The Profile – a new short story

Story: The Profile
Author email: barbarella_od @ yahoo . com . au
Disclaimer: Only the plot, such as it is, is mine. Everything else is owned by JKR and her affiliates, all of whom are far richer than I'll ever be. I am simply lending them for a little while so that the poor boys can get laid.
Rating: NC17 for graphic sexual situations, language, adult themes
Pairing: Snape/Harry (long live the Snarry!)
Spoilers: up to and including Half Blood Prince (don't read if you haven't finished HBP yet!)
Summary: Harry finally gets his man.
Author's Note: This is a totally stand-alone, one off story. It's a new, post-HBP Snarry for me and it doesn't link up to any of my other Snarry tales. The scene here of Harry and Snape in a police station started playing in my mind just hours after finishing HBP on Saturday 16th July. I couldn't go on with anything else until I'd written it down, so here 'tis.
Word Count: just over 7,100 words

WARNING – Seriously big spoilers for HBP. Don't continue reading if you haven't finished book 6 yet. :)




'I'm bringing in the Profiler. Let him have a talk to this sack of shit.'

Well, really. Some Muggles had such colourful turns of phrase.

Snape turned to the young law enforcement officer to whom he was handcuffed. 'What is a Profiler?'

The young man seemed to jump a little at being asked a direct question by the prisoner, but swiftly calmed himself, sad brown eyes leaping about to gaze at Snape, the door, the retreating senior officer, the other doors, back at Snape and then down at blank expanse of tabletop before them. 'Um. He's a, sort of, psychologist bloke, I guess. Helps us form an idea of the kinds of people we're chasing down.'

'But you have, quite obviously, already "chased me down".'

'Ar, yeah. He does other stuff, too. Talks to prisoners when we bring them in.'

'Ah.' Snape nodded, long swathes of lank black hair moving against his sunken cheeks.

Through one of the many doors leading out of the room, the senior officer ambled back in accompanied by the man Snape assumed must be the Profiler. The two men were in deep conversation, the considerable bulk of the senior officer obscuring most of Snape's view of the other man. 'Is that him?'

'Yeah.'

'And what can I expect this Profiler to do to me?'

'Er. He'll just talk with you. I guess. He's pretty good, you know.'

'Helped you chase down a lot of sacks of shit, has he?'

The young man blanched. 'He's good at his job,' he reiterated.

Despite conversing with the nervous youth beside him, Snape could hear quite well the low tones of the briefing the other officer was giving the Profiler behind him. 'We think he's probably late-thirties, no older than forty, for sure. Doesn't have any I.D. on him and refuses to give his name. We picked him up after a call from the shitty little hotel he was staying in. Manager there reckoned he's a complete weirdo, seems to get some sort of kick out of making people think he's a scary warlock type or something. Nobody trusts him – seems to scare the shit out of most people he comes in contact with. And after the murders around the area in the last few months… well, people always start grassing up the local freak population. Par for the course. But there was just something about this one. Don't know what it is, Prince, but I reckon you'll find something in that ugly head if you poke around in it enough.'

'Put him in Interview Three,' responded a croaky voice. 'And get that poor kid unhooked from him.'

'There's no two-way mirror in Three, you realise? Won't you be wanting a guard in there with you?'

'Nah. Cuff him to the table if you want. I'm just gonna grab a coffee.'

Snape turned his head in time to catch a glimpse of the croaky-voiced Profiler as he left again, just the merest flash of black clothes and the back of a bald head. Well. He'd be meeting him soon anyway. Time enough for looking then.

'Up!' barked the senior officer as he returned to the table. The younger officer jumped at the sound. Snape did not.

He was lead away down a dingy corridor, each office he could see into along the way looking drearier and more dismal than the last. Finally, somewhere in a basement, a door with a large number 3 on it was pushed open before him. The handcuffs joining him to the nervous young man were unlocked, the bracelet that had clasped his partner's wrist now placed around one of the metal legs of the table and re-locked. Snape sat on a cold and uncomfortable steel chair, his back to the door. The table he sat at contained nothing but a round metal ashtray. The walls were unadorned except for a large clock. Several minutes went by before a gravelly voice told the young man he could leave and then the door with the large number 3 was closed. Snape looked straight ahead at the bare wall.

'This is just a regular police station, you know.' The Profiler sounded like he either had the worst throaty cold imaginable, or had been punched in the larynx repeatedly at some point in his life.

'I know little of such places,' Snape told the wall before him.

'Those are just simple handcuffs. With a rudimentary locking mechanism.'

Snape spared the chrome bracelet the merest of glances. 'So I see.' He could smell disgusting Muggle coffee. Could hear a couple of slow footsteps moving further into the room.

