Fire Call

“Remind me again, Potter, precisely why we are aboard this ridiculously inadequate mode of Muggle transportation?”

Harry smiled out of the window and watched the waiting passengers step back from the kerb.

“I’ve already told you fourteen times,” he told the glass, knowing full well what would happen if he turned to face Severus and was caught looking bemused. “It’s fun.”

“Fun.” Snape echoed, his voice noticeably less enthusiastic than Harry’s.

“Yes, fun. Anyway, it’s not for long, we’re nearly there now.”

The bus lurched away from the stop, catapulting Snape’s stomach backwards as it accelerated. One hand instinctively shot out to grab the pole in front of him whilst the other groped the seat for extra purchase.

Harry leant his forehead against the window and viciously bit his lip as his body shook with silent laughter.

“Turn around,” Snape demanded.

“Can’t,” Harry choked out, “I’m—people-watching,”

“ You evidently find my distress of comical value. I had not realised you were a sadist.”

The words stung a little, just enough to take the edge off of Harry’s amusement.

“It’s just a bus, Severus. Don’t you get sick of Flooing and Apparating everywhere? I thought it would be a nice way to see the city before—“

“We have Portkeys at our disposal for a reason, Potter, not to mention broomsticks and—What in the name of Merlin is that girl wearing?”

“Can you stop calling me Pot –which girl?” Harry craned his neck and followed the direction of Snape’s nose, wrinkled in distaste.

“I have observed house elves wearing more material. I had no idea of the depth of social pervasion in the Muggle world. Wizards wear robes for a reason. It is positively indecent to be dressed like that.”

Harry looked at the girl and felt a bit sorry for her. Okay, so her skirt was pretty short and the top she was wearing didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination but hell, it was summer! And a scorcher, at that.

“She looks okay to me,” he shrugged.

Before Snape could probe the possible implication of that statement, the bus hit a pothole and jettisoned him into the air. He landed rather awkwardly on one arse cheek whilst the other teetered perilously on the edge of his seat.

“Fuck!” he hissed under his breath.

A rotund woman turned around and scowled at him. “Excuse me but would you mind not swearing in front of my children?” she said haughtily.

Two equally round children were squashed in beside her, staring at him solemnly.

Snape clenched his teeth and attempted to look contrite. “Madam, I—“

“Fuck!” Chirped the smallest of the children, a chubby blond-haired boy. The older child, a girl, covered her mouth with her hand and looked up imperiously at her mother.

Harry closed his eyes and wished he could telepathically communicate his renewed appreciation of Apparition.

The mother continued to glare at Snape, who glared back and only went as far as to offer her an eyebrow in further apology. Eventually she placed a protective arm around her children and turned her back on him.

Snape dug a sharp, bony elbow into Harry’s ribs.

“I demand you remove us from this nightmare immediately, so that we may continue our journey in a civilised manner.”

Harry swallowed what he feared to be a recently dislodged kidney, and gave Snape his most appeasing look.

“We’re nearly there, just look out the window or something. Oh!” he added with grossly exaggerated enthusiasm, “I think that’s St Pauls Cathedral!”

Snape tried to squint through the mud splattered glass in the direction Harry was pointing, but he couldn’t make anything out except the markedly long line of people they were approaching at another stop. A quick glance around the bus, and it didn’t take a genius to work out that very soon it would be crowded to capacity.

“This is utterly insane,” he hissed in Harry’s ear, as a portly woman with more shopping than one person fairly needed to eat in a week squeezed down the aisle, cracking Severus on the side of the head with what he suspected to be either a lead weight or several tins of cat food.

His howl of indignation was swallowed by a rousing chorus of “The Wheels On The Bus”, instigated by the irate mother, presumably to drown out her youngest, repeatedly saying his new favourite word.

Harry started to seriously debate getting off, since they wouldn’t have much further to walk. Besides, Snape had pretty much alienated everyone around them.

The decision was made for him, however, when a heavily pregnant teenager found standing room next to their seat, her distinct lack of suitable maternity wear exposing an expanse of stretch-marked belly that hovered shockingly close to Snape’s nose.

Harry’s wrist was promptly seized and the rest of his body towed behind. Snape hauled him to the front of the bus and demanded the driver let them off; and no he did not care that it was illegal to let passengers off in between stops, and yes, if the man knew what was good for him he’d pull over immediately.

***

“Obliviate me.” Harry begged as he hurried along to keep up.

“I will do no such thing. Your suffering is justified.” Severus shot back disgustedly, refusing to meet his eye.

“Oh God, you’re really pissed off aren’t you? I mean, not just in your usual disagreeable way, but really seriously pissed off with me!”

“Your eloquence is surpassed only by your inaccurate depiction of my personality,” he growled, shaking off Harry’s conciliatory hand.

“That’s not what I—look, I didn’t think—“

“Obviously. That would be a concept you are most assuredly not proficient in.”

Harry stopped walking and felt his chest contract as he was suddenly hit with the realisation that this was quickly turning into their first proper row. He was totally out of his league too, because not only had he never had a spousal argument before, he was attempting to duel with a master of logic and language.

Snape looked back and shot him a withering glare before resuming his punishing pace. Harry watched the billow of invisible robes balefully, then stepped out of the flow of pedestrians to sink against a doorway.

“You alright love?” A thin, papery hand touched his arm and the warm, grandmotherly voice almost undid him.

Harry looked down to find a little old lady peering up in concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine thanks,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Oh good, well in that case could you move out of the way, dearie? You’re blocking the entrance and happy hour is almost over.”

Harry automatically stepped back to let her pass, shocked and deflated by the sudden change in her tone. Evidently getting two drinks for the price of one was far more critical than making sure he wasn’t suicidal or anything.

