Part 4: Hogwarts, ten years later.

 

~o~ Bye bye, Love, Again… April 21, 2009. ~o~

Harry sat on a park bench, watching a child throwing a stick to a mixed-breed dog who obviously lived for the game. Spring had been late in coming this year. The sky was a pale watery blue, but the bushes were leafing out, and the yellow daffodils were gently swaying in the breeze. On a farther bench, an old lady was feeding the pigeons. Harry could hear the voices of children playing in the playground around the corner.

He took a deep breath. He knew he had done the right thing. One should not stay engaged to a sweet, lovely young woman after spending the morning (when she was out for a wedding dress fitting) fucking the new next-door neighbor.

He had met said neighbor on the stairs. Harry was about to go out for a stroll, and she was coming up from the basement with a basketful of laundry. Ever the gentleman, he had offered to help her carry it back to her apartment. She had accepted and led the way. She had been thin and angular, wearing a singlet, jeans, and flip-flops. Her hair had been black and glossy, cut in a pageboy.

He had loved the way her vertebrae made such a sharp ridge on her upper back. She had been receptive when, after putting the laundry down, he had reached out and touched her face. He had kissed her and run his hand up her shirt, rubbing his palm on the tips of her small hard breasts. He had taken her from behind as she leaned her stomach on the back of her sofa, staring at her bony back and the cascade of black hair that swung in rhythm with his thrusts, loving that she was quiet and let his imagination run wild.

He had come with his eyes closed, savoring the feeling of the tight arse under his palms and of the long legs on each side of his. Laying her on the sofa, he had then used his tongue and fingers to bring her off, twice. She had tasted of his come and of something tangy, and had smelled of patchouli.

When Sarah had come home, he had already packed his bag. She was so beautiful, even with tears streaming down her face. He had explained that he had been wrong, that he was not ready to get married, ready to give up his freedom. He had told her he loved her, which he did, very much. He had apologized, and held her as she wept, telling her how wonderful she was, how special, and that he was an idiot, but that he just would end up hurting her more in the long run, because he knew he would not be able to remain faithful and give her what she deserved.

She had admitted having seen his eye wander. She had felt he was holding back. She had hoped, and forged ahead, fooling herself, but she said she had really known all along. They held each other for a long time and he had left, his bag shrunken to fit in his pocket.

It was the middle of the afternoon and he was homeless. They had been living at her place. He would go to a hotel. He sighed again. He needed to talk to a friend. He Apparated outside the Manor’s main gate, and let the Malfoys’ wards do their job. The gate opened and Ginny, beautiful as ever, met him on the way to the imposing front door. They walked back, talking about the weather, her morning sickness (finally passed), and her funny cravings (figs, figs, and more figs…). They went to her favorite sitting room and she called for tea.

“All right, Harry, what’s going on? What are you doing Apparating all the way here? Is your Floo on the blink, or are you just showing off?”

“I wasn’t near a Floo. I didn’t think about it. It’s not that far… ”

She rolled her eyes. Never mind only a handful of wizards could hope to Apparate such distance without Splinching themselves. “Right. Whatever. What’s the matter?”

“Why would you assume something is the matter, Gin?” he said, trying to delay the inevitable.

She put her hand on his knee and moved until she’d caught his eye. “Please. Just stop. Talk to me, all right?”

Harry sighed. “Sarah and I are through. I called off the engagement. I just couldn’t go through with it, the wedding… Everything.”

She’d almost believed this was it, this time. “What happened?”

He bit his lower lip. “I had sex with the neighbor.”

“Galloping Grindylow, Harry. Did Sarah catch you at it?”

“No, no, she doesn’t even know. That’s not the point. I wouldn’t be having sex with someone else four weeks before my wedding if it were… ‘It’, or whatever, you know. I love Sarah. She is sweet, and pretty, and smart, and funny. But the thrill is gone, has been gone for months. It just wasn’t right.”

Ginny sighed. “Well, I’m really sorry, Harry. I really thought it might work for you this time. She is a great girl.”

“It’s not her, Ginny. It’s me. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I find what you and Draco have, or Hermione and Ron? It never feels right, I keep looking for something, and I don’t even know what.” He knew he had no call sounding so hurt. It was all his fault.

“Well, what about that neighbor girl? Is there something there?” asked Ginny, ever the optimist.

“I just met her this morning. I don’t even know her name… ” he shrugged dismissively.

“Really, Harry… ” She shook her head, looking startlingly like Molly for a second.

He sighed. “I know, I know… ” He put his head in his hands for a moment. “My life seems so pointless, you know. There has to be more than… this.”

She took his hand. “Oh, Harry… ” This time her eyes were full of concern, and he felt guilty. Why should he worry her? He was successful, healthy, rich, and single again. Boohoo.

He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Gin. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Let’s talk about something else, shall we? When was your last mediwizard visit? How did it go?”

She suddenly lit up like a candle. “You’re not going to believe it. I went yesterday, and he had the most amazing news: we’re having twins!”

Harry grinned, so happy for them. “You are! Oh my god! That’s fantastic! What did Draco say?”

“He is thrilled. Worried a little, I think, for me mostly, though I feel fantastic. But we’re so excited! You’re the first person I’ve told, by the way. I don’t want to tell Mum. She’ll worry herself sick. Keep it to yourself, okay?”

“No problem. You are taking care of yourself, aren’t you?” He squeezed her hand.

“Of course I am.” She looked distracted for a moment. “Draco’s coming,” she said, getting up and approaching the fireplace.

“Ginny, you are aware that there is absolutely no possibility, magical or otherwise, for you to know that, don’t you?”

She looked at him and shrugged. “I know… ”

Just then the Floo chimed, and she wiggled her eyebrows at him with a big grin on her face.

Harry shook his head disgustedly as Draco stepped out of the fireplace and took her in his arms, kissing her as if his life depended on it. These two were really sickening. Ginny whispered something in Draco’s ear and he sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Potter. Bothering my wife again, I see. And to what do we owe the displeasure… Oh, wait! You broke up with Sarah, didn’t you?”

“Draco!” chided Ginny.

“Well, he did, didn’t he,” said Draco, quite gleeful. She nodded in acknowledgement. He rubbed his hands together. “George owes me five Galleons… ”

“Oi!” said Harry, miffed. “You bet George that I would break off my engagement?”

“Oh, no. We both knew you would. He bet it would last past Easter… ”

Harry was disgusted. Was he really that predictable? Merlin, he was turning into a buffoon. He got up, needing to get out.

Draco looked a little guilty. “Potter, don’t run out. I’ll go change. Talk to Ginny, I’ll leave you two alone for a while… ”

Harry shook his head. “No, Malfoy, thanks. I have bored Ginny with my pathetic entanglements long enough. I’ll get out of here.”

“Why don’t you go to Hogwarts?” asked Ginny. “Easter break just started and it’s Wednesday, Ron will be there. They’ll be glad to see you.”

That did sound good. He hadn’t seen Ron, Hermione, and the kids for at least a month. It would be a nice change of pace.

“Do you mind if I fire-call Hermione from here?” he asked, pleased to have something he was looking forward to.

“Be my guest,” she replied.

Five minutes latter, he was stepping out of the Floo in Hermione’s office. He had just agreed to spend a few days with them. And why not? After all, he did have his bag right in his pocket…

~o~ The Right Place at the Right Time ~o~

Harry was sitting on the colorful wool rug in front of Ron and Hermione’s living room fireplace, enjoying a cup of cocoa with a lot of marshmallows (and a shot of dark rum), a book on Levitation Charms on his lap, his gaze lost in the dancing flames. He had not been reading for a while, but rather had been reflecting about the state of his life while Ron and Hermione were putting their kids to bed.

He had been at Hogwarts for a week and had loved every minute of it. He had helped Hagrid and Flitwick organize the annual Easter egg hunt for the students who did not go home for the two-week break and it had been a blast.

In addition to a vast quantity of traditional chocolate eggs, they had charmed a small number of eggs to hold surprises. These ranged from plain useful items, such as one-Galleon pieces, a new set of quills, a Rememberall; to frivolous ones such as a bottle of scent that would adapt to complement its owner’s natural chemistry, a morale-boosting mirror that would always complement its owner, a small bottle of potion that would allow someone to sing with perfect pitch in a beautiful voice for an hour and another that would have a person speak in rhymes for a whole day; to, last but not least, a handful of truly valuable ones, like the egg containing a one-hour supply of Felix Felicis, another hiding the familiar of a person’s choice (fully grown, of course) such as an owl or a toad, or the one with tickets to the next finals of the Quidditch British championship.

Harry had ‘hunted’ for eggs with Rose and Ron with Hugo as Hermione took pictures of the event. After the maturing of his magic Harry had developed a sensitivity to magical resonance, and to him the charmed eggs and their magical contents were as obvious as if they had glowed in the dark. He wistfully eyed the small egg wrapped in pink foil containing the Felix Felicis hidden in a clump of snowdrops, and steered little Rose away from it and toward plain chocolate eggs. A six-year-old did not really need the extra luck…

The rest of the week he had played with his friends’ children, had accompanied, at the request of Headmistress McGonagall, a student outing to a freshly snowed-in Hogsmeade, which looked like a quaint toy village, had played pick-up Quidditch with the students (though it was pretty nippy out), and had spent time with Aberforth Dumbledore and his goats, smoking pipes of herbs he was fairly sure were not tobacco.

Puddlemere’s early spring training was due to start on the first of April. It was not mandatory for first-string players to attend, though young prospects and free agents would be trying out with the rest of the team. Harry had never missed this early training before, regardless of the fact that his attendance was only required four weeks later. Earlier in his career it had been because after three months of hiatus, he had been more than ready to get back on a broom. This past two years, however, it had been more out of a sense of obligation.

This year, he had no interest in going and could not motivate himself to do so. He loved flying and loved Quidditch. After seven years of his childhood and teenage years dedicated to battling evil and shouldering crushing responsibilities, playing for a living had been heavenly and definitely the right decision after taking his NEWTS. But after ten years, he was starting to feel that he needed more out of life. He’d actually been feeling this way for some time. Did he still want to play the game professionally, now that the fun had gone out of it?

When they returned from the children’s bedroom he would ask Hermione and Ron (who was at Hogwarts on his usual Wednesday visit) if he could remain until the start of term and perhaps even a couple of weeks beyond that. He had some serious thinking to do.

Of course, he was not really homeless. He could always go to Grimmauld Place. The dark and dreary house it had been was only a distant memory. After some structural work had been done by professionals, to add en-suite baths to every bedroom and French doors opening on balconies in living areas, Harry had hired a decorator to guide him in his home improvement decisions. Once a plan was laid out, Harry and Kreacher had proceeded to implement it. Removing every last trace of dark magic had required Kreacher’s powerful elf magic as well as Harry’s usually well-hidden but devastating magical abilities.

Harry had infinitely enjoyed the removal of Sirius’ mum’s screaming portrait. At the very end of the remodel he walked up to it and told her casually, “I am tired of your screeching and your insults, and frankly, were you to stop, you were never pretty enough for this portrait to ever be aesthetically pleasing. I am afraid you will not fit in with the new decor. Since Kreacher now despises you for pushing Regulus to follow the man who was ultimately responsible for his death, I see no reason not to remove you and burn you in the fireplace.”

She had looked at him with an arrogant and dismissive little smile and said, ”You disgusting little upstart of a half-blood, the degenerate blight on our noble house who called himself my son may have left his undeserved inheritance to you, but you will never command the house of my fathers. You want to remove my portrait? I’d like to see you try… ”

So Harry had grabbed the frame, reached in for the overwhelming power he never used, and had simply commanded, “Off!”

The portrait had practically jumped off the wall and old Walburga’s eyes nearly popped out of her head in horrified surprise. She managed to pick her jaw up from off the floor and exclaim, “But… but… but… that’s … impossible!”

Harry smiled sweetly at her as he headed for the roaring fire in the huge fireplace in the main drawing room. “You mean ‘improbable’ don’t you? As it’s clearly not impossible.” He knelt in front of the fire. “Any last words, Walburga?”

Even panicked she did not relent from her usual rhetoric. “You maybe powerful, halfbreed, but the Dark Lord is more powerful yet and will be the death of you!” she said with satisfaction.

Harry grinned. “Oh. I’m sorry. Didn’t anyone tell you? I killed ol’ Voldemort years ago. Before my magic matured even. And with an Expelliarmus! And by the way, did you know he was an actual half-blood, unlike me? My mother was a witch, my father a wizard. I am legally a pureblood. His father, however, was a Muggle! Bye!” And he dumped her in the flames. The fact that he walked out of the room and did not even bother to watch her burn was probably the worst insult of all.

The only thing remaining of the previous owners was the restored tapestry of the Black family tree. That particular salon now also contained the Potter family tree, the Weasley family tree, the Longbottom family tree, the Lupin family tree, the Dumbledore family tree and the Prince family tree. Harry had really not been home long enough to study any of them, and could not really explain, even to himself, why the Princes had been included in the collection and not the Malfoys…

Grimmauld was now a very beautiful, comfortable, and welcoming home, Kreacher’s pride and joy. It had been placed under a stasis charm when Harry had moved in with Sarah. They had planned on relocating to Grimmauld after the wedding, but had decided to enjoy the coziness of the one-bedroom apartment and the fun of living in a Muggle flat with electricity and modern appliances. Kreacher had been at Hogwarts in the meantime, though he was always available should Harry ever call out for him. He had transferred all his undying loyalty to his new master, following him from pitch to pitch during the Quidditch season and Harry felt no end of affection for the old elf.

However, it seemed silly to reopen Grimmauld just to close it back up again in six weeks when the season started again and to disrupt Kreacher’s life. In addition, he really enjoyed being with his childhood friends again.

The Floo chimed suddenly, making Harry jump. It was the communication chime, just a warning, since the Floo was open. Headmistress McGonagall’s head appeared in the flames.

“Ah. Good evening, Mr. Potter. Is Professor Granger-Weasley about?”

“She and Ron are reading stories to the children, but they should be done soon, I think. Should she call you back?”

“No. I just need to speak with her for a moment. It is rather urgent. Can you tell her I’ll be by in about fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. I’ll let her know.”

It was only about five minutes before the happy couple finished their parental duty. Harry had made cocoa for them as well, kept warm with a charm, and they sat down next to him, mugs in hand, with sighs of satisfaction.

“Thanks, Harry. I needed this,” said Hermione.

Ron smelled his cup and grinned. “Hmm… Do I detect the delicious aroma of a special ingredient?”

Hermione took a sip. “Oh, yum! Dark rum? This is fabulous!”

“Oh, yeah. Now, that’s what I call hot cocoa… ” said Ron.

Harry smiled at his friends. “Thanks. It’s so chilly tonight. I thought we needed it. Don’t get sloshed though, Hermione.” Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry explained, “McGonagall Floo-called and said she’s coming by momentarily. She said she needed to speak with you rather urgently. Maybe I should make her some cocoa. She seemed a little shaken.”

“It must be serious for her to disturb us on a Wednesday. She’s usually really good about that,” said Ron.

“Yes. I wonder what’s going on.” Hermione was the deputy headmistress, which did not seem to be too much of a hardship since McGonagall had the reins of Hogwarts well in hand, though the older woman had expressed her desire to retire. Hermione headed the hiring committee for her replacement.

There was a knock on the door and the three Gryffindors got up from the floor to welcome their old Head of House. They sat back down on the sofa and loveseat, locations more appropriate than the floor in her presence.

“Come in, Headmistress. Please sit down. Tea? Hot cocoa?” Ron liked her very much.

“Hot cocoa sounds very good, Auror Weasley, Thank you.”

Harry Summoned a fourth cup of cocoa from the kitchen, one without the added rum, though Minerva looked frazzled enough it might actually have done her good.

“Hermione, we have a problem. Xiomara Hooch was in an accident.”

“Oh, no! What happened?”

“Well, you know she has a… special friend that she has been spending every holiday with for years. The man is a Muggle, and loves sports. They bike for weeks in the summer, go scuba diving, skydiving, and who knows what. They met in New Zealand, jumping off a bridge with a rubber band around their ankles. Completely insane, if you want my opinion, but well, he makes her happy.” She shook her head and took a sip of cocoa. She went on.

“I just got an owl from her.” She showed them a regular envelope with a Muggle post stamp on it. “She sent it to the owl-post office in Hogsmeade, just like the parents of the Muggle-born children do, and they sent it onward to my office. Xiomara and Jack (that’s the Muggle’s name), were skiing off trail, whatever that means, after being dropped from a helicopter, and both fell into a crevasse in some glacier or other. Instead of revealing herself and Apparating them away, she waited with him for rescue for two days and went with him to a Muggle emergency room. They both have broken bones and frozen extremities, and are sharing a room in a Swiss hospital. Believe it or not, their casts will be on for six weeks, and then they will have to go to some kind of therapy to regain strength and agility. She won’t be back until September!”

She looked resolute. “Hermione, we need to find a flying instructor and a Quidditch coach and referee until the end of the year. I am not cancelling Quidditch! Gryffindor has a good chance at the Cup for the first time since your lot left. Filius is starting to think it belongs in his office. He’s been using it as a vase!” She looked appalled. “… Not that I show any partiality to my old House, you understand, but… ” She noticed all their grins and laughed at herself. “Who am I fooling?”

“I’ll look into it and start making calls tomorrow Minerva. We cannot have the Quidditch Cup used as a vase!” said Hermione teasingly. They all chuckled, and quieted down as they brainstormed.

Ludo Bagman? Too old. Victor Krum? He’d retired a few years back. Maybe… Oliver Wood? He did not even fly anymore since marrying the Clean Sweep heiress.

Suddenly Harry realized he had the perfect solution. “I’ll do it.”

The other three looked at him, completely taken by surprise.

“Doesn’t the season start in six weeks? Don’t you have to go to spring training in a month?” asked Hermione reasonably. “The school term is not over until June 30th, Harry.”

“I’m through playing professionally. The fun has gone out of it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, which is why I’ve only signed one-year contracts these past two years. I’m due to sign another in two weeks. Draco is working on it. But it’s not what I want anymore. I’m not sure what I want to do, so working at Hogwarts for a few months is a perfect opportunity, really. If you’ll have me… ”

He was so excited at the idea, he was grinning like a fool. He jumped to his feet, filled with nervous energy. “Please, Headmistress. I’ll do a good job, I promise. I really, really want to do this!”

“Are you sure, Mr. Potter? The pay… ” she asked seriously.

“Positive!”

“All right, then.” She smiled at him. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Coach Potter.”

Harry laughed with glee, his joy so communicative that soon all four of them were laughing.

“I think this calls for more cocoa, don’t you?” asked Ron.

“It certainly does, and don’t forget the rum in mine this time,” said Minerva.

~o~ Tall, Dark, and Handsome, July 1st, 2009. ~o~

Coming out of his impromptu bath in the eternally icy lake, Harry did not bother to put his shoes, tie, or robes back on. He was officially on vacation, after all. He lay down on the springy grass where the lawn sloped towards the water.

It was actually almost too warm today. There was not a cloud in the sky, but the dappling shade of the trees made the brilliant sunshine bearable. With the students gone, the peace and quiet was palpable. He had been at Hogwarts for almost twelve weeks now and he felt utterly content.

He loved his job; he had enjoyed teaching DA in fifth year, but he loved teaching flying and coaching Quidditch even more. The feedback he was getting from the students was great, and all the other professors seemed to think well of him.

He did not miss his career one bit. No more hotel rooms, no more Portkeys, no more early morning training sessions, no more public. Definitely, he missed that part least of all.