'Did they tell you what my job here is?'

'You are a Profiler, are you not?'

'Indeed.'

'They tell me you are very good at your job.'

The grim, throaty laugh sounded more like a cough. 'They say it's almost like I can read people's minds.'

Two more footsteps, and the Profiler entered the edge of Snape's peripheral vision. The man was tall, but not quite as tall as Snape. The shoulders were broad and square, the physique generally solid but slim, a little… rangy, might be the term. Snape had been wrong in his previous description of the man's head – it was not bald, it had been shaved, probably some weeks ago now, judging by the short, dark regrowth. There were spectacles at one end, scuffed motorcycle boots at the other, black jeans and black denim jacket in between. Snape could have turned his head and looked properly but he was determined to wait until the Profiler came to sit across from him. Snape was a patient man.

'Why didn't you Apparate?' Only decades of holding his emotions and reactions in miserly check stopped Snape from showing any surprise at the question. 'Come to think of it – why don't you Apparate now?'

A paper cup of the foul-smelling coffee was set down and then the Profiler was sliding onto the steel chair on the other side of the table, vivid green eyes gazing out at Snape from behind the round spectacles. Subconsciously, Snape gave the tiniest of experimental tugs on the manacle at his wrist, the clinking of it moving against the table leg the only sound in the dim room.

'The man who arrested me called you Prince.'

'Indeed. I changed my name to Harry Prince when I entered university to do my Psychology degree.'

'So Harry Potter no longer exists?'

The Profiler gave a slight shake of his shorn head. 'Not for some years now.'

'And you decided on a whim,' Snape sneered, 'to take my mother's name?'

'Hardly on a whim, Snape.' Harry leaned back on his chair and crossed his long legs, one pale hand delving inside his jacket to retrieve a cigarette holder and a lighter. Snape watched him remove one of the cylinders from the burgundy box, tap it several times on the lid and place it in his mouth, flicking the lighter into service with a deft wrist movement.

'You've picked up that disgusting Muggle habit.'

Harry moved the holder and lighter aside on the table, blew a lungful of smoke into the room and nodded. 'Would you like one?'

Snape's top lip curled slightly. 'Thank-you, no. I can hear how good the habit has been for your voice and I've always rather liked mine the way it is.'

There was that grim cough of a laugh again. 'You think smokes did this?' He shook his head. 'When someone sets your vocal cords on fire and there's no handy Mediwitch or Potions Master around…' the square shoulders shrugged. 'It's actually a lot better than it was a few years ago. Believe it or not.'

'And to what other foul Muggle vices have you succumbed, Potter?' The green eyes looked at him a little pointedly. 'Please. You don't seriously expect me to call you by my mother's name, do you?'

'My name now, Snape. But you could always call me Harry.'

'On the contrary. I always found it quite difficult to address you with such familiarity.'

A vague smile pulled at the mouth and Harry tried to cover it by drawing on the burning stick again. 'So, you never answered my question. Why didn't you Apparate when they arrested you? Or now, for that matter? Haven't lost your magic, have you?'

Snape glared. 'Perhaps I was curious to see the inner workings of Muggle London's famed constabulary?'

The green gaze swept over their mean surrounds. 'You realise Sherlock Holmes was a fiction, I hope?'

'Why was I arrested?'

Harry looked at him steadily. 'They suspect you of something.'

'Such as?'

'They don't really know. That's why I've got you for the next hour.'

'A whole hour?' One perfect black eyebrow arched up. 'What will we find to talk about for all that time, I wonder?'

Harry exhaled a large plume of bluish smoke. 'There's been five people murdered in the last three months, all within a half hour's walk of the hotel you've been living in. People are getting jumpy, suspicious. Anyone… unusual is being reported to the police by nervous neighbours.'

'And the police have the resources to appease all of these jumpy, suspicious, nervous Muggles?'

Harry sniffed. 'Hardly. But when they think somebody's a little more suspicious than the norm, those people usually end up with a visit from someone like me.'

'And you're so very good at your job.'

'Yup.'

'So good they say it's like you can read people's minds?'

'Yup.'

'Finally mastered Legilimency, did we?'

Harry actually gave him a proper smile. 'Yup.'

'That must come in very handy in your line of work. Well. Don't keep me in suspense a moment longer, Mister Potter. Pray tell – am I your man?'

Snape watched the green eyes narrow fractionally. 'Yes,' Harry said softly. 'And no.'

'I should think it's a simple enough question, Potter. Am I or am I not a murderer?'

'I know you are.'

Snape shoved his free hand into his hair and pulled it back from his face. 'Five dead Muggles within a half hour's walk of my place of abode?'

