Snarry-a-thon: Speed and Expediency

[drachenmina]

Now that the reveals are up, I'm posting my Snarry-a-thong fic here. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and/or recced it! *hugs you all* :D

Title: Speed and Expediency
Author: drachenmina
Other pairings/threesome: Some Regulus Black/Severus Snape, mention of Harry/OOC and Regulus/others
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 15,500
Warning(s): : The merest whiff of BDSM
Genre: : Post-war AU, humour.
Prompt: : (by accioslash) Now that Voldemort is gone for good, it's finally safe for Snape's former lover, Regulus Black, to return from the Muggle world where he had been safely hidden by Dumbledore. Regulus seems to think he and Severus can pick up their relationship where it left off, but Harry thinks he might want a chance with Snape. Neither Regulus nor Harry seem willing to take no for an answer and neither is willing to share. Prefer no threesomes (or moresomes), please.
Summary: Harry discovers motorbikes, sex, and Regulus Black. Severus discovers that you can’t go back, and that that’s not always a bad thing.
AN: Huge thanks to my wonderful beta, the lovely and talented gin_tonic!
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.




Harry’s bulleting down the Autobahn on his brand new Harley Davidson, three parts exhilarated and only one part sneakily wishing he hadn’t followed Ron’s airy advice to “just transfigure yourself a driving licence, you’ll pick it up as you go along.”

He’s actually feeling pretty chuffed he’s made it this far on his own, equipped only with a total ignorance of Muggle road systems and an inability to speak any language other than English. And some days (generally, the ones he spends with Hermione) he reckons he’s barely up to Sun reader fluency in that. German doesn’t seem all that difficult, though. For instance, he worked out hours ago that Ausfahrt, appearing as it does on an awful lot of Autobahn signs, is not, as he’d first thought, a particularly popular if unimaginative name for German towns. Although given the snigger potential in the name, he’d have to admit he’s a little disappointed.

Sirius would be proud of him, he thinks – off on his own like this on the open road. It’s a shame Harry couldn’t have ridden Sirius’ old bike, which would have been particularly useful on the Channel stretch, but frankly the old thing’s never been quite the same since they crashed it into the Tonks’ garden pond. Apparently the goldfish haven’t been doing too well since then either.

Still, the ferry crossing was quite an experience – Harry took an overnighter and had a few drinks, then just leant on the railing, looking out over the sea as the sun slipped pinkly over the horizon. He felt almost light-headed, realising that finally he was free to go where he wanted, do whatever he liked. No more Dark Lords to kill and no more exams, either.

He got chatting with a tall, dark bloke in leathers who he reckoned must be a fellow biker – all right, a biker: Harry’s got a pretty good idea you don’t really qualify to call yourself a biker when you’ve only been riding for less than a day and your leather trousers still creak. Not to mention, chafe like buggery. The bloke – Neil, his name was, and didn’t he have a few jokes about that? – was really friendly, insisted on buying Harry drinks and everything, then mentioned he had a cabin booked and did Harry want to come back and look at some photos of him and a mate biking in America?

To be honest, it sounded like a variation on the come up and see my etchings thing, but it turned out that the photos were real enough, and Harry’s new friend and his mate could have been in America for all Harry could tell, but there weren’t a lot of bikes involved or, for that matter, a right lot of clothes either. It was quite an education and the practical lessons that followed immediately afterwards definitely helped clarify some of the more obscure points, such as were Harry and Ginny ever going to be getting back together (a resounding no) and could you ever have too much of a good thing (again no, but this time with the proviso as long as you don’t run out of lube. Particularly if you have a long day’s bike-riding ahead of you).

In point of fact Harry doesn’t make it quite as far down towards Southern Germany as he’d hoped, that first day of riding, but he picks up some time on the Autobahns and anyway, it isn’t like he’s on a schedule. The bloke he’s going to see doesn’t even know he’s coming. Regulus Arcturus Black, revealed by Dumbledore’s portrait in typically off-hand manner to be alive and well and running a Porsche dealership in Stuttgart. Apparently he managed to dodge the Inferi in Voldemort’s cave after all, but decided he’d had enough of defying the Dark Lord after that and let Dumbledore spirit him away in some kind of Wizard’s Protection Program. A bit like he’d done with Snape’s mum. Harry still hasn’t got over the shock of finding out Madame Pince is really Eileen Snape, although to be honest it’s all wound up with the guilt of leaving her son to die like that. And he would have died, too, if it hadn’t been for his mum turning up, bezoar and blood-replenishers in hand. Well, everyone assumes that’s what she did, although Harry can quite imagine her just stalking into the Shrieking Shack and sternly forbidding Snape to die on her. Harry doesn’t reckon he’d have the bottle to go against a direct command from Hogwarts’ most formidable librarian, and they’re not even related.

There’s a service station coming up, so Harry pulls off the Autobahn. He could do with the loo, and in any case he reckons it’d be a good idea to fortify himself before meeting the newly-legendary Regulus Black. Harry wonders what he’ll be like. He’s Sirius’ brother, so there’ll probably be some family resemblance, but he’s a Slytherin, so does that mean he’ll be more like Snape? Harry smiles. Snape doesn’t know he’s here; he’s going to get a hell of a surprise when Harry gets back to England.

On his way back from the Herren, a bloke bumps into Harry and doesn’t apologise and the bored-looking girl at the sausage-stall can’t even be bothered to look at him as she takes his order, and Harry knows he’s grinning like an idiot but he just can’t help it. This is why he’s travelling this way, instead of Apparating or using the International Floo or letting Kingsley make him a Portkey. There’s a whole continent of people here and not one of them gives a rat’s arse about Harry Potter, The Boy Who Saved The Wizarding World, Well The Important Bit North of Calais At Any Rate. Granted, there’s probably a few ex-pats scattered around who get The Prophet owled over from home, but all Harry has to do is keep his hair plastered down over his scar, which is hardly difficult when he’s wearing a helmet all day, and hey presto, abra bloody cadabra, he’s just some Muggle short-arse with a bike that’s too big for him.