After the first few days, the students had stopped looking at him as the Saviour of the Wizarding World and the champion Quidditch player, and had only seen Coach Potter, the enthusiastic, friendly, and extremely knowledgeable replacement to Madam Hooch.

No more crazed fans following him about, no more reporters hanging on his every word and watching his every move. He had meant everything he had said to Minerva. He wanted to stay and continue teaching, and since Madam Hooch had decided to retire and marry her Muggle, he wanted the position permanently.

The past twelve weeks had been the happiest he had had since… well, since seventh year really: since that euphoric year when Voldemort had been dead and gone, when his friends had been around every day, when all had been good, and familiar, and sweet relief from their year in hiding. When the future had seemed so full of promise. And it had kept its promise, he admitted to himself.

The past ten years had been good, really good. He had played the game he loved, and played it exceedingly well. He had made a lot of money, and spent it with abandon. He had travelled the world and taken advantage of every opportunity. And, he thought, smiling, there had been the girls, of course. Quite a few girls… Ok, lots of girls… After all, he was a successful, rather dashing (according to Hermione and Ginny) young Quidditch player, and a hero to boot.

And he loved girls. He loved their company, their smooth fragrant skin, their softness, and their grace. Each of them was different, each of them attractive in her own right. He had even had “real” girlfriends a few times.

When had it all started getting old? When had he started to feel disenchanted, aimless? To be honest, probably two or three years ago he had become aware he was lacking something, missing some essential part of his life, not knowing what it was.

He still did not know what the missing piece was, but evidently more adventures, more toys, and more girls had not helped, the feeling having only grown in the past two years. Hermione and Ginny were of the opinion that he needed to settle down, have a family, and live a more normal life. And he agreed that he wanted children.

He thought he had found the right girl in Sarah: beautiful, intelligent, funny, educated, successful, loving, and more than willing to have as many children as he wanted. Why had he screwed it up so royally? Even as he told himself that he could definitely have handled it better, he remembered that as they were planning their wedding and their life together, his feeling of pointlessness and emptiness had only grown stronger.

Now, at last, he felt on the right path. There was real joy in being here, in teaching, not just endless fun. Friends and colleagues surrounded him, not hangers on. And somehow he had a feeling of quiet anticipation that he could not remember experiencing in a long time. He started to doze off in the afternoon heat, the soothing lapping of the water on the shore of the lake, the bird sounds, and the crickets creating a gentle score to his reverie.

He came awake to the sound of an animated conversation. Two people were approaching, talking and laughing with each other. He opened his eyes and sat up. Professor Vector was coming up the path from Hogwarts’ entrance with a tall, dapper stranger.

He had a long stride and seemed to walk effortlessly up the hill. His dark silhouette and graceful gait looked somehow familiar to Harry though he could not place them. He must be the old school chum that she had gone to meet at the gate. They were going to pass right next to him, so, though feeling a little scruffy in his open-necked, rolled-up-sleeved shirt and his bare feet, he stood up to greet them.

“Harry!” she said with a wide smile, “This is my friend Petr DeVries, from Amsterdam. Petr, this is Harry Potter, our Quidditch coach.”

Petr DeVries was a handsome man in his late forties. Tall and lean with a sculpted face, light blue eyes, and very dark shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ears. His smile was warm and his teeth very white. Close up, the feeling of familiarity disappeared. Though handsome, the face was unknown to Harry. His greeting was friendly, though he looked Harry up and down, no doubt wondering about his relaxed attire.

“I was just swimming in the lake,” Harry felt compelled to explain. “On a lark, obviously. No togs, no towel. But it’s so warm.”

He felt a little flustered under the intent gaze of the man, and was thinking he sounded like an idiot.

“A perfect day for it,” Petr replied, making him feel a little better. “Or for a nice high flight.”

Vector jumped in. “Petr loves to fly, Harry. I was just telling him that you would probably be happy to loan him a broom and take him up tomorrow, for a scenic tour.”

“I would be glad to,” replied Harry. He ought to have felt a little more annoyed to be put on the spot, but was actually already looking forward to it. “We should go in the early morning,” he added, picking up his shoes and clothes and falling into step with them. “I think tomorrow might be as hot as today. What sort of broom do you like?”

They chatted about broom selection all the way back to the castle. DeVries was very knowledgeable, and eager to try out a broom from Harry’s extensive collection. Septima Vector listened to them tolerantly, an indulgent smile on her lips.

~o~ New Digs ~o~

At the front door, they separated. Professor Vector had been a Slytherin and made her home in the east wing above Snape’s old dungeons, and Petr had evidently been given quarters in the same area.

Harry went to the Gryffindor tower, excited to see his new quarters. The house-elves had probably transferred all his possessions already, and Kreacher was sure to have brought Harry’s favourite things from storage, now that it appeared that they were here to stay.

He still could not believe that Minerva had indulged him in his strange choice of residence. His new home was at the very top of the tower, right under the roof. His living room had French windows on all four sides opening onto a surrounding gallery, and a tiny circular staircase in the south corner of the room took him right under the pointy roof, where he had wanted his bedroom, with gabled windows pointing to the four cardinal points.

He hoped he would not regret ignoring Minerva’s warnings of sweltering heat in summer and of frigid gales freezing him to death in winter. He was a powerful wizard, after all. Surely he could maintain his comfort through magic.

When he entered through the central trap door, he was very pleased. Kreacher and the Hogwarts elves had always had a soft spot for him and it showed. Despite the sweltering heat outside, the room was perfectly comfortable. His butter-soft leather couches in tobacco colours, antique Persian rugs, and handcrafted walnut furniture fit the space beautifully. The pale green walls and heavy draperies were exactly what he had wanted.

The Muggle “Portrait of a Man” by some unknown early Renaissance master was in the place of honour, above the fieldstone fireplace. He always looked at it with pleasure. Its acquisition had been serendipitous: he had once provided Ron with cover by accompanying him on an assignment to recover dangerous magical artefacts that had found their way to a Christie’s auction.

This non-magical portrait had been in the catalogue, and he had found it so compelling he had outbid even the Louvre’s purchaser for it. He had paid two years worth of a very generous salary but would have paid much more if he had had to. Though it did not move or speak as magical portraits did, its eyes, so dark as to seem almost black, watched him go about his daily life and gave him a strange feeling of companionship.

He climbed the tiny staircase to his bedroom. Like all his preferred sleeping quarters, it was white on white: pale cream walls, crisp white linens, an undyed wool rug, an old painted cast iron bed frame. Even the lamp and the box of tissues were white on a whitewashed pine chest that served as his bedside table. He found the colourless environment incredibly soothing, and in it he seemed able to sleep through the night with fewer nightmares (though really, they had been less frequent in the past few months).

Off of the bedroom, his bathroom was very small, with a tiny basin, a utilitarian commode, and a shower barely large enough for one; space had been created for it out of the thickness of the coffered wall. But with limitless hot water and thick soft towels, it was enough.

He quickly showered and dressed for dinner, taking more care with his appearance than usual. Petr DeVries would be eating with them in the Great Hall, and he wanted to make a better impression than he had in his sloppy attire that afternoon.

~o~ Wizards Are Gay, Too. ~o~

The whole of the staff was present for dinner this evening, and the narrow staff table was set on both sides to accommodate everyone. He knew that Minerva would be making an announcement and assumed it had to do with her decision to retire.

Since Petr DeVries had looked up and smiled at him when he entered the hall, Harry took the seat next to him, across from Hermione. She was engaged in conversation with Septima and Petr. Listening in, he realized that Petr was describing how his background in Arithmancy related to his work in public health.

He was apparently the head of an international commission for research in that field. The technical details were well over Harry’s limited understanding of Arithmancy, and he had never given a thought to the topic of public health, so he felt a little out of his depth. Hermione, of course, seemed quite knowledgeable. She alluded to some research Petr had done in the past that apparently had been “seminal” in reforming international public policy on non-human magical sentient creatures.

Harry was not sure what “seminal” meant, but he was pretty sure house-elves were non-human sentient creatures, and understood why Hermione was so enthusiastic.

Ron made his entrance, looking tired but in a very good mood, and took his seat next to her. Their children had left that morning on the Hogwarts Express, along with the students. They were to spend a month at the Burrow being spoiled rotten by Molly. Ron was obviously looking forward to a long weekend alone with his wife. They turned to each other and started chatting quietly.

Professor Sinistra directed her attention toward Harry and teasingly asked how he liked his aerie. He smiled at that description of his new abode and invited her to come see for herself.

“How many steps would I have to climb?” she asked. “I am getting on in years, you know.” Since she could not have been much over fifty and was fit as a fiddle, he knew she was only joking.

“Two hundred and forty-four. But that’s only if you start from the ground floor. From your level, it should only be about a hundred. And I have a twenty-five-year-old Laphraoig that should make it worth your while,” he replied, knowing her weakness for the peaty scotch.

“Right,” she quipped. “Then I can break my neck coming down!”

They laughed. “Harry has just moved to the very top of the second tallest tower of the castle,” she explained to Petr DeVries. “Hagrid had to displace the ghoul that occupied it and relocate it to the belfry. Hopefully, it will leave the bells alone… ”

The food appeared on the table and the conversations slowed down as people started eating. The fare was a little more exotic than the usual school menu. Harry thought that the elves enjoyed being creative now that they did not have to worry about pleasing the students. Just as an elaborate desert appeared, Minerva stood up and cleared her throat.

“As most of you, if not all, of you know,” she started, “I have decided to step down from the post of Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

There were only a few murmurs at that. She had been talking about it and planning for her succession for over a year.

“It has been a pleasure to guide our school through these past ten years, but it has also been a great responsibility, and I find that I am ready to do other things with my life and let someone else take the helm.”

Seeing the school through the post-war years had not been an easy task, with a lot of difficult choices to be made. She had done it brilliantly, Harry thought, navigating the choppy waters of reconciliation and tolerance with infinite dexterity.

“It is my opinion, and that of the board, that the curriculum needs to be updated, and some of the aspects of the education we offer would benefit from a fresh approach. Were I thirty years younger, I might have enjoyed the challenge, but frankly, deciding what to do with my days once I leave here is challenge enough. I suspect it will involve a lot of good books, and long naps in the afternoons… ”

There were a few chuckles at that. These past couple of years, it had not been uncommon, when visiting the headmistress’ office after lunch to find a familiar-looking cat stretched out in a comfortable chair in the sunshine.

“It is my pleasure to tell you all that the selecting committee, after considering many applicants, has made its decision, and that we only await the chosen candidate’s final answer to make the official announcement.”

Well, that was news indeed. Hermione, who chaired the committee, looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. It made Harry suspect that the new Headmaster or Headmistress of the school would be someone Hogwarts could be very glad to have.

Septima Vector turned to Petr. “Well, Petr, just how long do you think we will have to wait?”

“Oh, I am sure it will be no more than a couple of days… ”

Seeing Harry’s puzzled look, he explained, “The final candidate is my partner. He is at a conference in Washington at the moment, but will join me here shortly. I came a little ahead to catch up with Septima. But as you know,” he added in Hermione’s direction, “there is really no doubt what his answer will be, though I understand the need for discretion. After all, he did send in his application.”

“A good thing, too. We would never have thought to approach him, never dreamed he might even consider the position!”

Harry was suddenly having difficulties following the conversation. His heart had started beating hard and fast in his chest, and he was having a difficult time paying attention. Petr was gay! He mentioned his “partner,” his male partner, as casually as one would mention one’s wife. And nobody seemed shocked in the least! It seems they all knew the new Headmaster was gay, and did not care.

Wow! No one cared? It was okay to be gay? Why had he not known this? After all, he did not know any gay wizards. Not one! He had honestly thought only Muggles were gay. And look at how they were treated by other Muggles. There were gay wizards! Right here, next to him, was an educated, successful, well-liked, and openly gay wizard! Harry suddenly could not sit any longer. He had to move. He stood up so fast his chair almost toppled. Hermione looked at him with concern.

“You’re okay, mate?” asked Ron, “You’re as white as a sheet!”

“Sorry,” he replied, feeling like he was making a scene, but unable to stop himself. “I’m fine. I just need some fresh air.” He smiled shakily at his friends. “No worries, just a spot of headache. I’ll be right back.”

He headed out of the Great Hall, not sure he had been very convincing but too upset to care. What was he so upset about? What was the matter with him? Why was his heart still beating frantically?

He went out the front door and down the stairs to the grounds. It was still daylight and warm; the crickets were still singing. Everything looked so normal. So ordinary. He took a deep breath, concentrating on calming himself down, and then took another. There. Breathe. Better. Everything was fine. He was fine. One last calming breath. Okay.

The lake looked beautiful tonight. Was that an eagle over there? Such a lovely evening. They had picked the new Headmaster. Wasn’t that interesting. Good thing, too, the uncertainty was not good for morale. He headed back in. People were almost all done with pudding and coffee, and some were getting up and leaving. He sat back across from Hermione and gave her a reassuring shrug. Petr turned to him.

“Are you all right? Still up for a flight tomorrow?”

“Yes. Yes. I am totally fine. I am looking forward to it. Is seven all right?”

“Yes, seven is great. Where shall we meet?”

“Let’s meet here at breakfast at a quarter of. I’ll bring the brooms.”

Petr flashed him a very white smile. “Excellent” he said. He turned to continue his conversation with Sinistra.

Harry suddenly felt very tired. Looking around, he realized that most people were calling it an early night. Hermione and Ron made their apologies and got up and he joined them, making sure to mention to them how tired he was so they would not feel compelled to offer him a nightcap. He could tell they were eager to be alone. They parted in front of their door on the fourth floor of the Gryffindor tower.

The climb to the top seemed very long tonight, and by the time he reached his rooms, he hardly had time to undress and clean his teeth before he fell, naked, into bed. The night air was very warm, but a breeze blew across his bed from the wide-open windows and he felt incredibly comfortable. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep. However, he did not rest easy. He tossed and turned all through the night, in and out of weird confusing dreams, but never quite coming fully awake.

~o~ Flying High. ~o~

He woke up in the early morning, feeling a little groggy but eager to go for a flight. He showered to finish waking up and threw on his usual gear before heading out the door with his two best brooms. He would let Petr choose, since he liked them both equally.

He was already seated for breakfast when Petr arrived, dressed in well-worn but beautifully cut leather riding clothes, the trousers showing off his long legs and narrow hips. He wore the traditional short robes—really more of a cape with sleeves that always looked good while in flight. Harry never wore them, since they were of no practical use, not even keeping one warm as they trailed in the wind. He favoured a fur-lined short-waisted jacket that provided warmth while allowing free movement. He only wore the cape-like robes for Quidditch, as they were part of the uniform, though those were always full length.

Petr put down the riding gloves that had been tucked under his arm along with a gorgeous light blue riding scarf in the preferred cashmere and silk blend, and with a quick, “Good morning,” sat down to eat. He obviously rode often, and his gear was far more elegant that anything Harry owned. He looked wistfully at his old Gryffindor scarf that he had had since first year, which was sitting next to his plate. He gave a mental shrug. What he lacked in sophistication he more than made up in skill, and that was always what counted in the end.

In short order, they were heading out of the castle and toward the pitch. Petr had chosen the Skyhawk racer, showing he preferred speed to manoeuvrability. The new generation Firebolt Harry would be riding could turn on a pin and pull out of the steepest dive. They had agreed to a few exercises before heading out on their sightseeing tour. Petr proved to be a talented flyer, only backing out of Harry’s most outrageous moves.

“I may love to watch you,” he laughed, “but it doesn’t mean I have to follow you!”

Harry could not help feeling a sharp rush of pleasure at that. He was vaguely aware of his desire to impress Petr in some way. Maybe because the man was so many things Harry would never be: tall, cultured, sophisticated, effortlessly graceful…

They headed to the sea in a very fast, high, and frosty flight, and then up the coast, closer to the ground, enjoying the updraft of the cliffs. They raced, laughing in pleasure, right above the water, the tips of their boots skimming the surface and sending brilliant sprays into the morning sunshine. It was a glorious run. Around ten o’clock, Harry set down on top of a cliff and spread himself out on the grass, exhilarated. There was nothing else in the world that gave him that feeling. He would fly until his dying day if he could, and preferably die on his broom. Petr landed next to him and lay down as well.

They shared a quiet moment of complete bliss. That was the pleasure of flying with someone else, especially someone who loved to fly—that knowledge of shared enjoyment. He used to feel that way with Ginny, when they occasionally went out before she got pregnant. He missed it. Bloody Malfoy. He chuckled and sat up, getting out the crisp apples he had carried in his pockets. He threw one to Petr, who barely caught it.

“And this is why I never could have been a Seeker. Can hardly catch a slow apple from six feet away,” Petr said jokingly. After a pause, as if he hesitated to mention it, he added more seriously, “I always loved your games, you know. You were a joy to watch.”

“You follow Quidditch?” Somehow Petr did not seem the type.

“Not particularly. But my partner is an avid follower of Puddlemere. We go to their games as often as we can. And we were at the 2004 World Championship game in Rotterdam. That was an amazing two days. You were brilliant.”

Harry shrugged. He had been brilliant. It was one of the best games of his career. They had won by ten points. He had spent almost eight hours keeping the opposite Seeker from the Snitch, with every skill he had, catching it himself seconds after his team had reduced a two hundred and ninety point margin to one of only a hundred and forty points, assuring their victory.

“Any chance you might go back?” People often asked him that question, but for some reason, the way Petr asked it, so wistfully, it seemed to mean something different. Surely Petr did not care about Puddlemere needing a new Seeker. His “partner” was their fan, not him.

He responded with his usual answer anyway, “No. Not a chance. That’s a closed chapter for me.”

Petr nodded as if he had already known the answer, and resigned himself to it. It was a little strange, really. Harry decided to change the subject.

“So, are you going to commute?” he asked.

“Commute?”

“Yes. My friend Ron commutes from London. He is only here on Wednesday nights and at the weekends. He and Hermione seem to do okay with it. Or will you be moving to Scotland?”

“Oh, I see what you are asking. Neither, I am afraid. I will be staying on in Amsterdam.”

Confused, Harry told himself to let it go, but couldn’t quite. “I, um, I thought the new Headmaster and you were… um… Never mind. None of my business. I am sorry.”

“It’s okay. You thought we were a couple. We are. We have been for five years. But he really wants this post. It was a rather sudden decision on his part, and I have very serious professional commitments back in Amsterdam, with a completely unpredictable schedule.”

He looked out to the ocean a little wistfully, and then shrugged. “We will see each other during school breaks.”

“Wow. I don’t know if I could do that. I’ve never been good at long-distance relationships.”

“I have never had one. I think it might indeed prove to be very difficult. But there is really no other choice here. It was an opportunity he did not feel he should let pass. I would rather it was otherwise, but there it is.”

He stood up and stretched. Harry was conscious of having been extremely indiscreet. He was surprise at Petr’s candor, but he also was glad to have had his curiosity satisfied. Though why he had been so interested in the first place, he had no idea. Petr turned back to him.

“So shall we start back?” he asked with a grin, obviously putting the subject to rest.

“Let’s drop down the cliff face,” Harry grinned back. “First one to pull out is a rotten egg.”

“I don’t stand a chance,” Petr replied. Nonetheless, he dove straight down and made a good show of it, whooping the whole way. But he was right, of course. When Harry pulled out of his dive, half the bristles of his broom trailed in the water. There wasn’t another person alive who could have done that.

They raced back hard and fast over the empty moors, swerving around the craggy rocks and frightening the sheep.

They got back, windswept and in high spirits, just in time for lunch. It was a quick affair, as almost no one else was around, and as they headed out Harry asked Petr if he would join him for a swim in the lake.

