hastily thrown up protective spell. He calls out and the air shimmers before him. He steps forwards through the makeshift warding.
The Weasley boy is on the ground, Potter and Granger bent over him. From the looks of it, Potter was right—it’s bad.
“What happened?” Severus runs his wand over the boy’s body.
“Splinched,” Granger says. “I had some Dittany but I—”
“That’s good.” Severus takes a draught from his cloak. “Kept him from bleeding out. Here,” he says, unstoppering a phial and handing it to the girl. “Have him swallow this.”
She does.
Weasley’s vitals are holding but—Dittany aside—he’s lost too much blood and is most likely in shock. Severus takes a second phial and has him drink.
The wound is…substantial.
An eight-inch gash from sternum to hipbone. The boy’s ribs are exposed, but they seem to be intact. No missing chunks of bone. That’s good. Severus does not have any Skele-Gro.
He twists his wand above the worst of Weasley’s injuries, begins murmuring spells, layering his healing magic, working it through tissue and sinew, staunching blood flow, knitting together skin.
He casts another diagnostic charm.
There appears to be no internal damage. The boy is lucky. If he’d severed an intestine or perforated a lung… Well, had he not drowned in his own blood, there would have been sepsis to deal with. Though, Severus doubts he would have even made it in time to put him back together again.
After a few more minutes, he sits back on his heels and runs his wand down Weasley’s chest once more. The healing magic is holding. The boy will be scarred, surely, but that can’t be helped. He’ll live. Severus takes a deep breath. He’s sweating, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Is he okay?” Potter asks, breaking the silence.
“Yes.”
Potter nods abruptly. “Good.”
Weasley is shivering now and looks a tad green, but that’s a good sign. Granger conjures a blanket and spreads it over him then sits down, cradling his head in her lap.
Severus stands, wiping his hands on his trousers.
Potter’s off to the side, his arms folded across his chest, fingers clenched against his elbows so hard his knuckles are white. His face is pale and drawn, but his voice is steady when he says, “We got it. The Horcrux. But Yaxley caught up to us as we were trying to Disapparate—somehow, he held on. That’s how Ron got splinched. And Grimmauld Place’s been compromised. Hermione’s quick thinking got us away, but we can’t go back.
“No,” Severus agrees. “Not if he got inside the defences. Black’s house was already being watched.”
“Yeah, figured as much.” Potter exhales. “But fuck.”
“Do you have somewhere else to go?” If Severus could bring them to Hogwarts he would, but that would be beyond foolish.
Potter shakes his head. “We have a tent, though. A wizarding one.”
Weasley groans and his eyes flutter open.
“Oh, thank God,” Granger says, brushing damp hair back from his face.
Potter glances over at his friends before stepping closer to Severus. “I don’t know how to thank you. I—”
“Stop,” Severus says. He doesn’t want his thanks. He wants— “Are you all right?” he asks because Potter’s shirt, his trousers are also covered in blood. “Are you injured?”
“I…no.”
The relief that sweeps over Severus is surprising, though, perhaps, it shouldn’t be. Severus has always protected Potter and now…now…
Without thinking, he reaches out, cups Potter’s face in the palm of his hand. He strokes a thumb across his cheekbone, down the line of his jaw.
Potter’s eyes widen and Severus goes to pull away, but Potter catches his wrist in his hand, leans into the touch. “No, I…” He closes his eyes, turns his head. His lips brush against Severus’s palm, and he exhales, breath warm. “Just, no.”
Severus feels off balance, out of focus. But Granger is looking at them, confusion flickering across her face. Severus drops his hand. There is blood smeared across Potter’s cheek from Severus’s fingers.
Potter’s eyes open, momentarily dazed, but then he steps back, a hand sliding along Severus’s arm before he shoves them into his pockets.
“You have food? Supplies?”
Potter nods. “Yeah. Enough for a few days, at least.”
“All right.” Severus looks back at Weasley. He’s sitting up now, half supported by Granger and—blood aside—not looking too worse for wear. He hands Potter his remaining pain draught. “He will likely need this tonight.”
“Thank you,” Potter says again.
“Stay safe. Keep the protective enchantments up around your camp at all times. And watch that you don’t say the Dark Lord’s name. There are Snatchers about.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you on Friday,” Severus continues. “We can—I will bring food from the kitchens. You can let me know if there is anything else you need.”
“Friday,” Potter repeats. Then: “What day is it now?”
“Tuesday. The second of September.”