Harry buys a hot dog, sort of, but it’s a bit different from the skinny sausages in soggy buns Harry’s used to. Hot dogs over here it seems are large, fat sausages sticking up for about six inches out of robust, crusty rolls made with holes in expressly for the purpose. Harry digs in with relish and for some reason finds himself thinking of Neil. The bloke was heading down to Nice to shag someone he’d met on the internet so they didn’t get to spend a lot of time together once they got off the ferry, which was a shame. Still, Harry’s got his phone number for the unlikely event that he ever finds himself in the vicinity of Brighton when Neil’s actually at home for once instead of shagging his way around the world and taking the pictures to prove it. Harry feels a twinge of unease as he remembers how Neil set his camera on timer to take pictures of the two of them in several positions that can’t have been flattering, but the bloke’s a Muggle and Harry didn’t even tell him his last name, so the pictures are hardly likely to turn up in the Prophet.

Licking the last of the mustard from his lips, Harry chucks his paper napkin in a bin and bombs off down the Autobahn once more.


…



Finding Regulus’ place of work isn’t all that hard. Arthur Weasley’s lent him his newest toy: some new-fangled thing called a SatNav he’s managed to get his hands on somehow and modified to work on magic. All you have to do is tell it the address you’re looking for and it gives you directions, although you have to be careful it doesn’t doze off on the motorways and then wake up with a jolt saying “Junction 18! You should have got off at junction 18!” in querulous tones. And it tends to need constant reminding that most Muggle vehicles can’t, for example, drive on water. It didn’t speak to Harry for hours after he insisted on getting the ferry across the Channel instead of just riding across like it wanted him to.

RAB Motors (and honestly, couldn’t he have come up with a less conspicuous pseudonym?) has to be the poshest car dealership Harry’s ever seen. It’s so up-market they don’t even have prices on the cars, presumably on the principle that if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. Harry feels embarrassed to walk into the showroom, sure that any minute now they’ll be calling security to throw out the scruffy pleb who’s just turned up to lower the tone. And as it happens, it’s not more than thirty seconds before someone comes up to ask him in an extremely polite but very firm tone just what the hell he thinks he’s doing there. At least, Harry assumes that’s what he’s just been asked. To avoid all the “Sprecken zee English?” palaver, he just mentions Regulus’ assumed name in a questioning tone and is rewarded by being pointed to an office on a raised dais in the corner of the showroom.

Harry walks into the office and for a moment his heartbeat stutters painfully in his chest, because he’s face-to-face with Sirius. Not Sirius as he was, no – but Sirius as he might have been, as he should have been, without the ravages of Azkaban and betrayal. And then Harry blinks, and the illusion is gone, and he can see that this man is slightly shorter (or is it just that Harry’s grown taller since Sirius died?) and the line of his jaw is softer, the lips fuller and more sensual, and the eyes more… enticing? Harry swallows. No. He didn’t just think that.

“Ja? Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” The voice isn’t Sirius’, either, and the spell is now completely broken. Harry steps forward and politely thrusts out a hand towards the – what? God-uncle? – that he’s never met.

“Regulus Black? I’ve come to…”

And then all hell breaks loose.



…



Rudolph Angelus Ballantyne (Rudi to friends, lovers, and casual fucks alike – whilst, of course, vehemently opposed to democracy on principle he has nothing against it in practice) has been having an excellent day. He’s just sold a top-of-the range second-generation Cayman, acquired a rather promising invitation to dinner from the nicely-toned and, more importantly, very well-heeled customer and to top it all, an attractive young man appears to have wandered off the street and into his office. Actually, if Rudi’s honest with himself (and he usually is, deception being reserved for lesser mortals, a class of beings which for all practical purposes can be considered to comprise the entirety of humanity that is not him) the young man is not so much attractive as, what’s the word, novel. Rudi’s confident he’s never laid eyes upon the boy before, which means he’s almost certain he’s never fucked him. And whilst there may, regrettably, be a great many evils in this world, Rudi can testify that ennui is not the least of them.

The boy is presumably a courier. He’s obviously not a customer. Too scruffy, for one thing, and as his helmet testifies, he prefers two wheels to four. In any case, Rudi would know that walk anywhere – clearly the boy has spent a great deal of time lately with something large and powerful throbbing between his thighs. Rudi hides a smirk. He wouldn’t mind showing the boy a more environmentally friendly way of achieving that effect. The smirk vanishes as the young man belatedly pulls off his motorcycle helmet, revealing the worst case of helmet-hair Rudi’s seen in a long time and a rather nerdish pair of spectacles. Rudi sighs. It seems that novelty, after all, is overrated. Ah well.

“Regulus Black?” the boy asks finally, and it is then, of course, that all hell breaks loose.

Rudi – or Regulus, as he supposes he must once more think of himself – is rather proud of his defences. It’s not everyone who can twist magic and reality to create a Portkey out of mere syllables. But the mere pronouncing of his true name – in any of its variations, including Reg and the much-despised Reggie that his mother insisted upon dubbing him (if anyone’s likely to come after him for betraying the Dark Lord, it’s the old bat herself) – in this office or indeed his home has the power to transport the speaker into a rather nicely-appointed dungeon in a wooded area miles from anywhere. Thus avoiding the need for sound-proofing: Regulus may have been born to wealth but he’s not above making use of the admirable Schwäbisch virtue of thrift.

Regulus feels a frisson of excitement as he prepares to join his captive. It’s been so long since he’s Apparated anywhere. His wand, of course, is always with him, transfigured into a fountain pen (gold, naturally) which he is famous for never actually using. He does in fact use it, but only when signing contracts he intends later to renege upon, transfigured ink having a handy tendency to disappear after 24 hours. He pauses to retrieve the boy’s wand, which tumbled to the carpet when its owner disappeared. Regulus was excessively pleased when he finally got this little refinement of the spell to work. Hmm. Holly, eleven inches, if Regulus is any judge, which of course he is. Quite supple. Rather shorter than his own fourteen-inch yew wand with dragon’s heartstring core. Not, of course, that size is of any importance whatsoever. Regulus smirks and Apparates.