“I would love to, Harry, but I can’t. I am meeting your future Headmaster at the Apparation point in less than an hour. We will see you at Septima’s reception tonight, won’t we?”

“Of course, wouldn’t miss it.” They parted at the bottom of the stairs.

~o~ Sexy Men ~o~

Strangely disappointed, Harry climbed all the way back to his rooms. He could still go for a swim, it was certainly warm enough. He stood undecided on his balcony, long enough that after a while he saw Petr walk down the path and step though the gates, heading to the Apparation point. Another tall wizard appeared, and they embraced each other. Harry could not make out their faces; they were much too far. When they walked through the gates and then up the hill, they made a perfect pair— walking in step, shoulder to shoulder, dark robes flapping in the wind. He could not tell which was Petr and which was his guest.

They had the same dark head, the same graceful stride. He felt a twinge of envy, and told himself that it was of their shared height. Harry spent the rest of the afternoon in his quarters. He no longer felt like swimming but he was restless, walking around the room, checking the organization of the cupboards, arranging his books, flipping through Quidditch supply catalogues.

He went out to his balcony and started pacing, circumventing the tower again and again, looking out to the hills, the lake, the castle, the forest, the hills, the lake… He went back inside and threw himself onto his couch, rested a few minutes with his hands behind his head, and finally sat up, running both hands back and forth on his buzz-cut head in frustration. He could not avoid it. He was going to have to think about it. It was as if the proverbial elephant in the room had taken permanent residence in his mind, and he was no longer able to ignore it. He started pacing again, back and forth across the room. All right, then. From the start: Petr was gay. There were gay wizards. No one cared that Petr was gay. Hmm…

Certainly Harry didn’t care. Didn’t mind. Petr was gay, tall, dark, and… handsome. Well now, there was something to think about a little bit more. Harry had noticed that Petr was handsome. He was aware that some men were handsome, very aware at times. Petr could even be described as sexy. Harry would certainly describe him as sexy. Now that he thought about it, he knew quite a few sexy men. Attractive men. Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, oh Merlin. Harry found men attractive. He was attracted to men. He needed a break.

Harry stepped out again and returned to walking around the tower. The lake, the castle, the forest, the hills… His heart was once again beating hard in his chest, seemingly trying to get out, possibly through his throat. Attracted to men. Oh Merlin. How long had this been going on?

He thought back. The goalkeeper in his team, Everett Spike, he was attractive. The journalist he always picked to interview him, Carl Stamos, he was attractive. Charlie Weasley, whom he spent many a summer with at the Burrow, Charlie was definitely attractive. Oliver Wood had been attractive. Blaise Zabini: very attractive. Oh my god! Draco Malfoy … Draco Malfoy was sexier than hell. He still could not stand the git, though, but he was unquestionably attractive.

Harry suddenly felt he needed a shower. Showering was his preferred method of stress relief. He shampooed his almost nonexistent hair, scrubbed his body from head to toe, shaved, stood under the warm spray while flossing, then brushing, his teeth. Finally he could not stand it any more and tossed off to a parade of naked, attractive, and decidedly sexy men. In less than a minute, he sprayed the tiles with his seed in the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced and leaned against the wall, completely spent, letting the warm water clean him off.

He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist after a cursory rubdown, and fell onto his bed. He liked girls. He really did. His record showed just how much he liked girls. But he had spent the past fifteen years denying to himself the fact that he might like boys too. Maybe even more than he liked girls… And it turned out it was okay. There were gay wizards, and they were not treated like pariahs. They were even considered for important positions, like Hogwarts Headmaster… The ramifications…

He suddenly fell deeply asleep. He did not move or even twitch for almost two hours and woke up without transition, his new awareness firmly in place. He glanced at the time and jumped up from bed. He had to talk to Hermione.

Harry knocked on the Weasleys’ door. There was no answer. Well, they had to be in; the party in honor of Septima’s Order of Merlin was in less than an hour. He knocked again, a trifle harder. Hermione opened the door, in her bathrobe, with a towel around her hair. They stood facing each other for a beat.

“Hermione… ”

Another beat.

“Harry… ”

Harry gave her his “I need to talk” look. She shrugged.

“Oh, all right. Come in. But you’ll have to talk while I do my hair. I am not going to that party with it looking like a rat’s nest, and it takes time.”

Harry followed her to her bedroom and sat on the top of the laundry hamper as she removed the towel from her hair and took the stool in front of her dressing table. Rat’s nest indeed. She eyed him in the mirror.

“What now?” she said. She started running a brush through her messy curls.

“Petr DeVries and the new Headmaster are gay.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There are gay wizards.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hermione, I didn’t know that wizards were gay!”

“Well, not all of them,” she smirked.

He glared at her. “You know what I mean. We don’t know any gay wizards!”

At that, she stopped brushing and turned to him. “Harry, you can’t be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“Of course ‘we’ know gay wizards.”

“Well, I sure don’t!”

She turned back to her mirror, resigned, and started brushing her hair again. “Harry, Dumbledore was gay.”

“What?”

“Sirius was gay.”

“No way!”

“As a matter of fact, Sirius and Remus… ”

“Remus was married!”

“Not until after Sirius died.”

“You’re having me on. Anyway, how would you know this?”

She shrugged. “Everybody knew.”

“Well, they’re all dead.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the non sequitur. “Neville’s not dead.”

“Neville Longbottom is gay?”

“Well, George certainly doesn’t come here so often for his health, does he?”

“Oh, Merlin! Him, too? I can’t believe this!” He got up and started pacing. “Is there anyone we know who is not gay?”

“Oh, please, Harry. Honestly. And anyway, why should you care. You’re not gay!”

“Well… ”

She turned to him again, her brush suddenly still. “What do you mean ‘Well’?” She put the brush down with a whack. “You’ve only slept with half the female population of Britain!”

“Have not!”

“Well, you certainly gave it a good go!”

“… Whatever. It’s neither here nor there. Hermione, I think I might be attracted to men.”

Well, that got her attention. She turned back to the mirror, and resumed her grooming. “You are attracted to men… ” she prodded.

“Well, I think Petr DeVries is sexy.”

“You are attracted to Petr… ” she prodded again.

“Not just Petr. I think Charlie is attractive, too, and Blaise Zabini, and even… Malfoy.”

“Ew!”

“I still think he’s a git, but he’s a very sexy git.”

She thought about it for a second, and shook her head no. “Sorry, still ‘ew’.”

“Well, Ginny thinks he is sexy… ”

“More power to her. Let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we? I don’t have all day. You think you may be gay, or maybe bisexual...”

“I think there are no maybes about it.”

“And what do you want from me? My blessing?” She was on to phase two in hair care now, wrapping her curls one by one around her finger after spraying them with Sleekeasy. “You know, actually, that might explain a lot. Why you can’t commit. Why no girl is ever enough.”

“Hmm... I didn’t think of that.”

She rolled her eyes. “So, when did you make this startling leap in self-awareness?”

“Only this afternoon. You are the first to know,” he added, jokingly.

“You know, you can joke about it, but it’s really good that you have figured this out. And it’s not that big a deal.”

He looked skeptical.

“Really, Harry. No one cares about this stuff in the Wizarding world. It’s all about how much magic you have, not about who you fancy, and Merlin knows you have plenty of magic!”

He watched his best friend put the finishing touches on her hairdo. She was really very, very pretty. “Hermione, you are really very, very pretty,” he told her.

She beamed brilliantly at him. “Well, thank you, Harry!”

He smiled back at her and got up to go. “I should let you get dressed,” he said.

She got up, too, and walked him to the door. “You should be getting dressed also.”

As soon as he passed the threshold she called out, “Harry!”

He looked back questioningly. “Keep your hands off Ron, okay?”

“Hermione!”

She shrugged as she closed the door. “Just saying… ”

Harry shook his head in disbelief as he walked back to his rooms. He would have liked to talk to Ginny as well, but he really ought to get dressed, and anyway he really could not stomach facing Malfoy, so soon after discovering that he was toss-worthy.

He took exquisite care in his dress, using cufflinks at the wrists of his snowy white shirt, and choosing a beautiful tie. His trousers and waistcoat were perfectly tailored, the waistcoat a favorite: dark grey velvet embroidered with silver serpents. His shoes were polished to a high shine and his midnight blue robes had the understated elegance only money could buy. He checked himself in the mirror and liked what he saw. He, too, was a very attractive man.

~o~ Ecce Homo (Harry) ~o~

The first person he saw upon entering the Great Hall was Lucius Malfoy. He looked great. His carriage was as proud as ever and his clothing as refined, but there was a light of humour in his eyes and laugh lines around them. Next to him stood Narcissa, willowy and beautiful, and his hand was at the small of her back.

Once deprived of magic, few of the Death Eaters had chosen to remain in the magical world, and those who had were living on the edge of society, ashamed or resentful. Not so Lucius. He was as much a public figure now as he had been before his downfall, with the notable difference that he was now almost universally well-liked and respected.

That he no longer had any magic or fortune of his own was generally looked upon as the second best thing that had ever happened to him. It was universally agreed that the first was his wife, who had stood at his side, unwavering in her love and loyalty, through the worst of the years. Even the nay-sayers now recognized that their attachment was genuine and that his “Grand Gesture” on the day of his sentencing had been a true reflection of his feelings.

Lucius had been reinstated as a member of the Hogwarts Board of Regents just two years ago and had been influential in instituting the systematic recruitment of Muggle-born students, supported by their automatic access to financial aid.

Narcissa saw Harry enter and gave him a smile. That he had stood against the indictment of Draco as a full-fledged Death Eater had made her his ally for life. (That he had done it out of friendship for her future daughter-in-law and not at all for Draco’s benefit had not made any difference to her.) Draco had been given a second chance and that was all that had mattered in her eyes. He smiled back.

He saw George Weasley in deep discussion with Ron and Hermione and crossed the room to join them. Why had he never before questioned George’s presence at this kind of event? He was obviously not here in any kind of official capacity, and therefore had to be there as someone’s escort. That he had been Neville’s had never even crossed his mind, and yet, there they were, side by side as usual. How could he have been so oblivious?

Flitwick, who was standing on a wide stool and seemed extremely cheerful, intercepted him on his way. “Harry! Stop and keep me company for a minute. If I don’t want to be stepped on, I have to stand on this thing, so I can’t circulate and have to recruit my own audience!”

Harry was happy to comply. Flitwick was always excellent company, and what he lacked in height he made up in humor. He started a running commentary on tonight’s eveningwear choices and though he never said anything unkind (another reason Harry liked him so much), he pretty soon had Harry in stitches.

“You look quite dapper yourself this evening, Filius.”

Putting his arms to the sides to give Harry a better view of his outfit, Flitwick asked, “You like?”

His waistcoat was a work of art, richly embroidered with magnificent buttons that matched the clasp of his robes.

“One of the many advantages of being part goblin,” he quipped. “Goblin-crafted Christmas present. My grandmother made this for me last year. Look!”

And he prodded one of the vest’s beautifully embroidered blue birds with his finger, causing it to take flight across his chest, to land on the delicately stitched branch of an orange tree above his heart.

“Wow! That’s amazing!”

The small man glowed at Harry’s open admiration. “I know!” he exclaimed. “Goblin magic. There is nothing like it. I did not inherit much of it, really,” he added wistfully. “My magic is mostly wizard magic, but my relatives are generous with their gifts… ”

They both turned around at the sound of laughter. Petr DeVries was entertaining a small group of people with a story that seemed to involve his wand being caught in something, as he was miming his attempts to retrieve it.

Harry thought he looked very good indeed this evening, relaxed and happy. He supposed the reason for it must be the man whose back was turned to Harry, all black hair and black cloth. He felt a twinge of dislike for him, the man who could put such a glow on Petr’s face. He chided himself for his pettiness.

The stranger threw his head back as his laughter erupted. It was a deep, hearty chuckle that made Harry smile in response. With laughter like that, the new Headmaster could not be all bad. Petr made eye contact with Harry and leaned to talk privately to his companion, their identically dark heads almost touching. There was something very intimate in the closeness of his lips to the man’s ear, and after a few seconds Harry had to look away.

But his eyes wandered to them again. The stranger was shaking his head “No” and shrugging. Petr put a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support or encouragement, and once again Harry felt a faint twinge of jealousy. He was being completely ridiculous, indulging himself in a schoolboy crush.

“Minerva told me he signed this afternoon,” said Flitwick, noticing Harry’s attention on Petr’s companion. “I can’t believe it, he could have gone anywhere, done anything. We are very lucky.”

“Hermione feels the same way you do. What exactly has he done?”

Flitwick turned to him, obviously surprised at Harry’s ignorance. “Are you joking?”

“No, seriously. I really have no idea. I have been out of the academic loop, you know.”

“Harry, he found the cure for Squibs!”

“Oh my god! He’s the one? I had no idea. I read about it, of course. They are running trials, right?”

“Yes. But they are almost over. It works. It really works. Did you know Argus Filch was a test subject?”

“No, I didn’t! How is he doing?”

“Well, he is a changed man. He has as much magic as you and I.” Flitwick chuckled. “Well, may be not as much as you, really, but you know what I mean. I have been teaching him Charms. He is a natural. I have never had a more eager student.”

Harry was impressed despite himself. He had only read about the cure in the Prophet and knew nothing technical about it, but it had been hailed as the greatest discovery in the magical world since the Wolfsbane potion, and even that paled in comparison. Now he understood what the fuss was all about. That someone like that should become the new Headmaster of Hogwarts was amazing indeed.

There was a bit of a commotion behind him as the lady of the hour made her entrance. Everyone turned to her and commenced clapping. Septima gave everyone a smile. She looked at ease and very pleased. Even the most modest of people enjoyed recognition once in a while. In Harry’s opinion, her Order of Merlin for Outstanding Service to the Wizarding Community was about twenty-five years overdue. Fifty years of teaching at Hogwarts deserved more than a medal: sainthood, maybe?

He took advantage of the general distraction to resume his observation of the new Headmaster, who was now facing the door. His first impression was of a lean, chiseled face, with strong features and an aquiline nose. Then, as if he had felt Harry’s attention, the man met his stare. It was as if Harry was looking into the eyes of the portrait above his mantelpiece. The eyes were jet black, with great depth. Then the man raised a single eyebrow and suddenly the different features of his face came together and Harry recognized him for who he was. Standing there, staring coldly at him, was Severus Snape.

For the third time in as many days, Harry’s heart started beating a thundering tattoo inside his chest, signaling its desire to get out. After an awkward nod to Snape, he turned away from him, and stumbled in the general direction of Ron and Hermione as the party settled back to normal. He stood on the edge of their group for a while, happy to be ignored and trying to recover from his shock.

Random thoughts were battling with wild emotions and an acute physical reaction to completely confuse and unsettle him. He took a deep breath and focused on Neville’s red signet ring encircling the index finger of the hand holding his punch glass. It looked old. Silver filigree and what appeared to be garnet. Had it come from his grandmother? No, probably not, it was definitely a man’s ring. His father’s maybe. Neville’s parents had both died in their sleep at only a few days’ interval a couple years ago. They had been interred by the sea near Glenn Cyan, where his mother was from.

Harry had gone, of course. It had been a gorgeous day, and Neville had listened to the many stories told by Order members about his parents and confided to Harry later at the pub that he wished he could have heard those stories before, while still a boy, while they were still alive. Many times Harry had thought to himself that Neville’s tragedy had been greater than his own.

Septima Vector was now approaching their group and introducing her parents, an adorable and diminutive elderly couple, frail and white-haired, glowing with pride in their daughter. They were trailed by six equally frail and smiling ladies who turned out to be Septima’s older sisters—Prima, Secunda, Tertia, Quartella, Quinta and Sexta—who seemed a Greek chorus to their father’s words.

“So proud!” he chirped.

“So proud,” they echoed.

“Such a great honour,” he added.

“Yes, yes, a great honour,” they chorused.

“Well deserved,” said the one in pale pink.

“Our clever little sister,” added the one in pale yellow, shaking her head, as if Septima was five years old and had just learned to tie her shoes.

“So clever,” said pale blue.

“Got it from her mum,” inserted the father, squeezing his blushing wife’s hand.

“And so modest,” added pale lavender.

“Yes, yes,” nodded pale green and pale peach.

Septima, standing at the back and easily a head taller than any of them, rolled her eyes comically but smiled with what obviously was great affection.

“Harry,” she said, a wicked light in her eyes, “my sisters love Quidditch, and are great fans of yours… ”

Six pairs of pale blue eyes turned to him and before he knew what had happened he was signing in their small leather-bound autograph books and explaining that yes, he still loved the sport, but no, he would not play professionally again.

Septima could hardly hide her mirth, and Ron had to turn away and “cough” discreetly into his cocktail napkin. And of course it would so happen that, over the pale blue shoulder of a happily nodding lady, he would meet Snape’s eyes again, glowing with a wicked light of their own.

The evening proceeded as expected, with the Minister putting Septima’s Order of Merlin around her neck after a thankfully concise speech, and Minerva bringing tears to her eyes with a lovely and heartfelt recognition of her fifty years of devotion to the education of Hogwarts students.

But what should have been a heartwarming evening in celebration of a friend’s dedication became an uncomfortable and awkward series of small mishaps for Harry. He spilt some punch on Hermione by gesturing a little too enthusiastically with a drink in his hand and felt Snape’s eyes on him as he clumsily mopped her up.

Trying to discreetly dispose of a half-eaten canape that turned out to be stuffed with anchovies, he met Snape’s eyes after hiding it in a potted plant. And who should hold Minerva McGonagall steady after Harry inadvertently jostled her by turning around too suddenly but Snape, of course.

By the time he left the party with Ron and Hermione, he felt unsettled and inadequate, as if before even exchanging a word with Snape he had been found wanting and had confirmed the new Headmaster’s low opinion of him. He was angry with himself for letting Snape’s presence affect him in such a way, and naturally took it out on Hermione.

“Please, Hermione, explain to me how in Merlin’s sweet Britain you would come to hire Severus Snape as Headmaster of Hogwarts?”

Ignoring the tone of the question, Hermione chose to answer it literally. “Well, we had been soliciting resumes for months, and were actually quite advanced in the selection. Down to three candidates, to be exact. And a month ago, out of the blue, we received his application. There really was no contest after that. He has the support of the board, and was each committee member’s first choice.”

“But the man is a git! A sneering, smirking, cruel, unfair, and resentful git!”

“You forgot greasy,” supplied Ron. “Though I guess not so much that anymore… ”

This time, she could not help but snap, “Oh, for goodness sake! It has been ten years! You two are no longer children. Times have changed, and so has he. And so have you! Can’t you take into consideration what you now know about him and give the man a chance? He may have been a disagreeable teacher, but may I remind you that he was one of the good guys? That he saved you, personally, time and time again? That he brought every last Death Eater to justice? That he just single-handedly helped bring out the magic of countless disenfranchised members of our society? He is a great man, you know, and we should consider ourselves very lucky to have him.”

“You don’t understand, Hermione! I was so glad to be back here. I was starting to feel like I was getting somewhere, doing something worthwhile. And now he is here, and I get to feel like a complete idiot anytime he points his barbed tongue in my direction.”

“But he hasn’t yet, has he?” She did not wait for his answer. “Harry, be reasonable. In any case, this is not about you and how you feel. It’s about Hogwarts. He will be very good for the school. He has great plans for changing the curriculum, in exactly the way we have been thinking of doing it for years. He has the will, the strength, the experience, and the clout to make it all happen. And he loves Hogwarts and its legacy just as much as we do. Do not let your memories of who he was years ago stop you from seeing the man he is today!”

