Archive of Our Own ^beta

He wakes up, face down on an unfamiliar bed, still in his clothes, with absolutely no idea who he is. Which, frankly, is a shit way to start off the day.

His body aches, as though he’s been in a fight. But his head doesn’t hurt, which rules out a brain injury, right? And isn’t that how you get amnesia? Hitting your head hard enough to cause…damage?

So that’s weird.

And he thinks he knows something about headaches. That he has experience with headaches, so the absence of one now is telling. Though, he has no idea what, exactly, it’s telling him.

He turns his head to one side. It’s blurry, but there’s a nightstand. And glasses. He reaches out and puts them on. Better.

The illuminated numbers on the digital alarm clock say it’s half past three in the afternoon, but the room is dark, the only light slanting through the narrow slit between the curtains.

There’s a second bed, made up with a hideously floral-patterned coverlet.

A hotel room, then. And, judging from the stained and peeling wallpaper, a rather dodgy one at that.

He takes a deep breath. Then another.

So, he’s in a shitty hotel room.

He may or may not have suffered a head injury.

He doesn’t know where he is or even his own name. But, otherwise, he seems uninjured.

He sits up carefully. Expecting a wave of vertigo. Expecting nausea. Expecting…something, but he just feels sore, and tired. Definitely tired.

He looks around, eyes adjusting to the low light.

There’s a man in bed with him.

…And there’s a dead man on the floor.

He’s not nearly as concerned about the man on the floor as he thinks he probably should be. In fact, that he’s in a strange hotel room with another man is every bit as alarming. And he’s just learning all sorts of interesting things about himself, isn’t he?

The man beside him is fully clothed. So, at least there’s that, yeah? At least he’s not the type of bloke who shags someone after, apparently, killing a man.

“Jesus fuck.”

He realises he’s said the words aloud when said man beside him begins to stir, opening his eyes to stare at him. He doesn’t have time to worry—doesn’t have time to do anything at all because the man has definitely seen him. But he thinks, at least, if the man were going to kill him, he’d likely have done it already.

“Er… hey?” he offers.

The man blinks and there’s a flash of uncertainty, of confusion there, as if he doesn’t know what’s going on either.

So, that’s evidently a thing going around.

The man sits up, and he’s impressed at how quickly, how flawlessly he shutters his expression. As though he’s slipping on a mask. As though he’s used to concealing his emotions, to giving nothing away.

Still, the man doesn’t take his eyes off him.

And he knows it’s because the man doesn’t recognise him, knows something is obviously wrong, doesn’t know if he’s the threat. So, he’s working to assess what the hell’s going on without giving too much away.

He thinks he must be good at reading people. That that is something, at least, he knows about himself. Because he understands the feelings he sees in the man’s expressions, even as he steals them away; he feels them too. The vulnerability in not knowing. In the exposure, in the unknown.

But losing your memory isn’t supposed to be contagious. So whatever’s happened, they’re in this together. Because, at the very least, neither of them is lying on the floor in a pool of their own blood. So, he gives his best reassuring, non-threatening look, and forces a smile. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. Then, “You don’t know who you are, do you?” His voice sounds a lot calmer than he feels.

There’s a quick head shake, and he wants to laugh because the man manages to look personally affronted by the fact that, no, he doesn’t know who he is or what the fuck’s happening.

“Okay,” he says, “that’s okay.”

It’s not, obviously. But what else is he supposed to say?

The man is older than he is. Or, older than he thinks he is. Because that’s something else he doesn’t actually know.

His age. Or where he’s from. Or what he does for a living. Or what he’s doing in a shitty hotel room with a dead man.

“Did we…?” The man is looking with distaste at man on the floor. It’s the first words he’s spoken. He’s not reacting with horror or revulsion or any of the ways you’d think one should act when faced with a gruesome murder. He’s merely looking with a detached and, clearly, morbid curiosity. Which should probably be alarming. But then, his initial reaction wasn’t much different. So, they have that in common.

Which makes sense, if they killed a man together. If that’s something they do.

“I dunno,” he says. “I just—I woke up here and, I dunno.”

The man gets up, turning on the small lamp on the bedside table. The light illuminates the room in a sickly yellow glow. He moves around to the end of the bed to get a better look at the man on the floor; he’s careful to avoid the pooling blood.

Now that he’s thinking about it, he registers the smell of it. Thick and meaty, heavy with iron. There’s arterial spray arching up the fall wall. It’s dark and red and still dripping.

And, fuck, but why is the smell so familiar?

He’s glad they’re on the ground floor. Otherwise, the blood, surely, would have soaked through to the ceiling below.

The man circles around the body slowly. He’s dressed in black trousers and a white button-down shirt. Rumpled, from sleeping in it, but otherwise unmarked. He looks down then at his hands. They’re also clean.

He checks his own hands then, expecting them to be blood soaked. But there isn’t a speck on them. Which is weird, but all of this is.

“Do you recognise him?” he asks.

The man shakes his head.

He sighs because a name would have been nice.

Or, you know, his own name.

“There’s no weapon,” the man says.

He looks around because those injuries had to have been made by a sword or machete or, at least, a very large knife, but there’s nothing. “But we killed him,” he says, coming to stand beside the other man.

“That would be the most logical conclusion.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

“We should—we should get out of here,” he says unhelpfully. Because there’s a dead man, and they have no idea what happened. And this is the type of thing that brings police.

The man nods.

There’s a small duffel on the bureau and another on the floor by the bed. He opens it to find a pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, socks and underwear, a spare jumper, and a toiletry kit. There’s a leather pouch filled with an array of coins. Some gold, some silver, none of them familiar. And there is also a file jacket stuffed with papers. He pulls them out. There are half a dozen photographs with notes scrawled beneath. Names, aliases, last known locations. One of the pictures has a large red X scrawled over it.

It’s a hit list. He has a fucking hit list.

And now he’s ninety-nine percent certain the man on the floor matches one of these pictures.

He’s about to stuff it all back in the file because he can’t deal with that—not yet, not now—when he sees the last photograph.

He blinks. For a moment he swears the man in the picture is glaring up at him. But that’s absurd. It’s a trick of the light. He looks up at the other man; he’s still inspecting the body.

“It’s you.”

“Sorry?”

“You.” He holds up the paper.

There is a name scrawled beneath the photo—Severus Snape. And three addresses. One in Paris. Another in Milan. The final one is in England. Cokeworth, in the East Midlands. “I had a picture of you in my bag. It says your name is Severus Snape.”

The man frowns, as though he doesn’t like the sound of it. Or, as though it doesn’t spark the recognition he thinks it should.

He understands. He’s hoping that something, anything, will sound familiar. Will help him remember.

The man reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a worn, leather wallet and flips through it, before tossing a plastic card onto the bed.

It’s a driver’s license.

The man’s picture stares up at him, unmoving.

“Severus Prince?”

He looks back at the photograph still in his hand. “Which do you think is correct?”

The man shrugs. Then says, “Who names their child Severus?”

He smiles at that, because the man has a point.

“Do you have identification?”

“I—” He flips back through the pictures. There isn’t one of him, but—oh. He pats at his pockets. He does have a wallet. He holds it up, triumphant.

The man rolls his eyes. “Yes?”

Right. There are a few bank cards. An insane wad of paper notes—which makes sense, he supposes, if he’s a goddamned assassin. And an ID. Harry James Potter. The address is in London. A nicer part, from the looks of it. “Harry,” he says. “My name’s Harry.”

“Harry,” the man—Severus—repeats. “And how old are you?” He doesn’t sound as though he really wants to know.

“Er…” Harry checks the ID again. “Twenty-two.”

Severus nods. “Well, there’s that, I suppose.”

“Hmm?” Harry looks up, confused.

The man takes a deep breath. “I am merely relieved to learn you are not younger.”

“Why—?”

Severus gives him a pointed look.

Oh… oh. “Wait, you think we’re…together?”

He nods once. “If we are responsible for—” he glances at the dead man— “I believe we must be equally involved. An intelligent criminal would not leave such a loose end.”

Harry understands. It would not be wise to leave a witness. And, since one—or both—of them is evidently capable of this level of brutality, he cannot imagine they’d think twice about…eliminating a possible complication.

And they’re both alive. Which means…

“Though, my picture in your file brings up another possibility.”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “I don’t think so.” He doesn’t know why he’s so sure, but he’s certain he’s not trying to kill him.

“All right,” Severus says, as if that settles it.

Harry looks back down at the man on the floor. His eyes are open, cloudy and unseeing, staring up at the ceiling. His face is pale, greyish in death. And the wounds…the wounds are extensive. Deep gashes across his chest and torso, mangled flesh and fat on display, the pink-yellow slick of intestines just visible beneath. And, Christ, the blood. There’s so much blood.

He looks back down at the stack of photos in his hand and holds one up. “That him?”

Severus looks at the picture and then at the dead man. “It would appear so.”

“Antonin Dolohov,” Harry reads. “Explosives expert. Dirty bombs. And ‘Cruciatus.’ Whatever the fuck that is. Maybe some sort of chemical?”

“Perhaps,” Severus says, eyes still fixed on Dolohov.

“Well, at least he sounds like a real upstanding bloke.” Harry sits down on the end of the bed. He’s tired. He should probably be in shock, but he doesn’t think he is. Not yet, at least. Or maybe these types of things just don’t affect him like that.

“And the others?”

He reads through the names. Rodolphus and Rabastian Lestrange. Corban Yaxley. The one he’s crossed out is Thorfinn Rowle who, according to what he assumes must be his own notes, is a ‘Muggle’ weaponry expert. Whatever that is. “Mean anything to you?” he asks, when he’s finished.

“No. But I am also on your list?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s like that.” He frowns. “I don’t think I’m supposed to kill you.”

“It would make sense,” Severus says carefully. “Mr. Dolohov and I could have been working together and you found the both of us here.”

“I guess,” Harry concedes, “but that’s not what happened.”

Severus waits for him to continue.

“We both have a bag,” he says, gesturing to said duffels. “He doesn’t.”

Severus considers this for a moment. “So, you think we were here together and Dolohov found us?”

Harry nods.

“Then you were not sent to kill him?”