He watched her disappear inside and join a group of similarly wizened ladies congregated on the comfortable looking sofas. The pub looked—inviting, Harry thought, with its relaxed, informal seating and long stretch of bar dotted with lunch time drinkers. Anonymous people doing nothing more than enjoying a pint or two. Suddenly, the notion was hugely appealing.

Harry gripped the door handle and wondered how he’d ever dreamt that spending the day at an art museum with Severus could have possibly been pleasurable.

***

Three disgruntled pedestrians, two nervous bike riders and an irate taxi driver later, the whirlwind that was Severus Snape finally abated long enough to realise that Harry Potter was not following meekly behind.

Cursing the boy to Hades, Snape stood back to let the steady stream of Saturday tourists pass, eyeing each and every one of them with universal contempt as he considered his predicament.

He had been the one to suggest the National Gallery, citing the boy’s woeful lack of cultural knowledge as reason enough, but secretly he had been looking forward to indulging one of very few childhood interests shared with his ill-tempered father.

Snape took an inordinate amount of pleasure employing a critical eye over works of art, particularly those considered masterpieces. The visit to the National Gallery would afford him the opportunity to display his significant knowledge on the subject. Not only that, but at some point during the day, he had intended to casually mention a desire to see the Mona Lisa; and since said painting currently resided at the Louvre, perhaps Harry would accompany him to Paris for a weekend. He would not, of course, let Harry think it was purely a chance to indulge in frivolity and hot sex, as was actually his intention, but a convenient way to attend to some important consultancy business there at the same time.

He snorted disgustedly at his own foolish optimism. The boy would no doubt see the invitation for exactly what it was. Earlier that morning, he found he really couldn’t care less if Harry suspected his true objective. Now though, he’d rather hex his left scrotum off than admit to it.

Hexes. The idea creased the corners of his mouth. Something discreet and mildly irritating was in order, a small penance for the abject misery Harry had put him through. There was a reason Muggles were condemned to public transport; it was because they did not possess the magical ability to make use of superior forms of travel. Snape could not fathom why Harry had insisted they take a bus, and was even more baffled that the brat actually seemed to relish the experience. The only part of it Severus had relished was their impromptu disembarking.

Sufficiently buoyed by the prospect of a little revenge, Snape transferred his attention back to the current problem, and considered how he might go about retrieving his errant lover.

***

Harry stared morosely at the dancing flames and berated himself for being too cowardly to follow Severus and see the argument through. The truth was, he had been petrified of it all blowing up in his face and ending. He wasn’t sure he could cope with that, not least because Ron would take great delight in saying ‘I told you so’.

It was such a ridiculous thing for Severus to have started a row about, though. Had he led him blindly stumbling into a ring of Death Eaters hell-bent on revenge, Harry could understand his chagrin. Further proof, then, he concluded miserably, that the objectionable, sarcastic and downright unpleasant man who had tried to teach him Potions was still a large part of the Severus he’d begun to fall in love with. Both epiphanies were disheartening. Still, Harry reasoned as he took a long gulp of his drink, he had sixteen pints of London Pride lined up on the table in front of him, and for the price of eight, too. Ron would at least be impressed by his frugality.

The sofas really were as comfortable as they’d looked from outside, and Harry had found himself the lucky occupant of one directly in front of a roaring log fire. He knew he should be worrying about where Severus was, not to mention the immense annoyance his failure to follow would have caused, but the alcohol addled his brain, tucked the nasty little thoughts well out of sight and cajoled him to employ the last of his concentration on the remaining row of drinks, innocently mocking in their fullness.

Harry heaved a sigh and looked around the pub. ‘Mabel’, as he’d decided to name the little old woman, (who he had also privately decided was to blame for his patronage here) was still deeply ensconced in conversation with another wrinkled lady, both of them throwing back their atrociously vivid purple heads to cackle with laughter every now and again. The sound made him smile, and he wondered what Severus would look like in another fifty years. He hoped a blue-rinse didn’t feature.

“You gonna drink that lot?” A deeply amused voice said.

Harry leant forward to shield his haul protectively and turned to glare. The man’s smile widened and he sat back again, feeling a bit silly for thinking they were about to be stolen from under his nose.

“Probably not,” he conceded.

The man gave him a none-too-subtle once over and grinned rakishly. “Are you waiting for someone? Only I happened to notice you’ve been here a while on your own. Been stood up?”

Harry felt a suspiciously Severus-like sneer forming on his lips and tamped it down. “No, and no. I’m quite happy enjoying my own company.”

“Oh, okay, sorry to have bothered you,” the man said, holding up his hands in capitulation, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Harry watched him take a couple of steps backwards and begin to turn away.

“Wait,” he called, “I suppose I could do with some help.”

The man turned back and grinned again. Harry hadn’t seen this much grinning for quite a while. Severus never grinned. Smirked a lot, maybe even the odd lopsided smile, but never an outright grin. These days, Ron always looked like he was headed for the gallows and Hermione was always dangerously close to being sick.

Harry gestured to the sofa and the man sat down. On closer inspection, he realised the man was already holding a pint, and that it was unlikely he’d come over just to pilfer his drinks.

“So, er—“ Harry offered helpfully.

“Football match,” The man said by way of explanation, “They’ve got the England game on at three. Place will probably start filling up soon and it’ll be packed out. It’s the cheap drinks, see? These places make a fortune out of being far more reasonably priced than your average London boozer.”

“Right,” Harry said, still puzzling over this important information on the economics of drinking.

“So you’re not here for the football, not waiting for a date, you haven’t been stood up, and you’ve got—“ the man ticked each one off with a finger as he counted, “fifteen pints to drink. I’d say you’ve had a really shitty day.”