'No, not them.'

'Ah. So we're back to that again, are we?'

'You and I were never away from it, Snape.'

'Is this going to get nasty? Because I would remind you that I am wandless right now.'

Harry took a final drag on his cigarette and stubbed the butt into the ashtray on the table. 'How old are you?'

Snape blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'How old are you now? I'm coming up to twenty-six so you must be, what? Forty-five now, right?'

'And your point would be?'

'You hardly look any different, that's all. Bit skinnier, maybe. But you haven't even got any grey hair. Or is there a nifty potion for that?'

'We often don't age the same way that Muggles do, Potter. Surely even you could have worked out that much a long time ago?'

'Doesn't make it any less surprising when I see the evidence of it. You probably need to get a few hearty meals into you, Snape. But apart from that – you're not looking too bad.'

Snape kept his expression blank while his mind churned that comment over. What was the brat up to? 'Whilst your visage,' he sneered aloud, 'appears to have quite lost its youthful bloom, I'm sad to say.'

'Why would that make you sad?'

'It is merely a turn of phrase, Potter, don't get excited.'

'By you?' The brat smirked. 'You don't wanna go there.'

'Oh dear. Fancy ourselves as a man of the world now, do we?'

Harry's green gaze seemed to flash brighter momentarily. 'I've seen and done plenty.'

'You look older than your years, boy, it must have been a whole lot of plenty.'

The coughy laugh turned into a proper cough for a few seconds. 'You could never just be nice to me, could you?'

'No. I could not.'

'Couldn't? Or just didn't want to be?'

'Both.'

'I actually felt sorry for you for a little while, you know.'

'Be still my beating heart.'

'Back in fifth year,' Harry continued, letting Snape's sarcasm sail right over him. 'When I saw what was in your pensieve.'

'Oh yes. So sorry for me that you risked expulsion trying to seek assurance from your mangy dogfather that dear James can't possibly have been all that bad, really. It was still all about you and your sainted sire, Potter. My presence in the situation was virtually coincidental.'

'You knew I spoke to Sirius about that?'

Snape rolled his eyes. 'I was in a secret society with he and Lupin at the time, if you will recall – '

'You guys actually used to talk about me?'

'Your two lapdogs could barely bring themselves to yap of much else.'

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. 'It wasn't just about how I felt about my Dad, you know. I really did feel for you in there. The fifteen-year-old you, at any rate.'

'That… did not go unnoticed.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I could never just be nice to you, Potter. And I could never allow your feelings toward me to soften, either.'

Harry stared for a moment. 'I don't get it.'

'Did you actually pass that degree in Psychology?'

Harry uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, scraping his chair in closer to the table. 'Are you honestly telling me that you KNEW I felt sorry for you? Why didn't you say anything? Why weren't you – '

'Nicer about it?' Snape glared. 'I believe I just explained that, not half a moment ago.'

'Explain better.'

'Am I entitled to a cup of tea in this place?'

Harry glared back at him then stood abruptly and marched over to the door, flinging it wide. 'Travis!' he called down the basement corridor. 'Can you bring us a couple of cups of tea down here, please! Milk! No sugar! Proper cups! And make it quick!'

'Yes, Mister Prince!' called an answering voice from some distance away.

Harry left the door open and came back to the table, taking his seat again and re-crossing his legs. No doubt in an attempt to fill the time until their teas arrived, he took up his cigarette case again and set about lighting himself another smoke. A minute or so later, when Travis brought the two steaming mugs in, Harry stubbed out his only-half finished cigarette and thanked the young man. He waited further while Travis left and closed the door, and waited further still to be sure that he had moved sufficiently far up the hallway to not be within earshot.

'So what's all this bullshit about my feelings toward you softening?'

'Oh? Was it bullshit? I thought you said you actually felt sorry for me?'

'I did! Stop fucking me around and just TALK, for godssake!'

Snape sighed dramatically, took a one-handed sip of his tea and tried explaining things as though for the benefit of a six-year-old. 'That memory was in my pensieve. I put it there, along with certain others, so that you wouldn't see it accidentally during our Occlumency lessons.'

'Yeah, I know that.'

'But why did I do that, Potter?'

'You've just said – so that I wouldn't see them.'

Snape couldn't stop himself rolling his eyes yet again. 'Why did I not wish for you to see them?'

'Because… they were private?'

'All my personal thoughts are PRIVATE, you imbecile! Why didn't I want you to see that one?'

There was something of the old Harry creeping into the green eyes now, some of the old teenage defiance that Snape remembered seeing in so many lessons. 'Because you were embarrassed by it, probably. It was pretty humiliating…'

'Because it was one of a selection that was most likely to make you feel sorry for me, that you, at fifteen years, would relate to most strongly. Had you had more time, I'm sure you would have made your way through the rest of them at your leisure.'