Though he knew her to be absolutely right, he just could not let it go. Why did Snape have to return and ruin his peace? “I just don’t understand him. He had a good relationship, a great career, a lot of money, and public acclaim for his accomplishments: everything he could want to be happy. And he is giving it all up to come back here, right where he started… It makes no sense! What?”

Hermione and Ron were looking very amused. “You do realize that you could be describing yourself, don’t you?” she remarked.

That gave him pause. “True,” he admitted grudgingly. “Though I would point out that while I am completely clueless as to my motivations, I am willing to bet that Severus Snape knows exactly what he is doing, and why.”

And to that, she had nothing to add.

~o~ Ecce Homo (Severus) ~o~

Since Severus had Apparated at the gate, the awareness of Harry Potter’s proximity had been part of his consciousness. As he was greeting Petr, he had taken his first view of the castle and his immediate thought, all-pervasive, was that Harry was within its walls. Every moment of that day, as he visited Minerva’s office, greeted old colleagues, met new ones, and strolled through the corridors, enjoying a feeling of homecoming, he had also expected at any moment to encounter him, and it had colored the whole afternoon with anticipation.

Finally, he had started to relax at the reception. The moment of reckoning was unavoidable, and fast approaching. He felt like a child on Christmas morning, and inwardly laughed at himself. Petr, who should really have known him better than that, credited the satisfaction over his new position for his uncharacteristic distraction.

He had actually physically felt Potter enter the room, had felt the humming presence of his magic. Of course, he told himself he was imagining it, but Petr leaned to him to confirm the arrival of the Puddlemere star and offer to introduce him. Snape had shaken his head, reminding him that he had known Potter since he was eleven and had never got along with him. Petr’s wistful look made him wonder if he didn’t know him ‘better than that’ after all.

He had felt Potter’s eyes on his back and only given the conversation around him cursory attention. Finally, as Septima made her entrance, he had been unable to prolong the suspense and had looked directly at Harry. They had stared at each other for a moment, and Snape had wondered at Potter’s searching glance. Only when he had raised an eyebrow and seen realization dawn on Harry’s face had he understood: Potter had not been aware of his identity. He had no idea how that could have been, but Potter’s surprise and his subsequent loss of composure elicited no other explanation.

Though Severus tried to resist the temptation of staring at him for the rest of the evening, he was unsuccessful. Potter was absolutely gorgeous. He had, of course, been aware, through his “Potter watch,” of Harry’s Muggle eye surgery (he shuddered at the thought… ) and of his radical haircut. But the newspaper pictures had not prepared him for the reality of the man. There was nothing of his parents in his face, his own strong character overshadowing any remaining similitude.

The luminous eyes, the sensuous lips, the elegant jaw line, were a magnet to his gaze. He felt a little guilty, as his concentrated attention obviously was making Harry nervous and causing him to experience a number of small mishaps.

Severus had to hold back laughter at Potter’s chagrin at being mobbed by the gaggle of Septima’s sisters in quest of his autograph, and at his mortification at getting caught disposing of one of those disgusting anchovy canapes. That he had not simply Banished it, as Snape himself had done, he had found achingly endearing.

He had to get himself under control. The cup of his decade-long Potter crush runneth over. But he knew he was still completely lost when, upon Potter’s hasty retreat from himself and Minerva, he had noticed a small comma-shaped scar behind and slightly above his left ear that showed white against the black stubble of his hair and had been completely undone by it.

“You may look, but you can’t touch,” he reminded himself. He had guessed being around Potter might be a little difficult, but had decided the pleasure of it would be worth the trouble. He realized now he had grossly underestimated the slow torture to which he had willingly subjected himself, as well as the acute delight Potter’s physical presence engendered. Yet he would not have changed his decision for the world.

After Potter left the party, Snape decided he had indulged his obsession enough and resolved to, at least for the moment, douse the torch he had been carrying. Instead, he concentrated his attentions on Petr. They had not seen each other for a week and Petr was glad to have him back.

He was a wonderful companion: handsome, educated, witty and worldly, and deliciously submissive in bed. Snape could not have dreamed a more satisfying partner. In short order, they were back in Snape’s rooms, enjoying first each other’s company and then each other’s bodies. Potter was a fantasy; this was reality, and a very agreeable one indeed. Snape was aware that his and Petr’s relationship was bound to suffer from the distance and the limited opportunity for contact.

After sharing a life for five years, it was going to be a difficult adjustment for Petr: the empty flat, the empty bed, the silent evenings. How long would it be before this charming man gave up on him and found a more satisfying companion? Snape reasonably gave it six months. But it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

The next day at breakfast, Minerva officially announced that he had accepted the post and gave him the floor. His speech was short and to the point. He was pleased to be here, he would start the first of August, there was a lot of work ahead, and would they be so generous as to return to their duties nearly three weeks ahead of the normal schedule to facilitate the transition?

As this was customary when a new Headmaster took office, they had all been expecting it, and there was therefore only token grumbling. Potter had looked weary, yet full of nervous energy, Granger smacking his drumming fingers a couple of times. What would he be doing with his four weeks off? It wasn’t important. What mattered was that in four weeks time, when he returned, Potter would be there and that they would be thereafter under the same roof.

Petr and he left Hogwarts that afternoon on their way to what promised to be a very pleasurable holiday in Burgundy: wine tasting, hiking, and time for each other. They had to make the best of it while they could. Merlin knew how long it would be before they were able to get away that long again together. August would come soon enough.

~o~ Cigars All Around ~o~

Harry went home in a wretched mood, somehow made worse by the fact that he simply loved his new rooms. Was it too late to change his plans and just go back to Quidditch? Even this late in the year, he was sure Draco would have no problem getting him a contract. But he did not want to play Quidditch anymore. He wanted to be here, at Hogwarts, teaching flying and coaching the game.

Severus Snape.

How could he enjoy working for a man who never saw anything but his shortcomings, and never let him forget about them? Snape had always been such a vindictive and cruel man. Then, in seventh year, just when he had started acting as if maybe he had stopped loathing Harry, he had suddenly left, abandoned… his post, his responsibilities, his students, on a whim. Snape could never be trusted.

But things might be different now. Harry was an adult, successful, well-liked, and the best at what he did. He would stay. He would just make sure to have as little to do with the new Headmaster as possible.

Harry remained awake a long time, hands behind his head, watching the moon make its way from one window to the next, trying not to think. The next morning at breakfast, Minerva made it official. Snape was the new Headmaster. Since Harry had not planned on leaving Hogwarts during the break, it made little difference to him to have to be ready to resume work by August first. He had no idea how he could possibly help “ease the transition,” but he would do his best to stay out of everyone’s way.

The Headmaster and his partner left in the afternoon, while Harry was at the Hogsmeade station collecting Teddy for their annual vacation. Harry was thrilled to have his godson back. They saw each other often, as Harry always made being part of Teddy’s life his highest priority.

If he went away for professional reasons, Andromeda’s was always his first stop on the way back. He had regularly taken them along on his away games, whenever Andromeda and Teddy’s schedule permitted. During his twelve weeks at Hogwarts, he had only been able to go and see them four weekends. He had missed his boy.

Harry and Teddy were going to have a fabulous time. As he had done every year since Teddy had started primary school four years ago, Harry was taking him for four weeks of his summer vacation. It gave Andromeda a well-deserved break and allowed Harry to really get to know his godson.

This year, they were camping… in the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid helped them set up their tent in a peaceful clearing next to a fast flowing stream. They fished (very unsuccessfully), they hiked, they walked to Hogwarts for dinner, they lit a campfire every night, and had lots of visitors: Hagrid, centaurs, Hugo and Rose, unicorns, Flitwick, and Buckbeak.

Teddy was a bright and happy child, with a mischievous streak a mile wide and a heart of gold. He loved hearing stories about his parents (especially stories of the year when his dad had taught Harry at Hogwarts) and building homes for the different forest creatures.

They had constructed a frog palace by the water, in twigs and moss, with operable leaf windows and a sun-bathing area. (Teddy did not seem disheartened in the least that no frog had yet taken residence.… ) They had dug a rabbit hole, with corridors and several entries. (They dug by hand, across from each other, until their wiggling fingers met, and then connected the tunnels. Rabbits had not yet arrived either, though Teddy had made soft little leaf beds for them at the bottom of the hole.) They had made a rain shelter for the unicorns, with intertwined branches and moss. They spent a lot of time in it themselves, making it their fort, their pirate hold, their hiding place, and their outdoor bedroom when the nights were warm enough.

Teddy was a fearless tree climber. He could lengthen his fingers for a better grip, or his arms for a longer reach. He could even grow a prehensile tail in a pinch, though Harry discouraged that because it ruined his trousers.

It was almost time to light the fire on the evening of the seventeenth of July when Hagrid showed up with his quilt and some marshmallows.

“Hagrid!” exclaimed Teddy, who adored the big man. “You’re gonna sleep with us!”

“I am gonna sleep with yeh, yeh mean, little fella. Harry is goin’ to take the nigh’ off, and go visit Ginny Weasley!”

Hagrid turned to Harry. “Draco Malfoy sen’ word for you to come to St. Mungo’s. Ginny’s gone inta labor.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. It was too early. Not three months, like last time, thank Merlin, but still. She wasn’t due for another three weeks. He left as quickly as he could, without even returning home to change out of his camping clothes.

The waiting room of the maternity ward at St. Mungo’s was full of Weasleys, by birth or by marriage, but to his great relief they were already celebrating. Ginny had been delivered, in record time, of two very small but healthy infants, a boy and a girl. Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley were serving champagne, and Molly was laughing happily with her four daughters-in-law: Fleur, Penelope, Hermione, and Katarina.

The boys, including Neville, were playing Exploding Snap. They had come prepared for a long night, and though the children had already been born, the midwife was not admitting more than one or two visitors at a time. They had to wait their turn for the first glance at the latest members of the clan.

Narcissa came out of Ginny’s room, looking very happy indeed. “Harry, you’re next!” she said.

“No fair!” griped Ron. “We were here first!”

“Be that as it may, Ginny wants him, and whatever the new mother wants, she gets!” replied Narcissa.

Harry went in. Draco, still wearing lime green scrubs, was sitting on the side of Ginny’s bed. She looked pretty and fresh, her long hair braided away from her face, wearing a lovely nightgown of pale pink, as if she had just woken from a pleasant nap, not given birth to twins. She and Draco were holding hands and looking at their two infants, sleeping together in a see-through cot next to the bed.

“Harry! You’re here!” She beamed at him.

Harry kissed her lightly on the temple and nodded to Draco, before going around the bed to take a peek at the children. They were tightly swaddled, one in a pink blanket, the other one in blue, looking very much like any newborn babies: red and wrinkly. They were tiny, the girl even more so than the boy, but sleeping peacefully enough. The girl’s little thumb was in her budlike mouth and she appeared completely bald, but her brother had a lock of red hair on his forehead.

Harry grinned at Ginny. “Well done, Gin.”

“Aren’t they cute?”

“Beautiful,” Harry replied.

Draco came to stand next to him. “Liar. They are wrinkly and red, and their heads look like cones,” he observed impartially.

“They take after you, Malfoy,” concluded Harry.

Ginny laughed. “I say they’re cute and Mediwizard Brennan says they are healthy and that is all that matters.”

They were all three quiet for a moment, appreciating the absolute truth of her words.

Harry looked at Ginny. “You have no right to be looking this good, Gin. You’d think you’d spent the day at the spa.”

Ginny laughed again. “Believe it or not, I did!” she answered. “A treat from Fleur. It was lovely: massage, pedicure, manicure, facial, the works. One of my waters broke on the way home, so I came straight here. Lucky Draco arrived as quickly as he did or he would have missed the whole thing. They were both born in less than an hour. They called it a precipitous labor. I call it a blessing; I feel great.”

“And you look gorgeous,” added Draco, kissing her hand.

“I should give someone else a turn,” said Harry. “There was some grumbling in the crowd… ”

Draco and Ginny exchanged a look, and Ginny smiled at her husband encouragingly.

“Potter, would you be our girl’s godfather?” asked Draco.

Harry was surprised and thrilled. “Really! Wow, thanks, I would be honored. What are you going to call her?”

“Well, I wanted to name her after you, but frankly, ‘Henrietta’, or even ‘Harriet’… Well, I’m not that keen on either,” replied Ginny. “Would you mind if we called her Lily, after your mother?”

Harry always thought he would name his own daughter Lily, but it certainly did not seem that that was going to happen anytime soon, especially now… A goddaughter named Lily would be wonderful.

He bent over the cot. “Hello, little Lily,” he said. “That’s great, Ginny, thank you,” he added, straightening up.

She grinned at him. “Don’t thank me,” she said, “it was Draco’s idea… ”

Harry looked at Draco, surprised. “I love the name Lily,” he explained, shrugging, but he smiled, and Harry smiled back.

“What about the boy?” he asked.

“Scorpius Severus, for our great-great-grandfather, and his godfather,” replied Draco.

“Ginny and you are related?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Aren’t we all,” replied Draco, shrugging again. “You and I are fourth cousins twice removed, Potter.”

“Really? I didn’t know that!”

“I’m not proud of it,” smirked Draco.

“Scorpius Severus. That’s quite a moniker.”

Draco leaned over his son. “Look at him, Potter, all red hair and pointed chin. He will have the Weasleys’ temper and the Malfoys’ evil streak. Who’s going to dare make fun of his name?”

Malfoy had a point. Harry looked at Ginny, wondering what she thought of Draco’s prediction, but she was laughing. “He might have my dad’s easy-going nature and your mother’s sweetness, you know.”

“Then everyone will love him too much to tease him,” Draco answered, unperturbed.

“We wanted to call him Frederic, but George wants to save the name for his own son someday,” added Ginny.

Harry looked at her, surprised. “A little unlikely, no?” he asked diplomatically.

“That’s what I thought,” she replied, lifting her shoulders, “but he was quite sure. He’s already said no to Charlie and Ron, when Franz and Hugo were born. I didn’t insist. Neville didn’t seem to care, and if he doesn’t, why should I?”

Why indeed. Harry took one more look at his diminutive new godchild. Already, he felt her tug on his heart.

“Okay, I’d better go. Ron and Hermione are champing at the bit.” He turned to Malfoy. “Congratulations to both of you, and thank you, I’m thrilled to be Lily’s godfather.”

“She made me,” said Draco, gesturing to his wife, but his smirk said otherwise.

“All the same,” replied Harry, smirking back.

He stayed a little longer at the hospital, sharing everyone’s joy and unspoken relief. As he was walking back to the Floo he could not help but remember a very different night, two years ago, when Ginny had lost her little boy and almost her life.

Harry had not truly understood the depth of the love Malfoy felt for his wife before that day. They had waited helplessly together outside the room where the mediwizards and Healers were desperately trying to stop Ginny’s life from bleeding out of her womb.

The little boy had been lost on the way to the emergency room from Harry’s apartment—where they had been having dinner, celebrating Harry’s new contract, which had been negotiated masterfully by Draco.

Draco had been ashen, despair and fear etched in the lines of his face, as he stood in the corridor, his back to the wall, his haunted eyes never leaving the swinging doors.

When the mediwitch had come out briefly to say that the hemorrhage was under control and that Ginny would live, he had slipped down to the ground as his knees gave out. When Harry had helped him up, Draco had collapsed on his shoulder and wept long, harsh, and uncontrolled sobs in utter relief. They had never spoken about it. When the mediwitch had returned to tell Draco that he could see his wife, he had straightened up, wiped away his tears, and been a rock at her side through her grief.

Harry had gone home that night to his empty place and stayed up for a long time sitting by the remnant of the fire, wondering if he ever would love anyone like that. Perhaps he just did not have it in him. It had left him feeling desperately alone.

But tonight, he returned to Hogwarts spreading good news. He left behind him a trail of smiling faces as he worked his way back to the forest where he, Teddy, and Hagrid celebrated by eating way too many roasted marshmallows.

~o~ Wrestling Thestrals ~o~

Snape officially took over from Minerva on the first of August. He had moved back into the dungeons the week before. It seemed that his rooms, including his private potions lab and ingredient stores, had been kept for him through the years, and that he had apparently occupied them off and on throughout Minerva’s tenure, though he had rarely made appearances in the castle proper. When asked about it, Minerva explained that Hogwarts had been Severus’ home for many years, and that it had not occurred to her that the fact that he was no longer a teacher there should alter that in any way. Though that raised a few eyebrows, now that he was the new Headmaster it had become a moot point and soon ceased to be a topic of conversation.

So on the first of August, when Harry arrived for breakfast Snape was seated in the central chair at the teachers’ table, chatting amicably with Flitwick. Had Harry not seen with his own eyes Minerva sitting in that same chair the day before, it would have been easy to think it had been his forever. There was nothing awkward in his behavior, and truthfully, he really looked as if he belonged there. Where Minerva’s slight physique had always been somewhat overwhelmed by the ornate chair, Snape’s height and his imposing presence fit it perfectly.

He was wearing again the type of traditional black teaching robes he had always worn as a Potions Master, though these were neither threadbare nor as shiny from use as his old ones had been. They were obviously tailor-made, of the finest fabric. His hair did not hang limply on sallow cheeks. It was glossy and held back with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck, emphasizing his stark features. He had grown into his unfortunate nose, his strong personality having shaped his face to go with it. He was still striking, but interestingly so, no longer unattractive.

Probably sensing Harry’s gaze, Snape looked up and greeted him with a “Potter” and a slight nod. He greeted all the other arrivals the same way, though he called his old colleagues by their first names. When Hermione arrived, to take the seat next to him as Deputy Headmistress, he welcomed her with a smile (a slight asymmetrical stretch of the thin lips, that nonetheless reached the eyes).

“Professor Granger-Weasley,” he said, “good morning. I have a favor to ask of you, that you should feel free to refuse.”

“Good morning, Professor Snape. And what, may I ask, is this favor that I am free to refuse?”

“Your name. I was wondering if you would permit me to shorten it?”

“Do you mean to call me Hermie? Or Mione, perhaps?” she asked innocently.

He smiled appreciatively. “Nothing so familiar, I am afraid. I find it impossible to call my former students by their first names. Would you permit me to call you ‘Granger’?”

She smiled warmly at him. “For old times’ sake? I certainly will, if you promise not to assign me detention, or refer to me as a “Know-it-all.”

Flitwick interjected, coughing in a loud stage whisper, “If the shoe fits… ” which set a lot of them, including Hermione herself, chuckling.

Harry was astonished by how everyone else seemed so comfortable around Snape. He himself could see the changes in the man. But it was still Snape. No amount of shampoo or well-cut cloth could change that. He looked toward Neville, who sat quietly at the other end of the table. Well, at least there was someone else not perfectly at ease with the new Headmaster. Professor Longbottom was staring at his plate, slowly mangling a piece of bread into smaller and smaller crumbs. Snape had taken off George’s ear, after all. Harry felt a little better.

Once everyone had arrived and breakfast had started in earnest, Snape asked for a moment of their attention.

“I want to thank all of you for cutting short your well-deserved summer holiday. Implementing changes in the curriculum will not be an easy task, and if we want any of it to take effect in the coming year, we need to decide which steps are appropriate to take at this time. I would like for us all to meet this afternoon to organize ourselves for the task ahead. I will see you all in the old lecture amphitheatre at three o’clock.”

There were murmurs of assent. All of them were looking forward to hearing what the Headmaster had in mind.

