Getting Back

Chapter Two

By jharad17

Summary: AU, Slash after OotP. During the summer after his 6th year, Harry is flung twenty years into the past and needs the help of both the Marauders and a certain Slytherin to get back his memories and to return to his own time. HPRAB, HPSS, HPSB?

Warnings: This story will be slash. I will warn again about particularly graphic scenes in the future, but overall, this is a slash story.

There's a little, tiny bit of slashy stuff in this chapter, for instance.

Other Warnings: Naturally, the story will also contain angst, violence, romance, angst, adventure, bloodshed, and probably some more angst.

Pairings: The primary pairing at this time will be Harry/Regulus, but later it will be HPSS, with possible other pairings as I go along, for Harry or for other characters. Nothing's written in stone, so if you have a fave pair or plot bunny you would like to see explored, let me know.

Previously, in Chapter One:

"Thanks," the boy whispered, from closer to the door, and Regulus called Kreacher, his favorite House Elf, and told him to help the boy get upstairs, if he required it, and to bring him some food from the kitchens once he was there. He waited till Kreacher had gone, wondering about the boy, and where he had come from, and wondering if he would be a good prospect for the Dark Lord he had joined a few months ago. . . .

Now he just needed to set up a meeting.

Regulus suffered through dinner with his parents, tuning out most of what his mother said; she was crazy, and had been for years. She was the main reason Sirius had given for why he'd left home. And really, Regulus could not blame his older brother for leaving. If he could get away with it, Regulus would move out, too.

But where would he go? To Lucius Malfoy? Malfoy had been a sixth-year Prefect when Regulus had entered Hogwarts, and was now -- only three years out of school -- Lord Voldemort's right hand man. But Malfoy had never paid any mind to Regulus, except as a possible recruit for the Dark Lord, and worse, he had always held Sirius' sorting against him, as if it were Regulus' fault that his brother was a bloody Gryffindor who didn't care for the Dark Arts. No, he could not take refuge with Malfoy.

Nor could he do so with any of his other recently graduated comrades among the Dark Lord's followers. Despite the fact -- or maybe because of it -- that Regulus was the youngest of those the Dark Lord had ever marked, his fellow Death Eaters looked upon him with some disdain. He hated being condescended to and ignored; he'd gotten that same treatment from Sirius the last few years his brother had lived at home, as if Regulus was failing, somehow, at simply existing. And now that Sirius was gone, their parents heaped all of their expectations on Regulus as their only remaining son. He was meant to be the perfect, pureblood heir.

School was no different. Yes, he was bookish and a bit of a loner, but he was also fairly powerful, magically, and the Dark Lord saw his potential; He'd said so when Regulus had taken His mark! He understood why the Gryffs and Hufflepuffies would avoid him, as the heir to the House of Black, but even Slytherins eschewed him, for the most part.

Really, the only one who treated him as just a regular person, even at school, was Severus Snape. Snape was only a year ahead of him at school, like Sirius, and Snape treated everyone with the same brand of sneering sarcasm and biting wit, making no exceptions for kith or kin. Regulus actually appreciated Snape's repartee, especially when it was directed at someone besides himself, and he spent time in Snape's company whenever he could, for studying and whatnot. Snape mostly ignored him, when he wasn't sniping about something, but seemed to tolerate his presence well enough.

Before Severus' sixth year, however, he had had little time for Regulus. Seemingly obsessed with his studies, he used to be in the library more often than not, sometimes with a Mudblood Gryffindor girl. And though he had been more available last year, and far less often in the company of that Mudblood, Snape had also spent more time with his sixth-year mates, like Rudolphus Lestrange, Evan Rosier and others who were well on their way to becoming Death Eaters. He still rarely had time for Regulus.

Anyway, even if he had been a more attentive friend, Snape certainly had no ability to give him succor during the holidays like the Potters did for Sirius. Rumor had it that he was a half-blood, who lived with his Muggle father and Witch mother during school hols. Regulus imagined that was a far worse fate than sticking it out another two years with his own parents, Walburga and Orion, no matter what pressures they put on him as their heir.

Besides, now he had the mystery boy to worry about, and if Orion found out about him before he'd created a decent cover story . . .

"--will answer me, boy, if you know what's good for you!"