Harry couldn’t fault his logic. “Something like that.”

“Ah well, let’s get really pissed and then it won’t seem so bad, will it?” he said, pro-offering Harry his glass for the requisite ‘Cheers'.

Harry thought that if the man had ever met Severus Snape, he might not be so sure, but he obliged anyway, and downed his pint in one.

***

Snape had spent the past ninety minutes painstakingly retracing his footsteps. He had weaved his way through bloody-minded mothers pushing weapons of mass destruction (more commonly known as pushchairs) and suspected that at least two of his toenails had been ripped off due to their appalling lack of regard for other pedestrians.

He had long held the belief, based on personal experience as a teacher, that the production of offspring should be rigorously subjected to guidelines and aptitude tests. After all, Muggles didn’t just expect to be handed driving licenses did they? Lessons and a test determined a person’s competency in that particular aspect of life, and rightly so, considering the responsibility it imparted.

So why was it then, Snape muttered under his breath for what must have been the thousandth time that day, that any old dunderhead could reproduce and be in charge of a four wheeled death trap, complete with pink rabbit blankets and matching accessories?

Between dodging mothers and shoppers, tourists and seasoned inhabitants, Snape’s patience was dangling by a loosened thread. Every time he spotted a mop of messy dark hair, he would fix his eyes on it, only to be disappointed moments later when it turned out not to be his brat.

Snape ended up back at the spot he’d last seen Harry and scanned the area. Logically, there was no way he could have risked Apparating right in the middle of a busy street full of Muggles. There were no obvious signs of any wizarding establishments, either, that he might have used to Floo home from. He leant defeatedly in a doorway and rued the day he’d ever laid eyes on Harry bloody Potter. Insolent, arrogant, lazy little—

“Oh sorry dearie, didn’t see you there, are you quite alright?”

Snape hissed in pain and rubbed his shoulder, wondering how a ridiculously shrivelled old lady who barely came up to his hip, had the strength to throw a door open with such force it had nearly floored a fully grown wizard.

“I suspect I shall be, Madam, after my vertebrae have been realigned,” Snape snapped, doubting she could hear him underneath all that ghastly purple hair.

“Well love, if you will lurk in doorways. Honestly, this place is like a magnet for lost souls today. Come along Ethel, we don’t want to be late for bingo.”

Snape side-stepped the two women and muttered under his breath as they passed. He smirked as he watched them go, and hoped it wouldn’t be too long before ‘Ethel’ noticed her feisty companion’s sudden change of hair colour. Snape turned towards the door that had assaulted him and surveyed the interior. The lure of alcohol was a sorely tempting prospect, and when a croaky shriek of horror confirmed Ethel’s vigilance had not suffered for her advanced years, Snape indulged in a thin lipped smile and decided to treat himself to a whisky.

***

Usually, this was the last place on earth he would consider drinking , but he needed revitalising, and since he had no Pepper-Up gathering dust in his pockets, it would have to do. The pub was bordering on deafening, thanks to the relay of a live football match, (a Muggle sport he had about as much interest in as Quidditch) and the bar was five deep with punters waving hands, banknotes and beer mats in an effort for attention.

Snape vowed to have one quick drink and then return home. The National Gallery would have to be postponed for another day, one where his mood was not bordering on murderous.

While he waited for service, Snape took in the not too displeasing decor, and picked up a flyer proclaiming ‘Happy Hour – two for the price of one!’. That was certainly not an offer to be sniffed at, he thought, as the barmaid finally wended her weary way to his end of the bar.

“Yes love?”

“I would like two large scotches please,” Severus stated confidently, drawing the emergency stash of Muggle money he kept on him. After the day he’d had, this definitely qualified as an emergency, perhaps even pain relief.

The girl returned with his drinks and held out her hand. “£6.80 please love,” she said, looking straight past him.

Severus furrowed his brow and did a quick calculation. “I was under the impression I would receive one drink for free,” he said, generously pointing to one of the beer saturated flyers on the bar.

“Nah, that’s Happy Hour, love, you missed it. Says there, look.”

Severus cross-referenced the leaflet and sneered at her, reluctantly handing over the ten pound note. Completely unfazed by yet another difficult customer, the barmaid fetched his change and he took his two drinks to settle on a sofa in the window.

The football rabble were at the far end of the bar, but the noise travelled all the way to where Severus sat, cradling his glass and relishing the buckshot effect it had as he swallowed. A huge cheer went up and he cringed inwardly, vowing to drink as fast as possible and depart for the peace and quiet of his flat.

“Three lions on a shirt
Jules Remet still gleaming
thirty years of hurt
never stopped me dreaming”

The repeated chant grew closer and closer and eventually, Snape snapped his head up irritably, ready to chastise whichever hooligans were inconsiderate enough to leave the rest of their brainless friends behind and infiltrate the quieter end of the bar.

Snape froze in his seat as a familiar tousled head was revealed to be one of the ruffians in question. Harry was buffeted either side by two tall men, his mouth wide open in song as he stumbled his way back to a nearby sofa, a pint in each hand. Severus’s fingers tightened around the delicate whisky glass as Harry threw himself down, spread his legs and shamelessly rearranged his tackle.

The two men joined him, laughing and shouting. Harry reinitiated the singing, enthusiastically emphasizing the ‘three lions’ part, and remained woefully unaware that his lover was nearby, black eyes ablaze.

Snape watched with barely concealed revulsion as Harry got down on his hands and knees and crawled to the fire, shouting into the flames. His new friends looked at each other incredulously and burst out laughing.

“What you doing mate?” one of them asked, tears streaming down his face.