'But that's fucked!'

'I'm sorry?'

'It was a GOOD thing I saw it! Wasn't it? It was good that I related to you, even if it was just that little bit. For a short while, at least, I didn't hate you quite so much as I'd done.'

'Your feelings toward me softened. Yes, we've been over this.'

Harry took his glasses off roughly and rubbed at his left eye with two knuckles before putting the spectacles back on again. 'But why is that so bloody horrible? That's what I don't understand.'

'The Dark Lord was using your scar as a seeing glass at the time, Potter. The animosity between you and I kept us both alive for a lot longer than we otherwise might have. How long do you think I would have lasted in his camp if he had seen you softening up to me, seen you becoming,' Snape allowed himself another sneer, 'fond of me?'

'Hmph. Don't think there was ever much chance of THAT!'

'Indeed. And why is that, exactly? Because you and I have so little in common? Because you and I are such wildly different men? No. Because I could never just be nice to you and I could never allow your feelings toward me to soften.'

Understanding, finally, seemed to be flaring in the emerald pools. 'So you really did have it in for me. No wonder I could never do anything right as far as you were concerned.'

'I had it "in for you" because circumstances demanded it. It's just the way things were. It was what had to be done.'

Harry nodded slowly, a grim expression on his pale features. 'And you were always so good at what HAD to be done. Weren't you?'

'Are we back to that again?'

Harry shrugged and picked up his mug of tea. For a few minutes, the two men sat in silence, Snape drinking his tea or watching the clock – all the while taking in details about his former student. The burgundy material of the cigarette case was dragon hide and the lighter had been purchased in a pub in Islington. The famous scar on the forehead had faded to near invisibility. There was a plain silver loop lodged in the left earlobe, but no other jewellery to be seen. The plain looking fountain pen that was housed in the left outer breast pocket of the denim jacket was no doubt Potter's wand, transfigured for day-to-day use. Most curious of all, on the left hand, at the base of the thumb, there was the tattooed outline of a tiny black serpent.

'It's for the Parseltongue,' Harry suddenly said, obviously having caught Snape looking. 'Always handy to have one on me.'

'Literally.'

There was that proper smile again, just briefly. 'Well, yeah.'

'Yes,' Snape sighed. 'I have a serpent on my left limb, too, but I doubt it's ever been as useful as yours.'

'Still a funny bugger.'

'Still, Mister Potter?'

'You were funny. Sometimes. When I was at school.'

'Indeed?'

'Yeah. I didn't get it at the time, of course. But looking back over some of those memories later on… When was the last time you got laid?'

'I'm not answering that.'

'I can ask you anything I like in this room, Snape.'

'My sex life is somehow relevant to your investigation, is it?'

'Everything's relevant while I'm building a profile.'

'Why don't you just Legilimens me? Seeing as that's about as far as your so-called "profile building" extends? Merely poking about in some poor sod's mind without permission?'

Harry leaned forward, his expression hardened. 'But I can't do that with you, can I? Probably the greatest Occlumens in the world, you. I'm not even gonna bother.'

'Harry Potter, giving up without a fight? Not even a tantrum?'

'Oh, I can throw a tanty if you really want me to! Always happy to oblige anyone who wants to think the worst of me.'

'How rich your life must be.'

'Prick.'

'Back to my sex life, then…'

Snape couldn't tell if the next sound out of Harry was the coughy laugh or the genuine cough. The hand with the tattooed snake reached out and pulled the cigarette holder and lighter back toward the edge of the table. Harry put the items back inside his jacket and gazed across the table at Snape.

'I think we're done here.'

'That was a quick hour, Potter.'

'I often don't need the hour they allot me with suspects.'

'Because you're so very good at your job.'

Harry winked. 'So I am.' The metal feet of the chair screeched on the floor as Harry stood up. 'Interesting to see you again, Snape. Take care, yeah?' The little bastard actually had the nerve to pat Snape's shoulder heavily as he passed by on his way to the door.

Snape continued to look straight ahead at the bare wall, his fine hearing listening to the voices in the corridor.

'He's not your bloke.'

'You sure, Prince?'

'Never been wrong before, have I?'

'So what should we do with him?'

'Let him go, I guess.'





Muggle London's famed constabulary managed to keep Snape detained by paperwork and bureaucracy for a further three and a half hours before he was given back his personal effects and permitted to leave. He walked around a corner to the nearest alleyway and Apparated straight away to the alley nearest his hotel.