“September? Oh shit! Term just started. You should be at Hogwarts. I—”
“No,” Severus assures him, reaching out, putting a hand on Potter’s shoulder. “It’s all right. This is where I needed to be. Everything will be fine.” He turns then, walks to the edge of their wards so he can Apparate back to the castle, but Potter calls out, stopping him.
“Professor?”
Severus looks back.
“Thank you.”
***
“You’ve been here before.”
It’s not a question, but Severus answers anyway. “Yes.”
Potter nods.
Canal Street is busy, but it always is on weekends. And the bar is packed. It’s one of the reasons Severus chose this location for their meeting.
One.
Potter turns his head. The men at the table beside them are…entwined. A fair-headed bloke in a tight dark t-shirt sits astride his partner’s lap, grinding their hips together. He’s got one hand tangled in the man’s dark hair, the other… Well, Severus doesn’t want to think about the other.
Potter looks back at Severus. His cheeks are pink, but his lips are quirked in a smile. “So,” he says, resting his elbow on the tabletop, “this bar...”
Severus glares. “As I’ve told you before—and as you well know—it is unsafe for us to meet. I select establishments that I believe minimise risk.”
Potter is still smiling at him. It’s charming. It’s infuriating. “But as you said, you’ve been here before.”
“I...” Christ. Potter throws him off-kilter, and the feeling is so foreign that Severus finds himself at a loss for words, which is also entirely disconcerting. “Yes. But it is not as though I patronise this club—or any club—frequently.” His voice sounds petulant, but there’s nothing for it.
Potter’s smile actually widens. “Of course not. But if you did...” The waitress appears with their drinks, sparing Severus whatever it was that Potter intended to say about his social habits. Potter turns his blinding smile on her and she blushes, winking at him before turning away from their table.
“You’re insufferable,” Severus says, and Potter laughs.
“Yeah, well, you don’t seem to mind.” Potter raises his glass in salud and they drink. The couple beside them gets up to dance; Potter’s eyes follow them until they’re lost in the crowd.
“How is Mr. Weasley today?”
“Ron’s fine,” Potter says, leaning back in his chair. He raises his arms above his head, stretching. Severus does not look at the pale line of skin revealed on Potter’s belly, but he feels Potter’s eyes on him as he lowers his arms again, smooths his jumper down. “There’ll be a scar,” Potter says after a moment. “But I think he’s secretly pleased at that.” He takes another long sip of his drink, traces his thumb around the lip of his pint glass. “So, I think I know how to destroy the Horcrux.”
“Oh?” Severus sits up straighter. He’s thought of little else since he left Potter and his two friends in the Forest of Dean with that fucking locket. It had been safe to touch—relatively speaking—as Umbridge had apparently been wearing the damned thing. But that’s all he could bloody well say of it. It was still radiating terrifying magic, even if it wasn’t likely to poison on touch, as the ring Albus put on had done.
“Yeah.” Potter drums his fingers on the table. “So, in your memory, you said Dumbledore cracked the ring open with Gryffindor’s sword.”
“Yes…” At the time, Severus had thought Albus mad—as if physically breaking the ring could break the curse. But he hadn’t known it was a Horcrux then.
“But nothing I’ve read lists Goblin-made silver as something that can destroy a Horcrux.” He shakes his head. “The sword is powerful, surely. Priceless magical artefact and all that. But against a Horcrux?”
“No?”
“No. But basilisk venom does destroy Horcruxes, and I used the sword to kill the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, so the blade took in its venom.”
“Goblin-made items only absorb what makes them stronger,” Severus says, understanding. “You figured this out on your own?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Severus raises an eyebrow.
“Hermione and I knew there had to be a reason Dumbledore left me the sword in his will, and then when I saw your memories…” Potter shrugs. “But I obviously don’t have the sword. The Ministry wouldn’t let me have it. Scrimgeour said it wasn’t Dumbledore’s to give.”
“Yes, but Albus—as always—seems to have planned for every contingency. Including Ministry interference.”
Potter looks at him blankly.
“He had a replica of the sword made. The original is in my possession.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” Potter says. His smile is back. “I could kiss you for that.” His skin colours prettily and he looks down. “Or, maybe, another drink.”
After, Severus walks with Potter to the narrow alley behind the bar so they can Apparate. Severus to Hogwarts. Potter back to Granger, Weasley, and their tent.
“What do your friends think of our meetings?” Severus has wondered this before. Despite how startlingly naturally he and Potter have fallen into this alliance, Granger and Weasley are another matter.
Potter laughs. “Ron thinks I’m mad for willingly spending so much time with you, but even he can’t deny we need the help. And Hermione thinks we’re fucking so...”
Severus gapes. “She thinks what?” It is one thing for strangers in pubs to...presume, but he would think Potter’s friends know better.