“Trying—get Ron, oh course, no Floo powder,” Harry mumbled.

“Flu powder? What’s the matter? Not feeling too good? Don’t think it’s Lemsip you need, don’t reckon I’d feel so good meself after sixteen pints.”

Snape slammed his glass down on the table and was across the room in two strides. He grabbed the back of Harry’s shirt and hauled him up onto his feet.

“Hey!” One of the men protested, “What’s your fucking problem?”

Snape ignored him and dropped Harry back onto the sofa. “Well, well, well. Mister Potter. What an unpleasant surprise.”

Harry blinked. Although he was having trouble focussing on the face, the voice left him no such merciful option to remain ignorant.

“Sev—“

“How delightfully domestic this is,” Snape sneered, ignoring the pleading look swimming in Harry’s eyes.

“Hey, is he with you Harry?”

“Not anymore it seems.” Snape snarled.

Harry had the strangest feeling the last few years of his life had all been a dream, and that he was actually sitting in the dungeons, guilelessly staring up at the unforgiving Potions professor behind his formidable desk.

“Sir-“

“Are you attempting to be humorous, Potter?” Snape spat.

Harry couldn’t help it; some part of his brain was on permanent lock down, screaming at him from underneath a ton of cotton wool. The glass in his hand suddenly felt too heavy, and as it slipped through his fingers. The last thing he heard was an angry hissing sound.

***

Dead. Definitely dead, Harry thought, as he opened his eyes and scrunched them up again, the sunlight scorching his retinas. No earthly being could possibly withstand the pain pounding in his skull, he was sure of that much. Harry turned his head fractionally and bravely risked permanent blindness.

The bed was empty, save for himself, and the other side had not been slept in, the corner of the sheet still tucked in. A glass of stale water sat on the bedside table next to his glasses, and someone had been kind enough to leave a bucket on the floor. Just the sight of it and what it represented had Harry dry heaving. He licked his parched, cracked lips and reached for the water. God, could anything taste as good as this? A Painkilling potion probably would, but Harry wasn’t stupid enough to think for one second that Severus would have left him one of—Oh God.

Like a tsunami of sewage, Harry’s last few conscious memories came rushing back to drown him.

Severus. Bus. Row. Pub. Pints. Mabel. Pints. Man. Pints. Football. David Beckham. Red Card. Booing. More men. Singing. More pints. Sticking his head in a fire. Severus.

Harry groaned loudly and tried to ignore the voice in his head screaming “Doomed!”. He struggled out of bed, not bothering to waste precious brain cells on wondering how he had ended up naked, and staggered into the bathroom.

Forty minutes, three coffees and a shower later, Harry was approaching something resembling human. He was in the midst of making his fourth double espresso when the familiar post owl drew up and hovered outside the window, clutching a copy of the Prophet.

Harry fed the bird and sent it on its way, taking the newspaper and his soul replenishing coffee to the sofa.

“Boy Who Lives to Booze!” screamed the headline, accompanied by a picture of a grinning Harry clutching two pints, draining first the contents of one, and then the other - in quick succession. The image repeated in a continuous looping rerun of him looking like a certified alcoholic.

The article was far, far worse though, and Harry had to swallow the rising bile as he read it.

“Harry Potter, age 18, recent conqueror of He-We-Still-Don’t-Like-To-Name, was spotted in a Muggle bar near Chancery Lane, London yesterday, ironically called the Green Man. Potter, who has yet to decide on a career path, certainly looked a little jaded by the end of his marathon drinking session. One member of staff had the following to say: “He came in just after lunchtime and brought sixteen pints, which was a bit surprising, but he seemed like a good, quiet lad. Until he’d got a few inside him that is, and then he was fixated on the football, specifically learning all the songs. At one point, he tried to throw himself into the fire, and that was when we started to get a bit worried. Luckily, his dad turned up and took him home.”

That man, most definitely not Potter’s father, was revealed by one of my sources to be none other than Severus Snape. Dear, avid readers of the Prophet will remember how I, Rita Skeeter, first broke the news that Snape was instrumental in the downfall of You-Know-Who, and fought side by side with Potter during the Battle of Hogwarts. Over the years, Snape (awarded Order of Merlin, 1st class) has made somewhat of a habit saving the young Hero, and I for one will be watching closely to see how this latest twist of fate entwines them further. It should also be noted that Mr Snape and Mr Potter are both in the running with Gilderoy Lockhart for this year’s Witch Weekly Most Charming Smile award. The latest poll, revealed this morning, suggests Mr Potter has edged ahead of the other two finalists, but who knows how negatively the public will react to his latest shocking antics.”

Harry glanced at the picture again and winced. He certainly didn’t look much like a worthy winner. Throwing the paper to one side, he grabbed the Floo powder off the mantle and threw some into the fire.

“This is the consultancy of Mr Snape, how may I help you?” came the clipped tone that Harry recognised as Miss Jennings.

“Er, hi, can I speak with Mr Snape please?”

“Certainly, may I ask who is calling?”

“It’s Harry Potter,”

Her fractional delay in answering spoke volumes. “My apologies, Mr Potter, it appears Mr Snape is unavailable at the present time. Would you like me to pass along a message?”

Harry’s heart sank into his stomach. “No, thanks, I’ll call again later.”

She didn’t even have the decency to bid him good day before the connection hissed and died.

Harry sat back on his heels and tried not to let panic overwhelm him. Only one person was going to be of any use in this situation. Well, two, to be precise, if the morning sickness was cooperative.

“Ron? Can I come through?”

“Only if you’ve got a screwdriver with you, mate,” Ron shouted back.

“Er, what?” Harry shook his head in confusion and immediately regretted it when his brain tissue pulsated indignantly.