Ballywick, the hotel manager, gave him a decidedly shifty look when he crossed through the lobby to the old staircase with its threadbare carpet runner. At least he knew precisely who had alerted the police to his apparently freakish existence.





A knock on his door at almost ten p.m. was unusual enough to make him reach for his wand before answering. What he found on the other side when the door opened was enough to make his wand hand grip tighter.

'Potter.'

'You killed him.'

'Are we back to that again?'

Harry was holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand and a black leather satchel in the other. The latter, he held up slightly. 'I've brought wine.'

'Is it any good?'

'It's excellent.'

'Then you had better come inside.'

Harry walked in and immediately dumped his helmet on top of the solitary chest of drawers. 'Nice,' he said, sweeping that green gaze quickly over the meagre room and its sorry furnishings.

'Don't be ridiculous.' Snape took two regular glasses from the sink area Ballywick had the gall to advertise as a "kitchenette". 'Is it red or white?'

'Hm? Oh, red.'

Snape placed the glasses on the wooden table and pointed his wand at them. Two gentle taps, and they had transfigured into tall-stemmed wine glasses with wide bodies – perfect for allowing red wine to breathe once poured. He busied himself with the bottle of wine while Potter divested himself of the heavy leather jacket and protective gloves, placing the gloves inside the helmet and the jacket on the lumpy bed.

'Hey, look at this!' he exclaimed, as he came to stand next to Snape at the table. 'I'm almost as tall as you these days!'

'Indeed. Though if you still had that bird's nest on top of your head, it would give you the requisite extra inch or two, no doubt.'

Harry accepted the wine glass as Snape handed it to him. 'At least I finally found a way to tame it, eh?'

'More an elimination than a taming, I'd say.'

'You would.' Harry threw himself down onto one of the straight-backed chairs at the table. 'Cheers.' He took an unnecessarily long gulp of wine.

Snape sat down on the other chair calmly. 'Cheers,' he murmured and took a sip. Harry's assessment of the wine had indeed been correct. 'How did you know wh – '

'It was in your file.'

'Naturally. How did you know I would still be here?'

'I didn't. Took a chance.'

'Should I ask why?'

'Shouldn't bother. I don't know either.'

Long minutes passed with neither of them saying anything further. Harry seemed quite content to stare unashamedly at everything around him – Snape's trunk and potions supplies, Snape's bookshelf, Snape's bed, Snape's face. They both finished their first glass of wine. Harry reached into a pocket for his cigarette case while Snape poured them both another.

'I would prefer you didn't do that in here, Potter.'

'The hotel doesn't allow it?'

'I have no idea and care even less. My nose, however, would prefer to be able to smell potions tomorrow morning.' Snape picked up his replenished glass. 'And this wine tonight, of course.'

Harry pushed the burgundy case back into his pocket. 'Sorry.'

'Excuse me? Did I just hear that correctly? The Boy Who Lived just apologised?'

'Don't call me that.' Oh, that rosy mouth could still pout for England…

'So, what do your fans call you these days? The Man Who Lived? The Greatest Profiler In The West? The Chosen Cop?'

'When was the last time you got laid?'

'I'm not answering that.'

Harry put his mouth to his wine glass and drank until it was empty. 'You could never just be nice to me.'

'I think you should leave now, Potter.'





If Snape had been surprised by Harry's visit that night, he was nothing short of shocked the following evening when, just before ten p.m., there came the same knock at his door. His shock never showed on his face or in his demeanour, of course, when he found himself faced yet again with a leather clad Harry holding a helmet and a black satchel.

'Potter.'

'You killed him.'

'Are we back to that again?'

'I've brought scotch.'

'Is it any good?'

'It's alright.'

'Then you had better come inside.'

For the second night in a row, the two ordinary glasses were transfigured, this time into cut-crystal whisky tumblers. For the second night in a row, Harry put his helmet and gloves on top of the chest of drawers, his jacket on the lumpy bed and himself on a chair at the table.

'I don't see any of them anymore, you know. Anyone I went to school with. Except Neville.'

'Longbottom's still at large?'

'Yeah. I put his name forward with the Met as an expert herbologist. He gets called in on cases occasionally.'

'So there are no Weasleys left in your life, Potter?'

The green eyes darkened fractionally behind the glasses. 'None. I keep an eye on the twins – they don't know about it, but I do.'

'I'd be quite surprised if they didn't know about it, and simply don't let you know.'

Another almost-smile was hidden behind a convenient beverage. 'Maybe.'

'How goes your murder investigation?'

'I'm not at liberty to divulge that information.'

'It's not going well, then?'

Harry gazed at him steadily. 'Indeed.'

They drank in companionable silence for a short while, Harry occasionally seeming to reach into a pocket for his smokes and then remembering not to.