…


Hanging upside down from one ankle in a dank, windowless place that brings back unpleasant memories of both Potions lessons and Malfoy Manor, Harry has had ample opportunity to ponder on his suitability or otherwise for the role of Auror. It’s a distinct relief when Regulus Black Apparates in. “I’m not an enemy!” Harry blurts out. “Voldemort’s dead.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow in a mannerism so Snape-like that Harry wonders if they used to practise it together. He knows they were mates – it’s one of the reasons he’s here, although he’s under no illusions that seven years of mistrust and pranks and the little matter of having left the poor bastard to bleed to death can be atoned for by finding Snape a friend. “Indeed? Perhaps you might explain how the most powerful wizard of his age came to meet his death?”

It’s amazing how much the simple phrase “I killed him” seems to lack all credibility when the speaker is hanging upside down by his ankle. At least, Harry thinks in relief, he’s wearing trousers. It was bad enough that Neil got to see Dudley’s old knickers, but at least he was chiefly focussed on what was inside them. Harry makes a mental note to go to Marks and Spencers when he gets back home. If Regulus doesn’t kill him, of course.

“Um, could you let me down to talk about it?” he asks without much hope.

Harry feels the invasive touch of Legilimency on his mind and forces himself not to resist. He tries to think non-threatening thoughts, but for some reason Dudley’s underpants keep creeping back insidiously from where they lurk in his subconscious. Regulus smirks and waves his wand in a complicated manner and, relieved and embarrassed in equal measure, Harry floats gently to the ground.

“Have you always had this strange obsession with unattractive undergarments?” Regulus asks him sardonically. “You rather remind me of an old boyfriend.”

It isn’t fair, Harry thinks, that it’s so hard to know if you’re blushing or not. Because clearly, whilst it would be nice to act like a man of the world there’s no point in pretending you’re not affected by the news that the attractive older man in front of you is as queer as a brass Galleon if your face is giving you away by doing an impression of one of Neville’s prize beetroots.

Regulus’ smirk grows broader. “Red as the proverbial vegetable, I’m afraid. So, you find me attractive, do you? I might be amenable to a little mutual pleasure – as long as this Neville isn’t the jealous type, of course.”

“Um, do you think you could stop the Legilimency now?” Harry asks plaintively.


………..


They’ve moved upstairs to a rather nice sitting-room which Regulus calls a little more gemütlich (apparently this is Regulus’ weekend home in the forest and the dungeon hardly ever gets used) and Harry really, really wishes Hermione were here. Not because she’d like the slightly twee farmhouse-style soft furnishings (actually he thinks she’d hate them, definitely more a Lav-Lav kind of thing, those) but because whilst he’s tried to give Regulus a quick summary of what happened in the English Wizarding World in the twenty years he’s been away, he’s uneasily certain that his little précis was, to put it mildly, a bit crap. He kept forgetting things, and going backwards and forwards in time, and explaining who people were that it turned out Regulus went to school with, like half the Death Eaters, for a start.

He’s just got to the bit with all the Harrys and Snape flying without a broomstick, and did Regulus know he could do that? Regulus heaves a huge sigh. “I suppose Severus is either dead or in Azkaban now,” he says with obvious regret.

“What? No – I mean, he was one of the heroes of the war! Didn’t I tell you that? He nearly died and everything. He’s got an Order of Merlin, First Class.” Harry’d insisted on that. Least he could do, after all the bloke had suffered, not least being left to bleed to death by the stupid git he’d spent the last seven years protecting.

Regulus’ eyes light up. “A hero?”

“Yeah, he was working undercover, only pretending to be a Death Eater whilst he was really Dumbledore’s man all along,” Harry explains enthusiastically. “He saved my life loads of times.”

“Indeed?” Regulus purrs. “Tell me, is he, ah, seeing anyone?”

“What, Snape?” Harry tries to get his head round the idea of Snape seeing anyone. “Er, no. It’s a bit tragic, really. He’s been in love with my mum ever since, well, forever.”

Regulus blinks. “He’s your father?”

“No! Bloody hell, no! That’s James Potter. Er, sorry, I should have mentioned that. And he’s dead, anyway. My dad, I mean. And my mum. But she was Lily Evans – you probably remember her?”

Regulus gets a cold look in his eye. “I do indeed. But I can assure you Severus was most definitely not in love with her when I knew him. I cannot imagine what might have happened to change him so greatly.”

Harry stares. “But… he loved her all through school! And before that, even!”

Regulus tips back his head and laughs. It’s a hearty laugh, full of genuine amusement. “I’m afraid, Harry, that someone has been playing tricks on you. Severus was no more in love with Lily Evans at school than I was.”

Harry feels a bit put out. “Well, maybe he just didn’t tell you about it,” he mutters.

Regulus laughs again. “Oh, but Harry, Severus told me everything. We were, ahem, rather more than friends, you see. We were lovers. Lily Evans was nothing more than a spoilt girl too puffed up with her own self-righteousness to accept an apology from a friend. Severus was upset when she refused to speak to him, yes, but he soon got over it. I saw to that.”

The mental gymnastics required to accept this are staggering. Harry thinks he probably deserves some kind of Olympic medal. Followed by some serious physiotherapy. “You… and Snape? Lovers?” That’s only what he says, of course. Inside his mind is whirring with Snape’s gay? And they were lovers? Like, shagging? And he didn’t love my mum after all? And Snape’s gay?

Regulus is talking again. “If Severus were ever to lower himself to consort with a Gryffindor, which I sincerely doubt, it would be far more likely to be with the werewolf. Lupin, you know him? Almost ate Severus in fifth year, but then Severus always did have a slightly masochistic streak.” Harry wonders frantically if there’s any way to make Regulus shut up before he dies of Too Much Information. Masochism? Fancying Remus? At least, Harry thinks, he can’t say anything worse. Surely some of Harry’s parental figures will remain unsullied by sordid detail?