Ron laughed. “Forget it, come on over.”

***
Harry stepped out of the fireplace and glanced around. Mrs Weasley was sat at the kitchen table, a copy of the Prophet spread out in front of her. Hermione flanked her on one side and Ron was leaning against the countertop.

“Harry, dear, how are you feeling?” Molly asked warmly, jumping up to envelop him in a hug. Harry thought it might be pretty bloody obvious how he was feeling, given that he’d seen himself in the mirror that morning and looked like an Inferi.

“Not great,” he admitted gingerly.

“Bloody hell mate, sixteen pints? Even Fred and George can’t put that many away between them!” Ron said, pushing himself off the counter and snatching the paper off the table.

Hermione was ominously quiet. Harry wondered if she was pissed off with him as well.

“Hermione?” he asked, craning his neck a little.

“Morning sickness dear, afraid there’s not much we can do for it magically, never quite sure if there are side effects that might harm the baby. Best leave her be.” Molly whispered, herding them out of the kitchen.

“Fancy giving me a hand with the cot?” Ron asked as they made their way upstairs. “It’s an old family heirloom of ‘Mione’s, from her great grandmother, needs re-assembling.”

“Okay,” Harry said dubiously, unconvinced that he’d be up to anything more strenuous than sinking against the floor in a heap.

When they reached the nursery, Harry couldn’t help but admire the beautiful decoration and attention to detail. Ron was obviously going to be a devoted dad, despite his previous misgivings about the pregnancy.

“I’m surprised it’s taken this long,” Ron said conversationally as he rooted in a toolbox.

“What?”

“Snape. Turning you to alcohol.”

Harry managed a weak smile. “He didn’t. We just had a stupid row. Well, not a row because I found the pub when I lost my nerve. He won’t take my calls, Ron. I don’t know what to do.”

Ron gave him a rather hang-dog expression and then brightened perceptibly. “I hear Joey Jenkins split up with his boyfriend.”

“Ron,” Harry said exasperatedly, “I don’t want Joey Jenkins. I want Severus bloody Snape.”

Ron visibly shivered but managed to pull himself together. “Well then, you’re going to have to find plenty of that Gryffindor courage, aren’t you? Merlin knows you’ll need it. Be like facing a Hungarian Horntail with a headache.”

Harry grimaced and scrubbed a hand across his throbbing temple.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got anything for a hangover have you?” he asked hopefully.

“Try mum, she keeps a good supply. Here, look at this.” Ron crouched beside Harry and handed him a dog eared piece of paper.

Harry turned it round and round but he still couldn’t decipher the image that stood out against the black background.

“What is it?” he asked, squinting.

“My son!” Ron exhaled smugly, doing a fine impression of a puffed up chicken.

Harry continued to rotate the piece of paper until Ron sighed, set it the right way up, and pointed.

“Look, there’s his head, and that’s a tiny little arm, and that there,” he grinned like a lunatic, “Is his wand.”

“How can he have a—oh, his wand.” Harry smirked.

“Yep, and a fine example of Weasley manhood it is too. Just like his dad.” Ron chuckled. “Though,” he added a bit more seriously, “Hermione is really suffering. Says if I ever come near her again, she’ll practice Sectumsempra on my—you know.”

Harry unconsciously crossed his legs and looked sympathetic.

“Still,” Ron carried on with his customary ubiquitous optimism, “It’s bloody brilliant watching her eat chocolate frogs dipped in some Muggle stuff called Marmite. Even the twins pull gross faces at her, but apparently that’s cravings for you. She really seems to enjoy it too, until she throws up again.”

“Urgh, Chocolate frogs and marmite?” Harry knew exactly what Marmite tasted like. He couldn’t imagine sullying a chocolate frog with the stuff. “No wonder she keeps being sick.”

“Nah, apparently it’s a good sign that the baby’s healthy.”

Harry traced a fond finger over the paper. “Got any names yet?”

“Well, Hermione likes Hugo but I reckon it’s a bit poncey. Sort of thing Percy would call a kid, not that he’s likely to have any seeing as how he’s—hey, you could date Percy!”

Ron’s whole face lit up with this brainwave. Harry turned green. “For Gods sakes Ron!”

“Nah, you’re right. No-one in their right mind would want to date that pompous git.”

“It’s not that—“

“I know, I know, you only like people with big noses and greasy black hair.”

Ron smiled wryly and Harry gave up trying to fight his growing amusement. Somehow Ron always knew just which buttons he could press and how hard he could press them. He sat quietly for a while and watched the slow progress of cot construction.

“Do you ever think what it would have been like if Voldemort had won?” Harry said quietly.

Ron stilled and considered Harry’s question. “Not often,” he admitted honestly, “but this whole baby thing has made me realise how lucky we are, Harry, even though it didn’t happen like I thought it would. Doesn’t really matter though, does it? Cos I’m alive and I’ve got Hermione, and a chance to make the most of every day. Reckon you should too,” he added, with a wink, then hurriedly amended it with, “make the most of every day, mate, not have Hermione.”

***

When Harry returned to his flat a few hours later, he was in a suitably better mood.

Ron had made reassuring comments about the lack of official statement from Harry’s Quidditch manager to the Prophet. Dawkins had publically declined to remark on the ‘scandal’, but was rumoured to have been seen chuckling at the picture of Harry before giving it pride of place on his corkboard. Harry had felt quite a lot better after hearing that, and it was with renewed spirit that he sat down in front of the fire and made another call, hoping that the late time of day might prompt Snape himself to answer.

“This is the consultancy of Mr Snape, how may I help you?” Bugger, Harry cursed silently, did the woman not have a life outside of work?