'Did your Dark Mark fade after? After, you know… he fell?'

'Like your scar?'

'Yeah. Like that.'

Snape uncuffed his left shirt sleeve swiftly and pushed the fabric up his arm. He looked back up at Harry and arched one eyebrow.

'Obviously not, then,' Harry murmured in slight distaste and watched Snape roll his sleeve down neatly once more.

'Is that why you shaved your head? Because your scar had faded so much that you didn't have to cover it with that black mess anymore?'

Ah, there it was – the proper smile. Rare little beastie it seemed to be these days. 'That was one reason,' Harry conceded. 'Also, I don't have to worry about Helmet Hair now.'

'No. It looks equally appalling, no matter what you do to it, I suppose.'

'When was the last time you got laid?'

'I'm not answering that. I think you should leave now, Potter.'





The third night, ten p.m. came and went without a knock at Snape's door. Snape was reading Jane Austen and really didn't care. Sixteen minutes after eleven, however, he was standing across the threshold from a helmet and a satchel once more.

'You killed him.'

'Are we back to that again?'

'I've brought vodka.'

'Is it any good?'

'It's passable.'

'Then you had better come inside.'

Helmet and gloves on the chest of drawers, jacket on the lumpy bed, Harry at the table. Two ordinary glasses transfigured into hand-blown shot glasses.

'Sorry I'm late.'

'Are you? Late for what?'

'Another look at my profile.'

'Whoever would've guessed you'd turn into a dedicated professional?'

'We can't all work out what we want as early in life as you obviously did, Snape.'

Snape sniffed regally and knocked back his vodka shot. He glared at Harry until the other shot glass banged back, empty, onto the tabletop and then refilled their glasses. 'I suppose I should ask you what sort of machine it is you're riding about on? Those of you with that peculiar compulsion usually like to talk about it.'

The gravelly voice chuckled. 'It's a Norton, actually.'

'How very English of you. British Racing Green, I suppose?'

'Black.'

'As equally unimaginative.' Snape poured another round of shots. 'It doesn't fly, does it?'

'Not fucking likely.'

'The broomstick would get jealous, obviously.'

'Haven't been on a broom for ages.'

'Oh? No local Saturday morning Quidditch game to help stave off the beer belly and convince you you're still one of the lads?'

Harry tried to cross his legs, realised there wasn't enough room under the table to do so, and swivelled slightly to the side on his chair so as to cross them properly. 'Haven't played Quidditch since Sixth Year.'

'You were good at it.'

'I know. But I had more important things to do.'

'I know. But he and I only took up another year of your precious time.'

'So you seem to think.'

More vodka slopped into the tiny glasses. Silently, they both took up their shots and knocked them back.

Harry, not for the first time, winked at Snape. 'When was the last time you got laid?'

'I think you should leave now, Potter.'





'You killed him.'

'Are we back to that again?'

'I've brought tequila.'

'Is it any good?'

'It's appalling.'

'Then you had better come inside.'

Chest of drawers, lumpy bed, table. Two ordinary glasses transfigured into three-inch high, frosted glass tequila slammers.

'Are you going to tell me what I've done to deserve your company four nights in a row?'

'Not until we're at least halfway down this bottle.'

'I bet that's what the worm said, too.'

Half a bottle of appalling tequila later, Snape was still sitting ramrod straight in his chair. Harry was slouching against the table. 'I don't s'pose you'll have an instant sober-up potion on hand when I'm ready to leave, will you?'

'And deny your Norton the pleasure of a drunken Saviour straddling it and attempting to get it home in one piece?'

'I'll have to stay here.'

'You'll do no such thing.'

'It's a fucking hotel, isn't it? I can find a room.'

Snape pushed his hair off his face roughly. 'As you wish.'

'Shut up and pour.'

'Gods, you're so charming when you're intoxicated, Potter.'

'Fuck you!'

'I think you should leave now.'





The fifth night, Snape finished reading the Jane Austen some time after midnight and retired to bed sober, his evening having been completely interruption-free.





'You killed him.'

Snape sighed heavily. 'Are we back to that again?'

'I've brought Firewhisky.'

'Is it any good?'

'It's utterly shiteful.'

'Then you had better come inside.'

Chest of drawers, lumpy bed, table. Two ordinary glasses remaining two ordinary glasses.

'We caught our murderer today, by the way.'

'I wondered why Ballywick was absent from the lobby desk.'

'You knew it was him?'

'I had my suspicions.'

'Why didn't you say anything?'

'You're supposed to be the expert, Potter.'

'You're impossible.'

'Still a slow learner, despite your expertise.'