Harry had really no idea what changes needed to occur. After all, things had been all right when he was in school, hadn’t they? Whatever had been good enough for Dumbledore was certainly good enough for him. But Hermione had been going on for years about how archaic the pedagogies of the magic school were. Remembering his Potions classes, Harry could only shudder at the thought of a Snape-devised curriculum…

He was planning on taking a leisurely flight to occupy his morning, but Hagrid had other ideas. He stopped to talk to Harry on his way out of the Great Hall.

“Harry! Hev yeh got some time this mornin’? I could use a hand with the thestrals.”

“Sure, Hagrid. I’d love to help.”

“All righ’ then. I’ll meet yeh in the front paddock once yeh’ve changed.”

Since Harry was dressed quite casually that morning, it occurred to him that whatever he had just agreed to help with, it would probably end up being very messy. He ran up to his rooms two steps at a time. When he got to the door, he was pleased to realize that he was not even breathing heavily. Climbing up to the top of tower several times a day was doing wonders for his conditioning.

He put on an old pair of jeans and some workboots, as well as an old jumper Molly had once knitted for him. This was northern Scotland, after all.

Hagrid was already there, as well as Neville and Dermott. They looked ready for action, Neville even wearing leather chaps over his jeans.

“One of them nipped me last year,” he said by way of explanation. “I had a bruise for two weeks.”

Harry started wondering what he was in for.

Four hours later, he was ready for a long shower and possibly a week of bed rest. They had herded the thestrals into the paddock, Hagrid and Neville on foot, Harry and Dermott on brooms. Apparently, it was time to wean the foals by giving them their first taste of red meat, all the while keeping them from gorging themselves to the point of being sick.

Once the mares were tethered—which was easier said than done—the young stayed quite willingly, but Harry discovered that the only thing more difficult than convincing them to take that first bite was to remove them from the carcass once they started on it.

He was covered in blood from wrestling the beasts away from their meal, and had been nipped half a dozen times. The dams were extremely protective of their foals, yet very willing to wean them and eager to help once they caught on to the idea. That included pushing the foals toward the meat with their heads and flanks, and if a human happened to be in the way, it made little difference. The foals, once fed, were extremely playful. A great time had been had by all.

“Now you understand why we volunteer every year,” said Dermott with a huge grin, his face sporting a streak of mud from cheek to chin. Harry did. Though exhausting, it was the most fun he had had in quite a while.

“It’s a great way to take your mind off things, that’s for sure,” said Neville.

Harry thought back to Neville’s moroseness that morning at breakfast. It was true that he had not thought of Snape for a minute out there either.

“She’s not doing any better, then?” Dermott asked Neville.

“No,” replied Neville. “She’s going downhill fast.” Seeing Harry’s confused look, he clarified. “My gran, Harry. She fell and broke her hip. At her age, Skele-Gro can only do so much. Her whole body seems to be shutting down. The Healers think it’s the end.”

On his way back up the tower, Harry reflected that he might be the only one upset about Snape’s arrival after all. After his shower, he decided to skip lunch and take a nap. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep during the staff meeting.

~o~ Staff Meeting ~o~

Taking a page from the Headmaster’s book, he had dressed in his new teaching robes to attend the meeting and was glad he had, since everyone else had also.

It was amazing how much was accomplished in very little time. A curriculum committee was elected and several basic changes were voted without any fuss.

Muggle-borns would now benefit from a class in basic magical education, which covered everything from an overview of magical powers to practicing quill calligraphy to learning basic Wizarding law, and other general enculturation. Harry was amused to see that The Tales of Beedle the Bard was part of the required reading.

In parallel, the children from Wizarding families would have mandatory Muggle studies, and would be exposed to some very simple and useful Muggle inventions, such as telephones and ballpoint pens, as well as some of the more exciting aspects of popular culture, such as cinema, to increase their appreciation of Muggles in general.

Binns would be replaced as Magical History teacher. It turned out that he had been delaying his ascension to a higher plane until a new teacher could be found, and after seventy years was quite relieved to give up his post. To everyone’s surprise, Hermione would be taking over his position.

Professor McGonagall had agreed to return to teaching Transfiguration until another teacher could be found.

Dermott McClallan was thrilled to learn he was to be given a teacher’s assistant. Apparently, the new Headmaster was sensitive to the many demands placed on Potions professors.

The next topic was the eternally problematic DADA position. Even with Voldemort dead and gone, no DADA professor had yet been able to teach for more than one year. It seemed the curse would never let up, and the pool of possible teachers was depleted. Frankly, half of them (to be kind) had been hopeless.

The Headmaster had come up with an interesting scheme. He had already contacted the head of the Aurors’ office and arranged that different Aurors should rotate through Hogwarts throughout the year, each one of them concentrating on a different aspect of Defence.

“I have outlined a comprehensive overview of all that should be covered in seven years of Defence, and I think syllabi should be written by topic and levels,” Snape explained. “They would serve both as a guide and as a reference for the different teachers, to ensure continuity in the learning process as well as making sure no aspect of the subject goes unaddressed.”

Harry was impressed. This novel approach would certainly be a great improvement over the randomness that had been the order of the day in that class for as long as anyone could remember.

“If we are to implement this system successfully, it would be optimum if syllabi for the first two topics were written for all seven years before September. It represents quite a large amount of work, and I think would benefit from a group effort. Are any of you interested in participating?”

“Count me in!” enthused Flitwick. “I haven’t had to work on a syllabus for a very long time. After fifty-two years, I could teach Charms in my sleep. This should be fun.” He was rubbing his small hands in anticipation.

“I would like to help also,” said Minerva. “Defence has been a thorn in my side for ten years. I love this idea.” She smiled warmly at Snape. “I think it’s brilliant.”

“I know a fair bit abou’ dark creatures. I’d love ta help if I can be o’ use,” Hagrid volunteered, a little unsure.

Snape turned to him. “Thank you, Hagrid. Your expertise in that area will be most welcome.” Hagrid looked both surprised and gratified by Snape’s response, and Harry was pleased on his behalf.

Once Sinistra also decided to join the effort, it seemed that the project was well on its way.

Before calling an end to the meeting, Snape had one more topic he wanted to discuss. “A new aspect of Wizarding education is shortly going become necessary,” he started. “It seems that the Ministry is not quite ready to address that need, and I think that Hogwarts, as a respected institution, should possibly lead the way.”

He stood up and started pacing, his robes fluttering in his wake, and Harry was suddenly transported back in time. Even his voice seemed to reprise the slow melodic cadence of his lectures, and Harry was reminded that even when he had absolutely loathed the man, he had always enjoyed listening to him.

“Hundreds of wizards and witches, until recently considered hopelessly magic-less, are about to come into their powers.” He had everyone’s attention. “The clinical trials of the potion that allows the so-called Squibs to access their magic are successfully over.”

He was forced to stop as Minerva, Hermione, and soon everyone else in the room started clapping. After a moment of surprise, he acknowledged them with a nod, and continued.

“These individuals often have been around magic all their lives, but completely lack practical training. They have heard basic spells hundreds of times from their family members, but have never held a wand. I do not believe, unlike some members of the Ministry, that they will simply acquire the skills necessary to control and take full advantage of their magic through … osmosis. I think it is essential to be prepared to provide these individuals with tailored adult education, if they are to successfully make the transition to being full members of our society.”

He stopped pacing, and faced them all. “I am sure you are aware that this is a matter of great importance to me. Knowing about magic and being magical are two entirely different things. Squibs have been neglected and ignored by our society as long as it has existed. I will not let them be neglected and ignored now that they can finally take their rightful place within it. I intended this so-called cure to be a blessing, not a curse. I think Squibs are going to need help, and I intend to give it to them, as well as the respect they deserve.

“I think the pathetic lives currently enjoyed by most Death Eaters adequately demonstrate the difficulties of being without magic in a magical word, and should only heighten our respect for those who have lived that way since birth, while preserving their dignity. You all have full schedules. I am aware that any engagement on your part in this endeavor will have to be to the detriment of your personal lives, and therefore, I cannot require your participation. But I would ask you to consider it, if at all possible.

“Several retired faculty members have volunteered to help with this project, and its coordination will be in the hands of a personal friend, Narcissa Malfoy, until such time as funding might become available from the Ministry. I have made the entire east wing available to her to do as she chooses. Her office will be next to Poppy Pomfrey’s, and you should contact her directly if you are interested. I think that will be all for today. We will reconvene next Tuesday at three. Thank you all.”

Conversations immediately broke out all around the table. The positive energy in the room was palpable. They were all excited about the tasks at hand and invigorated by the challenges ahead. Harry was amazed to realize how well they had all responded to Snape’s leadership. He himself was looking forward to the coming year with renewed enthusiasm and a fresh sense of purpose. He was impressed despite himself.

Snape stopped next to him on his way out to say a few words to Hagrid, and when Harry picked up his notes, he noticed a small piece of parchment sitting on top that had not been there before. He opened it. The handwriting was unmistakably Snape's.

“Drinks. Eight o’clock. My rooms.”

Harry was completely nonplussed. Snape had passed him a note? Drinks? He just could not make sense of it and wondered, as he climbed the tower stairs, if he had not just gotten detention.

~o~ The Note, Harry ~o~

At dinner, Harry sat between Flitwick and Septima and talked mostly about what they started to refer to as Narcissa’s project. It seemed that Flitwick was already very involved. Charms expertise was such a basic magical necessity; it would be a skill new wizards would have to acquire.

He was thinking of involving his NEWT class, possibly as an opportunity for extra credit. Harry thought that was brilliant. However, it wouldn't work for him. At Hogwarts, flying classes were only offered to the first, second, and third years, as flying was not even an OWL subject but more of a basic skill. He did not feel it would be appropriate to involve thirteen-year-olds in the adult education program, and he knew from experience that the Quidditch players had no free time to speak of.

He, however, was willing to give Narcissa as much of his free time as she would take. Flying a broom was really something every witch or wizard should learn how to do.

Septima was positive she could find some way to help. Arithmancy was much too esoteric to be of interest to adult wizards learning the basics, but she felt Narcissa might need volunteers for other subjects, and thought she could probably teach beginners’ level in a lot of them.

Harry could not help stealing glances of Snape once in a while. He still could not fathom Snape giving him that note, or asking him for drinks, or… It just was too surreal. At no point did their eyes meet. Snape seemed completely oblivious to the confusion he had sent Harry into.

At one point Hermione gave him a “What?” glance, as she thought he kept looking at her. He just shrugged it away. At the end of the meal after Septima had left, she left her place at Snape’s right and, taking her cup of coffee with her, came to sit by him.

“Are you okay, Harry?”

“Sure. Can a bloke not look at the prettiest girl at the table without getting the third degree?”

She smirked. “All right, that just confirms it: you want something!”

“No, seriously. Nothing. When are the children getting back?” He knew that mentioning Hugo and Rose was a sure way to redirect her thoughts. She wasn’t fooled.

“Nice one, Harry. Very subtle. Nevertheless, I will bite. They will be back next Wednesday. They will Portkey in with Ron. But then they will go to day camp in Hogsmeade. There is just too much to do around here for me to have them on my hands all day long. They are birds of a feather, those two.”

“And what will you do when he brings home a pet hippogriff?”

She chuckled. “Put it in with the niffler, I suppose. Do you want to come over later?”

“Nah, thank you, though. I have some things to catch up with. This month will go quickly, I think.”

She nodded in agreement. “Yes, definitely. I have to prepare for my classes. Binns’ notes are useless. He was fixated on the Goblin Wars. There is so much more to cover in the history of the Wizarding world, all the way back to Merlin. Of course, breaking it all down into the important cultural turning points… ”

Harry interrupted her, grinning. “So what text will you use? Hogwarts: A History?”

“Well, it would be— oh, hahaha… ” She hit him on the arm but couldn’t help adding, “It’s really good, you know.”

“Yes, I know, Hermione. I’ve read it. You made me, remember.”

She laughed. Harry remembered the disastrously rainy weekend the three of them had endured in Corsica a few years back. A very worn copy of Hogwarts: A History had been the only book in English available at the small Wizarding hotel, and Hermione had been so sick of Harry and Ron playing Exploding Snap she had, in desperation, agreed to play strip chess with Ron, leaving the book as the only entertainment option for Harry.

Harry checked the time. It was a little past seven. “Well, I’m for home,” he said.

“I’ll walk with you.”

They made it to her door in a companionable silence.

“Good night, Harry.”

“Good night.”

He had wanted some time to think before his meeting with Snape, but now that he was alone he wished he still had Hermione to distract him.

He just didn’t know what to think. What could Snape possibly want with him? They hadn’t had a conversation in almost ten years! Was his job in jeopardy? Did Snape not agree with McGonagall that he was well qualified for it? Did he want to talk about the past? Start with a clean slate, maybe? That would be bound to be an uncomfortable conversation. Perhaps he should just ignore the note. He was no longer Snape’s student! He did not have to go just because he was summoned!

That brought his mind back to the summer ten years ago, when he had been the one doing the Summoning. It had worked brilliantly, really. Their one successful cooperation. And Snape had been set free. Free to choose where to live, what to do with the rest of his life, without ever having to worry about lurking Death Eaters doing him in the first chance they got.

Oh, Merlin! Surely Snape had not asked him over to thank him again or some such nonsense! It had been uncomfortable enough the first time!

There were so many unpaid debts between them. A regular ‘I save you, you save me’ contest. Thanks just should not enter the equation.

He made it home. He changed into his favorite jeans. He might as well be physically comfortable, since there was no way in hell he would be comfortable in any other way…

He started down at twenty to eight, but really, going down was much faster than going up. He was in the dungeons at six till. No way was he going to be early. He walked to the Potions classroom. It was locked. Were all Potions teachers paranoid? Well, he had to admit that there were a lot of dangerous things in these labs. He walked back to Snape’s door and knocked at eight o’clock exactly. He felt the powerful wards on the door, though they had evidently been lowered enough to allow him to come that close. Paranoid Potions Masters, indeed.

“Come in, Potter.”

~o~ The Note, Severus ~o~

Ever since dropping the hasty note onto Harry’s papers at the meeting, Snape had been beside himself. What, in the name of all that was magical, had come over him to do such an asinine, idiotic, and ridiculous thing?

How old was he, fourteen? What would Potter think? That Snape had lost his mind? Well, he obviously had. A note! A note! He hardly remembered what he had written, but it had mentioned drinks, and his rooms! What next? Come see my etchings? Could he possibly have done anything more out of character? How could it have seemed, even for a moment, like the thing to do?

Fifty years of intelligent thinking and then, oh, I’ll just pass Potter a secret note? Inconceivable. If he opened a dictionary to the word mortified, he was sure to find a picture of his ugly mug, hopefully trying to hide in embarrassment.

Dinner had been a trial. He had felt Potter’s disbelieving stare throughout the entire meal, as if Harry had expected the answer to, “Why would this greasy git pass me a note like a third grader?” to suddenly appear on Snape’s forehead.

He was pacing in front of his fireplace, unable to shut off his inner ranting. He looked at the clock. It was a quarter of. How should he handle this?

Should he mention the note? Apologize? Plead temporary insanity? How could he explain this bizarre behavior to Potter, when he could not begin to understand it himself?

“Severus, calm down! You will wear out the rug! And you are keeping me from my nap!” Snape looked guiltily to Albus’ small portrait hanging unobtrusively above his desk. He did need to calm down. He needed to talk to Potter and, given their past history, he would have to tread lightly if he wanted anything positive to come out of the conversation.

He remembered too well Potter’s short temper, and his own need to provoke it. That was what he needed to focus on, not his incomprehensible lapse in judgment. He had just decided to brazen it out when his wards warned him of Potter's presence. He was early.

The wards signaled he had left again. Yes, he would not want to be early. That might send the wrong message. By the time Harry once again tripped the wards, and this time knocked, Severus had managed to recover his balance. His last thought before responding was that nothing worthwhile ever came easily, and armed with that platitude, he answered.

"Come in, Potter."

~o~ And So it Begins ~o~

Completely in the dark as to what to expect, Harry opened the door and stepped in.

Snape was standing next to the lit fireplace. The room was warm and pleasantly lit, a happy contrast with the rest of the dungeons. Snape gestured to his comfortable-looking couch.

“Thank you for coming, please have a seat.”

Harry held back his “Did I have a choice?” because he realized he had, actually.

“Would you care for some tea?”

So tea was what “drinks” meant in Snape’s world? Since he himself was much more comfortable with the concept of ‘Tea with Snape’ than with that of ‘Drinks with Snape’, he held that remark back as well. Tea gave one’s hands something to do, and a well-placed sip could give one valuable time to think.

“I would, thank you.”

One wave of Snape’s hand and a tray appeared on the coffee table. Snape sat down in a reading chair between the table and the fireplace and poured two cups. He picked up his own and sat back.

“Help yourself,” he said, indicating the tray. There was milk and sugar available, and though Harry usually took copious amount of both, this time he added neither. It would have made him feel childish, somehow. Conscious that it was not a rational thought, but acting on it nonetheless, he took a sip of the plain, fragrant tea.

“You asked Minerva for your position permanently, did you not?” asked Snape.

“Yes, I did.”

“So, you feel you are qualified to teach in this school?”

“And I take it you don’t?” he challenged Snape, defensively.

“You take it completely wrong, Potter. I am quite positive that you are. As far as your teaching abilities, you were a better Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in your fifth year than most of the Defence teachers you yourself had had. As for your grasp of your subject matter, I do not think it is equaled at this time by anyone living. You are, if anything, overqualified. I think Hogwarts’ students are extremely fortunate to have you as their instructor and coach.”

“Really?” Harry immediately berated himself for his lack of cool. In his astonishment, he had sounded like an eager six-year-old. Snape raised a mocking eyebrow but thankfully let it pass.

Somewhat recovered, Harry tried to answer the original question. “Yes, I think my qualifications are adequate to the task. Why do you ask?”

Snape put down his cup and gave Harry a searching look. “Being a teacher at Hogwarts comprises many roles, Potter. The actual teaching itself is only one of them. You and I agree you have what it takes to be a teacher here, and to do it well. However, I have to ask: do you intend on fulfilling only part of the job, or are you going to invest yourself fully in the task?”

“I don’t understand what you are asking, sir.”

“Sir”? Had he just addressed Snape as “sir”? How did that man manage to completely pull Harry off balance? Why did he feel so inadequate around him?

The eyebrow went up again, but once again Snape let Harry’s faux pas pass without comment. He sat forward on his chair. “Today at the staff meeting, your only participation was your vote, Potter. You did not put forth your candidacy to become part of the curriculum committee. You did not express a single opinion, or ask a single question. You, who managed to vanquish the most dangerous dark wizard of all time, who more than adequately taught the class yourself in your fifth year as a student, did not offer to participate in the writing of the DADA syllabi. Would you care to tell me why?”

Harry felt extremely ill at ease. How could he answer that without contradicting his earlier statement as to his confidence in his qualifications? Around the other, more experienced, more educated professors, he did feel out of place. He did not feel his opinions valid enough to go against those of people he still thought of as his teachers. Who was he to say anything?

But Snape had a point. He either was a teacher here or he was not. Last term, when he was only a temporary replacement, he had had every right to feel that the general running of the school, the choice of the teaching approach, or the management of the students were none of his concern. But if he was going to stay and make teaching at Hogwarts his life, then he needed to take on his share of the responsibilities.

Still, he was not a full professor. He was an instructor, a coach. His subject did not encompass anything academic. He voiced these misgivings to Snape.

“Potter, do you think that Madam Hooch just stood on the sidelines during staff meetings? I can assure you that she did not. Nor did any of us ever take her insights lightly, or underestimate her opinions because she taught flying and not Astronomy. Her contributions to this school were invaluable. Why should you feel yours would be any less so?”