“Er, hi again, it’s Harry Potter. Can I speak to Mr Snape please?”

“Good evening, sir. I’m afraid—“

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do need to talk to him.”

There was a decidedly lengthy pause and Harry imagined she wore tight, pursed lips, McGonagall style.

“Between you and me, Mr Potter,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’d give him a couple of days.”

It struck Harry as an odd thing for a secretary to say, as if she was somehow privy to more information than she rightfully ought to be, and the thought rankled.

“No, this won’t wait. I’d step back if I were you.” And without any further warning, Harry jumped into the fire and travelled through the connection.

His first thought, as he stumbled out, was that he’d accidentally landed in a doctor’s surgery. Everything was brilliantly white and ruthlessly clean. It was so different from what he had imagined, that he didn’t immediately register the startled secretary glaring at him.

“Mr Potter, I presume,” she said, furiously dusting ash from her skirt. She looked rather flustered, and Harry realised she had probably been forced to make an impromptu dive to avoid a collision with him. It was rather humbling to finally meet the woman in person, though not enough to distract him from his mission.

“Miss Jennings isn’t it? I’m really sorry to just, ah, barge in like this but I really do need to see Severus.” Harry said, hoping he sounded contrite but firm.

“Mr Snape gave strict instructions—“ But even as she spoke, he had already spotted the door and was striding towards it.

“Mr Potter!” Harry ignored her and seized the handle in his clammy hand, preparing to do battle.

“That would be the bathroom!” She exclaimed loudly, several beats after Harry had managed to confirm that for himself.

Miss Jennings pinched the bridge of her nose and watched as Harry’s eyes darted wildly around the vast reception area. Spotting the only other door at the opposite end of the room, he determinedly took off again. Slightly panicked, she ran after him.

Harry barrelled through the door so hard it flew open and hit the adjoining wall with a resounding bang. If Snape had been startled by the dramatic entrance, he showed no sign of it.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she gushed, practically kissing the floor in abject apology, “He just came through the Floo and—“

“You need not apologise, Matilda, I am long acquainted with Mr Potter’s erratic behaviour.” Snape directed his words at her, but it was Harry he eyed speculatively. “You may leave for the evening.”

The secretary looked at him gratefully before shooting Harry a death glare, closing the door behind her.

Harry had the sudden urge to examine the floor in close detail, but there were many other interesting features in the room, distracting him from the piercing black gaze he was studiously trying to ignore. One such item was a rather familiar desk, behind which sat Severus Snape.

“Isn’t that—“ Harry cocked his head and studied it.

“Yes, Mr Potter, it is.”

Harry’s lip twitched. How many times had he sat in that potions classroom imagining himself sprawled across it? With Severus glowering from behind that oaken bulwark, distracting him so badly he couldn’t concentrate on his potion.

“Oh. Isn’t that Hogwarts property?”

“Evidently not, since it is furnishing my office.”

Harry swallowed and tried to remember what he’d wanted to say. He had expected to be shouted at, called an impertinent little brat, or bodily thrown out, but Snape remained silent and sat stoically in his chair, chin balanced on steepled fingers as he looked at Harry with an unreadable expression.

“So, um, thanks for making sure I got home okay.” Harry said, genuinely grateful for waking up in his own bed and not a gutter somewhere.

Snape continued to stare, and this time Harry failed to avert his gaze, focusing only on the depthless black eyes and their intense scrutiny.

“Look, I know you’re angry with me, but, well—“ Merlin, would he ever be able to get a complete sentence out in the presence of this man? He hesitated, desperately hoping Snape would intercede with a scathing reprimand, but it didn’t come and when the tension became unbearable, Harry’s patience expired.

“For Gods sakes, Severus, just say something will you?” Harry implored, his self imagined Stupefy suddenly ending as he crossed the room. “Tell me I’m inconsiderate, arrogant, whatever you’re thinking just say it, because anything is better than you ignoring me. So I took you on a bus, and okay, the journey was a bit uncomfortable—“ Snape’s eyebrow challenged this understatement of the century. “—Alright, a lot,” Harry snapped, “but I didn’t deliberately do it to piss you off.”

He stopped beside the desk, fingers dancing skittishly across the wood as he realised just how close he’d insinuated himself to a ticking time bomb.

“And I didn’t want to argue with you, so, it was a stupid thing to do but I went into the pub and, well, you know the rest.” Harry perched his bum on the desk and stared longingly at the pale fingers. He ached to reach out and touch them, have them touch him back and the thought that they might never again made him thoroughly miserable.

“Just—I’m sorry, okay?” He gave Snape one last searching look and then slid off the desk, determined to at least walk out with some semblance of dignity intact. He would not let the man see how upset he was.

Sharp fingers unexpectedly seized his waist, spinning him around so violently the room tilted sideways. Darkened eyes came into startlingly clear focus as his back was slammed up against something hard. Wooden. Desk like.

“You, Mr Potter, are selfish, supercilious, and grossly lacking in respect,” Snape growled hotly against his ear.

“Fuck, yeah I am, I know,” Harry whimpered, wondering what supercilious meant as a sharp nip to his ear caught him off guard.

“You agree then, that these traits are not desirable ones?” Snape purred menacingly, not sounding at all surprised that Harry had agreed with him. At that precise moment, Harry would have agreed to just about anything Snape demanded, thanks to the equal amounts of relief and desire coursing through his veins.

“Ungh,” he concurred, throwing his head back so that the wet, insistent mouth could attack his neck. His fists balled the black robes, pulling them closer until he could feel Snape’s erection, thick and heavy pressing his hip. Harry groaned and slid his hands around the lithe waist, reaching round until he was firmly massaging Snape’s arse.