Speak -- or think -- of the devil. His father had apparently been trying to get his attention for a few moments now, and was already at the point of making threats. Damnit.

Regulus dipped his head in Orion's direction. "My apologies, Father." He would not offer an excuse for his inattention unless one was demanded of him; it gave his father less ammunition to use later.

Orion waved a sheet of parchment in Regulus' face. "Would you care to explain this to me?" His agitation made his full face splotchy.

Regulus wondered, not for the first time, if his father would succumb to some Muggle malady, like high blood pressure, that would burst his heart. It would be an ironic end, truly, for someone Regulus had long considered to have no heart at all. "I'm not sure what that is, Father," Regulus replied, with just the right amount of deference.

"Your O.W.L. results," Mother supplied helpfully. Her eyes were mostly clear, only a little crazed tonight. She had not screamed obscenities in almost half an hour. "I believe your father is concerned about several of your scores."

Regulus frowned, just a touch, enough to lightly crease his forehead, but not enough to make his father think he was actually afraid of him or anything. "I haven't seen the scores . . . but I thought I passed everything . . ."

"Oh, you did, dear," Mother started, at the same time as Orion shouted, "Passing is not good enough for the heir of the House of Black!"

Oh, hell, Regulus thought. It was to be another of those conversations.

Upstairs, Kreacher stood in the corner, invisible, watching the boy his Master wanted him to keep an eye on. Having taken off his shoes, the boy was stretched out on Master's bed, his head at the foot and his feet on one of Master's pillows. Not blinking, he gazed up at the Black family crest on the wall above the bed.

He was a strange boy, Kreacher decided. He was horribly skinny, with wrists tiny enough that Kreacher was sure any House Elf could wrap a hand around one with room to spare. In fact, the boy looked malnourished, as if he had no House Elf to feed him. Perhaps he truly didn't. He had eaten the food Kreacher brought him as if he were starving, after all.

Another curiosity was the boy's eyes. Though his expression was calm and composed enough to fool most Humans, the boy's eyes told a different story; they were bright green, and currently riveted on the crest on the wall, but they held a tinge of darkness in them, as if the boy had seen awful things, terrible things, but did not want to admit them.

The strangest thing of all, of course, was the fact that the boy was wearing Master Regulus' clothes, but clothes that were still in Master's wardrobe. Kreacher had checked. Kreacher did not know how it was possible for there to be two of that particular shirt, when all of Master Regulus' shirts were tailored specially for him.

"You don't have to stand in the corner," the boy said suddenly, without a glance in Kreacher's direction. "You can come over here and sit down, if you like."

Kreacher startled. The boy could see Kreacher? Impossible! Unwilling to believe Kreacher had been spotted, Kreacher stayed put.

But then the boy rolled over onto his side, and his bright green gaze sought Kreacher out, making the House Elf recoil and cover his face with his hands. "Did I say something wrong?" the boy asked politely.

Kreacher shook his head. "You are not to be seeing me, friend of Master Regulus. No wizards can be seeing Kreacher, except for Master's family."

"Sorry," the boy said, and gave Kreacher a wry smile.

Kreacher shuddered, not understanding. Master Regulus was kind to Kreacher, speaking to Kreacher as if Kreacher were not a slave, but Master was the only one in generations of Blacks to do so.

Disposing of the invisibility, as it was obviously not working, Kreacher took a tiny step forward, hands held palm up, toward the strange boy. "Where is you be coming from, friend of Master?" Kreacher asked, voice wavering only a little. Kreacher knew Master Regulus wanted to know about the boy, and Kreacher would help Master however possible. Perhaps the boy would answer questions for Kreacher that he would not answer for Master.

"I don't know," the boy said. And again, "Sorry."

Kreacher jerked as if slapped. No wizard, except Master Regulus, could say he was sorry to Kreacher. Not and mean it. Kreacher was only a House Elf. "Youse must not say such things, friend of Master. "

"Must not say what, Kreacher?"

"Must make no apologies to Kreacher, friend of Master."

The boy sat on edge of the bed, dangling his legs over the side, and peered at Kreacher curiously. "I'm sorry, I don't under--" The boy bit his lip with a wince when Kreacher flinched at the apology. "Oh, sor . . . I mean, er . . . why can't I say that?"