“I’m not sure. But if I was, and if I were him, I would want to get to me first.”

“That does not explain why you have my picture.”

“No, but I can think of several reasons that don’t include me trying to murder you.” He pauses, picking at his thumbnail. “And I don’t want to kill you.”

Severus folds his arms across his chest, considering, then leans back against the bureau. “Perhaps I defected.”

“That would assume that all these men work together somehow. That they’re not isolated targets.” Harry thinks about that for a moment. “But isolated targets seem more likely, yeah? If I’m some sort of hitman. Rather than an elaborate, interconnected crime ring?”

“Perhaps.”

“And why would you defect?”

At this, Severus raises an eyebrow, looks Harry up and down. The implication is clear.

Harry feels his cheeks heating.

“Other than, of course, that I grew tired of my life of crime?” Severus says, thin lips curving slightly.

“Right. So, I’m your not-underage boyfriend who…kills people?”

“Or you could be my hostage?” Severus says. It’s not a ridiculous notion, all things considered. But there is some humour in his words. He does not really believe it.

Harry flexes his fingers. There’s a strange sensation thrumming beneath his skin; it sparks against his palms. “I’m not a hostage.”

The man smiles. It’s not a pleasant look. “So sure of that, are you?”

“You couldn’t keep me hostage. No one could.” He’s not sure how he knows, but even as he says the words, he’s certain of it.

Severus looks at him for a long moment; his gaze feels like a tangible thing on his skin. “No, I don’t suppose I could.” Severus turns, begins rummaging through his own bag. “We will need to move the body.”

He’s right, of course.

Whilst this doesn’t strike Harry as the type of place that gets regular or frequent maid service, a bleeding and mangled corpse won’t go unnoticed for long.

They need to get it out of the room. A dumpster or alley will, at least, buy them a bit of time.

“Won’t be able to do much about the blood.”

“No,” Severus agrees. “But the carpet is brown.”

It’s a fair point. Definitely the type of cheap floor covering that can hide a multitude of sins. Not this sin, perhaps, but it’s a start.

“We should at least try to wipe down the wall,” Harry adds, before Severus disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Harry hears the flush of the commode, the rush of water in the sink.

His thoughts are strangely calm, collected as he considers their options.

He has a name now. An address. And…a boyfriend? Partner?

He is also, apparently, the type of person who can do…this. Who knows how, is willing to do this.

It will be dark in an hour. He doubts there is much in the way of security lighting in the car lot. If they can get the body out of the room and to a slightly more concealed location, they can get the fuck out of here before the police are called.

The body will be found eventually. There’s no stopping that. But he’d rather not be here when it is. He stands to strip the sheet from the bed, and that’s when he finds it, tucked beneath the pillow. It looks like a brown, polished stick. He picks it up and nearly drops it again. The worn wood feels warm, familiar, and soothing in his hand—as though it’s an extension of his arm. It’s addicting.

For the hell of it, he checks the other side as well. And there, slid up against the headboard is another stick. It’s similar, if a darker colour wood. When he picks it up, he feels a subtle thrill. It’s not the same as holding the first one, but it feels good, all the same. Something he is not supposed to touch, but wants to anyway.

He feels Severus’s eyes on him and turns, holding the stick—it’s a wand, a small voice in the back of his head supplies. A wand. But that’s ridiculous. “Here,” he says, holding it out to him. “This is yours. I’ve got one too,” he adds, as Severus takes it from him. They both gasp at the sensation. It feels as though a circuit’s been closed. Harry hears the rush of blood in his ears, the thrum of his pulse in his fingertips. He exhales, takes a quick step back.

Dolohov, as it turns out, has one too. Harry discovers it as they’re wrapping the body in the bedsheet. It had rolled beneath the bureau and stings his hand when he picks it up. Still, he tucks it away in his duffel anyway.

“Now what?” He asks Severus, once the body’s secure.

He peers outside the window. “We wait until it’s dark, then take the body out. There are bins around the side of the hotel.”

“All right.”

“Then we get the hell out of here.”

Harry agrees completely. But something occurs to him. “I don’t think we have a car. There aren’t any keys.”

Severus frowns and checks the contents of his bag again.

“How do you think we got here?” Harry asks.

“I’m not sure.” Severus looks out the window again. “But I think I know how to hot-wire a car.”

Harry wants to laugh. “Well, that’s convenient,” he says.

Severus just nods. Then he goes into the bathroom to wash his hands.

Harry looks at the blood spatter on the wall. It’s a problem, but rather than go collect a towel, he closes his eyes. Imagines the wall as it should be. Peeling, stained wallpaper, but no blood. He breathes in, feels his lungs expand, then exhales, long and slow. He opens his eyes again and blinks.

The wall is clean.

Fuck. That should not be a thing. But, then again, none of this should be. He exhales again, breath shaky. He feels keyed up, stretched thin, and just a tad frantic. And he’s definitely not sure he wants to know any of the things he’s learning about himself.

Severus’s eyes widen slightly when he emerges from the bathroom and sees the wall, but he doesn’t comment on it. He only sits down at the desk to wait until nightfall.

Severus is almost too calm, too collected. He tilts head back and closes his eyes, though Harry knows he’s not asleep. Harry, on the other hand, can’t keep still. He’s not anxious, even though he probably should be. Rather, he can’t stand the waiting. He paces back and forth, from one side of the small room to the other.

On his fifth pass, Severus opens his eyes again. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Harry says, sitting down on the end of the bed. He turns the telly on and spends the next half hour absently flipping through channels. Finally, Severus stands.

“Let’s go.”

Together they lift Dolohov. Blood has seeped through the white sheet, staining it a vivid red. And, dead bodies are, apparently, both heavy and cumbersome to carry. Harry thinks, as they awkwardly manoeuvre the bundle out the door, that he should have a better way to do this. Because, surely—if he does this—concealing bodies would be an essential part of his line of work, wouldn’t it?

Luckily, Harry was right about this establishment’s lighting. It would be the first thing he’d bring to management’s attention—if he were a tenant that cared about that sort of thing. But he’s not, and he has no complaints.

They’re nearly to the side of the building when a car pulls into the lot. They both freeze—standing with what is obviously a body between them—as a man gets out of the car, duffle in hand. They take a few steps back towards the wall, but it won’t matter. If the man comes this way, he’ll see them, and Harry knows, with unsettling clarity, what they’ll have to do. But Severus is looking at the man and suddenly he stops, as though he’s forgotten something, and turns back to his car.

Harry lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Come on,” he says, and together, they manage to get the body around the back of the hotel and out of sight.

They return to their room to collect their things. The rug is stained, but not nearly as bad as Harry thought it would be. Quickly, he makes up the bed so the missing sheet won’t be so obvious, before turning off the light on the bedside table.

“Do you think they have a record of us?” Harry asks, shouldering his bag.

Severus shakes his head. “This strikes me as the type of place that doesn’t ask many questions.”

They select a car from the back of the lot that looks as though it’s been there for quite a while. It’s a nondescript, dark blue sedan that has definitely seen better days. True to his word, Severus unlocks and starts the car in quick order whilst Harry stands on the passenger side, anxiously waiting for the police to descend with sirens blaring. Nothing happens though, and he climbs in, fastening his seatbelt as Severus pulls out of the lot and onto the road.

They drive north.

They both agree it’s the safest option. London seems the obvious choice. It’s where they are most likely to find answers. But it’s also where anyone looking for them is likely to start. So, until they have some idea of what’s going on—of who they are, what they’re involved in, who might be after them—they’ll stay away.

It’s a half-day’s drive, at least, to Leicestershire and to the address Harry has written in his file beneath Severus’s picture.

He has a general idea of where they are, of their surroundings. His head isn’t…empty. He knows they are only an hour or so outside of London, knows how they would get to Islington—to the address on his identification—even if he doesn’t have any recollection of being there. He doesn’t have any memories of driving a car, either, but he thinks he knows how to do it. And Severus also seems comfortable behind the wheel.

He rolls his stick—wand—back and forth between his palms and stares out the window at the head beams passing them on the other side of the motorway. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” he says after they’ve driven for a while. Or maybe something right… But Harry doesn’t say that out loud. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the mere possibility that he can do what he thinks he can do.

“Aside from the amnesia,” Severus says, deadpan. And Harry has to laugh.

“Yeah, aside from that.”

“And the man we killed.”

“That too.”

When Severus doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask Harry what he’s talking about, he continues. “I think I can do things…with my mind.”

The clench of Severus’s hands on the steering wheel is the only indication he’s heard Harry at all.

“I can show you,” Harry says after a moment. “Just not whilst we’re driving.” Because Harry might not know much right now, but he’s not an idiot. “I know it sounds crazy—”

“But it’s not,” Severus says.

“But it’s not.”

They drive for over an hour. Harry has started to doze off when he feels the car pull off the main road. He opens his eyes to see Severus turning into an all-hours café. Harry’s stomach rumbles, and he laughs. “I didn’t realise how hungry I was. Can’t remember when last I ate.”

“Neither can I,” Severus says, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Without thinking about it, Harry kneels down in front of the car they park beside and removes the plate. He doesn’t have a tool, but the screws come out easily beneath his fingers. They shouldn’t, of course, but it doesn’t surprise him that they do. He takes the plates off their stolen car next and reaffixes them to the opposite vehicle. Severus merely watches him, hands in his pockets, expression placid.

They order coffee and sandwiches. Harry wants a beer but decides against it. They still have a drive ahead of them, and he’s tired and has no idea how the alcohol will affect him.

He watches Severus for a few minutes. The way his hands curl around his mug. His fingers, long and elegant, are stained with nicotine. They don’t look like a killer’s hands. An artist’s, maybe. He looks down at his own hands—thick and square and calloused. Again, he feels the thrum of…potential beneath his fingertips.

“I think…” he says, taking a sip of his coffee, “I could have killed that man without a weapon. I’m not sure how, but I know I could do it.”

Severus is quiet for a moment, as though considering Harry’s admission, before saying, “I imagine you could.” There is no rebuke in his tone, no fear or repulsion. He says nothing else for a few minutes. Then, “I think I can read minds.”

Harry looks up. “I’m sorry?”