Harry was very glad he had his cup of tea. He took a sip. He felt so… confused? Nothing in their past experience had prepared him for this type of interaction with Snape. He was having difficulties truly absorbing what was being said simply because his mind was refusing to process a situation where a conversation with Snape would be anything but conflictive and defensive. And the worst part was that Snape seemed to feel his inner turmoil, and gave him an out.

“It is late, Potter, and I have a lot of work to do. I am meeting tomorrow at nine in the Headmaster’s office with the other volunteers to start on the Defence syllabi. You may want to consider joining us.”

Harry was relieved at the dismissal. He needed time to think. He put down his cup and Snape accompanied him to the door.

He was almost out when he remembered the note. Though he understood now why Snape had wanted to talk to him, it did not explain that note. That had just been… bizarre. He could not leave without mentioning it; it would continue driving him crazy otherwise. How to bring it up? He turned back.

“Oh, Snape,” he said as casually as he could, “there will be ten points from Slytherin for passing notes during staff meetings.”

Snape did not even blink. “The staff meeting was well over, Potter,” he answered dismissively.

Harry had to admire Snape. The sudden change of topic had not perturbed him in the least. But he had to know.

“Still, Snape, a note?”

“Just trying to be helpful, Potter. It seemed like a mode of communication you would be comfortable with, judging from the frequency with which you used it in my class.”

Harry raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was a fair imitation of Snape’s own expression.

For the first time that evening, Snape looked less than perfectly at ease. He shrugged. “A temporary leave of my senses. One never to be repeated, I assure you.”

This admission did more to convince Harry of the reality of Snape’s goodwill than anything else would have done.

He smiled at Snape and wished him goodnight.

“Good-night, Potter.”

The dungeons’ corridor was drafty and cold, even on this warm August night. Harry was glad when he made it back above ground. He decided to go for a short walk outside; the night was so beautiful, the sky full of stars, and the hunting owls passing above like black shadows on quiet whispers of wings.

His meeting with Snape had left him with much to think about. Not so much about the subject matter; he had already accepted the accuracy of Snape’s observation and decided to change his approach to his job accordingly. No, what puzzled him was the man himself.

First his rooms. He had always assumed that Snape lived like a monk. But they had been welcoming, comfortable, filled with beautiful artwork and thick carpets. Had they already been this way when Snape taught Potions? Or had Snape changed them in the intervening years?

Then his tea. It had been incredibly good: fragrant, full of earthy undertones, tasting green and invigorating. Ordinarily, Harry hated plain tea. It was just funny-tasting water until generously doused with sugar and milk. But Snape’s tea had been marvelous, a drink in and of itself.

And then, of course there was… Snape. Harry had not been this close to the man since his return, but now that he had sat only a few feet from him, he had noticed so many differences between the actual man and his school years memories of him.

His skin was pale, but not sallow. His hair was thick, lustrous, not straggly and oily. But the greatest change was in his eyes. They were deep and warm, a window to the soul, not the flat cold black he remembered. Now that he thought about it, he remembered two other occasions when Snape’s eyes had seem to hold unspoken things.

When they had made eye contact all those years ago at supper, the night of the Summoning. That night they had held confidence and strength, and had calmed him when he needed it. Had Snape used Legilimency? It was strange that Harry should wonder about it now, for the first time, after all these years…

Then there had been the night when Snape had left Hogwarts. That night he had looked at Harry so intently, and his eyes had been full of… something Harry had never understood.

But really, all those things were irrelevant. Tonight, Snape had treated him with respect, had tactfully made observations when he could have rightfully been reproachful and viciously mocking. And he had done so in private, mindful of Harry’s position as the youngest and newest teacher.

The raised eyebrows had been proof that the old Snape was still in attendance, but he had given Harry a break. Snape was no longer the paper cut-out of the villain he used to be. There was more to this Snape. So much more, and Harry found himself looking forward to getting to know him.

He had made it back to the doors, and made his way home. As usual, Hermione had been right. He had to let go of his prejudices and forget the past. Snape had changed. Harry himself had changed. Hadn’t he always wished things could have been different between them, even more so after learning of Snape’s history with Lily? This was his chance. The chance to get to know his mother’s friend, Dumbledore’s protégé, and Petr’s partner. He made it to his room, feeling optimistic, and went directly to his desk, where he started taking random notes of what he felt should be taught in DADA and his own possible contributions towards it.

~o~ One of the Team ~o~

At nine o’clock the next morning, once again in his teaching robes, Harry arrived with several sheets of notes in his hand at the Headmaster’s office. The gargoyle simply moved aside to let him in to the staircase. Was there to be an “open door policy” under the new Headmaster? The office door was ajar, and he heard his answer.

“No, Minerva. I simply told it the names of those who would be attending. I’d neglected to give you the password yesterday.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I thought perhaps your years at that Muggle university had addled your brain. I mean, what next, teacher-parent conferences?” Professor McGonagall sounded so peeved at that idea that Harry could not hold back a chuckle as he entered the room, after rapping smartly on the door.

She instantly turned her attention to him. “Ah, Potter. I told Filius you’d turn up! What are you smiling about?”

“It’s just so good to see you, Professor. I was dreading Hogwarts without you,” Harry said truthfully.

“Humph,” was her only reply, but she looked pleased nonetheless. Hagrid made as discreet an entrance as he was ever able, and they were all present. An oval table stood under the window, and Snape and Flitwick were seated, already in deep discussion. The rest took their places around it, Hagrid noting with pleasure the larger chair that waited for him.

Once they were all seated, Snape looked up and simply said, “Let’s get started.”

Minerva McGonagall was having none of it. “Well, good morning to you too, Severus. And where is the tea?”

Snape waved a careless hand and there were steaming cups in front of everyone. It was the same marvelous tea again.

“Is anyone here to work, or did you all simply come for my special blend?”

Flitwick, comfortably seated in his own special chair, admitted cheerfully, “A little of both, naturally. I have missed it since you last visited!”

“Happy workers are productive workers, Severus,” added Sinistra. “So what have you got for us?”

Snape passed copies of his course overview around the table.

“To begin, let us examine this tentative first draft and add whatever you feel I might have overlooked… ”

By the time the meeting broke up, a lot of ground had been covered. Snape’s overview had been incredibly thorough, but the other faculty members still found things to add. Harry was very pleased he had come prepared. His particular contribution had been to add Wand Lore to the curriculum, pointing out that his life had been saved, twice, by previously unexplored properties of his own wand, and that his greater understanding of wands and their properties had led to his defeat of Voldemort.

Each of the faculty was put in charge of three topics, except for Snape. He took only two, but since one of them was Antidotes and Antivenin, on which the others’ knowledge was extremely limited, he would end up handling it virtually alone.

The person in charge of a topic would write syllabi for years six and seven (the NEWT years) and edit the other five, each written by another participant.

Harry was in charge of Wand Lore, Unforgivables, and Blood Magic, and had to write one of the syllabi in each of the other topics. Some of them would be quick and easy (he had to write the first year syllabus on Sex Magic, which—given the age of the students—consisted of little more than the mention that it in fact existed, was most often dark, involved sexual aspects, and would be further explored at a later time); and the year three syllabus of Antidotes and Antivenins (where he pretty much was only expected to make Snape’s outline into a text that could be grasped by thirteen-year-olds).

Other syllabi, however, would not be so quick and easy. He had year five of Defence Against Dark Magical Creatures, which included Dementors, Inferi, and vampires…

Hagrid had been a little overwhelmed at the idea of being responsible for any of the topics but Snape had been quite insistent that he felt Hagrid’s knowledge to be up to the task.

When Hagrid had protested that he “knew things, but jus’ didn’ write so good,” Snape gave him a rather chilling smile, and told him that if he thought he was going to get out of the hard work by acting like a bumbling oaf, he should realize that all those present knew better.

He had anticipated Hagrid’s evasive tactics and had already talked to Madam Pince, who had “enthusiastically” agreed to act as Hagrid’s secretary. Snape’s final remark had Hagrid choking on his tea and blushing rather noticeably.

“Be careful, Rubeus. She will do wonders for your organization, syntax, and grammar, but Irma has been sweet on you for years, and might try to take advantage of the situation… ”

Flitwick chuckled at that, but Harry was surprised to see Minerva and Sinistra both nodding knowingly.

He was excited that all students of Hogwarts would be required to study Animagi. Though only about twelve percent of them were actually expected to successfully transform (“after much effort and many discouragingly disappointing tries, unlike an ungrateful natural Animagus of her aquaintance,”) their knowledge on that topic (under Minerva’s capable hands, of course) would be extensive.

All of the faculty members were conscious that a massive, though not insurmountable, amount of work lay ahead. They chatted animatedly all the way to the Great Hall where they enjoyed a well-deserved lunch. Their enthusiasm was palpable. At the end of the meal, Snape escorted Madam Pince to Hagrid’s side with a decidedly evil glint in his eye. Flitwick was gleeful, especially when Minerva remarked that Snape was sure to get his own back.

“Do you remember the time he put that Jarvey in Snape’s trunk?”

“Oh, Merlin, yes, that was priceless!”

Harry was astonished. “Do you mean Hagrid used to play practical jokes on Professor Snape?”

Flitwick and Minerva exchanged a look. “No,” she answered, “not while he taught here. This was after, when he came back on summer breaks from his Muggle university.”

“What did he study there?”

Minerva shrugged, as if deciding there was no reason to keep it a secret. “Severus received a Muggle Ph.D in genetics from Harvard University,” she said.

“That’s a good one, isn’t it?” confirmed Harry.

McGonagall shrugged again. “One of the best, I understand. Though how he could stand it I’ll never know… ” she added pensively. “Months on end without magic, and having to transcribe his papers and his thesis from longhand to print on one of those dreadful machines—computers. So impersonal… You can sense nothing of the author on a typed essay. How do the teachers get to know their students? You only get the words, you know?” She shook her head, as if it made no sense to her.

Harry was impressed in spite of himself. He had been raised in the Muggle world and still found it awkward to have to fit in on the rare occasion when he had had to. Magic was so much a part of his life. It was like walking around deaf in one ear and blind in one eye, constantly having to watch oneself not to slip up.

When out in the Muggle world, he usually kept his wand out of reach in his boot or in his sleeve, because his hand would automatically reach for it in the pocket on the seam of his trouser leg countless times a day.

But Snape had spied on Voldemort for years without ever slipping— Muggle university was probably nothing to that. Why do it, though? Snape was already a Potions Master, a highly educated man. Why study Muggle science? And why genetics? Maybe he would ask him someday, if the occasion presented itself. Until then, he had things to do.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to his companions, “I am off to see Mrs. Malfoy, to volunteer my services.”

“Don’t let her get all your free time! I need that fourth year Siren Charm syllabus in a week’s time, Harry,” reminded Flitwick. Siren Charms and Defence Against Magical Creatures were the two topics that needed to be ready before September first. Harry felt like a student again, with too much homework, the only difference being that now he knew better than to procrastinate, since he did not have Hermione to rely on…

Harry smiled at Flitwick. “Such a taskmaster… ”

Flitwick grinned back. “Yes, and you without Hermione Granger to copy off of… ”

Harry started laughing. “I bet I could get her to help,” he teased, looking over at Hermione, whose head was buried in a history book.

“I’m not taking that bet, as I am sure you could,” Flitwick answered, “but I am betting you won’t. I think you are enjoying the intellectual challenge, after so many years spent chasing a little golden ball… ”

“That requires a lot of thinking, I will have you know!” replied Harry, acting wounded.

“Oh, I am sure! Where did it go? Where did it go? There it is! Oh no! Where did it go? Where did it go?” teased Flitwick, acting out searching for a Snitch under his sleeve and around his back.

“Would you like to play one-on-one Seeker with me some time, Filius?” grinned Harry, enjoying the friendly banter.

“Alas! No time, my dear Harry. I’ve got syllabi to write!”

Minerva was laughing right along with them. As he left the hall, Harry thought how glad he was to be there, how good it felt to be part of Hogwarts again, and how grateful he was to Snape for pushing him to be involved. It had felt great to participate, speak his mind, and do his share.

~o~ Sexy Robe Effects, Harry ~o~

Harry’s knowledge of Siren Charms was severely tested, and he had to admit he learned more about them writing the syllabus for the fourth years than ever before.

Filius had provided him with a couple of books but Harry, taking a page from Hermione, had decided to spend a lot of time in the library, researching his topics as thoroughly as possible.

Often he would see Hagrid and Madam Pince sitting at her desk behind the counter and working furiously. They seemed to be getting along quite well, and he even heard Madam Pince laugh out loud on several occasions. She actually had a lovely laugh, and seemed to enjoy the change in her routine immensely. She never shushed Hagrid, though his booming voice sounded even louder in the usually silent library. With the students absent, she seemed much more relaxed than usual.

Harry often sat across from Hermione, who was also doing a lot of research. He felt as if he were back in time, cramming for NEWTS. Once done with the syllabus, he was rather proud of his work. He was thrilled when, at the next meeting, Filius had found nothing to correct and nothing to add.

“Very good work, Harry. Excellent research.”

“I learned research from the best. Seven years with Hermione… ”

“Through osmosis, was it?” asked Snape, almost too quietly for Harry to hear.

Harry’s hackles were immediately up, until Filius and Minerva both chuckled. He then remembered Filius’ long ago lecture on goblin humor and, though he rather thought Snape really did not think much of him as a scholar, he tried to take the remark lightly and answer in kind.

“Sadly not.” He sighed and continued in a regretful tone, “That never worked for me. Otherwise, if one considers the number of times I fell asleep with my head on your mind-numbingly dull lecture notes, I would be a Potions Master by now.”

“That would explain the drool stains on your essays,” replied Snape, without losing a beat.

“No. I’d drool remembering those sexy robe effects you favored us with while lecturing.”

When a moment passed without a proper repartee from Snape, Flitwick commented, “Point to Potter.”

“Severus speechless!” agreed Minerva. “That’s might even be worth two points!”

Snape looked up with an alarming smile. “Just working on giving him a false sense of security… ”

Harry was glad when the moment passed and things went back to business. He could not believe what he had said to Snape. Sexy robe effects. Could that be misconstrued as flirting? He had just said the first thing that came to mind, and had surprised even himself… McGonagall and Flitwick certainly didn’t seem to think anything of it. Harry put it out of his mind and concentrated on the rest of the meeting.

The second syllabus he finished, this time for Hagrid, was long and chock-full of information, but had, in a way, been much easier to write. Harry was, by his own estimation, overly familiar with the first two dark magical creatures (Dementors and Inferi) and most of the text on the third creatures (vampires) consisted of debunking the majority of nonsense that was said about them.

He had had a couple of encounters with vampires, the first one while still in school, and had found that behind the mystique they were rather disappointingly dull people, forced to follow a strange diet and bored with living.

Sanguini, with whom he had spent a little time, was a case in point. Before being turned many years ago, he had been an accountant and had developed very few interests since then beyond his obsession with Quidditch, which he could not even play.

Once again Harry felt he had done his topic justice, and Hagrid and Madam Pince seemed pleased enough with his effort.

The two most urgent syllabi out of the way, it was time for him to start working on his own topics. Wand Lore had been a fascination of his for many years, and he had remained in touch with the Olivanders, becoming good friends with Edelweiss and watching Orion grow from a precocious eight-year-old into a calm and patient young man, now in Switzerland earning a Mastery in his craft.

Harry liked Orion very much. He did not have the slightly creepy persona that made Harry uncomfortable around his grandfather. Orion and he had spent a lot of time together in Edelweiss’ kitchen while she made them fabulous dinners, in long discussions about even the most arcane areas of wand-making and wand lore.

Knowing Harry would never divulge them, Orion had shared with him many trade secrets that were completely unknown to most wizards. To outsiders, much of it remained obscure and mysterious. Intuition played such a great part in the wand-making process. How a wand chose a wizard was also an unknown.

Those who denied that it occurred were still unwilling to give up their own wands, though they might only admit to sentimental reasons. Orion had a theory that the wands also subtly influenced wizards by making certain kinds of magic easier and others more difficult, therefore predisposing them to certain choices. He was writing his thesis on the subject.

Harry easily wrote both those syllabi and sent copies of them to Orion by owl. He was pleased when they returned with only a few comments added in the margins. He made the suggested modifications and was done.

His other topic was going to be the most challenging of all. Blood Magic, because of his own personal experience, was something Harry abhorred. Yet he was going to have to learn all about it and understand every aspect of it. Once again he found himself in the library, mostly in the Restricted Section.

It had been decided that the sixth year syllabus would cover animal sacrifices, and that human sacrifices would be kept for the seventh years. Since he was in charge of the topic he had to write both, and was not looking forward to it.

He also had to check facts and review the third year syllabus, already turned in by Sinistra. She had been horrifyingly efficient, having also given Minerva the first year Cursed Object syllabus. Flitwick had accused her of trying to make them all feel like slackers and had, while she went to refill her tea cup, convinced all of them to turn in their Time Bound Curses syllabi within a week, just to get her back.

Luckily the second year syllabus in that topic, which Harry had to write, only covered coming-of-age curses, and those were fairly straightforward. It also didn’t hurt that it had been one of Hermione’s interests for a while, after a university friend’s brother had suddenly turned into a frog in the middle of his coming-of-age birthday party. He had only remained in his amphibian form until his mother and father officially changed his name to Berthus, his grandfather’s name, as promised to the old man on his deathbed. His grandmother had been outraged at his baby naming to find out he would be called Arthur instead, and had found cursing the innocent newborn an expedient way to make them hold to their word.

However, because of her wording she had cursed him as one would a full wizard, and it had not taken effect until he came of age. Since the young man had always rather disliked the name Arthur, and had subsequently retained the ability to change into a frog, becoming the first amphibian registered Animagus, there had been no lasting hard feelings. Harry was quite satisfyingly finished with that syllabus in no time at all.

After many hours of research, Harry was only reinforced in his conviction that Blood Magic was the worst of the worst. Some of his readings left him sick to his stomach, and for a few nights, images of bleeding babies haunted his dreams. But he refused to be cowed and forged on. He eventually had to approach Madam Pince, as some oft-mentioned reference texts were missing even from the Restricted Section.

“These three books are extremely rare, Mr. Potter—for the better, really. Let me check my records.” She pulled out an enormous tome, which Harry thought must be charmed as there was no way such a frail lady could have lifted it otherwise. She did not thumb through it, instead just touching its ornate front cover with her wand to get it to open to the proper pages.

“Malefice du sang. That one is in French, by the way. It is listed in the library of Malfoy Manor, but it may have been confiscated by the Ministry.” She looked at him above the rim of her reading glasses. “If that’s the case, you would have to apply for a special permit to see it, as it would be in the Unspeakables’ possession. Let me know what you find out.”

She consulted his list again. “Of the Transference of Life’s Force from Beasts to Man… A charming read, I am sure. Only five copies listed in Britain. Look at that! What a coincidence: one of them is actually in your possession, being in the Blacks’ library. You will have to check the shelves at Grimmauld Place.” She looked up at him once again. “Do be cautious, though. Don’t just Summon it using Accio. These books get insulted easily, and they can nip pretty hard, especially the old ones… ”

She tapped the cover for the third time. “Only three copies of A Life for a Life were ever known to exist, only one of those in Britain. Ah, but lucky for you, it is in the hands of your erstwhile Potions Master, now our new Headmaster. Hmm… now that I think about it, I have never known him to loan any of his books out… ” She shrugged. “Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll work it out. Good luck, Mr. Potter.”

Well, he would have to do without the first one, since he did not have a word of French beyond ‘Bonjour’, and that with a horrible accent. He would send Kreacher for the second. It would please the elf to visit his old home again. The stasis charm on the place had to be refreshed, anyway. And he would just have to convince Snape to change his lending policy. This was for a worthy cause, after all.