“Of course, my dear brother would never have stood for that,” Regulus muses. “Kept the wolf on a very tight leash, I can tell you. Literally, I might add.”

“So, how’s Germany been, then?” Harry asks desperately.


…



Humming the overture to Die Zauberflöte under his breath as he shows Harry into his impressively large house in the suburbs, Regulus realises he hasn’t felt this alive in years. He’d thought he was perfectly content with his life as a well-to-do Muggle, but suddenly using so much magic again has given him a rush that selling cars isn’t even close to competing with. No wonder he’s been feeling jaded – but it isn’t his love life that needs perking up, it’s the rest of his existence. This is what he’s been waiting for – with the Dark Lord vanquished, a chance to return to his rightful place in England’s Wizarding World and make the name of Black once more one that is to be reckoned with. His fingertips tingle with the power he’d almost forgotten he possesses, and he Incendios a Robert Mapplethorpe print, a gift from a grateful client (or possibly a grateful ex-lover, it’s so hard to keep track) just for the hell of it.

Harry gives a strangled squawk of “Aguamenti!” and douses the flames with enough water to float a battleship.

Regulus winces and rolls his eyes. That boy is far too twitchy. Doesn’t he know the Dark Lord is dead? “I have come to a decision,” Regulus announces. “I shall be returning to England with you to regain my rightful position in Wizarding society.”

“Oh,” Harry mutters. “That’s nice.”


...



“I shall be returning to England with you to regain my rightful position in Wizarding society.”

Which is all very well, Harry thinks as he slings his backpack onto the bed in one of Regulus’ many spare rooms, but he was hoping to do a bit more sightseeing before he went home. He only left England on Tuesday and now he’s going home already? Not much of a bloody holiday, is it? And it’s hardly been relaxing, what with Regulus stringing him up by his ankle and then giving him Fiendfyre flashbacks. Still, he can hardly blame the bloke – he’s been exiled for twenty years, no wonder he wants to get back as soon as he can. Probably dying to see Snape, Harry thinks, uncertain why his chest is feeling so tight, because after all, he can relate to that. He’s been missing the miserable old git a bit himself. Harry blushes as he remembers what Regulus said. Severus always did have a masochistic streak. Harry knows what masochistic means; it’s what Ron calls him for going round to see Snape all the time. But what, precisely, does it mean in the context of Snape having sex? That he used to like it rough? Or he enjoyed a bit of, um, spanking or something? Or that kinky stuff with the leathers and whips and god knows what? Harry grins as he looks down at his biking clothes. So, is he dressed as Snape’s wet dream, then?

The grin fades a little. Just because Snape might like Harry’s trousers, doesn’t mean he’d have any truck with what’s in them. Not that Harry wants him to, of course. And anyway, even if he did, Harry’s not into all that fetish stuff. What’s so bloody erotic about pain? Harry’s had a fair few Crucios in his time and he can safely say that not one of them was even mildly a turn-on. Still, perhaps it’s different in bed. After all, most kinky wizards probably don’t use Crucio. Or not right at the start, anyway.

As Harry seems to have acquired a hard-on from somewhere, he flings a quick locking charm at the door and unzips his trousers. He gives a deep sigh as he starts to stroke himself and lets his mind wander to what Snape and Regulus must have been like together, back in the day. Harry’s never forgotten his view of a teenaged Snape from the Pensieve memory, all skinny and angsty. If he’d been a Muggle he’d have been a Goth for sure. Regulus must have looked a lot like Sirius did then. Harry imagines a teenage Sirius, only slightly shorter and with longer hair. And sneakier, of course. Harry wonders what they used to do to each other and speeds up his strokes.

And how did you know if you were into pain, anyway? After all, what if you tried it with someone else and they liked it and wanted to carry on doing it, but you hated it and wanted to stop? Be a bit awkward, that. But it’s not the sort of thing you could try by yourself, is it? Harry thinks for a moment and adds a second locking charm and a silencing one. Pushing his trousers down, he rolls over and gets up onto his knees. Taking a firm grasp of his cock, he reaches back and gives himself a slap on the rump.

All that happens is that he feels a bit silly. Maybe he could try pinching, instead? Harry shoves his free hand up his t-shirt and grabs a nipple. Mmm, that’s better. He pinches lightly, surprised by the electric jolt that shoots through his balls. Yes, that’s definitely better. He pinches again, harder, and gasps. Harry’s right hand starts flying on his cock and he can feel his balls tightening. He adds a twist to the end of the stroke and, on impulse, twists his nipple hard.

Thirty seconds later he’s staring at the copious quantities of spunk coating Regulus’ Antique Pine headboard with a radically new appreciation of the possibilities of BDSM.



…



“So, how do you want to travel back to England?” Harry asks over breakfast next morning, wondering how it’ll work – will Regulus want a lift on his bike (unlikely), or will he be bringing one of those posh cars he had out at the showroom? Harry’s sort of hoping it’ll be the latter; he’s never had a ride in anything sportier than Uncle Vernon’s estate. He wonders if he could persuade Regulus to swing by Privet Drive so he could stick two fingers up at the Dursleys on his way past.

Regulus shrugs. “Oh, air travel is so tedious these days. I thought we’d Apparate to München and use the International Floo there.”

Harry’s a bit disappointed. “Oh. Actually, I sort of thought you might want to drive. What with you selling cars, and all.”

Regulus gives him a patronizing look over his cup of coffee. “Cars, Harry are all very well, but hardly suitable for a journey of this length.” He stares at Harry. “Do you actually mean to tell me you rode all the way down here on that bike?”

“Er, yeah.” Harry feels a bit defensive. “It was fun, you know?”

Regulus arches an eyebrow. “Ah yes. I recall that Sirius enjoyed riding a motorbike in his teenage years.” He smiles paternally. “Never mind, Harry, you’ll grow out of it. No, I think our journey back to Mother England shall be a little more civilized.”