“I can—” Severus stops, picking up the salt shaker to turn it between his fingers. “I consider myself a rational person—or at least, I think that is the type of person I would be. And I know this is not rational, but I can tell what people are thinking.” He looks at Harry again, and Harry knows he’s serious. “Or, at least, I can read their emotions. Not the entire picture, per se, but general thoughts and impressions.”

“That’s—” Harry shakes his head. “That’s insane.” But he holds out his hand, and a sugar packet floats out of the container and across the table into his open palm. “This is absolutely insane.”

Severus smiles. “Evidently so.” He sets the salt down again, takes a long drink of coffee. “The waitress is getting a divorce. She’s sad but relieved. That couple—” He lifts his chin subtly indicating the booth in the corner. “She’s cheating on him. He knows, but he doesn’t care.”

“Wow,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Can you read my thoughts?” He’s both horrified and intrigued by the idea.

“No.” Severus holds his gaze for a moment, then shakes his head. “It’s not blank. Not like hitting a wall.” He tilts his head. “It’s a fog.”

“Because of the amnesia? That would make sense, yeah?”

“Maybe,” Severus agrees. “But I don’t think so. I just can’t get through.”

Their meals arrive. The sandwich is soggy. Too much mayonnaise. But Harry’s not sure anything has ever tasted this good. He’s so hungry. He licks at his fingers, then takes a napkin from the dispenser on the table, embarrassed by his lack of manners, but Severus is watching him with something like fondness on his face. Harry looks away quickly.

“So, what exactly do we know?” Harry says, once he’s finished chewing. He glances around to make sure no one is listening. “Aside from the fact that we, most likely, killed a man—gruesomely I might add. And, of course, the super powers.”

“We do not have super powers.”

“Right…” Harry manages not to roll his eyes, but just barely. “Because I might not remember anything about who I am, but I’m pretty sure I’d recall if mind reading was a thing. Not to mention—” He gives a pointed look at his mug. He’s let go of his spoon, but it continues to stir his coffee.

Severus sighs deeply. He looks like a man who keeps expecting to wake up and is beyond irritated he has not. “I believe I can…do things too,” he finally says.

“Of course, you can.” He takes the spoon out and sets it on the table. “Do you think that’s why they came after us? Because of what we can do?”

“Maybe. Though, we do not know for certain that anyone is after us.”

“The dead man?”

“Well, yes,” Severus says. “There is that.”

God, Harry wants to laugh. Or scream. He feels manic. He keeps talking instead. “So, we’re murderers, possibly of the assassin variety. You may or may not have defected from—” he looks around again, lowering his voice conspiratorially— “the dark side. We seem to have a surprising lack of weapons—for assassins, that is. Aside from the special sticks and,” he waggles his eyebrows, “the magic.”

Severus looks pained, but he merely massages his temples and doesn’t reply.

It makes Harry smile. “God, the wand jokes must write themselves.”

Severus’s sigh is long-suffering.

“This feels right,” Harry says then. “Doesn’t it? Like this is something we do.”

“Yes.”

The waitress refills their coffees and they finish their meals in comfortable silence. Harry watches Severus, watches his mouth, his throat as he swallows. He’s suddenly hit with a fierce wave of possessiveness. It’s odd. He doesn’t know this man at all, and Harry doesn’t strike himself as a possessive person. But, then again, how would he know? He thinks it should leave a sour taste in his mouth—this wanting. Instead, it makes warmth flood his veins, sharp and sweet. Ever since he woke up, he’s been on-edge, feeling empty and unmoored. And now this sudden rush of…something is enough to make his pulse race and his stomach tighten. He barely represses a shiver.

Severus raises an eyebrow, and Harry feels his cheeks warm.

After, as they walk to their stolen car, Severus catches Harry’s hand in his. He tugs him towards him, and Harry knows he’s going to kiss him. The idea shouldn’t be so startling. It shouldn’t make his heart pound and his throat go dry. He’s twenty-two years old. He’s kissed loads of people, surely. And if they’re in a relationship—which does make some sort of sense—then they must do this all the time. But Harry doesn’t remember any of it.

Everything feels so new, and he can’t help the tiny voice in the back of his head saying they could have it all wrong. After all, why would a man like Severus be with someone like him?

But Severus is leaning in and pulling Harry closer. His mouth is warm and soft against his. Harry’s fingers curl in the folds of his shirt, as he kisses back, mouth opening, tongue licking inside Severus’s. And it’s good. It’s so good.

It doesn’t feel familiar—his body isn’t recognising that they’ve done this countless times before, though they must have. But it feels…right.

He’s not surprised that Severus is an excellent kisser. He draws the tip of his tongue along Harry’s lips, learning the shape of them whilst his hands come to rest on Harry’s hips, warm and certain. And it isn’t surprising how well they fit together, Severus’s body against his, as if they’d been made for this very purpose. He tilts his hips forwards, pressing closer.

Severus pulls away again too quickly, and Harry must work to hold back the groan of displeasure. But, of course, now is not the time. Instead, he reaches down, squeezes Severus’s hand briefly before letting go and stepping back. “Well?” he says.

The man nods in affirmation, and Harry smiles.

They get back in the car, Severus taking the driver’s seat again.

“Maybe I’m a cop,” Harry says once they’re back on the motorway. He doesn’t look at Severus, keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I could be a cop.”

Really, if he’s not a criminal, it’s is the only plausible alternative he can imagine. He can’t think of another scenario ending with him in a hotel room with a dead body.

Severus is quiet for a few minutes. There aren’t many other cars out. The darkened countryside speeds past the window outside.

“You’re not a cop.”

“Oh?” Harry turns to look at him.

“No.”

“If I were undercover, I wouldn’t necessarily have a badge or anything.”

“No,” Severus agrees. “But it’s not that.”

“What then?”

He’s silent for another minute before saying, “I don’t like the police.”

The ‘And I like you’ is understood. Harry turns back towards the window, hiding his smile.

They drive for another two hours.

When Harry sees the neon light advertising a roadside hotel, he puts his hand on Severus’s knee. He feels warmth through the fabric of his trousers. “Let’s stop,” he says. “It’s late.”

“All right,” Severus says, turning on the indicator as he takes the exit.

The hotel looks cheap and every bit as unsavoury as the one they woke up in. But that’s exactly the type of place that takes cash and doesn’t ask questions.

Severus waits in the car whilst Harry goes into the office to get a room.

The man behind the desk barely looks up from his book as Harry pays for one night. There’s a guest register, but he doesn’t check when Harry scrawls out the name James Black and takes the key—a real one on a plastic ring, not the cards used at pricier hotels.

The room only has one bed. It would have been strange, Harry thinks, to have requested two. He sets his duffel down on the bureau beside the shitty television and toes off his trainers. “I’m going to take a shower. Unless you want to go first?”

“No,” Severus says, setting his own bag down. “Go ahead.”

Harry takes a pair of pyjama pants and a clean t-shirt with him into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He strips off his shirt and gasps.

The scars are…extensive.

The pink curve of a relatively new abdominal wound seems livid in the fluorescent light of the small bath. There’s an old gnarled scar on one shoulder, paler than the skin around it. And his chest. Fuck, his chest.

It doesn’t look like a gunshot wound. And he hates that he knows what a gunshot wound would look like. This scar is old and mottled, the size of a handprint just above his heart. It isn’t from a burn. A blast wound maybe? Or…

He thinks back to the dead man and the magic that likely caused his injuries.

Harry turns on the shower as hot as it will go and climbs in. The water feels amazing. He stands there for a few minutes, letting it wash over his skin and trying not to think about what might have caused the scars on his body. Then he scrubs his hair, his body with the tiny bottle of provided soap. It smells of chemicals and lemons, but at least he feels clean.

Once he’s dry and dressed, he opens his toiletry kit to find a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste. There’s also deodorant and a comb, some paracetamol, a little phial labelled ‘Pepper Up,’ and a small jar of what looks like lubricant. No condoms. Which, he guesses, makes sense, if they’re in an established relationship, but he can’t think about that right now. So, he closes the kit, cleans his teeth, and goes back out into the main room.

Severus is sitting on the bed watching the telly. His shoes are off, and he’s leaning back against the headboard.

Harry thinks it might be awkward, going to sleep in the same bed as Severus. Severus, who is most likely his partner. Whom Harry has most likely fallen asleep beside countless times before. Whom he has most likely done…other things with before falling asleep.

But Harry is so tired. And Severus simply washes up, changes into nightclothes and turns off the light.

Severus sleeps on his back, and it’s the type of sleep Harry knows is always a split-second away from wakefulness. Like a soldier sleeps, his mind provides. And he’s not sure how he feels about that. But he merely files it away with all the other details he’s learned in the past two days and rolls over, bunching the pillow beneath his head.

Harry sleeps like the dead.

When he wakes, Severus is dressed and sitting at the small desk looking at the photos from Harry’s file jacket. There are two paper cups of coffee and a sack with what smells like sausage.

“Breakfast wraps,” Severus says, when Harry comes over, taking a cup of coffee with a grateful sigh. “If we can do magic,” Severus continues, saying the word as though it’s a dirty secret—which, in all honesty, if there is such a thing—it probably should be. “That’s likely how we lost our memories.”

“Yeah.” The cup of coffee is warm between his hands. Harry takes a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip. Probably not the best coffee he’s ever had, but it will do the trick. “What should we do?” he asks after he has enough caffeine in his system to feel reasonably awake.

“I think we should find the other men on your list.”

Harry nods. “They might have answers.”

“They might.”

“And they might try to kill us.”

Severus sets the papers down, aligning them at right angles with the edge of the desk. “Then we kill them.”

***

They make it to Cokeworth by nightfall.

It’s an old industrial town, banked on one side by a dirty little river and filled with row upon row of shabby brick houses.

“What do you think?” Harry asks, as Severus pulls the car onto Spinner’s End.

“I’m not sure,” he says honestly.

The house is at the end of the street. It looks as though no one’s lived there in years. The windows are boarded up and there’s an air of neglect about the entire place. They leave the car out front. It won’t stand out among the other beat-up and older model vehicles around.

“We don’t have a key.”

“No,” Severus says, but he’s looking at the door curiously. Then he reaches out to press his palm to the chipped and peeling wood.