He approached Snape that night after dinner.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the chair Hermione had vacated just minutes previously.

“If you must,” was the caustic reply.

Harry sat. Snape ignored him, sipping his coffee, in solitude for all the attention he paid to those around him. Did he think Harry had just changed seats for the view?

“Uh… Snape?”

“Oh, must you speak as well?” he replied irritably. He put down his cup as if the coffee had been tainted by the interruption. “Very well, do get on with it, then.”

Harry thought this was not the most auspicious setting for asking a favor. Why did the man dislike him so much? He never said a word to Harry beyond a cold “Potter” in greeting, outside of the meetings. Snape did not spend a lot of time in idle chatter with anyone, but he did seem to manage to be civil to the others… Harry plunged in.

“I am working on the seventh year syllabus on Blood Magic… ”

“I should hope so.”

Harry looked up at him, disconcerted. What an irascible and unpleasant person he could be. “Madam Pince told me you are in possession of a referenced book I would like to consult.”

He had finally gotten Snape’s full attention.

“A Life for a Life?”

Harry was impressed despite himself. “Yes. It is referred to in a few texts, and… ”

Snape actually made eye contact. “You are being extremely thorough, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. Snape continued, “I read the syllabus you wrote for Flitwick. It was very good.”

Why should Harry feel insulted upon being told he had done a good job? He didn’t know, but he was anyway. “I was hoping… ”

“I do not loan my books out, Potter,” Snape started.

“But I need it if… ”

“Let me finish.” Well that was rich, considering he had interrupted Harry at every turn! Harry held his tongue with great effort.

“As I was saying, Potter, I do not loan my books out; you are, however, welcome to come and consult them in situ.”

That left Harry without much to say.

“You may come by later on this evening if you wish. Eight o’clock? My rooms?”

Did Harry imagine the amused warmth in Snape’s eyes? Was he making allusion to his note?

“For drinks?” answered Harry, feeling bold.

Snape’s lips twitched. “Don’t be early,” Snape replied.

Harry blushed despite himself. So Snape knew he had come early last time. Bother. He left the Great Hall not sure how he felt. Dealing with Snape was like tickling a sea urchin, but it always left him strangely… thrilled. How confusing.

~o~ Sexy Robe Effects, Severus ~o~

The amount of work, to prepare for the coming year, was staggering. Snape found himself busy from morning till night. He put into his work the focused single-mindedness that had made him successful in every other endeavor in his life.

His work with Narcissa was utterly satisfying. He had been encouraged by the enthusiastic response of the staff and other qualified volunteers for the project. Already it was bearing fruit. Some of the pioneering adult students were showing amazing progress. They took nothing for granted and worked with a fervor rarely shown by the children.

Arabella Figg had taken to Transfiguration like a fish to water, and had turned out to be an Animagus. She had hopelessly studied the subject for years, certain she must have been a cat in a previous life. She had already known so much about it that learning to make the change had been incredibly easy (that she turned into a cat was only what she had expected). She and Minerva were spending a lot of time together, some of it on the roofs.

Filch, who wanted to remain on at Hogwarts, was very good at Household Charms. The castle was in its best state ever, suits of armors gleaming, windows sparkling, and many of the annoying drafts sealed for good. This winter would be quite comfortable, comparatively. Filch had also completely refurbished Myrtle’s bathroom. She was thrilled.

Potter had organized a hodge-podge Quidditch team with some interested students. You could hardly get them off the pitch. It was a pleasure watching them, and reminded Severus how thrilling flying could be.

A short little witch from Aberdeen showed amazing gifts in Divination, which Severus had always been quite sure was nothing but hogwash. He was certain she would eventually make a fortune, counseling witches on their love lives and finding misplaced objects. (He suspected she was also a natural Legilimens, and made sure never to make eye contact with her.)

The syllabi for Defence Against the Dark Arts were coming along quite well. He had read most of the finished products, and was surprised when the one that impressed him most had come from Potter. He would have suspected him of getting help from Granger, had he not known her to be fully absorbed in History of Magic.

The thrill of Potter’s presence had not abated. He was… entrancing. His engaging grin—though never directed at Snape—his walk, his laugh, his able hands, his green eyes, that scar behind his ear… Severus shivered. Watching Potter on a broom always left him a little… breathless. Harry seemed to have finally learned to control his temper, and developed a sense of humor. He particularly seemed to enjoy joking around with Flitwick.

Snape sat back in the ornate and comfortable chair behind the Headmaster’s desk. He thought back to his own banter with Potter, only that morning. He had been unable to restrain himself from needling him, even though he had done it hardly loud enough to be heard. He had immediately regretted it, as it seemed Potter was going to take it the wrong way. But Potter had rallied.

His first retort about the mind-numbingly dull lectures had been a pleasant surprise, but his next one had left Snape totally speechless. Point to Potter, indeed. ‘Sexy robe effects’. Thank Merlin Snape never blushed. Though he knew full well Potter had been joking, he had not been able to quell the surge of arousal at having Potter describe him as ‘sexy’.

He was a fool, but could not help replaying the moment in his mind. Why did he torture himself with his infatuation (ha!) with a straight man?

A couple of days later, Potter surprised him by joining him at the dinner table after Granger had left. Since Snape had been vividly remembering Potter coming back from the pitch with his team that morning, attractively windblown, the man’s sudden appearance next to him had been a little… unsettling.

Then Severus had caught Harry’s scent, which had made its way directly to his groin. My god, but the man smelled good. He had a brief flash of burying his face in Potter’s neck to breathe him in, his trousers getting a little tighter than completely comfortable, when Harry had interrupted his thoughts again. Something about the Blood Magic syllabi. He had gotten hold of himself, finally.

Potter wanted to consult A Life for a Life? He was really serious about his work. Snape was impressed he had even found out that book existed.

He found himself interrupting Potter constantly, just to see the muscle clench along his jaw line in annoyance.

That he was that dedicated to his task was a very pleasant surprise. Though Severus was the one who had pushed him to join the effort, believing him to be perfectly capable, Potter’s performance was well above his expectations.

He could not help wanting to get to know Harry better, and therefore was pleased at the excuse this afforded him to spend some time in his company. There was more to the young man than his (undeniable) sex appeal.

Snape was pleased Harry had caught the reference to the note immediately, but he had to watch himself. With his own feelings coloring every aspect of his interactions with Potter, it would be easy to misconstrue Harry’s quick retorts as flirting. That the man was desperately straight, and out of bounds, was to stay foremost in Snape’s consciousness at all times. But dear god, that scent…

~o~ Sharing His Passion, Harry ~o~

After reaching his quarters, Harry checked the time. He had just enough for a quick shower before heading to the dungeons, and took advantage of his softened stubble to shave quickly as well.

He pulled on his favorite jeans and a white t-shirt, and after a moment also grabbed the sweatshirt that was lying on the back of the couch. He had only put it on for a few minutes after practice that morning so it was clean enough, and the dungeons corridors were always so cold.

He assembled his notes for the seventh year syllabus. He had already rewritten his rough draft into an almost satisfactory finished product, but really felt he ought to read A Life for a Life before considering his research complete. He also took a couple other books with him that he might have to refer to, and plenty of writing material.

This time he tripped the wards exactly at eight.

“Come in, Potter.”

Harry entered. After the chill of the corridors, the room felt pleasantly warm. Snape was reading comfortably in a chair by the fire, a teacup balanced on the arm. He was barefoot, which for some reason made Harry feel like a voyeur.

“There’s tea on the sideboard, if you are interested,” said Snape, not even lifting his eyes from his book. Harry noticed a leather-bound book on the side table next to a chair matching Snape’s. He put his materials down next to it and went to get himself a cuppa.

He was glad to recognize the fragrance of Snape’s special blend. The stuff was almost addictive. He filled his cup and raised it to take a sip, breathing in the sweet scented steam. It really was very good. As he turned back, he realized Snape had stopped reading and was observing him.

“I like your tea,” he felt compelled to say.

“Hmm… ” and Snape was back to his book.

Harry sat down and soon was engrossed in his reading. He stopped once in a while to jot down a quick note. The rituals and spells described in this book were revolting, but no less so than their aim.

Apparently Voldemort’s obsession with immortality was not unique, and was only surpassed by the obsessive desire of some to retain youth and beauty. The creation of Horcruxes was explained in detail, as well as the ritual sacrifice of children to allow beautiful witches to remain so well beyond their time.

It was a compendium of horrors. Harry could see the flaws in many of the described spells that would render them almost useless. They ignored the importance of innocence and joy in the beauty of children, two feelings anyone thinking to use these spells would be incapable of. They also ignored the importance of love, friendship, and compassion, which made a long life worth living.

Harry looked up from his page to find Snape staring at him.

“Not a pleasant read, is it?” he inquired.

“That’s an understatement,” answered Harry. “I just hope that some of this is theoretical, and was never actually put to the test… ”

“Thankfully, I think you are right,” answered Snape. “I believe the author was imaginative, as well as criminally insane. Not to say that some fools did not actually think of trying some of this. Thank Merlin it is not so easy to put one’s hands on a ‘fair-faced set of identical twins’ without raising a certain of amount of suspicion.”

“Well, we do know only too well some of them are real, and have been tried. Horcruxes do exist,” sighed Harry. He put the book down. He had had enough. There was no end to the depravity of man, and it was time for him to balance his last few days of research with some kind of reminder that there was no end to man’s loving kindness or selflessness either.

“I feel a sudden urge to go hug Hermione’s kids,” he said to lighten the mood, only halfway joking.

Snape nodded understandingly. “How about a game of chess, instead,” he offered. “I am afraid it is past the children’s bedtime.”

The mantel clock showed it was well past ten. Harry did not feel tired, but neither did he feel like chess.

“I am pants at chess,” he replied honestly. “I don’t even like the game, however unsophisticated of me that may be.”

Snape actually chuckled at that. “Now that you have admitted it, I guess I will as well. I do not like chess either. I just could not think of another distraction suitable to the situation, and you look in need of a break.”

Harry knew exactly what he needed. Snape seemed approachable tonight. Should he dare? “Would you join me in a night flight?” he asked, almost certain he was going to be turned down.

Snape gave him the strangest look before replying, “You enjoy flying above all else, don’t you?”

Harry shrugged. He wondered if Snape had meant that in a good or a bad way. “I love it,” he answered. That was the truth. Snape could think what he wanted.

“Then, by all means.”

“Really!” Oh, no! He sounded like an eager six-year-old again. Up came the eyebrow.

“Really,” answered Snape. He stood up. “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

“Brilliant!” said Harry, already at the door. “I’ll get the brooms and meet you on the front steps.”

Running the stairs, Harry wondered why he was so excited. He had never thought Snape flew for fun. And this was something Harry was good at, really good at. Snape was better at everything else, for sure, but in the air, Harry was the best. Why that should matter, he didn’t know.

Back at his rooms, he grabbed his scarf, his fur-lined jacket, his gloves, and two Silver Arrows: the latest one and the Special Edition from a few years back. It was a very forgiving ride, though still high performance. Harry had no idea how often Snape flew.

He stopped in his tracks. Snape probably had his own broom. Oh, well, he would bring both anyway. If Snape had his own, he could shrink one and put it in his pocket. Down again he went.

~o~ Sharing His Passion, Severus ~o~

Snape walked back to his room after dinner, trying hard to think of something else besides Harry’s upcoming visit to consult his book, which of course made it impossible. How could it be that, even nearing the age of fifty, he could feel such unadulterated emotion for that man? He ought to be jaded and cynical by now, or at least reasonable. But he was not.

His analytical mind surveyed his symptoms. His heartbeat was elevated, as was his breathing rate. His blood pressure would probably be slightly increased, and his pupils dilated. His palms were moist. A textbook case of excited anticipation, hormonally driven, but nonetheless directly linked to his state of mind.

Off the top of his head, he could think of … seven, no, eight potions that could alleviate the physical symptoms and return his peace of mind. But the truth of the matter was that he liked the way Potter made him feel. He liked it and only wanted more. However, it would not do to act upon that feeling. It would, after all, be neither welcomed nor returned.

Entering his sitting room, he decided to carry on with his routine exactly as usual, as if this evening were any other. He went to his bedroom and got rid of his robes, his high-neck waistcoat, his shoes and socks, just as he did every night.

He went back to his living area, lit a fire and made some tea. Well, he did have to set out a second cup, did he not? He would if Minerva or Hagrid were coming to call.

He took his usual seat, picked up his reading material… and sat there, not reading a word, in breathless anticipation. He would not check the clock. He would not. It was twelve minutes till. Oh, for Merlin’s sake!

He put down his reading and went to the bookshelves lining his walls. A Life for a Life by Simeon Selwyn, a black leather cover, he recalled, about an inch and a half thick. There it was. He put it on the side table he placed next to the chair across from his own, and sat back down.

Four minutes till. He cursed his speeding heart and picked up his book again, staring at it a full minute before noticing it was upside down. He actually laughed out loud. He was pathetic. Getting hold of himself he read a few sentences, and almost jumped out of his skin when the wards were tripped and Potter’s knock came.

“Come in, Potter.” The intonation was perfect, cool and indifferent, and he used it again to offer him tea, keeping his eyes incongruously glued to the word ‘cerulean’ the entire time. He only looked up when Potter turned his back to him to go to the sideboard.

Perfect. Potter was perfect. The perfect arse, in the perfect jeans, the perfect v shape of his back, the perfect wrist out of the sleeve of the sweatshirt, and that damn scar in the dark hair above his ear.

Harry turned back slightly as he took his first sip, after inhaling the fragrance of the tea… and caught him staring. Thanks to seven years of Snape’s intimidation tactics, however, he was too unnerved to wonder why, and just tried to hide his discomfort with a comment about the tea.

“Hmm… ” was Snape’s answered. As in: whatever you say, I couldn’t care less, I am absorbed in my important reading. He could almost believe it himself.

Potter sat down and—demonstrating a power of concentration Snape would have not credited him with outside of the Quidditch pitch—proceeded to read, take notes, and otherwise work for the next two and a half hours without a break. Though Snape’s head was bent to his book, his eyes never left him.

A Life for a Life was not light reading. Occasionally Potter’s jaw would clench. He was freshly shaven, and the line of his jaw was perfect. Once or twice he closed his eyes briefly, obviously unsettled by the material, but read on. He jotted down notes once in a while. Snape loved the way he held the book in one hand and turned the pages with the other.

At some point, probably warmed from the fire and the tea, he stripped off his sweatshirt, momentarily pulling up his untucked t-shirt, showing a washboard stomach and a tantalizing treasure trail that widened before disappearing into his trousers. Even that did not break Harry’s concentration; he went right back to work.

As for Severus, if there had been any chance he would get anything done, it was gone now… He just sat there drinking in the sight, memorizing the curve of the ear, the play of muscle on the forearm, the perfect teeth chewing on his lower lip.

Harry, keeping his finger on a particular passage, flipped pages back and checked something in Cardigen’s Common Errors and Flaws in Spell Casting (a tome, Snape was impressed to see, Harry used like an old friend), and looked grimly satisfied. Seeming to finally sense Snape’s stare, he looked up.

“Not a pleasant read, is it?” Snape inquired.

“That’s an understatement,” answered Harry. “I just hope that some of this is theoretical, and was never actually put to the test… ”

“Thankfully, I think you are right,” answered Snape. “I believe the author was imaginative, as well as criminally insane. Not to say that some fools did not actually think of trying some of this. Thank Merlin it is not so easy to put one’s hands on a ‘fair-faced set of identical twins’ without raising a certain of amount of suspicion.”

“Well, we do know only too well some of them are real, and have been tried. Horcruxes do exist.”

Harry’s comments about the book were insightful. His expressed desire to hug his friend and her children was so healthy, so sane, after such reading. Snape loved him for it.

It was clear Potter was done for the night, but Severus did not want him to go. He disliked chess, but offered a game anyway, repeating stupidly in his head, “Say yes, say yes, say yes… ”

“I am pants at chess. I don’t even like the game, however unsophisticated of me that may be.”

Well, there was one thing they had in common.

“Now that you have admitted it, I guess I will as well. I don’t like chess either.” Potter’s honesty warmed him. Considering the many times Snape had taken advantage of any and all of his weaknesses, it was amazingly courageous of him to expose vulnerability. “I just couldn’t think of another distraction suitable to the situation (ha!), and you look in need of a break.”

In the same situation, needing a break, Snape would have wanted to brew. For him, that was pure joy. Though he was quite sure brewing was not on top of Harry’s list, he would actually love to do it alongside Potter. There would be something very intimate in sharing with him what he loved best. Inconceivable, of course.

He noticed that Potter seemed hesitant, and then looked almost shy.

“Would you join me in a night flight?”

Snape’s heart began to pound. The parallel was too achingly sweet.

“You enjoy flying above anything else, don’t you?” he asked gently, keeping the emotion out of his voice.

A shrug. “I love it.”

And I love you. My god, would there ever be a chance to say these words? Flying was not on top of his list, but just in case it would mean a fraction to Harry of what brewing with him would mean to Snape, there was only one possible answer.

“Then, by all means.”

“Really!” Again the pounding heart. It did, it did mean something to him. He had sounded like an eager child (which, even at this moment, Snape could not simply let pass unnoticed). He raised an eyebrow, but softened it by repeating, “Really.”

He stood up, wondering if he could even find his flight jacket. “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

“Brilliant!” said Harry, already at the door. “I’ll get the brooms and meet you on the front steps.”

Harry sounded excited. Did it mean anything, anything at all? God, but he was pathetic. Harry was STRAIGHT. Snape had to get hold of himself. And find that bloody jacket. Potter had not even asked him if he had a broom, assuming, rightly, that he did not. Snape just had to hope Potter would be wise enough not to loan him a high-strung, performance-enhanced ride or Hogwarts might be short a Headmaster.

He had flown without a broom once, and the memory of it made him shudder. A neat trick Voldemort had taught him, and one of the darkest spells he had ever used. Never again. He’d rather die.

Ah, there was his fur-lined jacket. He despised the short robes some people wore as unpractical and ostentatious, though they certainly looked fine on Petr. He hadn’t thought of Petr in days. He did not want to think of Petr, certainly not now. He stepped out of his bedroom.

Harry’s sweatshirt was on the back of his chair. He would bring it up to him. He grabbed it and, after only a moment of hesitation, brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. For a while, he stood there pathetically, his head buried in the shirt, breathing in the man he loved.

~o~ Life is Good ~o~

Night flying was always special. Once your eyes had become adjusted, you could actually see pretty well, especially on a cloudless night like this one.

Snape did not look bad on a broom. Harry was glad he had brought the Special Edition for him. On top of being a reliable ride, it suited Snape’s lanky frame. Snape’s flying equipment was perfectly fine. His jacket was similar to Harry’s, as were his boots. He did not have a scarf, but had slipped on a turtleneck. His gloves were just regular winter leather ones, impractical to catch a Snitch but perfectly adequate to keep one’s hands warm.

They flew effortlessly in the quiet night, quite fast (Snape had never been short on magical power). It was peaceful, soothing, strangely comfortable. Harry could not fathom why it would be so satisfying to ride side by side with Snape, but it was.

At some point Snape let go of the broom, straightening himself up. Spreading his arms like wings, he embraced the night, a move decidedly not for the faint of heart. Harry followed suit, filling his lungs with the night air, exhilarated by the feeling of freedom. He heard Snape laugh as they both grabbed their broom handles again. It made him incredibly glad to have suggested the flight.