…



Side-along Apparating to Munich is an uncomfortable experience, not least because Regulus has both arms wrapped firmly around Harry’s waist and something hard pressing into Harry’s side. Harry’s still reeling from their arrival when Regulus curses and pulls a mobile phone from his trouser pocket. “Meant to do this before we left,” he mutters, and starts texting.

“Business?” Harry asks sympathetically. After all, it can’t be easy to just up and leave a thriving car dealership, no matter how much faith you have in your staff.

“What? Oh, no. Personal. Jürgen, if you must know. We’ve been together for nearly three years, it’s only fair that I let him know it’s over. Now, this way, Harry, don’t dawdle.”

Harry shuts his mouth with a snap and follows along dutifully, his misgivings about unleashing Regulus Black upon an unsuspecting Britain, not to mention an unsuspecting Snape, growing exponentially with every minute spent in the old snake’s company. He was expecting them to head straight for the international Floo, but given how churned-up his guts were by the long Apparition he’s actually a bit relieved when Regulus explains he’s booked them in at a hotel for the night. It’s called the Englische Hollunder, and looks quite nice, flags flying outside and everything. The receptionist is really fit, too, and winks at Harry as he checks them in. To the same room, Harry notices, but he supposes that’s just sensible. Single supplements can be a bugger.

He barely has time to sling his backpack down on the floor and check his miniaturised Harley-Davidson has survived the trip in his pocket before Regulus starts getting his kit off.

“Um, Regulus? Isn’t it a bit early to be going to bed? I mean, we haven’t even had dinner yet,” Harry babbles nervously.

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Who said anything about bed? Although of course, if you’re that eager, I might be open to persuasion…”

Harry swallows. “Um. Thanks? But, er…”

Regulus gives him a wolfish smile. “Don’t worry, I’m just getting ready for a trip to the sauna. This place is famous for its bathhouse, you know.” He pauses and the smile widens artlessly. “Why don’t you join me?”

Saunas are relaxing, right? And Harry’s definitely feeling a bit… tense. “Right, OK. I’ll, er, just get ready then.” He grabs the room’s second bathrobe and ducks into the bathroom to change, locking the door securely behind him.

Once Harry’s ready and has the bathrobe tied firmly around his waist, they walk down flights of stairs. Regulus pushes open a glass door. “This way, Harry.”

The place is big. So’s the bloke behind the desk, who hands them towels with a wink (what is it about the staff here?) and a leer in Harry’s direction, and offers in English to scrub their backs. Harry declines politely and is appalled when Regulus looks the bloke up and down and says he might just take him up on that.

Harry walks hurriedly through into the rooms beyond. When he gets there, he almost wishes he’d stayed back at the desk with the big bloke with the tattoos, because at least there was only one of him. This place is bloody teeming with muscle-bound types with interesting piercings and/or body art, and not only is it doing embarrassing things to his cock which he’s sure the bathrobe can’t be hiding adequately, they’re all staring at him. Specifically, that area of him he’d least like attention drawn to. He jumps guiltily when Regulus comes up behind him and places an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Harry. Stick with me and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Um, Regulus, is this a, er…”

“Gay bathhouse? But of course, Harry. It’s got quite the reputation, you know. Never let it be said I don’t take you places.” He leers suggestively. “Now, come along, Harry, the steam room here is quite an experience.”

And no doubt he’s right, but Harry’s only been in there about a nanosecond before his glasses steam up irretrievably and he realises he’s left his wand in their room like a total moron and can’t do a bloody thing about it. He just had time to notice about half-a-dozen gorgeous blokes, all stark bollock naked (except he didn’t even have time to look at their bollocks) before he was stricken blind as a bloody bat. He feels like a kid in Honeydukes for his first time – with his jaw wired shut. Neil told him about places like this when they were taking a breather between shagging sessions, back on the ferry, but Harry never reckoned he’d have the bottle to walk into one, and now he’s here and he’s missing the sodding show. Which might even involve actual sodomy as there’s more than a few suspicious grunts coming from the other side of the room, but he’ll never bloody know, will he?

Regulus, of course, seems to be having a whale of a time. He’s near enough that Harry can make out his lean, elegant form stretched out beside him, and occasionally he exchanges a few remarks with the other patrons, in German of course. Harry starts nervously as a huge, dark form looms out of the mist. (Ron warned him about coming to Germany – “They’re all dark wizards there, you know! I mean, come on, Gellert Grindelwald? It’s hardly your fine old English name, is it?” Hermione gave him one of her looks. “Ahem. Tom Riddle, anyone?”) Still, the bloke’s close enough now that Harry can tell there’s only one possible place he could be hiding a wand, and Harry reckons he’d be able to leg it before the bloke managed to draw it from there. Harry can’t, of course, understand what the bloke says to Regulus, but there’s a definite leer in his tone.

“I’ werd’ ihn fragen,” Regulus replies with a smile in his voice and turns to Harry, incidentally running a hand up his thigh in a worryingly intimate manner. “The gentleman would like to know if you are legal, and whether you and I would care to join him in a private room.”

And OK, part of Harry is definitely tempted and he won’t be handing out any prizes for guessing which part, but when it comes right down to it, does he really want his second sexual experience in his life to be a threesome with someone who dumps his long-term boyfriends by text and a bloke he’s never met, can’t see and certainly wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation with? Not, of course, that talking was likely to have been on the agenda in any case, but still. Is this all there is to being gay? Meaningless shagging? What happened to, well, getting to know a bloke first? Getting to like him? OK, he had that one-off with Neil on the ferry, but he really felt they had a connection there. Stuff in common and all that. Well, bikes, anyway. Leather trousers. And a respectable quantity of alcohol, of course.

Pleading heat exhaustion, Harry flees to the dubious safety of their room and throws himself down on the bed. For some reason, he finds himself thinking of Snape. He wonders if Regulus was such a prick when he was younger, and whether he ever made Snape have a threesome. (Harry can’t imagine Snape ever wanting a threesome: he never shares anything). And will Regulus and Snape get back together once Regulus is back in England? And are holidays always this depressing and crap? Maybe that’s why Uncle Vernon was always in such a foul mood when the Dursleys got back from anywhere. Harry always put it down to the disappointment of seeing him again.