Even where Harry is standing a few steps back, he can feel the…rush—the electric thrum of magic.

The door opens.

It’s dark inside. They try the lights, but the electricity’s been shut off. There are candles, though. They line the mantel and the window ledge. They perch on the edge of the bookshelves and are clustered on the end table, wax melted down onto its marred surface.

Severus lights a few.

The sitting room is cramped and dingy, everything covered by a thin layer of dust. Bookshelves flank the hearth, and there’s small writing desk in the corner, its surface littered with books and papers. The sofa is worn but comfortable looking, a blanket and pillow stacked on one end. The room opens to a small kitchen, and there’s a narrow staircase leading up to a second floor.

Severus sits down at the desk and begins flipping through papers.

“I’ll, er, see if there’s anything in the kitchen,” Harry says, giving him some privacy. He takes a candle into the adjoining room. It’s small but, aside from the dust, tidy.

There’s a kettle on the hob and Harry looks around for tea. He finds some in the cupboard and puts the water on. Aside from the tea, though, there isn’t much else. A few tins of veggies and some soup. A box of dried pasta, a sack of flour, a small package of biscuits. The kettle whistles, and he takes two mismatched cups down from the shelf. He lets the tea steep for a few minutes before bringing a cup out to Severus.

The man smiles. “Thanks.”

“Find anything?”

Severus slides a notebook across to him. “My mother’s name was Prince. My father was Snape. And I think we’re wizards.”

Two days ago, that statement would have sounded absurd. But now Harry only hums in acknowledgment. He takes the notebook, flips through it slowly. It’s filled with pages upon pages of handwritten notes. “Are these spells?”

“It would appear so.”

“Do they work?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry sets the notebook down again and walks over to the bookshelf. There are texts he recognises. Austen and Forster, Dickens, Tolkien, Doyle, and Waugh. There are slim volumes of poetry, and books on gardening and birds.

And then there’s the largest array of books on the occult Harry has ever seen.

Well, no. He has no way of actually knowing if that’s true. Maybe he peruses volumes on dark magic all the time. His own home might be filled to bursting with all manners of arcane and questionable texts.

He runs a hand along the leather spines. They tingle and spark against his fingertips.

There are books on offensive and defensive spells. Books on prophecy and myth. On herbology and charms. On magical artefacts, magical creatures, and magical plants. And then there are the books on potions. Row upon row of potions texts.

Severus comes up behind him, rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“I saw a pub not too far from here. We can get something to eat.”

“Sounds great,” Harry says, leaning back against his chest. Severus wraps an arm around him. “Unless you want tinned beans and soup for dinner.”

The walk to the pub is uneventful. The night is quiet; there is no one else out.

The Crown and Rose is exactly the type of place Harry thinks Severus would frequent, if that’s something he does—frequents pubs. It’s dark and uninviting, smelling of grease and spilt beer. There’s a group of old men playing cards at one of the small tables, and a man in coveralls sitting alone nursing a pint.

The barman looks up from his paper when they take the two seats at the end of the bar. His eyes widen slightly. “Haven’t seen yeh around lately,” he says to Severus, and Severus raises an eyebrow.

“Oh?” he says carefully.

“Yer Toby’s boy, aren’t yeh?

“I am.”

He nods. “Thought yeh was goin’ to sell that house. I was sorry to hear about yer da, tho. He was a good man.”

“Thank you.”

“Wha’ can I get yeh?”

Harry asks for a cider. Severus, a whisky, neat. They both order fish and chips. Harry has no idea what’s going through Severus’s head; he conceals his emotions expertly.

“Did he come here often, my father?” Severus asks when the man returns with their drinks.

The barman eyes him strangely for a moment, as though Severus should know the answer to that, and maybe he should. But he answers anyway. “He did. Once er twice a week until ‘e died.”

Severus nods, traces a finger around the rim of his glass.

“He was proud o’ yeh, yeh know,” the man says then. “Teaching up at t’fancy school of yers. But yeh sure giv’em trouble—” He looks pointedly at Harry. “What, wi’those friends of yers.”

“I’m sure I did,” Severus says, and the barman heads back to the kitchen for their food.

“So, I take it your dad wasn’t fond of our relationship,” Harry says, after he’s out of earshot.

“No,” Severus says, sipping his whisky. “But this town, these men—they’re mill workers, labourers. That’s to be expected.”

Their food arrives and they eat. Harry orders another drink and thinks about how…nice this is, sitting here with Severus. “A teacher?” he says, pouring more vinegar on his chips.

“I could be a teacher,” Severus says thoughtfully. “Or that could be my cover.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. Then, “What do you think you’d teach?”

“Literature maybe. Or sciences.” Severus drains his glass, signals for another. “I think I am good at science.”

***

Harry isn’t drunk, but he’s pleasantly buzzed when they leave the pub. He takes Severus’s hand in his as they walk back towards Spinner’s End.

Severus blinks, looking down, but he does not pull away.

They’re nearly back when Harry feels it. The air becomes cooler, and everything goes very still. Then there’s a dark plume of smoke and a man appears with a crack, literally, out of thin air.

Harry recognises him from the photos. Fuck.

Yaxley smiles, an ugly twist of thin lips. “So, the rumours are true,” he says, eyes falling to their joined hands. “You are fucking the Boy Hero.” He tilts his head to one side, expression calculating and cruel. “I didn’t believe it, at first. But I knew there had to be good reason you’d betray us.”

“Corbin,” Severus says, voice calm. But Harry doesn’t miss how he angles his body in front of Harry’s. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise,” the man says. “Though, I never thought you’d be so stupid. To return here when you knew we’d be looking.”

Severus ignores this. “What do you want?”

“Why, to kill you, of course. The Dark Lord may be dead, but that doesn’t mean we’ll suffer traitors to our cause.”

“How did you find us?” Harry asks, mind racing. If they can just keep him talking…

“Not too clever, hmm?” Yaxley says, unimpressed. “But I don’t suppose it’s your mind that Severus is drawn to.” The way his eyes flick up and down Harry’s body makes his skin crawl.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Harry says, but Severus interrupts before he can manage an appropriate insult.

“You’ve been watching me.” It’s not a question. Even without their memory loss, that much is obvious. But Yaxley knows Severus, knows Harry, and any information he shares could prove useful.

“The house has been under surveillance since the war. Surely you know that? You’d be a dreadful spy, otherwise.”

“Naturally,” Severus says.

“The question I’d ask—if I cared at all—would be why you chose to return now? What with the bounty Rabastan is offering? But I don’t care, and it is a lot of Galleons, so…”

They don’t have their wands but Yaxley, unfortunately, does. And he moves quickly. Hand and wand cutting in a swift arc.

There’s a flash of light. Harry puts his hands up as if to block it—as if he could stop whatever Yaxley has done with his bare hands. But it’s too late or not enough.

The spell lashes across his chest, his side. The impact knocks him back a step and takes his breath away. “What the fuck,” he says through gritted teeth. “That hurt.”

Yaxley actually laughs. “Yes, that was my intention.”

It’s enough of a distraction.

Harry funnels the strange power he’s been feeling in his bloodstream down into his palms, pushing it out. It’s a bizarre sensation that, somehow, feels perfectly natural at the same time.

Beside him, Severus is speaking. He registers his voice, low and deadly, but does not recognise the words.

Latin, his mind supplies. That’s because it’s Latin.

Then Yaxley is staggering back, as though he’s been punched…or stabbed. His eyes are wide with shock and terror. And there’s blood on his chest, his stomach. It’s black in the moonlight and spreading far too quickly. He tries to scream, but it’s choked. Blood is pouring from his mouth, now, too.

He collapses to the ground, gurgling. And then the noise just stops.

“What did we do?” Harry asks, but he knows—knows they’ve just killed another man.

“We need to go,” is all Severus says.

They walk quickly, Yaxley’s body between them. Harry’s side hurts, but he hardly feels it; there’s too much adrenaline coursing through his veins. And, what the fuck is his life that disposing of bodies is such a substantial part of it?

“The people here,” Severus says, “I do not think they’re they type to talk to the police, but certain things cannot be ignored.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “The river?”

“The river.”

***

He’s exhausted by the time they make it back to Severus’s house. The buzz he had from the alcohol is long gone, and, now that the adrenaline is leeching out of his system, he hurts. All he wants to do is collapse on the sofa and sleep for a week.

“I think I saw some whisky in the kitchen,” he says instead. And Severus nods, sitting to take off his boots.

“Good.”

Harry retrieves the bottle, not bothering with glasses.

“We can’t stay here,” he says, sitting down beside Severus. He opens the bottle and takes a long swig. The whisky burns his throat, and he coughs, but it’s good. He takes another drink.

“No,” Severus agrees. “We can’t.”

“What should we do?”

“Find the Lestranges, I think.” Severus takes the bottle. “Since, apparently, there’s a price on my head.”

“And here I thought I was the hitman.”

“Are you considering trying to collect?” Severus says, leaning against Harry’s side, his body a warm weight against his.

“I guess that depends on how much you’re worth,” he jokes. “Though I seem to have quite a bit of money.”

“Yes.”

“He called me ‘Boy Hero,’” Harry says after a few minutes.

“And said there was a war.”

Harry shakes his head, takes the whisky back from Severus for another sip. “What the hell are we involved in?” Then he laughs—a bit hysterically. “Did you hear him? The Dark Lord. Oh my god. You were in a cult. You were totally in a cult.”

“It would appear I’ve made some bad choices,” Severus says, putting the bottle on the table. “What on earth do you see in me?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, turning to kiss Severus. His lips are soft and warm and taste of whisky.

Severus opens his mouth against his, and reaches a hand up to curl around his neck. Fingers tug at Harry’s hair. His other arm is at his waist, drawing him closer, but Harry winces at the pain in his side.

Severus pulls back abruptly and frowns. “You are injured.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Yes, but we should still take a look.”

The bathroom is small and cramped. Harry leans against the side as Severus rummages through the cabinet above the toilet. He pulls out gauze and an unmarked jar of ointment. He opens the lid, sniffing its contents.

“What is it?”

“Medicinal. Antiseptic.”

“You can tell?”

“Yes.”