"Kreacher is only a House Elf, friend of Master. No House Elf deserves such words."

"Really?" the boy asked. "What if I mean it?"

"Youse cannot mean it. Only Master Regulus says such things and means them."

The boy smiled again, and Kreacher took another step toward him, drawn to him, to the smile, though Kreacher did not know why. "You like him very much, don't you?" the boy asked.

"Master Regulus?" Kreacher sighed, and his long fingers smoothed along the hem of the faded pillowcase slung over his body. "Oh yes, of course, friend of Master. He is a wondrous wizard, so perfect and kind and--"

"Okay, I get it," the boy said, grinning and holding up his hands, as the bedroom door eased open behind Kreacher. "He has been very kind to me as well."

"That's right," came Master's voice as he stepped into the room. He looked upset, and Kreacher moved to his side immediately, to see what could be done to help soothe Master's mood. "Perhaps you can repay me by telling me your name."

"Master Regulus--" Kreacher started, wanting to tell Master about the clothes, but Master held up his hand, giving a sharp shake of his head. Kreacher fell silent, though leaned his body toward Master. Had Kreacher done something to displease Master? In the next moment, however, Master gently touched the top of Kreacher's head, and Kreacher sighed in relief and wonder. Master truly was the best of wizards.

"I'm sorry, Regulus," said the strange boy, "but I haven't had any luck remembering."

Master's eyes narrowed as he stared at the boy, but after a minute, he nodded. "You'll forgive me for not quite believing you, I'm sure."

"Of course."

When the boy gave another wry smile, similar to the one he had given Kreacher earlier, Kreacher could see that edge of darkness within the depths of the boy's eyes, like a deep sadness. Kreacher shuddered slightly, against Master's leg, and Master petted his head, easing his fears. Kreacher gazed up at Master, feeling the boy's eyes on them.

"Your House Elf is very devoted to you," said the boy.

Master's hand stilled, and Kreacher tensed, but Master did not sound angry when he spoke. "I care for him, as he has done for me since the day I was born. I'm certain no one cares for me as much as he does."

Kreacher nodded frantically in agreement, and Master's hand resumed its gentle movement along the ridge of Kreacher's skull.

"That's . . . that's good," the boy said, but with some emotion Kreacher could not put a name to, which made his voice sound thick. When Kreacher looked up, the boy had turned his face away, to stare at the far wall.

"What's wrong?" Master asked the boy. "Are you remembering something?"

"I . . . I don't know." The boy shook his head, and his hands were trembling. "I just had a . . . not a memory, really, but . . . a feeling, I suppose."

"What kind of feeling?" Master strode forward, dropping a sheet of parchment on his desk as he passed it. Kreacher could see from the creases along the edge that it had been gripped tight in Master's fist, but Kreacher could not read what the parchment said. Master stopped right in front of the boy, and they stared at each other. "Do you know?"

The boy shrugged, rather helplessly, and stuttered, "I, I just had a sense of . . . I don't know . . . loneliness? I can't explain it well."

"It makes sense," Master said, with a small frown. "Since you don't know where you belong, you don't really have anyone right now."

A ghost of a smile passed over the boy's face and was gone, leaving only that darkness in his eyes. "It's more like, I have a sense I've never really belonged anywhere."

Master's frown deepened, and he was silent for a long time, his gaze never leaving that of the boy in front of him. Kreacher knew, in part, what he must be thinking. Ever since his blood-traitor of a brother had gone, Master Regulus had felt some sort of loneliness, too. Master Regulus was lonely at school, not really fitting in with other students, and despite having become a Death Eater this past spring, Master was too young to fit in with others of the Dark Lord's followers, as well. Master Regulus was smart and powerful, and knew what he wanted from his life. But Master was also adrift at times, with the sense, like this boy, that he didn't really belong.

When Master Regulus moved, at last, it was almost too fast for Kreacher to see. Master took one step closer to the boy, then grasped the boy's thin, narrow face between his hands. Before the boy could pull away or object at all, Master pressed his lips to the boy's and kissed him thoroughly.

For the few moments they were caught together, Kreacher stared at the two of them unabashedly and smiled, showing teeth. The strange boy's eyes had fluttered closed, even as he stood otherwise stalk still in surprise, and his cheeks were flushed. Kreacher knew what that meant, among Humans.