Snape cupped his chin roughly and tilted his head back, eyes flashing furiously as they scanned his face.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Snape said disgustedly, the self-loathing evident in his voice.

Harry wasn’t sure how to answer, but the feverishly hot erection that seemed to be burning through Snape’s clothes was a pretty good indication. Releasing a handful of firm arse, he skimmed his fingers across the crest of a hip and trailed down the front of the robes, lightly brushing the tip of a clothed cock.

The action only served to infuriate Snape further. He released Harry’s face so abruptly that his head snapped back, and then there were hands, grabbing Harry by the collar, an almighty ripping sound and a series of pings as the buttons showered the floor. The tattered shirt following closely behind.

Harry gasped, partly for air and partly through shock, but he couldn’t inhale precious oxygen because Snape’s mouth immediately plundered his, an angry tongue filling him, enraged teeth biting down hard on his lip, not bothering to sooth away the sting. Fingers ruptured his fly zip, dragging his jeans down so fast the denim burnt his legs. Harry gripped the edge of the desk for dear life, the only solid thing to hold onto as Snape fastened both hands onto his arse cheeks and hoisted him up onto it, a single swipe of his long arm sending papers and files plummeting to the floor. Harry wiggled his legs to kick his jeans and pants off completely, glancing down as he did so and catching sight of his throbbing cock. Seeing how impossibly hard he was thrilled him beyond belief, and he snapped his hips at the other man in unspoken challenge.

Snape seized the rigid shaft and squeezed it hard. Harry couldn’t help the pitiful moan that escaped, his own fingers avidly attacking a long row of black buttons as he tried to free them, nasty little things that taunted him with the prospect of marvelling at the pallid flesh beneath.

“Fucking—buttons,” he complained, but Snape merely grunted and flattened him against the cold wood with a hard shove to the chest. Harry examine the ceiling for a moment and didn’t dare imagine what he must look like bent backwards, his cock probably stuck up at an obscene angle as his painfully overstretched legs dangled awkwardly.

Snape towered over him with a predatory scowl on his face, and began to disrobe with precise, even movements, belying the barely restrained impatience he felt. His eyes travelled over Harry’s stiffening pink nipples, across his broad, strong chest to the dark rifts of hair around his belly button that thickened into a thatch of chocolate curls, until his heated gaze found the solid, flushed length, twitching delightedly under the scrutiny.

Harry shivered in anticipation as the last of the buttons were slipped from their holes, the black fabric pooling around Snape’s ankles. His mouth watered as his eyes settled on Snape’s exposed groin, the shiny purple cock head leaking in anticipation, foreskin already rolled back, as it strained desperately for contact. Harry started to sit up and reach for it, but Snape slapped his hand away.

“Do you deserve this, Mr Potter? Do you deserve to have my cock up your arse?” he growled, slapping both his hands down on either side of Harry’s deskbound pelvis, leaning forward menacingly until his mouth was a whisper away from Harry’s hungry lips. Even his hair looked threatening, Harry thought, brushing against his jaw like a curtain of iron black silk.

“Probably not,” Harry whispered hoarsely, “But I want it.”

He wasn’t sure if that was the correct response or not, but he supposed it must have been good enough, because in the confusing moments that followed, there was a flurry of movement and a weight atop him, strong hands gripping his hair, dragging his head back further as his shoulders were mashed against the desk and sharp teeth attacked his collarbone, a wet trail of tongue tracing a line down the middle of his chest, licking slyly at a nipple before it was seized and claimed with an unforgiving mouth and Harry cried out as he felt the silky slide of his lover’s cock grinding cruelly against his own.

The desk edge dug ruthlessly into the back of his thighs, and Harry raised his knees until they were aligned with Snape’s ears. His hands ran up and down sinewy sides, first mapping the lean ribs and then reaching to wrap his fingers around that which he had not yet been given permission to touch.

Snape released the abused nipple and bit into the soft skin of his neck, teeth sinking gloriously into the silky tissue. Harry swore loudly and redoubled his efforts, urgently thrusting a hand between their naked bodies.

He managed to reach Snape’s pubic bone before his wrists were grasped and pinned to the desk.

“Now why would you want to touch me, Mr Potter? I was under the impression you preferred the company of hooligans.” Oh God, and there was that unforgiving sneer, borne from years of practice, mostly on him, but these days it only lit the touch paper of Harry’s arousal.

“No!” he protested, wriggling uncomfortably under the twisted lips and darkened glare.

“No, you do not wish to touch me?” Snape said huskily, thrusting his hips to jab his cock against Harry’s balls.

“Yes—I meant no to the—Yours, I’m yours,” Harry promised, trying to drive his groin against the friction.

“Mine.” Snape said, as if considering.

“Yes,” Harry hissed, “Yours, always yours, now for God’s sakes, will you just fuck me?”

“Oh I will, Potter, if only to exorcise you of your maddeningly intolerable insolence and inconsideration. I strongly recommend you find something sturdy to hold on to.”

“Oh my God,” Harry panted, detachedly thinking Snape knew a lot of words beginning with ‘in’ as he watched the man move like a tornado, slapping his hands against the backs of Harry’s thighs and pushing his knees into his chest so hard his breath was knocked out of him. There was no gentle circling of his most tender area before a long finger breached his hole, barely inside of him a second before another was sent to join it. Harry’s hips rocketed off the desk as he felt them twist and curl inside him, probing his prostate ruthlessly, delving further into his passage than he’d ever felt them go. Snape held him with steely determination, and Harry had to close his eyes against the overwhelming suspicion that he might pass out from such exquisite torture. His arse complied with traitorous abandon, opening itself up eagerly to the onslaught of wicked fingers, helping themselves to his hot, tight channel.