He helps Harry pull his shirt, his jumper over his head with gentle hands and does not comment on his scars.

“It looks like a whip,” Harry says, grimacing as they inspect the new wound.

Severus nods. There are three thick, raised welts curving over Harry’s pectoral and down his side. The skin is split, blood smeared across his ribs.

“I need to clean it,” Severus says, taking a flannel. He waits for the water to run hot. “But I don’t think it’s too deep.’

“No,” Harry says. He holds his breath as Severus presses the wet cloth to his skin. It stings. “I think—I think I blocked it.” He frowns, because that sounds ridiculous. “Or I blocked some of it? The magic.” He looks at Severus. “It was magic, yeah?”

“Yes, it was.”

The ointment smells of cloves and it tingles as Severus smooths it over the welts. But it soothes the pain far more quickly than it should. Severus takes the roll of gauze and wraps it around Harry’s chest, covering the marks. It feels good to be…cared for in this way.

“Thank you,” Harry says, reaching up to put a hand on Severus’s cheek. The scratch of stubble is rough under his palm.

This time, when they kiss, it is soft and exploratory, but there is heat and wanting there too. Severus’s hands are on Harry’s hips, holding him steady. When he pulls his own body flush to his, Harry feels himself growing hard.

Severus groans in response and shifts his hips, rubbing against Harry. It’s so good. He feels touch-starved. But how can that be?

He has a boyfriend—and, god, but that word sounds so juvenile. But it’s true. And, if they had their memories, Harry knows Severus would take him to bed. He’d probably insist on sucking Harry off or something, because he’s injured and, Christ, the thought makes his mouth dry and his cock twitch.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away and sliding out from where he’s pinned between Severus’s body and the side. “I just—I can’t.” He looks away, shame and something else swirling in his gut because he feels Severus’s eyes on him, and he knows he’s being stupid.

After all, they’re together. It’s okay to have this, to have Severus.

Hell, even if they weren’t in a relationship. Even if this was just a typical first date, it would be perfectly acceptable to go to bed together. Well, no, because there is not a single reasonable scenario where you murder someone on a first date—or any date, for that matter—and then go home to fuck as though nothing untoward has happened.

Jesus, what is his life?

Severus must sense his panic, the anxiety that threatens to spiral out of control, because he reaches out, puts a calming, a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder and says, “Harry, it’s all right.” He pauses, “It will be all right. Let’s go to bed. Just to sleep.”

“Sleep…” Harry repeats, because, yes, he is exhausted.

They sleep on the sofa in the sitting room. There are two bedrooms upstairs, but it’s obvious that Severus—if he has been here at all—does not go up there. The larger room was clearly his parents’—or, more recently, his father’s—and has not been touched since his death. The second room must have once been Severus’s. But with its narrow bed and thin, sagging mattress, the sofa is more comfortable.

There’s some awkwardness around finding a way to lie together. They settle for Severus’s back against the sofa and Harry tucked close, his back pressed against his chest. And, in the end, when Severus blows out the last candle, it feels easy. Like something they’ve done before and might do again tomorrow night and for a thousand nights after that.

Before he can fall asleep, Harry turns his head and leans in for another kiss. Just to see what it feels like, doing this—this casual intimacy. And Severus sighs against his lips and cradles the back of his head in his hand.

Severus’s eyes are dark when they finally pull apart, and Harry knows he wants more, wants everything, but he only lies back again, stretching his arm across Harry’s midsection as he settles himself against Severus again.

He waits a few minutes before asking, “When did your father die?”

“Four months ago. There was an obituary.”

“And your mother?”

“I’m not sure. Before that. It’s been a while, I think.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s a silly thing to say, of course. Severus doesn’t know his parents. He doesn’t know…anything. But his memory-having self did, and Harry can’t help but wonder if he mourned them. If he was the one who buried them, who wrote the obituary left in the desk drawer.

Harry falls asleep thinking about his own family. If he has siblings. Parents. If they’re alive. If they wonder where he’s gone, what he’s doing…

***

Judging from the light shining through the slats in the boards over the windows, it must be mid-morning when Harry wakes, and Severus is gone.

He has one brief moment of panic, but Harry knows he hasn’t left, knows he would have heard if anything had happened—if anyone had come for them. And he desperately has to piss, so he gets up of the sofa and heads to the bathroom.

He hears the shower running. He thinks about waiting, but he’s seen Severus naked before. He just can’t remember. And he has to pee.

The small room is filled with steam as Harry steps inside. “It’s just me,” he says before relieving himself and washing his hands.

He should leave. Go back to the sitting room. See if there is anything else there that could be useful. But he can’t help himself. He turns to look. The shower glass is fogged, but he can still see into the small stall, can still see Severus standing there under the spray, all long limbs and pale skin.

Despite being thin, the man is strong. Harry knows this. And now he can see that strength, that muscle in the planes of his chest, the line of his shoulders, his arms. His stomach is flat, if slightly soft from age, and his hipbones are pronounced. Harry avoids looking at the line of dark hair running from his navel down to his groin.

And his cock.

No, he does not look at his cock, resting soft between his thighs.

Fuck.

Severus runs his hands through his hair, slicking it back, and turns to look at Harry.

He’s not embarrassed or shy about his body, but why would he be? Whilst not, perhaps, conventionally handsome, Severus is striking. And it’s obvious—more than so—why Harry is attracted to him. Christ, Harry can’t even pretend not to look. He’s just standing there, rooted to the spot, staring, as the water streams down over Severus’s body.

He feels the warmth colouring his cheeks, and the arousal tightening his stomach, and if he stands here any longer, he’s going to be hard. “I’ll just, er…” He ducks out of the room, pulling the door shut quickly behind him. He leans back against it, trying to calm down, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember a single reason why he shouldn’t go back into the bathroom and get into the shower with Severus.

Instead, he goes into the kitchen and makes a cup of tea. Then he sits down at the writing desk to continue sorting through the papers there.

Severus emerges a while later, dabbing his hair dry with a towel. He’s wearing dark trousers; his white shirt hangs open, unbuttoned.

“I think I know where we can find the Lestranges.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry stands from the desk and walks over to Severus. He reaches out to begin buttoning Severus’s shirt, but stops, fingers going to his neck instead. He hadn’t noticed the scars before, hidden beneath Severus’s high collars, but now he traces them with his fingertips. They must be several years old, thick and raised, but slick and silvery smooth under his touch. And whilst Harry’s scars are numerous, they don’t begin to compare to this. He can’t help but imagine the mangled mess his throat must have been and how he possibly survived.

“Oh my god,” Harry says, after a moment. “What do you think happened?”

Severus arches one eyebrow. “I’d say someone tried to kill me.”

“No shit,” Harry says, and he can’t stop the laughter. “Oh my god,” he says again. “You lucky fucking bastard.”

***

They drive straight through and arrive in Wiltshire just after midnight.

Harry realises too late that they probably should have planned ahead. Wiltshire is decidedly too posh to have the type of dodgy hotel where you can check in after hours, pay cash, and not raise any eyebrows.

They do find a place eventually. It’s pricy, which is fine. At this point, Harry is comfortable that he has enough money. But they require a bank card and ID, which is unfortunate. Still, they need to stay somewhere. They’d be far more conspicuous hanging about in their run-down—not to mention stolen—car. And Yaxley knew they were in Cokeworth thanks to some sort of magical surveillance. Not a charge card. So, there’s that.

The room is nice, with pale, soft carpeting that Harry is willing to bet would not conceal even a single drop of blood. The bathroom is sizable and clean—all sleek marble and polished chrome. And the bed—the bed is soft and comfortable, made up with crisp white sheets and a plush duvet. It doesn’t look like anyone has recently died there—or had sex in it. Though, the latter is likely more of a testament to the cleaning staff than anything.

“I don’t think this is the type of place I would have stayed,” Harry says, setting his bag down. He opens it to see what’s left for clean clothes. They’ll need to find a launderette soon if he doesn’t want to start re-wearing pants.

“You seem to have plenty of money.”

“I know. It’s not that. I just—I don’t think I’m used to spending money on myself.”

“Well, judging from my parents’ old house, I don’t think I am either.” Severus comes up behind Harry, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That does not mean we can’t enjoy a good night’s rest, though.”

Harry reaches up, covering Severus’s hand with his own. “No, you’re right. But I think I’m going to shower first.”

The shower is delightful.

Harry stands under the hot water for a long time, trying to clear his mind. The house on Spinner’s End gave them some clues but, in honesty, left them with even more questions. Severus, it seems, is not one to leave critical or personal information lying about for any amnesiac (or potential assassin) to find. Which, Harry acknowledges, is wise—albeit frustrating.

Magic is, apparently, a thing. A thing that Harry is very good at. And, though part of him is relieved—because that explains so much—it is still absolutely insane.

And Severus—well, he’s a murderer. But so is Harry. And he thinks, maybe, they’re both on the right side of things now, even if everything is pretty fucked up. And yet, he thinks, he must be happy. He thinks Severus must make him happy. Because that’s the one thing that feels right about all of this. The one thing that makes a strange sort of sense.

When Harry comes out of the bathroom, Severus is sitting on the small sofa reading one of the notebooks he found at the house. He looks up, not even trying to hide the way he drags his eyes up and down Harry’s body.

It makes his skin heat.

“Come here,” Severus says, setting the notebook aside.

Harry does.

He feels awkward and on display as he stands in front of Severus, but Severus is looking at him with such pure, unadulterated interest, that Harry forces himself not to flinch away from his gaze.

Severus reaches out, trails a fingertip over the newly-healed skin on Harry’s side where Yaxley’s spell had hit him. The salve they’d found in the bathroom at Severus’s house had worked wonders. In hindsight, they probably should have brought it with them.

“You’re gorgeous,” Severus says.

Harry feels his cheeks flush because that just doesn’t seem like the type of thing people say to him. But maybe Severus does. Maybe Severus said things like that to Harry’s past self all the time.

“Can I look at you?”

Harry wants to say, ‘You are looking,’ because Severus is staring at him. But he knows what he means.

Harry’s first instinct is to refuse, to laugh his way through the embarrassment, the surreal realisation of what Severus wants. But he doesn't.