Master Regulus was breathing heavily as he released the boy and stepped back. "Sorry . . . I . . ." He shook his head, and when the boy simply stared back and remained silent, Master fled from his own room without looking back. Kreacher followed on Master's heels.

What the hell?

The young man stared at the door, not sure whether he should go after Regulus, or whether he should just stay put. Regulus seemed to want to keep him hidden from his parents, which he could do best by staying in this room, but given what had just happened . . . he didn't want such a thing to go unremarked.

Touching fingers to his lips, he recalled the feel of Regulus' mouth upon his. He had been so surprised by the suddenness of the kiss that he'd just stood there like a lump when Regulus broke away. He was so stupid. He hadn't even responded, hardly, though he wanted to, he realized now. Oh yes; he wanted to.

Was it his mention of loneliness that had made Regulus kiss him? Was Regulus lonely, too? He wouldn't be surprised; this was an awfully big house for such a small family, and though Regulus had a few family photographs on the walls in the room, and many, many shelves of books, he had few things that pointed to peer relationships.

But maybe Regulus was just hoping to throw him off guard, so he'd "slip" and tell him details of his life, details he couldn't remember. Or maybe he was trying to encourage those memories into coming to the surface, by kissing him and making him feel strong emotions and making him . . . His face was hot, he realized, and he needed to stop thinking of Regulus and the kiss and what it meant, or he'd go crazy.

Needing a distraction, he moved over to the desk, where Regulus had dropped the parchment earlier, so he could get a closer look at whatever it was. He nudged the parchment over with one finger, to find an official looking letter with an seal centered on the bottom. The seal proclaimed the letter's origin as the Ministry of Magic.

Something flared in the young man's mind as he read that, an image of a piece of fabric fluttering in a doorway, in a room with no breeze flowing through it. The fabric then lay still, hiding what lay beyond. Along with the image was an intense feeling of regret and . . . shame? He shook his head, to clear the image from his head, then he glanced at the top of the sheet, where the words "Ordinary Wizarding Level Results" were written.

O.W.L. results. Another image flitted through his mind, of a sheet like this, but his, not Regulus' . . . with seven O.W.Ls earned. Yes, he remembered. He'd earned a passing mark or better in all his subjects except History of Magic and Divination. But that was okay, because Binns was exceptionally boring, and Divination was a joke, with every class set up to be a recitation of all the ways Trelawney could tell him he was doomed to die . . .

Wait. Where the hell had that thought come from?

Was he doomed to die?

Yes. He remembered that, too. A wizard with a long, white beard telling him . . . telling him . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to remember more about that wizard, and what secrets he'd been spilling that night, but nothing else came to him. With a sigh, he rubbed at his forehead and looked more closely at Regulus' marks. Obviously Regulus was very bright, as he had earned ten O.W.L.s from his exams at Hogwarts. All of his marks were either Exceeding Expectations or Outstanding, but they were mostly Outstanding.

Hogwarts.

Holding the parchment now, he rubbed his head again with his other hand. He had gone to Hogwarts, too, he realized. Did he still go, he wondered, or had he graduated already? With the memory of that place, there was a sense of . . . having left something incomplete, and yet, his insides felt like they were being squeezed by a giant fist when he thought about Hogwarts and tried to recall what the school looked like, a feeling he could almost recognize as grief. But why would he feel that about a school? Had something bad happened there? Was he not meant to return?

Merlin, he wanted so badly to remember.

For one thing, if he had his memories, he wouldn't feel so stupid around Regulus. The blue-eyed boy must think him a complete prat, or an unconscionable liar, with him being unable to recall even his own name or where he was from. He wondered, again, what had made Regulus trust him enough to let him stay in his house, and more, allow him into his own room . . . And what in the world had possessed Regulus to kiss him?

Not that he hadn't enjoyed it.

A small smile crossed his lips again, as he returned to the bed to sit back down. He hoped Regulus didn't feel too embarrassed about the kiss, and also that he would return soon. He wanted to tell him about the things he'd remembered already, and to ask him some questions about the school, to see if Regulus could spark his memory . . . among other things.

To Be Continued . . .