Harry’s stomach rumbles and after a short and unequal struggle between apathy and hunger, he pulls on his trainers and heads out to see if he can find one of those sausage stalls or something. And whilst it might have been friendlier to wait for Regulus, Harry strongly suspects that the bloke (a) is going to be ages and (b) is already well supplied in the sausage department.

In the end he goes to McDonalds just so he doesn’t have to try and decipher the menu and gets chatting to some English squaddies who’ve come over to the queer side of town for a laugh – at least, that’s what they say, but after they’ve been to a pub and had a few beers (all right, more than a few) one of them tries to snog Harry in the loos. Harry might have been tempted, but the reason they’re in there in the first place is that Private Lightweight has just been chucking up down the loo and his breath stinks worse than Hagrid’s jockstrap. So Harry just lets him have a bit of a cuddle and then dumps him on his mates and heads back to the hotel.

Where he finds Regulus in bed with the daytime receptionist and a pair of handcuffs and ends up kipping in a chair in the lounge.

When Harry wakes up next morning he’s touched to find that someone’s slung a blanket over him during the night. He’s a bit less touched to find his trousers are undone.


….



The International Floo, it transpires, is housed in a pub off Gärtnerstrasse known as Zum Reparierten Kessel. It’s only about three streets away so they walk over there, Harry trying despite his hangover and a seriously cricked neck from sleeping in a chair to enjoy what appears to be the only bit of sightseeing he’s going to get to do this trip.

“Um, I don’t know if you’ve thought of where you’re going to stay in England, but you’re welcome to a spare room at mine,” he mentions diffidently. He’s been half thinking of not offering, but it doesn’t seem fair not to, Grimmauld Place being Regulus’ childhood home and all. Plus it’ll mean he can keep an eye on the bastard.

Regulus shrugs. “Oh, I thought I’d make use of the ancestral pile. It could probably do with a good airing.”

Harry’s heart sinks. This is going to be a bit awkward. He hates giving people bad news. “Um, you mean Grimmauld Place? Because that’s, um, sort of mine now. Sirius left it to me. Sorry.”

Regulus seems curiously unperturbed and his next words explain why. “Oh, I really don’t think so. It was never his, I’m afraid. Mother disowned him, so of course everything came to me. I suppose he thought, as I had been presumed dead, that it had devolved to him, but obviously that’s not the case.” He smiles, showing rather more teeth than Harry remembers from last time. “Don’t worry, I shan’t insist on you moving out straight away. I’ll need to make a thorough examination of the old place before I can even think of selling it. We can talk about rent later.”

Harry swallows. “Oh. Right.”

“Ah, here we are. After you, Harry,” Regulus says politely, ushering him into the pub.

It’s full of wizarding folk, all dressed in what Harry supposes must be German wizarding fashion. It’s really not that different from the Leaky Cauldron, except the pointy hats have more feathers in them and the walls are full of dead animals, some of them talking, which is a bit unnerving. Regulus orders them both Feuerschnapps and has a leisurely chat with the barman whilst sipping his drink. Still reeling from being suddenly rendered homeless, Harry takes a large gulp and is promptly plunged into a violent coughing fit which Regulus doesn’t take a blind bit of notice of, let alone come up to pat him on the back for. It’s some small consolation that at least he didn’t sleep with the bastard last night.


….


Back in Grimmauld Place, Harry lies on his bed, exhausted beyond belief. Who was it who said it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive? Hermione, almost certainly. Travelling down to Stuttgart on his own to look for Regulus was slow and sort of bumbling and fun. Travelling back to England with Regulus turned out to be fast and efficient and as soul-destroying as all hell, but it still beat actually getting here hands down. The first thing Regulus did after he arrived home, after a tearful reunion with his mother’s portrait and an even more tearful reunion with Kreacher, was to start making plans for how he’s going to completely refurbish the place and sell it off at a profit. Harry hopes he’s going to be given time to pack.

Carefully, Harry sets the still-miniaturised motorbike down on the dressing table. “Looks like it’s going to be just you and me again,” he tells it sadly, and wonders if it’s too late to owl somebody. Just to, well, catch up with them. And maybe, just maybe, have a good old moan about Regulus bloody Black.



…..



When the owl from Potter comes, Severus is deep within the stygian bowels of Hogwarts, hiding from his mother. Whilst of course he is grateful to her (most days) for saving his life, he could have done without the consequent outing of their relationship which she appears to have taken as carte blanche to interfere in the most intimate aspects of his personal life. Ever since he was released from St Mungo’s she’s been nagging on at him to go out and enjoy life and find himself a nice young man. Worse, she has been leading by example – taking on a prominent role in some charity for Squibs and spending an indecent amount of time hanging around Aberforth Dumbledore, who whilst he is neither nice nor young is undeniably a man.

Upon reflection it was probably not the best idea Severus has ever had to tell his mother she had no chance with the old reprobate as she doesn’t remotely resemble a goat. Although immediately qualifying that by mentioning her stubborn hard-headedness and incipient beard might be said to have eclipsed that little faux pas nicely. Consequently, family relations are a little strained at the moment and Severus is in the unwonted position of feeling lonely. While the Dark Lord lived, Severus relished time alone, where he could relinquish the burden of portraying that which he was not. Lately, however, he has become accustomed to spending time in the company of others who would not as soon Crucio him as look at him. He found it surprisingly pleasant – so naturally, it was not long before it ended.