After all, Severus has surely seen him naked countless times before. And even if he hasn’t—even if they’ve completely misinterpreted whatever their memory-having selves meant to one other—they’re both consenting adults. They’re here, together now in this fancy hotel room. And if Severus wants to look at him, Harry wants to let him.

Severus’s eyes darken when Harry reaches down to tug at the towel he’s wrapped around his waist. He swallows thickly, trying to ignore the frantic pace of his heart, as he pulls the towel open, lets it drop to the floor.

Severus exhales sharply, hands clenching where they rest on his knees.

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt so exposed. Or so aroused.

Severus doesn’t move. He just sits there watching Harry, the weight of his gaze raising goosebumps on his skin. It’s painfully, intoxicatingly intimate. And, if his quickened breathing, the bulge in his trousers is any indication, Severus likes it. That thought is exhilarating and a tad frightening because it all feels so new—even if it isn’t.

And Harry is hard. He’s so fucking hard. Just from standing here in front of Severus. Just from the way Severus is looking at him, desire plain on his face, as though he never wants to stop looking at Harry.

“May I?”

Harry doesn’t know what, exactly, Severus is asking for, but he’s not sure he could deny the man anything right now. So, he exhales a shaky breath and says, “Yes.”

Harry’s brain nearly short circuits, though, when Severus touches his lips to the tip of his cock. The soft gust of breath, the flick of Severus’s tongue against the slit is nearly enough to make him come. “Oh my god,” he says, “that’s—oh my god.”

Severus pulls back, hands coming to rest on Harry’s hips, thumbs stroking back and forth. “Yes?” Severus says, expression smug because of course he knows what the answer will be.

Harry manages a nod and Severus leans forwards again, sucking the head of Harry’s cock into his mouth.

It’s incredible.

He clutches at Severus’s shoulders. It’s all he can do not to move his hips, not to thrust into that wet heat. But Severus pulls him towards him, forcing his cock deeper into his mouth, his throat.

Harry groans as Severus begins to suck, lips tight around him, tongue pressed to the underside of his shaft. The sensation is both familiar and unfamiliar all at once. He’s not going to last. And it’s wholly unfair that he’s being taken apart so easily whilst Severus is still fully clothed. But any comment he might make about that gets caught in his throat when he feels just the hint of Severus’s teeth. “Do it,” he gasps instead. “Make me come.”

Severus chuckles, the vibrations teasing and too much all at once, then he swallows around him again. And that’s it.

Harry bites his lip and comes.

He’s shaking. Severus holds him steady as he licks him clean, before sitting back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then Severus is watching him again and, for a second that feels like an hour, Harry gets caught up in wondering what his past self would have done. Would he have felt as self-conscious as he does now? Would he have dropped to his knees to suck Severus’s prick into his mouth? Would they have fucked?

The thought makes Harry feel hot and nervous and greedy all at once. But now…now he doesn’t know what to do, and he stands there frozen because it would be a real dick move not to reciprocate, not to at least offer, but he doesn’t remember how to do this, and he doesn’t know what Severus likes, and—

Severus seems to understand what’s wrong—seems to understand what Harry needs because he stands, holding out a hand.

“Here,” he says. He leads him to the bed, and Harry lies down, waiting as Severus undoes his trousers and takes his cock out.

Gently, he rolls Harry onto his side and lies down behind him. “Press your legs together,” he says, and Harry does.

He drifts, languid and sated as Severus’s cock slides between his thighs, rocking him with each thrust. He closes his eyes, twisting his hand in the sheets. If he hadn’t just come, Harry thinks he’d be hard again. “Fuck,” he hears himself say. “This is good. We’re good.”

Severus presses his mouth to the back of Harry’s neck, teeth scraping the skin there, and comes.

They lie in bed together afterwards. It’s comfortable, this nearness. And, once again, Harry thinks about their past life when they must have done this all the time. He sighs, snuggling closer. Severus pets his hair, fingers carding through Harry’s curls, whilst flipping through channels on the telly, looking for a news station. There’s been no mention, that they’ve seen, of any bodies found mutilated in a seedy hotel room or dumped in a river in the East Midlands. Harry bought a paper, too, when they stopped to refuel. Spent an hour whilst Severus drove, scouring the headlines, but he saw nothing suspect. Nothing that would suggest the authorities are on the lookout for two men in a stolen car out on a killing spree.

Which is good, Harry thinks, since he would really like to stay out of prison.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but wakes in the middle of the night to the television off and Severus snoring softly beside him. He turns over, body warm against his, and goes back to sleep.

***

The club is every bit as pretentious and insufferable as Harry expected it to be. He stands by the bar, sipping an overpriced IPA, and scanning the crowd. Severus is on the other side of the room, across the dance floor. Harry can’t see him, but he knows he’s there, blending into the shadows.

The club is crowded. They intentionally waited for Saturday night. And it’s loud. But Harry can feel the pulse of magic beneath the pounding of the music. It’s subtle. There are normal, non-magical people here too, going about their weekend, looking to get drunk or fuck or both. And he wonders if they can tell—if they can sense something strange about this place. Or if he’s only so attuned to it because he has magic and he’s focussed on it now.

The Lestrange brothers are here, sitting in a private section behind a velvet cord. Harry would hate them even if he didn’t know they were murderous arseholes who put a hit out on Severus. They’re surrounded by other rich douchebags. Men in flashy shirts and expensive suits and scantily clad young women sipping martinis and hanging on their every word.

Harry might not have his memories, but he’s certain he wouldn’t have been caught dead here before.

He takes another sip of his drink and laughs to himself at the irony there—because if they are caught here, they could very likely wind up dead. After all, seemingly everyone from their past life is out to kill them.

Later, back at the hotel, they sit together on the bed, Harry between Severus’s legs, his back against his chest. Severus strokes Harry’s hair, runs a hand up and down his arm.

“We must have friends, yeah? Family? People who know us, who might know how to get our memories back.”

Severus hums behind him, presses a kiss to the side of his neck, but doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, Yaxley obviously knew us. Dolohov surely did too. But it’s not as though they were offering any great insights. Hell, Dolohov is likely the reason we lost our memories to begin with.”

“Yes,” Severus says simply, kissing Harry’s neck again.

“But how will we know who to trust? If we can trust anyone at all?”

***

Harry wakes up desperately hard.

The fact that he’s pressed close enough to Severus to feel the rise and fall of his chest makes Harry’s heart pound; it makes him want to pull Severus even closer. Once again, he wishes he knew something, anything about them. Because now, now he wants to slip his hand down and touch him, but he’s frozen with indecision. He knows Severus would let him, would welcome it—Harry’s hand on his cock, jerking him until he came.

Because Severus acts as though it’s easy without memories—as if, maybe, it’s even better that way. And Harry wants to feel that too.

“What are you thinking about?” Severus’s voice is a low, soft rumble of sound.

“Nothing,” Harry says quickly, feeling both guilty and incredibly turned on. He shifts, starting to pull away.

“If you think I’m going to allow you to escape to the bathroom to masturbate, whilst I lie out here imagining what you look like with your hand on your cock,” Severus says, arm closing around Harry’s waist, “you are sadly mistaken.”

“Christ, you can’t just say things like that,” he groans, body shivery and hot. “Also, are you sure you can’t read my mind?”

“Hmmm…” Severus says, nose pressed to the back of Harry’s neck in a way that’s probably familiar, because he can feel the tension beneath his skin. It pulls at something in his chest and leaves him breathless. He wonders if it’s sense memory.

Severus rocks against him, and Harry feels his cock, hard beneath the fabric of his pyjamas, pressed against his arse. And, god, there’s so much that he wants, but right now—now he flips over and takes Severus’s face in his hands and kisses him hard. Severus’s hands are warm and solid against his back, sliding down to cup his arse, to pull him closer as if he, too, needs more, can’t get enough.

“We can do it if you want,” Harry says against his mouth. “Have sex.”

Severus goes very still, forehead resting against Harry’s. “We can wait. Until we get our memories back. There isn’t any rush.”

Harry doesn’t say, ‘Aside from the price on your head or the fact that not a day’s gone by without someone trying to kill us.’ He says, “I know. But I want to. I want you.”

Severus surges forwards, his body pushing Harry into the mattress as he kisses him again. It isn’t surprising how badly Harry wants this. Rather, it feels like just one of many inevitable conclusions for them.

Then, Severus pulls away, and he’s up out of the bed to pad across the room to their things.

He returns a moment later with a phial of lubricant.

Harry lies against the pillows as Severus sits beside him. His heart is racing; it’s his first time all over again.

“Breathe,” Severus says, reaching out to touch Harry. His face, his shoulder, a fingertip skimming down his throat and over his chest to brush against his nipples. It sends a tingle down his spine, then Severus’s hand is at his waist, his thigh. His body feels alive under the touch, and Harry knows Severus is re-familiarising himself with him. The outlines of his body, the way he feels beneath his fingertips, as though Harry were something lost that he’s now found again.

Harry could cry with it. Instead, he reaches out to pull Severus’s shirt over his head, drop it onto the floor. “Keep touching me,” he says, and Severus does. With his hands and then with his lips, tracing the scars, the marks on Harry’s skin that he has no idea how they got there. Severus is finding him, learning him all over again, until they’re both breathing too hard and wanting too much not to take.

Harry might not know who he is, might not remember the last time they touched each other in this way, but it doesn’t matter. Not with Severus panting against him and fumbling to get his boxers off.

Severus is gentle, careful, when he pushes a finger into Harry. It aches, but it’s not painful, and he feels himself opening around him. Harry takes his cock in his own hand, fisting himself in anticipation as Severus crooks his finger, then adds a second and then a third. “Now,” Harry says, “now.”

Severus groans, pulling his fingers free, before pouring more oil into his palm, spreading it along his already dripping cock. He gets up on his knees as Harry spreads his thighs wider. Harry feels vulnerable, exposed, as Severus balances over him, but he strokes the hair back from Harry’s face with his free hand and presses a soft kiss to his lips, guiding the head of his cock to Harry’s hole. He presses firmer, and Harry feels him slowly slip inside. “Oh,” he gasps, “Oh, god.”

“Harry,” Severus sighs in response.