They drank in silence for a couple of minutes. In a fit of what Snape could only imagine was nervousness, Harry took his cigarettes out and had one in his mouth before remembering himself and putting it away again. 'There was something I wanted to tell you about.'

Snape put his glass down. 'I thought there might be.'

'He left me some things. Dumbledore. In his will.'

'You're not the only one.'

Green eyes gazed at him for a moment. 'No, I… I guess not.'

Snape refilled their glasses. 'So what did he leave you?'

'Bottles.'

'Bottles?'

'Little ones. With memories inside.'

'Ah. Those kinds of bottles.'

'Do you wanna know what was in them? In the memories, I mean?'

'I think I can guess.' He stared at Harry's pale face, made older than its years by teenage trauma and a spectacularly bad haircut.

'He made you promise him.'

'It's taken you six evenings to work your way up to saying this? Yes, Potter.'

'You didn't want to do it.'

'I most certainly would have preferred not to.'

'And I called you a coward for it.'

'The animosity between you and I kept us both alive for a lot longer than we otherwise might have.'

'I take it back.'

'Do you, indeed?'

'When was the last time you got laid?'

Snape looked him steadily in those emerald green eyes. 'You've played Quidditch more recently.'

Harry nodded and drank down the remainder of his Firewhisky. Standing up, the little bastard actually had the nerve to tug on Snape's sleeve lightly. 'Leave that. Get over here.' Leading him away from the table, pulling him across the small room toward the bed.

'It's lumpy.'

'I don't care.'

'Move your jacket off it.'

'Way ahead of you.'

One body on that torturous bed was uncomfortable enough. Two was a wretched bliss. It was almost like fighting again – two powerful men, evenly matched, once more thrown together by forces over which neither had much control.

Harry practically tore off his own shirt and crouched over Snape after dropping it to the floor. The young chest was firm and sparsely haired, a multi-coloured phoenix tattooed on the left pectoral.

'Nice work of art, Potter.'

Harry's proper smile appeared. 'Let's see you.' Pale hands on Snape's chest, fidgety fingers undoing button after button. When the fingers touched his skin he had to command himself not to gasp; they were chilled and scorching at the same time. Harry swept his thumbs over Snape's dark nipples, splayed what once were sportsman's hands upon Snape's ribcage, lowered his face down and rubbed it back and forth across Snape's concave belly. Green eyes were lazy with lust by the time Harry unbuttoned the front of Snape's trousers and then hauled Snape over onto his front.

Snape lifted his hips so that Harry could tug the garments down off his pelvis, over his arse and down his thin, pale legs. He felt the need to swear and call Harry an utter cunt when the young man left him like that momentarily to leap off the bed and fumble around in his motorcycle jacket for something. Snape buried his face in his pillow and sighed to himself for being such a stupid old fuck. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? But then the bed springs creaked again and the mattress sank down between his spread legs, because that was where Harry was and Harry's legs were now naked, too, and two of Harry's fingers were slippery and curious and Snape had very nearly allowed himself to forget what that felt like.

'Breathe, Snape.'

Easier said than done, when one's face is buried in a musty hotel pillow and one's arse is being stretched for the first time in over a decade. Snape turned his head to the side and inhaled, smelling Harry and Firewhisky and lubricant and motorcycle leathers. A third finger pushed into him.

'That's it.'

'I won't break, you know, Potter.'

Coughy laugh. 'Won't you? Okay, then.' The fingers slammed at his hole. Snape's eyes fluttered closed. There was only one thing that felt better than that, his memory was telling him. His hips lifted up again and Harry scooted up close, pushing his body against his hand, forcing his fingers deeper.

'Think you might be ready? It's not like I'm huge or anything…'

Snape smirked against his pillow. 'Only grown in height, have we, Boy Wonder?' The three fingers left him abruptly and something blunt and large pressed against where they'd just been.

'Last chance to tell me to fuck off, Snape.'

'Potter?'

'Yeah?'

'Fuck.'

Harry waited two, maybe three seconds to see if an "Off" was following, then took a good, solid hold on Snape's hips and eased his rigid cock inside.

'Let me know if I hurt you,' the rough voice said over him.

'You'll know. You'll be hexed out the window.'

'So, if I'm still here, I'm doing okay, then?'

'Just get on with it, Potter.'

'It's just… it's been a little while for me, too. Might be a bit out of practice.'

Snape felt the nudge of balls against him and knew he was full of prick. 'Potter?'

'Yeah?'

'You're doing fine.'

Harry's body was over his, Harry's tattooed chest pressed against his shoulder blades, one of Harry's hard thighs sliding over the top of one of his. Harry's arms were braced on either side of him, pale hands pushing down into the off-white of nasty hotel bed linen.