And all the time, Snape kept dragging his erection up and down Harry’s cleft, copious amounts of pre-come smearing his balls, his entrance, his skin, taunting him as he worked Harry wider with practiced fingers, listening to Harry’s breathless pants, his arms splayed as wide as his legs, hands blindly groping for purchase, anything to anchor himself.

Harry would have protested when the digits abruptly left him, but he didn’t have time to voice his complaint, because the very same fingers that had been inside of him were now clawing his hips, hauling him off the desk. Harry’s feet desperately sought the floor, but Snape spun him round and sprawled him across the desk. Harry gasped for breath, his chest pressed hard against the unyielding oak.

He felt the delicious spread of his cheeks, the barest rush of cool air against his needy hole before the tip of Snape’s cock replaced it, resting lightly.

“Brace yourself, Potter,” he warned, rather pointlessly, Harry thought, since he allowed no time for any such action to be taken before driving himself deeply into Harry’s arse.

“ Fucking hell!” Harry spluttered, knuckles whitening. Snape ignored him and hauled his hips backwards to impale his final inch, balls nestling tightly again Harry’s crack.

“Oh Merlin, that feels so good, tell me it feels good,” Harry begged, deliberately clenching his muscles as if to squeeze an answer from the other man.

“It feels good,” Snape confirmed, almost sounding begrudging about it. Harry grinned widely and renewed his sweaty grip on the desk.

“It’ll feel even better if you move.” Harry wiggled his arse seductively.

Snape slapped it hard. “Do you know how many times I have imagined taking you over this desk Potter? Unless you want me to come before I’ve so much as stroked your cock, I suggest you keep still and allow me to collect myself.”

“My cock!” Harry exclaimed, as though he’d forgotten he had one, which bizarrely enough he had. The burn in his arse and the indescribable feeling of being so thoroughly fucked had stopped him thinking about anything else.

Snape finally regained enough control and began to move, excruciatingly shallow thrusts that Harry met with enthusiasm, driving his hips backwards, feeling the thick shaft sliding deeply inside him, then forwards to grind his own cock against the desk. Harry was too bloody close, ridiculously close considering he’d only just been penetrated but the thrill of Snape throwing him onto a desk, and not any old desk, created all sorts of mayhem in his brain.

“Harder, Severus, I can’t wait, just—“

Harry was silenced by a guttural moan as Snape ploughed into him. One hand gripped his shoulder, the other seized his hip and there was no room for anything other than animalistic pounding, Harry’s cock viciously slammed against the hard oak. Harry’s orgasm came out of nowhere; there was no slow coiling, no build up in his stomach, just the thunderbolt sensation of white hot energy torpedoing through his cock.

“Oh fuck,” Harry cried out. Snape felt the sharp contractions as the walls of Harry’s arse tightened impossibly around him. Grinding roughly one last time, his own release sudden and violent, Snape collapsed against Harry’s back, flattening him to the desk, his breathless grunts carrying on the air as he emptied himself deeply and with shuddering intensity.

Ragged harsh breaths filled the air. Harry’s were distinctly more laboured under Snape’s weight but he couldn’t have cared less, and Snape himself seemed reluctant to disentangle, content with laying his cheek on Harry’s back and running a hand through the sweaty mess of his hair.

“We, uh, could move this somewhere a bit more comfortable,” Harry said hopefully, grimacing when his arse was left empty and the cool air once again rushed against his bare backside.

Snape bent down to retrieve his robes and Harry straightened himself up, wincing when his back cracked in protest.

“We could just Apparate back to mine, like this,” he pressed.

Snape gave him a look and began to dress.

Harry immediately felt panicked and hoped the awful thought that had just crossed his mind was simply paranoia.

“You are coming back with me, right?” God, why did he have to be rooted to the spot and completely bloody naked when he asked stupid questions like this.

“No.” Snape replied calmly. Dizziness rushed over him and Harry had to grab the desk again for support.

“Why? What was that then? Some kind of farewell fuck? You—“

“No,” Snape repeated vehemently, turning to glare at him, “I was merely going to say we have spent a disproportionate amount of time at your flat, and that you might conceivably enjoy visiting mine.”

Harry wanted to clutch his chest, for he felt sure his heart was about to give out. When he looked up again, Snape was smirking.

“Was that supposed to be funny?”

“Certainly not. No more amusing than a bus ride, anyway.” Snape stepped forward and drew a naked, shaky Harry into his arms.

“Oh right, I get it, revenge. Well congratulations, I hope it was sweet.” Harry laid his forehead against the black fabric and closed his eyes. His heart was still in his throat and his stomach was roiling.

“You should be appreciative that I did not decide to employ my first choice of retribution. I imagine a permanent erection would be exceedingly difficult to conceal in the Quidditch changing room.”

Harry managed a fatigued smile. “I don’t like falling out with you,” he said honestly.

“Then we should endeavour not to indulge too often,” Snape said, placing a gentle kiss on the top of his head. “Although,” he added, “It does rather encompass some benefits.”

Harry didn’t want to move, it was such a huge relief that everything was okay and that he was still wrapped in strong, protective arms. Jealous arms, he smirked to himself. Yet the cool of evening air was settling around him and after a few more shivers, Snape picked up his clothes and urged him to dress.

“So where’s your flat?” Harry said, inspecting his disembowelled shirt.

Snape moved to the far end of the room, towards a door Harry hadn’t had the time to notice before. His hand remained suspended above the doorknob, eyes glittering in amusement.

“No way,” Harry laughed, shaking his head, “Your home is behind your office, and you fucked me over the desk?”

“Yes, Mr Potter, and be warned, I shall do so again,” Snape stated confidently and turned the handle.

***