It feels different than Severus’s fingers, and he has to press his face to Severus’s throat to keep from crying out, from shaking apart. But Severus moves slowly as he rocks his hips, pushes further inside.

“There you go,” Severus says, breathless and low, when he’s finally bottomed out. When his cock is buried so deep inside Harry’s body that he can’t tell where he ends and Severus begins. “Right there.”

Harry clings to him as he starts to move, thrusting in short, sure strokes. And it’s good. It’s so good. He’s not sure what he expected, not really. Because he doesn’t remember how they used to do this, the way Severus used to feel inside him, on top him, all around him.

But Severus takes Harry’s cock in his hand, stroking it in time with his thrusts, and the way he’s looking at Harry is enough to break him wide open. He wants to know if Severus used to look at him like that all the time. If that’s why he fell for him.

Fuck, he’s not going to last. This isn’t going to take much for either of them, because he can already feel Severus trembling above him, and he’s so close. Severus, of course, knows this, can read him so clearly.

“Yes,” Severus breathes, jerking him faster, “yes, come for me.”

Harry’s orgasm rushes up out of him, and he comes, body clenching so Severus’s cock feels impossibly huge inside him. Severus strokes him through it before fucking into him again. It doesn’t take long before he tenses, body stilling on top of him as he comes. Harry can feel it—the rush of warm wetness flooding his insides.

“Oh—wow,” Harry says. He feels sticky and achy and oh so good as Severus pulls out, curls his body around him.

They lie together for a while, and Harry thinks he should probably get up, get a towel from the bathroom to clean up, but he can’t bring himself to move. And Severus is tracing circles in the mess on his stomach, so he thinks he must not mind either. He catches Severus’s wrist in his hand, runs his finger over the tattoo on his forearm. Yaxley had one too—the hideous snake and skull. And Harry thinks, if they had thought to look, they would have found the same mark on Dolohov’s arm.

Harry has nearly fallen asleep when Severus speaks, voice soft in the quiet of the room. “I know how to poison someone.”

Harry turns, rolling towards him, but Severus’s face gives nothing away.

“All right.”

***

It’s easier than Harry thinks it should be. But, then again, they’re good at this.

Apparently, they’re really good at this.

At killing people.

Harry tries not to think about that.

Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange are at the same sleazy nightclub they’ve been at the past two Saturdays.

Harry and Severus aren’t on the list, of course. But, like the last time, it doesn’t take much…persuasion for the doorman to let them in.

Severus works fast. Harry stands by the bar sipping his beer and definitely does not think about how much it turns him on.

And then it’s done.

Severus is on him the second they’re back at the hotel. He kisses him hard, stubble scraping against Harry’s mouth, his cheek. Harry has to pull away to catch his breath, and he laughs. “Oh my god. We did it. We fucking did it.”

Severus smiles and kisses him again.

Together they stumble into the bath, leaving a trail of clothing behind them, and Harry fumbles with the taps, turning the water on hot. Severus fucks him bareback, practically pinning him to the tiled wall. One arm is wrapped around Harry’s chest, hand covering his mouth, the other across his hips.

Harry closes his eyes against the water and braces himself, legs spread, forearms planted against the slipery tiles. The angle lets Severus thrust in so deep, so hard, Harry feels as though he might split apart. And fuck, but he can’t imagine he’s ever felt anything so good in his life.

He comes, legs weak and teeth biting into the meat of Severus’s palm.

Severus shuts the water off then and leads Harry back into the bedroom. He spreads him out, face down, on the mattress and keeps fucking him until Harry is hard again and making enough noise that the occupants in the room next door bang against the wall. Harry should be mortified, but he doesn’t care. Not with Severus gripping his hips so hard there’ll be bruises and pressing desperate kisses up and down his spine.

“Oh god, god—that’s—yes,” Harry moans, grinding his cock down against the sheets. Christ, it’s perfect.

“You sound just as pretty as you look,” Severus says. His voice is ridiculously even for how hard he’s fucking Harry. “Do you know that? The noises you make for me.”

“Shit…” Harry manages, eloquently. “Please—”

“Yes,” Severus says, chest pressed against Harry’s back. “Yes. Can you come for me again? I want to feel you.” He reaches one hand beneath him to take hold of Harry’s cock, stroking in short, quick tugs, and Harry does, shaking and boneless and entirely spent, as Severus shudders his release inside of him.

Harry rolls onto his side, watching as Severus goes to the bathroom for a wet flannel to wipe them clean. “Just come back to bed,” he grumbles, snuggling beneath the blankets.

They lie together, legs intertwined, Harry’s head resting on Severus’s chest. It’s comfortable. It’s something Harry could get used to.

“I think it’s time we return to London,” Severus says, after a while, and Harry turns to look at him. “To the house in Islington.”

He speaks softly, voice devoid of emotion. Still, in the few short weeks since they woke up together and without memories, Harry has become an expert at reading Severus’s facial expressions, his body language. The minute tells others would not pick up on. The clench of his jaw. The blackness of his eyes as he regards Harry.

Rowle is dead. Dolohov is dead. As are Yaxley and the Lestrange brothers.

Severus and Harry are not.

Severus strokes Harry’s hair, traces the curve of his jaw.

They’re both tired of not knowing, and they’ve agreed that—if anywhere is likely to hold answers—it’s London. It’s the old house in the fancy neighbourhood they’ve been avoiding. And now that they’ve reached the end of the line, now that they’ve completed the tasks their former selves set out to do, there is nothing left but to return. Even if it means death or a prison cell.

***

Grimmauld Place is a quiet street.

At first, it appears there is no number 12, and Harry has a brief moment of panic thinking that his ID must have a false address on it, that they won’t find any answers here. But as they approach the place where 12 should be, a house appears between numbers 11 and 13, literally shoving its neighbours apart to make room for itself.

“Fuck,” Severus says, and Harry has to close his mouth because he realises it’s hanging open.

“My thoughts exactly.”

There’s a worn set of front steps and a battered front door with a silver knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent. But Harry doesn’t have to knock. He doesn’t do anything at all; the door just opens before them, and they step inside.

It’s a testament to how bizarre the last few weeks have been that Harry doesn’t even flinch when the strange creature, wearing what looks to be a dirty old pillow case, appears out of nowhere with a loud crack.

“Master Harry!” he says, clearly delighted.

“I, er, I’m sorry?”

The creature frowns, cocking his head to one side.

“We seem to have lost our memories,” Harry says. “And I’m not sure who I am. Or, who you are, for that matter?”

The creature regards him for a long moment, somehow looking both extremely put out and entirely resigned all at once, as though this is exactly the type of thing ‘Master Harry’ would be getting himself into. “Kreacher is calling Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” he says finally.

Severus and Harry follow as he walks away. The long hallway is lit with gas lamps and hung with portraits and ornate tapestries. It leads to what appears to be a formal sitting room. Kreacher snaps his long fingers, and a fire roars to life in the hearth. Then he marches directly over to the mantel to take a pinch of something out of a small silver box.

Harry watches as he tosses it into the fire and, to Harry’s horror, proceeds to stick his head into the flames. But he is neither screaming in pain nor burnt to a crisp. Rather, he appears to be talking to someone inside?

A few moments later, not one but two someones fall out of the fireplace. Because why the hell not?

The woman—pretty, dark-haired, and roughly Harry’s age—looks at them for one long moment before rushing over, enveloping Harry in a tight hug. She smells of strawberries. It’s not familiar, but it’s comforting all the same.

“Oh, Harry,” she says, and he thinks he hears tears in her voice. “When you disappeared—Ron and I thought the worst. We were so worried.”

Her husband is tall and broad-shouldered, with red hair as bright as the flames he just tumbled out of. He stands there staring at Harry and Severus with a sort of relieved, shocked look. As though he can’t quite believe his eyes, and Harry gets the impression that he doesn’t feel that way very often.

It’s strange, meeting someone who obviously knows you so well, when you don’t remember them at all. Harry wants desperately to find them familiar, for his memories to suddenly slot back into place, but there’s nothing. They might as well be strangers.

They sit down—Harry and Severus on the sofa, the man and woman in the two chairs across from them.

The odd little elf—Kreacher—brings them tea, and they drink whilst Harry explains what’s happened in the last few weeks since they woke up without their memories. The woman’s name is Hermione, and she smiles and nods reassuringly every time Harry says something any reasonable human would find utterly insane.

Severus lets Harry do the talking, but he sits close beside him, one hand resting on the small of Harry’s back, the other on his knee.

Ron hasn’t said much, not since he learned that Harry lost his memory and has been holed up with Severus Snape for the better part of a month. He listens carefully, but keeps looking between Harry and Severus, as if he’s trying to work something out—as if something’s not right, but he’s trying his best not to let on about it, until he has all the information.

It makes Harry anxious. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“So, the Death Eaters,” Hermione says.

“Death Eaters?”

“Yes, Dolohov and Rowle, the Lestranges. They’re dead?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “And Yaxley, too. We killed them.”

Hermione goes very still, as though she’s surprised by that, but she smooths her expression again quickly and forces a little smile. “Well, that’s good then.”

“Our memories,” Severus says, speaking for the first time. “Can you bring them back?”

Hermione looks at him for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I believe I can.”

She explains the process. “Quick and simple—if it’s merely an Obliviate—which I think it is, of course.”

Nothing dangerous or even unpleasant. Just a swish and a flick and they’ll be back to normal in no time.

“I’ll go first,” Severus says, tone firm, settled. And Harry knows there’s no arguing with him. Not about this. So, he nods, reaching out to squeeze his hand once, and Severus stands to follow Hermione into the kitchen.

Ron is still watching him with equal measures horror and pity. And it’s too much, but there’s nothing Harry can do about it, so he sits back against the worn sofa cushion and waits.

It doesn’t take long. Ten minutes, fifteen tops, and Severus emerges. He’s pale, but there’s a hardness to his features that Harry hasn’t seen before. It twists and tightens in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

Severus’s expression gives nothing away, and just the absence of anything that Harry can read—of any sign of the affection and closeness they’ve shared—is enough to make Harry ache. It’s enough to make him want to stand up and run. To get as far away from this place as possible and just start fresh without a past. Without the memories he’s lost.