Most of the Order came to visit him in hospital, bearing bouquets proportional to the size of their guilt over having doubted him. Even a subdued George Weasley came along, making the odd ear joke and thanking him half-heartedly for not cutting off something more vital. Minerva visited more than once – in the first week. After that, it seemed, duty had been done and Severus was left undisturbed by all except his mother and a contrite boy hero who seemed bizarrely to relish time away from the adoring crowds. And more bizarrely still, somehow to actually enjoy Severus’ company. He even went so far as to help Severus move back to Spinner’s End upon his discharge from St Mungo’s, and continued visiting him thereafter. Severus had even begun to think…

But no, because then Potter buggered off too, muttering something about wanting to see Europe and going out and buying an XL 1200S Sportster when any idiot could have told him that the Electra Glide Road King gives a much more comfortable ride and has a larger engine to boot. Plus it doesn’t have the reputation of a chick-bike. Severus was appalled to discover how much he missed the brat’s almost-daily visits, accompanied as they were with a decent amount of humility and hand-wringing over having misjudged Severus so completely. Although thinking back, there was rather less of that of late and rather more in the way of what could almost pass for intelligent conversation. If, of course, one is not too picky with one’s definition of intelligent or, for that matter, conversation. Nevertheless, Severus is dismayed to realise how much he has missed it. He was rather chastened to discover quite how far from the paternal tree this particular apple fell. There is far more of his mother in the boy. For one thing, he is as swift to judge as she ever was. And yet he is capable of admitting it when he is wrong – a quality Severus has always admired, as it were, from afar.

And from afar is how he will have to continue to admire it, it seems. Severus sneers at his own folly. As if the boy would ever have stayed with a bitter old man he’s always loathed. No, Potter was simply marking time, allaying his guilt with belated attentions until something brighter and shinier (in this case, a brand-new Harley Davidson and the entire continent of Europe) came along to capture his imagination. Severus wonders where the brat is now. Would a postcard have been too much to expect? Typical of the thoughtlessness of youth. Doubtless the next he hears of Potter will be by reading of his international exploits in the Prophet.

Having worked up a fine head of indignation upon the subject, Severus is annoyed to find himself somewhat wrong-footed when the owl arrives and drops a letter in his lap. It is clearly written (if that is the correct description) in Potter’s illiterate scrawl. He hesitates before opening it, unsure why he does so.

Dear Snape

Sorry, that sounds a bit rude, but you’re not a professor any more, and I tried Mr but it just sounded funny. Looked funny. You know what I mean.

Anyway, I didn’t tell you before I went in case it didn’t work out, but I didn’t just go on a sightseeing tour. I went to find Regulus Black.

Severus’ breath catches. Regulus Black? Impossible. He reads on, gut twisting.

You see, I was having a chat with Dumbledore’s portrait and he told me that Regulus didn’t die in that cave after all. They just made it look like he did so Vol the Dark Lord wouldn’t go after him for stealing the Horcrux. He’s been living in south Germany. Selling cars, would you believe it? Anyway, he’s come back to England with me and we’re both staying at Grimmauld Place. Although apparently I’m going to be moving out soon. Bas.

Anyway (again) he’d like to see you, so can you come over tomorrow night after tea? I’d invite you for dinner but Kreacher’s gone a bit loopy over having Master Regulus back and has been serving up all kinds of weird stuff like fish in chocolate sauce because apparently those were two of Regulus’ favourite foods when he was a kid. So mostly we’ve been going down the chippy as Regulus won’t let me tell Kreacher we’re just Evanescoing his food. I’m starting to wonder about those two.

So I hope you can come.

Yours sincerely

Harry (Potter).

Severus’ hands are shaking slightly as he lets the letter fall to the floor. Regulus is alive.



….



“I, um, sent the letter,” Harry tells Regulus.

“Excellent!” Regulus approves. He’s surprised to find he’s actually a little nervous about seeing Severus again. Still, Severus can hardly complain about Regulus running out on him when he never let on that he was also a turncoat. “You needn’t bother to stay in tomorrow evening. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friends.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Harry replies in a voice which is presumably meant to be reassuring. “Me and Snape are friends now – well, sort of. I mean, if you asked him he’d probably – but anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

Regulus feels the first faint signs of a tension headache coming on. “Gooseberries, Harry, are nobody’s favourite fruit,” he says with his most charming smile.

“Oh, actually I quite like them in crumble. As long as there’s plenty of custard,” the boy replies. Regulus reminds himself firmly that it would be impolite to use Legilimency to determine whether he is being deliberately obstructive or merely terminally obtuse.



…..



“Oooh, we’re very dashing today, dearie!” Severus scowls as he realises he’s looking in the mirror again and angrily casts Obscuro on the wretched object, followed swiftly by Silencio to rid himself of its indignant complaints. It is, of course, entirely understandable that he finds himself at something of a loss. After all, what is the etiquette when meeting up with a former intimate whom one has, for the greater part of one’s adult life, erroneously believed dead – or, for that matter, one whom one has for a similar length of time considered to be a mortal enemy? For the first time, Severus feels a twinge of regret that Remus Lupin did not survive the final battle. He might have been a veritable mine of information.


As Severus wraps the hideous tartan scarf around his neck, a gift from Minerva to hide the even more hideous scar underneath, he wonders how Regulus will look, now. He won’t be the slender, beautiful boy Severus remembers, that is for certain. After decades on the run, will he be as ravaged as his unlamented brother? A thin, stooped figure with lined face and greying hair? Or – worse – will he have succumbed to the lumpen horrors of German cuisine? Severus pictures a 20-stone Regulus in lederhosen and shudders. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. No matter what physical horrors await him, the man inside will be the same. His Regulus. The tragic hero upon whom Severus modelled his own defiance against their erstwhile Lord, believed cut down in his prime, now miraculously restored to life… Severus has an uneasy thought. Potter does, after all, possess the Resurrection Stone… no. He hasn’t the imagination. Unless of course he was trying for the mutt and got the martyr instead..? Unlikely. Probably.

But he is procrastinating. Pausing only to wipe inexplicably damp palms on his best robes, Severus reaches for the Floo powder.