Potter reaches out, brushes a hand down Severus’s arm. “It’s not the craziest of things, now, is it? You and I?”
“I…” Severus doesn’t know what to say. That Potter would even suggest such a thing is insane. But Potter is looking at him, expression fond.
“Hey,” Potter says, “I meant to ask. Those spells you used, to heal Ron—will you teach them to me?”
Severus finds he’s grateful for the change in subject. “Yes.”
***
“I dunno, Snape. I’m a decent enough swimmer. The last time the sword came to me I was twelve and fighting a basilisk. I’m not sure a few feet of chilly water is going to do the trick.”
They’re standing in the Forest of Dean in front of a small pool. He has sunk the sword of Gryffindor to the bottom. Severus frowns. Potter’s likely right, of course. Merlin, but he hates sodding Gryffindors and their inconvenient and irrational chivalric codes. He draws his wand and, pointing it at the pond, casts a freezing charm. A lattice of ice spreads over the surface of the water. “I believe that should suffice.”
“Ice.” Potter runs a hand through his hair. “Huh. Had to go with ice, did you?”
“Would you prefer flesh eating bacteria? Or, perhaps, piranhas?”
“Piranhas?” He actually laughs, a sharp bark of sound. “Nah. I think I’ll try my luck with the ice, thanks.”
Severus watches as Potter strips off his jumper and t-shirt, hating himself for finding the sight of exposed pale skin so...appealing.
Potter toes off his trainers, bending to take off his socks before tugging jeans down and kicking them aside. He stands there in only his pants, staring at the frozen pool. It’s not deep, but he’ll have to submerge himself completely to reach the sword.
“All right,” he says and rolls his eyes. “For need and valour.” Then he lifts a hand and, with a pulse of magic, the ice on the surface of the water cracks. The wandless Diffindo ripples around Severus.
Potter jumps in.
Severus watches as he dives down to the bottom, but just as he’s about to reach for the sword, he’s jerked back, as though an invisible hand is pulling him away. Potter thrashes, struggling against…something down there, trying desperately to grab the sword. Severus casts a detection spell, tries to get a read on whatever magic is clearly here, but he feels nothing. It’s empty, blank.
But then Potter thrashes again and Severus sees it—the gleam of the Horcrux at his throat. And, fuck, but the idiot boy didn’t think to take the damned thing off before diving in.
Severus doesn’t have any more time to think. He’s already been under too long, and he worries that any spell he could cast would as likely harm Potter as save him.
He throws off his robes, tugs off his shoes, and jumps in.
The water is so cold it knocks the air out of his lungs. It’s excruciating—as though daggers of fire are slicing into his skin. His muscles tense and it’s hard to move, but he reaches Potter, grabs him round the waist, and pulls him to the surface.
The locket’s chain is digging into Potter’s skin; it’s tight around his throat, strangling him. And Potter’s grasping at it, trying to pull it loose. But once he’s out of the water, away from the sword, the magic seems to calm, and Potter is able to rip the thing from his neck, toss it onto the muddied bank beside them.
Severus is colder than he’s ever been in his life, but that’s all right because Potter is coughing and sputtering and pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. “Are you okay?” Severus asks as Potter tries to catch his breath.
“Y—yeah. I think so.” His voice is rough—understandably so from the near strangulation—but then Potter is climbing to his feet and, before Severus can stop him, he jumps back into the pond.
This time, however, when he dives beneath the icy surface, the Horcrux is a safe distance away, and Potter emerges a moment later, sword gleaming in his hand.
“Fuck,” he says, collapsing beside Severus again. “That was…fuck.”
Severus casts drying and warming charms over them both. Steam rises from his shirt, his trousers. Potter sighs, pulls himself into a sitting position beside Severus. Severus summons his cloak, wraps it around their shoulders; Potter leans against his side.
“Bloody Gryffindors and their incessant need for feats of courage,” Severus says, and Potter laughs, the sound echoing in the silent woods.
“Don’t forget the chivalry,” Potter says. “Though, I’m not entirely sure where that comes into play. But it was quite dashing of you to dive in there after me. And,” he grins, “I suppose we could have had Hermione come jump in for us, so there’s that.”
“Yes. Very chivalrous all around.” Severus takes a steadying breath, tries to slow the pounding of his heart. “Next time, however, I might advise that you remove any potential murderous objects from your person before attempting such a heroic display.”
“Good idea, that,” Potter says, resting his head against Severus’s shoulder.
Before he can stop himself, Severus runs a hand through Potter’s still-damp hair.