'Mm,' croaked the gravelly voice in a rather painful sounding way, and then Harry was moving on him, moving in him. Coarse, damp hair grinding against his bum, Firewhisky breath fanning over his ear and cheekbone, flat chest pressed to his back, cock inside him, man fucking him.

'Harder, Potter.'

'Yeah.' Harry lifted his body off Snape's, got up onto his knees, pulling Snape's hips and impaled arse up with him as he went.

Snape buried his face in the pillow again, arse in the air, getting a good hard fucking from the only former student who would ever have the guts to give him one. The only one brave enough to suggest he might need it. The only one who knew enough of him to know that he needed it.

And, gods, it was good fucking. All that sliding and burning and fingertips and prostate and skin-on-skin rasping that Snape really had forgotten… All that flexing of muscle and curling and stretching of limb… All those grunts and sighs and rumbling groans, the urgings and the affirmations, the very vilest of swear words sounding gentle because they're being whispered, not yelled…

'More, Snape.'

Snape liked Harry's voice like that. He pushed his hips back and forth in a matching rhythm to Harry's thrusts in and out of his body. They were good like this. Even better than when they were duelling with wands or words.

Hand on his cock – yes, of course Harry would. More polite than Snape had ever really given him credit for. Harry bent over his back, mouth on Snape's shoulder, moaning onto his skin as cocks become slicker and harder and wetter and there they are, Harry and Snape and a bed that loudly hates them for doing this to it, both of them coming for another person for the first time in how bloody long?

The helmet and the gloves stayed on the chest of drawers that night. The leather jacket stayed where it had been thrown to the floor.





'And I thought the way you talk was the best possible use you could put that mouth to, Snape.'

'I have more skills than you might ever know, Potter.'

'Come here.'

Snape moved back up the bed to lie over a freshly-fellated and somewhat languid Harry Potter. He settled himself a little awkwardly over the Saviour's body and looked down into the green, green eyes. This was quite possibly the closest their faces had ever been. A fact that hadn't escaped the Profiler, obviously.

'Only us two could spend a night like last night together and not even kiss once.'

Snape held the younger man's gaze. 'Do you want me to kiss you?'

'When was the last time you kissed somebody?'

'You've played Quidditch more recently.'

'So you'd be a bit out of practice, then?'

'Undoubtedly. Plus, my mouth most assuredly must taste of last night's Firewhisky and this morning's semen.'

'I think you'd better kiss me, Snape.'

Lips dry. Nose squashed. Teeth bumping. Tongues furry. Cheeks and chins spiky with morning stubble. Snape had never had a kiss so beautiful.

'You're out of practice a bit.' Harry's gruff voice against his lips.

'I thought I might be.'

'Kiss me again.'





'This isn't the sort of hotel that does room service, is it?' Harry passed two cups of tea to Snape, climbed back into bed, and took one of the cups back. 'Okay, no need to glare. I know that was a stupid question.'

'You could order a delivery from outside, if you wish.'

'I can't picture you eating pizza.'

'I can't picture you on a motorcycle.'

'I couldn't picture you sucking my dick.'

'I couldn't picture you sucking my nose.'

Harry laughed so hard he coughed and spilt tea. 'Sorry about that.'

'You spilt it on yourself, Potter, what do I care?'

'No, I mean, sorry about the nose-sucking thing. That was a bit weird of me, I guess.'

'No, weird is you dragging me to bed in the first place. Everything that came after that was simply magnitudes thereof.'

'Why should it be so weird, me dragging you to bed?'

'I killed him.'

'Are we back to that again?'

'You and I were never away from it, Potter.'

A moment stretched between them, a moment in which terrible events unfolded in green eyes and black eyes but still came back to a kiss in a thoroughly terrible hotel.

'Why did you take my mother's name?'

'You changed my life, Snape.'

'How awful for you.'

'Are you being sarky?'

'Might be. I often am.'

'Just as well I like your profile so much. Makes up for the sunshine demeanour.'

'Ah, the profile. Did you complete it? Was the diagnosis "Sociopath"?'

'Not that profile.' Harry's free hand on Snape's face, pale fingers cupping his chin, turning him so that he faced straight ahead. 'There,' Harry said from beside him. 'That profile.' One fidgety finger traced a line, starting at Snape's greasy hairline, down his frowning forehead, over the ski-slope and hook of the nose, down onto the thin lips, over the chin and plunging down to the hollow at the base of his throat. 'That profile,' the rough voice said again, softer this time.

'Potter – '

'You could always call me Harry.'

'I could never be nice to you, Harry.'

'Could never, no. But can now, don't you think?'

'And allow your feelings toward me to soften?'

'Indeed.'


~~ fin ~~