…



Severus steps out of the Floo at Grimmauld Place, now once more in the rightful hands of a Black, and takes an involuntary step backwards. Regulus, the little prick, stands there before him, the very poster boy for defying the Dark Lord. Not a hair out of place and either he’s been using some very complicated personal transfiguration charms or he’s been working out. A lot. There’s a smile upon that impossibly handsome face that would not so much give that imbecile Lockhart a run for his money as send him squealing back to charm school, tail firmly between his lilac-clad legs. Add to that an impeccably tailored Muggle suit that shows off a taut body to perfection and Severus is suddenly thinking that death by snake would not have been such a bad way to go, as death by pitying glance is likely to be considerably more painful. And take a great deal longer.

“Severus!” Regulus exclaims with an impressive impersonation of somebody who’s genuinely pleased to see him. Not, of course, that Severus has witnessed the real thing often enough to be much of a judge.

“Regulus,” he replies guardedly, wishing Potter would stop fidgeting about behind Black as if he’s determined to play twitchy chaperone to their little lovers’ reunion.

Apparently he’s not the only one. “Harry, I think you can run along now, thank you. Severus and I have a great deal to catch up on together,” Regulus says with a patently insincere smile.

Potter flushes, looks as if he is about to protest, then resignedly bumbles out. Severus is surprised to find he is sorry to see the brat go. He steels himself. “The years have been kind to you, Regulus,” he says evenly.

Regulus smiles with apparent fondness. “I wish I could say the same for you, Severus.” He steps forward and runs a hand lightly over Severus’ cheek. “I can see I am going to have to take great care of you, love. Pamper you a little. Put the roses back in those cheeks.” He raises an eyebrow sardonically as he speaks and Severus feels his heart catch, just a little.

“There were never any roses, Regulus, either in my cheeks or elsewhere in our relationship, as you well know,” he grinds out, but there’s no bite in it.

“I know, love, but we had the thorns, didn’t we? But that’s all over now. The Dark Lord is gone, and I’m free to take care of you as you deserve.”

This is… not what Severus expected. He had, if he is honest, some idle daydreams of a broken Regulus who might need his care, might welcome him back simply because he had no other… but this confident, well-to-do Regulus who wants to take care of him… it seems too good to be true. And as Severus well knows, that means it probably is. “What did Potter tell you of me?”

“That you’re a hero, of course! I’ll admit it took some believing – and then I felt like such a fool, Severus! To think that we were both on the same side even when we switched sides!” Regulus sighs deeply. “Oh, love, if only we’d talked about it!”

It is so much what Severus has thought for all these years of believing Regulus dead, that for a moment he is lost.





…


Harry’s pissed off. After all he’s bloody done for those two ungrateful bastards, he gets sent to his room like a naughty schoolboy. He feels like kicking the door, but realises in time that that probably wouldn’t be the ideal way to make them see him as a grown-up. Is he always going to be a kid to Snape? Harry kicks the bed, gently so no one’ll hear. Although Regulus is probably too busy getting his hands firmly back in Snape’s knickers to even think of Harry now. Bastard.

Not that it’s any of Harry’s business, of course. He hasn’t even got the excuse that it’s happening in his house, because apparently it’s Regulus’ bloody house now. They might as well kick him out now and get on with shagging in every room in the bloody place. Including Harry’s room, which isn’t, of course, Harry’s any more, and never was. Harry kicks the chair, which isn’t his either, and curses when it falls over with a clatter. And now his foot bloody hurts as well. Sodding bastard, coming over here and taking everything of Harry’s. Harry’s house, Harry’s room, Harry’s… Snape. Harry throws himself down on the bed, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the headboard. Snape’s looking really nice tonight, too. He obviously made a real effort for dear old Reggie. Even his hair’s looking clean. All because some bloody ex-lover crawled out of the woodwork after twenty years cowering in fear. Regulus might have stolen Voldemort’s horcrux, but he did bugger all else to help the war effort. Not like Snape, spending half his life as a spy, in constant danger of being strung up by the nadgers and given to Bellatrix Lestrange as a bloody chew toy if old Voldie ever found out what he was really up to.

It’s times like this Harry wishes he’d paid more attention to the Hogwarts motto and left that sleeping dragon well and truly untickled.


…



Regulus always was a fast mover, Severus thinks with the tiny portion of his brain that is not concentrated upon his cock, now being stroked with Teutonic precision by his erstwhile ex-lover. And then even that spark of thought is gone as his lips are captured in a bruising kiss and his mouth invaded by a tongue so skilled it could give masterclasses in seduction. He had forgotten what this was like. It has been so long since he was last bowled over by the wanton force of nature that is Regulus Black. Truth be told, it has been equally long since he was last bowled over by anyone. It is terrifying to feel himself surrender once again, to submit to being plundered. All his hard-won control of the last twenty years stripped from him in a trice, leaving him naked and afraid. He ponders what it must be like to be a Black, to feel such arrogant self-confidence.

And then he realises that he is thinking once more, and wonders a little. Regulus’ hand is no less skilled than it was a minute ago, but is there something lacking in that expertise? Is this simply mechanical manipulation that Regulus could perform in his sleep? When Severus comes a moment later with staggering force, he is no less staggered by the realisation that he feels no emotion in the act. It is a release, nothing more.

It seems that it is true that one can never go back. Regulus may be alive, but it seems that Severus’ first love – his only love – has not survived the passage of the years. It is a mournful reflection and as he works Regulus to completion in his turn, Severus’ motions are no less mechanical. His thoughts stray this time to the boy whom Regulus so summarily sent upstairs. It is a little irksome that the brat was so ready to obey him. His hand speeds up unconsciously as he imagines the cock it strokes to belong to Potter. Would he be larger or smaller than Regulus? Would he moan softly at the sensations Severus wrings from him, or grunt, or plead? Severus moves his thumb over the moist head of Regulus’ cock, earning himself a soft whisper of “yes!” Would Potter like that? Would he buck uncontrollably, would he cry out as he came…? Severus realises his hand is covered in spunk and stops working at Regulus’ rapidly softening cock. He submits to a kiss, as deep and apparently passionate as Regulus’ kisses ever were, and finds it leaves him empty.

But not, at least, cold.


Part Two/Two