But Severus already knows. He knows. There’s no going back. So, Harry stands, smiling weakly at Severus, and heads to the kitchen, trying to ignore the coldness behind Severus’s eyes.

Hermione looks at him with sadness, with sympathy. And that’s the last thing Harry wants right now. “Just—let’s get it over with,” he says quickly, before she can try to say something reassuring or consoling.

“Yes, of course.” And her voice doesn’t shake, doesn’t waver at all. She’s got steel in her, and Harry understands why he likes her, why they’re friends.

“So, if you’ll just stand here,” Hermione says, motioning, and Harry moves in front of her as directed. “This might feel a little strange.” She’s got her wand out, and she lifts it as though she’s a conductor about to begin a performance.

Harry thinks it will take time. That the memories will come back gradually, one and then another. He’ll remember his childhood or his parents. Where he went to school and what he studied. How he ended up with Severus hunting Death Eaters. The amnesia will be washed away, one wave at a time.

But that’s not how it happens.

Instead, Hermione murmurs an incantation, moves her wrist, waves her wand.

And he remembers everything.

“Oh, Harry,” she says with so much emotion and kindness, he thinks his chest might burst. And Harry must look as though he’s about to fall apart, because Hermione wraps her arms around him and squeezes him tight.

“Oh my god,” he says, burying his face in her hair. He thinks he might be sobbing. “Oh my god.”

“It’s all right, love,” she says, stroking his back. “It’s going to be all right.”

***

Harry returns to work.

Robards is happy to close the case files on four outstanding Death Eaters. Happy enough that he doesn’t ask too many questions, doesn’t dwell too long on the fact that they’re all dead. Which, after all, is decidedly not Harry’s standard modus operandi.

“Well, less Galleons spent on the trials, for one,” Gawain says gruffly. “What’s a bit of paperwork compared to days in court?”

At night, Harry goes home to his old, empty house, eats whatever Kreacher prepares, and lies in bed thinking about how it felt to curl up beside Severus. He falls asleep imagining what he’d do if he had Severus Snape naked again.

Harry’s lack of a sexuality crisis has been vaguely depressing, as if his body has only just caught up with what his subconscious knew all along. And that’s why his—albeit minimal—experiences with Cho, with Ginny were so unsatisfying.

At first, he thinks, maybe, Severus will turn up. Will Floo or, at least, send an owl. But a week goes by, then two. And Harry doesn’t hear from him at all.

Because, of course, he doesn’t. Why would he?

In the months leading up to their encounter with Dolohov, there’d been threats on Severus’s life. Death Eaters angry at his ultimate loyalties, his betrayal.

It had been Harry’s idea to use him as bait.

He knew Snape couldn’t very well refuse. Kingsley hadn’t yet pushed through his pardon, and they were trying to kill him.

Also, the bastard never was one to back down from a challenge.

Rowle had cornered him in Hogsmeade. It was too close to Hogwarts, to the students Severus would die to protect, so he’d killed him. And agreed to Harry’s plan.

One weekend. That’s all it would take. They’d lay the trap and get whoever fell into it to turn on the other Death Eaters still at large. Harry, after all, is nothing if not persuasive.

But things had gone wrong. They always go wrong.

***

Hogwarts looks exactly as Harry remembers. Which makes sense, considering Harry’s been back several times since the war, and he doubts the castle’s changed much in centuries, anyway. But the month he spent with Severus and no memories still feels like a lifetime. He was gone and came back a different person, so he thinks everything else should have changed as well, even if it didn’t.

Harry stands in the corridor outside Severus’s office because he can’t bring himself to knock. To find out if Severus will even answer. But Severus must have sensed him, known he was out there because suddenly the door opens and Severus is standing before him.

Severus’s shoulders are stiff, spine straight. And though his face appears perfectly, entirely blank, Harry can read him now, and he knows there’s something there that Snape doesn’t want Harry—or even himself—to see.

Neither of them speak.

“I’m not sure I know how to act around you anymore,” Harry finally manages, breaking the silence, and he thinks he sees something flicker in Severus’s eyes—like maybe Harry isn’t alone in that. Maybe Severus is just as uncertain, as adrift as he is.

“Then I’m not certain why you’re here, Mr. Potter,” Severus says, and the complete lack of emotion in his tone is meant to cut—to hurt Harry worse than any spell ever could. And it would. If Harry didn’t know better. Didn’t understand.

So, Harry scowls. “Just let me in. I need—we need to talk.”

Severus looks at him and, for a moment, Harry thinks he might refuse. He knows he wants to refuse. But then he steps back, opening the door wider for Harry to come inside. Harry follows Severus through the dark office to his rooms beyond.

Harry sits on Severus’s sofa whilst Severus takes the bottle of whisky off the sideboard and two glasses. He pours a generous splash into each, and hands one to Harry. But he does not sit down. Harry thanks him, watching as Severus paces in front of the fireplace. “Will you stop?” Harry says when his drink is half-gone, and Severus has hardly looked at him at all. “Can you at least look at me?”

Severus turns to stare, as though he can’t quite believe Harry is even here.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Harry says, standing. He moves beside Severus, setting his glass down on the mantel. He does not reach out to touch him, though his fingers itch to do so.

“It’s nice in here,” he says, when Severus remains silent. “Are all the professors’ rooms like this?”

“Some,” Severus says. “Not Minerva’s.”

“No,” Harry says. “I’ve been up there.”

Severus doesn’t respond. He just looks at Harry, fingers clenched around his glass. And the fact that Harry knows what he looks like on top of him, fingers clenched on his shoulder, his hips is enough to make Harry feel ill. He looks away again because why does this have to be so goddamned hard?

“It’s—” Harry’s mouth is dry, and he desperately wishes he could get his thoughts in order because he can’t sound like the idiot student Severus used to hate. He just can’t. “I mean—I feel like two people. I’m an Auror, of course. I fought in a war, and you were my professor. We saved each other’s lives and I think we respected one another but that’s not—that’s not who we were when we were tracking down Death Eaters and living out of hotel rooms, and—” He looks down again, shaking his head. “And I thought I loved you.” He can’t look at Severus. Not now. Not after admitting that. But it’s true. It’s so painfully, alarmingly true. “Nothing makes sense anymore, Severus,” Harry says.

He hears Severus exhale, and for one brief, horrifying moment, Harry thinks he’s going to tell him not to call him that—not to use his name. But when he glances up again, Severus only looks as lost, as stricken as Harry feels.

“I didn’t know,” Harry says, and he sounds a little frantic. “We didn’t know. So, it was easy. There was no history, no past…just us.”

Harry picks up his glass again to have something to do with his hands and waits, because what else is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to know what to do? But Severus doesn’t say anything. He just takes a long sip of his drink and turns back to the fireplace.

“You were my first, you know.” It slips out, and Harry feels young and embarrassed because why the hell did he just say that? Severus didn’t know before. No reason to tell him now. “I mean, I’d kissed a few girls back in school. And I let some bloke suck me off in the loo of some bar once, but…” Fuck, he’s not making this any better. He tries to smile, but he’s sure it looks more like a grimace.

“Potter—Harry, I’m—”

“No,” Harry cuts him off. “Don’t apologise. Please. I can’t handle knowing you regret it.”

Severus sits down on the sofa. He looks miserable.

Harry sits down beside him. “I know you don’t want me—that you would have never wanted me…” Harry’s voice shakes. Why does his voice have to shake? “And everything is different now, but I thought—” Harry trails off because he doesn’t actually know what he thought. What he could possibly say to Severus? Everything they believed about what they meant to one another was wrong. And he’s the absolute last possible person Severus would want a relationship with.

Harry tries to take a steadying breath. But then Severus’s hand is on his cheek. Harry leans into the touch without thinking, but then he stiffens because this Severus isn’t his Severus.

“I think I do,” Severus says. His voice is very soft.

“No.” Harry is shaking his head. “That’s not—you can’t want—”

But Severus has not moved his hand. His thumb is sliding back and forth along the line of his jaw.

“Part of me didn’t want to remember,” Severus admits quietly. “Because I knew, deep down, it wouldn’t be the same.”

Oh.

“We were happy.” Harry says. “Despite everything, we were.”

“You were happy?” The uncertainty in Severus’s voice nearly guts Harry.

“Yes, you bastard. Despite the amnesia and the vehicular theft and the murder—so much murder—I was really fucking happy.”

And then Severus’s mouth is on Harry’s, desperate and wanting, and everything Harry’s been missing these past few weeks.

“I’m not sorry,” Severus says, pulling back just enough to breathe against his lips. “Perhaps I should be, but I’m not.”

“Yeah?” Harry says hoping and not wanting to hope all at the same time.

“Being with you,” Severus says, hands coming to grip Harry’s waist, “was everything.”

Severus doesn’t bother with the lights, as he half-drags Harry down the narrow hallway to his bedroom. The bed is unmade. Sheets rumpled and smelling of Severus. And Harry thinks it will be awkward, because he’s himself again and Severus is, well, Severus.

Oh my god, he’s going to bed with Severus Snape.

But they’ve done this before, even if it wasn’t who they are now.

They’re both so hard, yet Severus is composed, controlled as he undresses Harry—it’s exactly how Harry would have expected him to be, before they knew each other without knowing each other at all.

But Harry scratches his nails down Severus’s back, and Severus pushes his legs up against his chest, leaving him open and exposed, leaning down to kiss Harry once again.

“I’ve missed all the noises you make,” Severus says, biting at his jaw, his neck. “You sound so lovely when you want me.”

“God, yes,” Harry moans. “I do. I do want you.” He digs his heels into the bed as Severus thrusts into him. One deep, long, slide. “Fuck, yes,” he hears himself saying. “Just like that. Exactly like that.”

And then Severus’s hands are on his hips, and his teeth are on his neck. Harry has to brace himself against the headboard as Severus thrusts into him again and again until they’re both coming apart with the pleasure of it all.

“It’s funny,” Harry says, after, head on Severus’s shoulder, mouth pressed to his skin. He feels sated, warm, and so perfectly at home. “It took me not knowing anything at all to know exactly what I wanted.”

Severus breathes out, and shifts closer, arm secure around Harry’s waist. “I know precisely what you mean.”