Then Potter turns towards him. His eyelashes are dark against his cheeks as he blinks off water droplets, and his eyes—when he opens them again—his eyes are fixed on Severus’s mouth. “Fuck it,” Potter says under his breath and then they’re kissing. It’s the most natural and outrageously absurd thing: his mouth on Potter’s, tongue sliding over his lips.
“I—” Potter gasps, pulling back just enough. He looks at Severus as though gauging his reaction, waiting for him to stop him, for him to pull away. But Severus doesn’t, could not pull away if he tried.
“Yeah?” Potter says.
Severus nods and they are kissing again. Potter has his hands on Severus’s shoulders, guiding him down until he’s on his back on his cloak and Potter is above him, straddling him, looking down at him, eyes wide and unfocussed without his glasses.
Severus reaches up, runs a hand down Potter’s chest, enjoying his sudden intake of breath. They are dry now, but there is still a chill to the air, and gooseflesh rises on Potter’s skin as Severus drags his thumb along Potter’s sternum, fingers a nipple. It tightens under his touch, and Potter curses, shifting his hips. Severus can feel the swell of his cock, hardening against his stomach.
Severus pulls Potter down. This kiss is rougher, open-mouthed and eager. There is no finesse; their teeth knock and Potter doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, but it’s still the best kiss Severus has ever had.
Potter turns his head, mouth slipping wetly along Severus’s jaw, as his hips move against Severus.
This is madness, touching Potter. Severus knows it’s a terrible idea. Potter is…young. He is only seventeen. He used to be Severus’s student. And, current arrangement aside, they have the worst sort of history. Surely the truce won’t last. They will destroy each other. Potter will destroy him… But Potter groans as though desperate, as though they haven’t both lost their minds, as though this is something he’s always wanted, and…and…
Potter arches against him, and Severus loses his train of thought—can’t think of anything save how hard Potter already is. How he’s wearing nothing but his thin cotton pants.
“I, this— We shouldn’t,” Severus manages against Potter’s mouth, but he’s still rocking against him and, suddenly, Severus is achingly, achingly aroused. He runs a hand up Potter’s spine, splays his fingers between Potter’s shoulder blades, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the shifting of muscles beneath his palm.
“Oh…” Potter breathes, “I, you have to touch me.”
Severus has never wanted anything more.
He slips a hand through the slit in Potter’s underwear, drags his thumb over the head of Potter’s cock. He’s already leaking, and he shifts forwards, thrusting through the loop of Severus’s fingers as he curls his hand around his length.
“Yeah, that’s good,” Potter says, grinding against him, pressing his arse against Severus’s prick. Severus twists his wrist, strokes him faster. Potter is panting, head thrown back. The flush on his cheeks spreads down his throat, spills onto his chest.
Absently, Severus wonders about Potter’s friends. It’s obscene, he thinks. Here, on the ground, tugging Potter’s cock with Granger and Weasley not one hundred meters away, secure in their ring of wards. If they only knew…
His thumb slides over a particularly sensitive spot, and Potter cries out. The profanity that slips off his tongue shouldn’t turn Severus on as much as it does. His hips jerk up, seeking more friction, more contact, as Potter fucks into his curled hand.
“Fuck—oh—I’m going to come so fast if you don’t—oh—”
“Yes, do it,” Severus says, tightening his grip, and then Potter is shaking, spunk spilling over Severus’s fingers and onto his shirt, the wool of his trousers.
The sight is too much. His orgasm takes him by surprise, washing over him in wave after toe-curling wave. Severus can’t remember the last time he came this quickly—or in his trousers like a bloody teenager.
“Shit.”
“Tell me about it,” Potter says, breathless. He slides off Severus’s lap, and Severus sits up, wincing at the wetness that oozes through his pants to darken the front of his trousers. He waves a hand, casting a cleaning charm on them both. His trousers will still need to be washed. Severus looks down. Shirt too, but it will do for now.
“That was…that was—wow,” Potter says, voice shaky, and he laughs. But the laugh is not unkind. It’s warm and full of…affection.
“Eloquent as always,” Severus says, pleased his own voice is steady, but Potter just smiles and laughs some more.
“Yeah, not sure I can form a coherent thought right now but, Merlin, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
That is…unexpected. That Potter has wanted…has thought about Severus in this way is simply unfathomable. But yet there is nothing but openness and honesty in his expression.
Potter summons his clothes, pulls on his t-shirt and jumper before lifting his hips, tugging up his jeans. He does not look at Severus as he puts on his socks, laces up his trainers. Finally, he says, “You saved my life—again.”
“Yes.”
“And now I have the sword.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s destroy that fucking Horcrux.”