 

Artwork by Veridari

They did not stay out very long, turning back towards Hogwarts at the same time, neither one of them questioning their wordless communication. They spot-landed on the front porch, Snape taking no more than a step or two, nothing to be ashamed of. They got off the brooms and walked inside. Snape made to hand his broom back. Harry realized he did not want it back. He wanted Snape to have it. Without thinking, he said, “No, you keep it, it suits you.”

Snape looked shocked. “I could not. I am sure it is worth a fortune. I had never flown such a broom.” But he did look at it longingly.

“It’s only a loan. So you can practice for our next flight.”

Snape’s eyes met his. Dark as they were, tonight they were luminous, warm, soft. Harry could not look away. He wanted to read what they held; it seemed important. The moment passed as Snape answered lightly, “I am not sure it will see much use, but thank you. I had forgotten how wonderful flying is.”

They were about to each head their separate ways, when Harry remembered something. “Snape, I left my sweatshirt at your place.”

For some reason Harry could not fathom, Snape looked away. “Did you? I’ll bring it up at breakfast, shall I?”

That was perfectly logical, so Harry had no idea why he answered, “Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll just come pick it up tomorrow.”

Snape looked surprised, but not put out. “I’ll be out all day. After dinner?”

Why should that suggestion please Harry so much? “Eight o’clock, your rooms?”

“I’ll make tea,” answered Snape, lips twitching.

They parted for the night. Harry found himself whistling as he climbed his stairs, broom in hand. Life was good.

~o~ A Hopeless Fight ~o~

Snape lay in bed for a long time without even trying to sleep. His heart was filled with Harry, his mind with warnings. It felt so right, and was so wrong.

His intellect was telling him to stop, stop deluding himself, stop the foolish hope, stop the quiet tumbling of his defenses. When reality reasserted itself, when this mirage evaporated, it would hurt, and hurt badly. If he let himself fall much farther, he might not ever be able to recover.

But his imprudent heart wanted none of this, and as usual when it came to Potter, his heart was winning. Following his heart, he had left behind a life, a career, a lover, to return to Hogwarts. He had done all this for the sake of seeing Potter, of being, however peripherally, part of his life again. Now, he was recklessly involving himself deeper and deeper in Harry’s life, and in direct contradiction to the adage, familiarity did not breed contempt. The exact opposite was true…

No matter how he berated himself, he could not help but find encouragement in every look, double meaning in every action and word. The longer it took for the other shoe to drop, the easier it was to believe that it never might.

Why had Potter turned down his offer to bring up the shirt at breakfast? It was the most logical thing to do. And again, the not so subtle reference to the note, like a running joke with slightly ambiguous overtones…

Stop. Stop! It means nothing. There is nothing. Just let it go!

But that searching look, earlier, after the easy assumption that there would be another flight. “Our next flight…” Snape had wanted to kiss him, kiss that lovely mouth, bite that soft lower lip, so badly he had bitten the inside of own his cheek instead. What had that look meant? Something, he was sure of it. Snape had wanted so badly to use Legilimency—the ultimate bad idea, obviously, but he so wanted to know, to understand…

There was nothing to understand. Potter was just a… kind and… friendly man. He was just being himself. Concerned, thoughtful. A bloody Gryffindor, through and through. You loan me a book, I loan you a broom. Tomorrow was Wednesday. Ron Weasley would be visiting his wife. Potter, wanting to give them privacy, had a free night. It meant NOTHING.

Snape got up and went to his potion cabinet. He took a sip of Dreamless Sleep and came back to bed. What he needed was rest. Not fruitless thinking. He yawned, closed his eyes, and slept.

He awoke the next morning, his schedule for the day running through his mind. Rest had done him good. He and Granger had a visit to an incoming Muggle-born student today. There were seven of them entering Hogwarts this year, a high number.

Minerva and Vector had done two, Lucius and Narcissa another two, Hermione and he would do the last three. She had done some the previous year and, being Muggle-born herself, could really have handled it alone, but Minerva had instituted the policy of going in pairs and everyone seemed to agree it was better that way.

That would take care of the morning. He would teach two hours of Basic Potion Making to the adult students after lunch, and then had to finish the last two outlines for Antivenin and Antidotes syllabi for Minerva and Flitwick to rework.

At five he was meeting with a Cassandra Batgut, who would be the first Auror to rotate though DADA this year. Shacklebolt liked her and thought she would be perfect to help iron out the kinks in the new system. She would be teaching Creatures, of course, which was a student favorite, and a good one to begin the year.

It would be full day.

He rose, showered, putting a Muggle suit on beneath his robes for the visit. As he headed out to breakfast, he saw Potter’s sweatshirt on the back of the couch. He had NOT taken it to his room. That would have been just… wrong. He almost grabbed it to bring it up now. Almost.

He met no one in the corridors and arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast second, after Hagrid. He sat next to him, disregarding the usual seating, and had a pleasant meal talking of this and that. Hagrid was one of his oldest and dearest friends, really, and sharper than most. He was taking Hugo Weasley to visit a hippogriff’s nest that morning. The poor beast had to lie on its egg for seven weeks and could use the company.

Since Snape was sitting in Flitwick’s chair, Flitwick took his, and had a great time doing a startlingly good Snape impression as he greeted the latecomers.

“Granger. Looking forward to the marital visit, I trust?” Hermione wiggled her eyebrows at him comically, and stole his newspaper.

“Minerva. Having a rather late start this morning, I see. Out chasing mice half the night with Arabella Figg again?”

Minerva gave him a smile and pulled a dead white mouse out of her pocket. She had evidently just Transfigured her handkerchief, since it had her initials monogrammed on its flank.

“Don’t be jealous, I brought you one,” she said, waving it under his nose.

Snape had to laugh at Flitwick’s raised eyebrow and disdainful sneer.

“White mice are useless for potions making. I would hope an educated woman such as you would know that, Minerva.”

They were all still chuckling when Harry made his entrance.

“Potter. Late again. Twenty points from Gryffindor. Sit down.”

Harry bent to Flitwick and responded in a stage whisper, “No, Filius, only fifteen. He likes me now…”

Everyone laughed again, and after splitting Flitwick’s paper with Hermione, Potter sat down. He immediately looked up, met Snape’s eyes across the table, and smiled at him, a warm and spontaneous smile. All of Severus’ carefully restored defenses were swept away in a reckless surge of hope.

~o~ Late for What?~o~

Harry’s day was busy. He spent the first four hours of it teaching flying to nervous first-time adult students, the latest wave in Narcissa’s program. She had instituted a six-week intensive magical training, with ten new attendees arriving every Monday.

They slept in the east wing in individual rooms, and took their meals together in a large refurbished classroom. Their enthusiasm was unbelievable, and they worked tirelessly. Being around them was the greatest morale booster Harry had ever known.

It made him realize just how lucky he was, what a wondrous gift he had, and how fantastic the Wizarding world was. Some Squibs had lived completely in the Muggle world for years, only keeping in touch with their families, if even that.

The Ministry was tracking them down, though it was not always easy. But no matter how long they had been away and what life they had on the outside, every single one of them was coming back, even if temporarily, to learn to use their newly revealed gift.

They were generally quite intimidated by broom riding. After the first try, however, most couldn’t get enough, and a lot of them wanted to try Quidditch. It was incredibly fun. Harry’s only holdout was Arabella Figg. She was a cat Animagus, she could transfigure a shoe into a lovely bone china tea set, but she would not get on a broom. Too old, she said. As if, thought Harry. He even tried to get Minerva to sway her, to no avail.

After lunch, he finished both his Blood Magic syllabi and started reviewing Sinistra’s. It was quite good, though he was so sick of the subject he could not finish it.

He moved on to the outline Snape had given him (as well as an impressive pile of quoted reference books) for him to complete the third year Antidotes and Antivenin syllabus. He expected to hate doing it, but to his surprise was soon quite fascinated and found himself reading much more of the provided references than necessary. He remembered Ginny mentioning, when she was helping Malfoy and Snape reorganize the potions stores right after the Battle of Hogwarts, that she had come across a book on antivenin Snape had written, and was now most curious to see it.

He had never realized the importance of the brewer in the brewing. If he thought about it, it made sense to him that a potion brewed by a more powerful wizard would be more potent, but he had never known of the importance of intent in brewing.

Just as the Unforgivables had to be meant, certain poisons had to be brewed with the actual intent to kill. Their antidotes, in the same way, had to be brewed with the intent to save, and were much more potent if brewed for a specific individual by a loved one, or at least by one who wished them well.

Snape had brewed poisons for Voldemort, Harry knew. How much of his soul had that man left behind in the war? How had he survived those years? And what did it say about him that he had spent many years afterward creating a potion that was giving new meaning to the lives of so many?

Harry started to write. Snape’s notes were so organized, his outline so complete, that it was actually very easy. He realized he had learned more on the actual subject matter doing this task than he had in his entire life previously, and was surprised to find he really wanted to read the other six syllabi.

Could he ask Snape, or would that be too weird? He did not want Snape to think he was… kissing up or something. After all, when had he ever shown an interest in Potions, outside of what was needed to pass his exams?

Well, there had been the Prince, of course. And Snape and his mother’s Potions journal, as well. He had read that book cover to cover many times. But hadn’t that been a way to feel connected to her, more than an interest in the subject matter? Of course, she had only worked on about a fifth of it, and he had always read the entire thing. Maybe he liked Potions more than he had thought…

He marveled for a moment at the elegance of a complex sketch Snape had drawn to illustrate a point. Harry hated to reproduce it, knowing his would not be half as good. Could he somehow transfer it, without removing the original?

Hermione would probably know, but for some reason he did not want to ask her. He should be able to figure this out for himself. He put his quill down and decided to look it up in the library, when he was shocked to realize he was almost missing dinner. As soon as he noticed the time, his stomach gave a loud growl. He was starving.

He arrived at the dinner table just in time for the main course. He was glad to see that Ron and Hermione had not given up on him, but had saved him his usual Wednesday night spot between the children.

When Ron asked him why he was late, he told them he had been doing research. Ron thought he was kidding, but Hermione knew better. She was very intrigued by this new facet of Harry’s personality. (She also wished wistfully he had shown it while they were still in school.)

It was so good to see Ron. The three of them got to spend so little time together these days, with Ron’s job and Hermione and the kids taking priority. Harry felt a little guilty realizing, when they made to include him in their after-dinner plans, that he would have to disappoint them.

He had not thought about Ron at all the night before. Though his visits were usually a highlight in his week, Harry did not even consider giving up his own plans. He just said lamely that he was in the middle of something urgent.

“Harry, are you not finished with Flitwick’s syllabus yet?” scowled Hermione.

“You know how it goes,” was his noncommittal response. Ron had no problem believing in Harry’s procrastination, and there were no more questions.

Ron and he played outside with the children until the sun went down, and then Harry made his excuses. He went home and automatically started undressing for a shower.

Why did he feel the need to shower before going down to the dungeons? He had showered before lunch and done nothing strenuous in the afternoon. The hot water did feel good, though. He shaved as well, and brushed and flossed for good measure. After all, he never sweetened Snape’s tea so it would save him doing it before bed…

He was acting so weird. He dried himself off and started getting dressed. He had already worn his jeans yesterday. He opened his closet and stopped to think. What was he doing? What did he care if Snape saw him in the same jeans two days in a row?

He slipped on his jeans and grabbed the t-shirt at the top of the pile. After all, who cared what he wore to Snape’s? (It just so happened that the top t-shirt had been a green one, the one that matched his eyes…)

He left at twenty to eight, then stopped half way down the tower. For his first visit, he had been summoned. The second time, he had gone to consult a book. What was he going there for today? Would he just grab his sweatshirt and leave? That would make the shower REALLY pointless.

Snape had said he would make tea. But what were they going to do? Sit down and chat? He ran back up and grabbed Sinistra’s syllabus, for something to do. He hesitated. That would be weird too: was he going to sit there and read? What if Snape had been joking about the tea and said that just to complete the reference to his note? What if Snape just opened his door, handed Harry his sweatshirt, and said goodnight? That would suck.

No, if he were going to do that, he would have brought it at breakfast. He checked the time. Shit, it was six minutes till. Harry was going to be late. He started down the steps at top speed. Late for what?

~o~ Wow ~o~

“Come in, Potter.” Harry felt the wards like a tingle on his skin as he passed through the doorway. “You’re late. Fifteen points from Gryffindor. After all,” Snape looked up with a twitch in his lips, “I like you now…”

Harry was so relieved he actually laughed. Why had he been so anxious? He suddenly felt very comfortable there, in Snape’s room. He noticed the tea tray on the sideboard.

“Will you bring me a cup as well?” asked Snape.

Harry dropped Sinistra’s syllabus on the occasional table next to the chair he had occupied the night before and went to the sideboard to pour out two cups. Since Snape had resumed his reading, Harry carefully balanced Snape’s cup on the arm of his chair and sat down. He savoured his first sip, looking into the fire.

“Did you meet Narcissa’s new group yet?” asked Snape. He had put down his book and picked up his cup.

“Yes, I met them this morning, brooms in hand. A nice group of people, I think.”

“How did you like the fellow from Coventry?”

Harry had to laugh, as he knew exactly whom Snape was referring to. “I think he might be the long-lost brother of Mundungus Fletcher,” he replied.

“Twins separated at birth, methinks. Did you count the brooms before putting them away?”

Harry laughed again. “Not this time. They haven’t learned the Shrinking Charm yet…”

“He brewed a fine Pepper-up, though. They all did. It is quite amazing, really. It was only their third lesson.”

“Could it be that you are not terrifying them to death as you teach them?” teased Harry.

“Possibly,” puzzled Snape. Then in mock horror: “Could I be losing my touch?”

Harry laughed hard, and sobering himself up, he answered, “Never.”

Somehow, that sounded as if it meant something entirely different than he had intended, and for reasons he could not understand he felt himself blushing. He drank some tea to hide his awkwardness. If Snape noticed, he did not let on.

“The tall young woman, Joanna Silver, is it? She would make a fine Beater, I should think…”

The woman was indeed very athletic, and had confessed to Harry she was itching to try Quidditch. She was only twenty-two and lived in Prink the Waddle, a small Wizarding village in the Cotswolds. Her younger brothers were both still at school, Daniel in third year and Jake in sixth, both in Hufflepuff. Jake played Beater. A shame Snape’s potion had not come ten years earlier, in her case, though she was anything but bitter. Overjoyed was more like it.

“It’s amazing, you know, what you’ve done for these people,” said Harry, realizing too late he had stated the obvious.

But Snape only answered seriously, “It is, is it not. It is an amazingly rewarding feeling to see them love their magic. It was present all along, just waiting to be uncovered.”

He looked at Harry with a smirk. “Just like your ability to write a decent paper, it would seem.”

“Or yours to be charming. Oh, no, wait. That’s still in hiding…”

Snape snorted. They drank their tea in comfortable and quiet companionship for a few minutes. Snape sighed. “However much I enjoyed our little chat,” he said, “I do need to get some work done tonight.”

Harry was crestfallen. He did not want to go. He tried to contain his disappointment and, picking up his empty teacup, got up to leave.

“Refill mine as well, will you?”

Confused, Harry looked at Snape who, book already in hand, was distractedly handing him his cup.

Harry took it, giddy with relief. Snape did not mean for him to go, just to start working again. He went to the sideboard, carrying both cups to the tea tray. He was so… glad. Glad? That he would get to sit there, drinking tea, editing a syllabus on a topic he despised, in the company of a man he used to hate? Hmm… Well, he couldn’t think of a single place in the world he would rather be.

He turned back, holding two full and steaming cups. Snape was absorbed in his reading, his book in one hand, the thumb of the other caressing his lips between turning pages. One naked ankle rested on the other knee, the toes of the foot on the floor kneading the thick rug. His long sleeves were rolled up on his elegant wrists, his shirt collar open, the light of the fire playing on his stark features.

Harry almost dropped the cups with shock when he felt his cock start to stiffen. He went to put down Snape’s cup on its precarious perch and sat back down, rather less comfortably than before.

Wow.

He stared into the fire. Things began to ease up in his pants, and he was able to cross his legs and relax a little. He stared at the fire some more. Wow… He deliberately put down his cup on the side table and picked up the syllabus. (Wow.) He took a deep breath and began to read.

The next hour passed in complete silence, both men deeply absorbed in their reading. Above the desk, Dumbledore’s portrait was smiling benignly, his eyes twinkling.

“This can’t be right,” said Harry, suddenly.

Snape looked up.

“You can’t break a Blood Oath of Silence by just finding the true name of the oath holder and doing an unbinding incantation, can you? You would need more blood spilt, by both parties, wouldn’t you?” Harry looked at Snape. “You wouldn’t happen to have Grassfoot’s On Oaths and Promises by any chance?”

“I do.” Snape got up, and walked to a bookshelf on the east wall. He stood there for a moment and then reached up for a slim volume, bringing it back to Harry.

“There.” Snape sat back down and Harry felt his eyes as he was flipping through the pages. He had just read about this in this very book the day before yesterday, sitting in the library across from Hermione. He was sure there was something more.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake, why did these old books never have indexes? Did people have time to reread everything, every time, in the olden days? He seemed to remember it was towards the end. Ah. The Blood Oaths. Breaking the Blood Oath. Oath of Fealty, Oath of Bonding, Oath of Obedience, Oath of Silence. Finally.

He scanned the passage. True name… incantation… Aha! ‘A concoction of the melded bloods.’ He’d been right!

“You need a potion,” stated Snape matter-of-factly. “Not a true concoction; it is used loosely in this text, as it was a lot in that period. It’s an admixture, really. It has to be drunk by both parties, and will kill the oath holder if he has not renounced his right aloud to a witness.”

Harry looked at him, not sure whether be awed or annoyed. “And you did not tell me this right away instead of watching me search, because…?”

“Sorry,” Snape said. “Once a teacher, always a teacher, I guess. You will retain it better for having found it again yourself.” He shrugged apologetically.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” asked Harry rhetorically, stretching and running his hands over his shorn head.

“No,” deadpanned Snape.

Harry smiled at him. “You know, I’d almost believe that?”

“How foolish of you, Potter.”

“Always, it seems, where you are concerned.” Harry realised his answer could be interpreted in many ways, but since they were all true, he did not change it.

He liked the way Snape was looking at him and saying nothing, though it ought to have felt uncomfortable. He was confused about the subtext of their entire evening, but not bothered. Somehow this felt right, and he did not like questioning it. He did need to correct Sinistra’s omission, though.

“Do you mind if I use one of your quills for a moment?” he asked, gesturing toward Snape’s desk.

“No.” Harry must have looked as unsure as to what that answer meant, since Snape clarified, speaking slowly and over-enunciating: “No, I do not mind in the least. Please, go right ahead, Mr. Potter.” Harry smiled. When had he begun to appreciate Snape’s mockery? Probably when he had started recognizing it for what it was.

He went to the desk and bent down to reach for the quill in its holder. He dipped it in the inkwell, and quickly added his correction—belatedly realizing the ink was red. He straightened out and turned with a grin, holding out the quill.

“Oh, my god! Is this THE quill?”

“The very same, Potter. It has never left this desk. Alas, it has not seen any use in many years…”

“I should burn it,” said Harry, looking down at it. “Or exorcise it, or something. This thing has the power to maim.”

“Only the over-inflated egos of underachieving students, I assure you, and only when wielded with the proper venom,” answered Snape. He sat back in his chair and added wistfully, “I take full responsibility for any harm it may have caused. I may not always have been cognizant of the consequences of its vitriol.”

Harry came back to sit. “Why?” he asked. “Why were you so…”

“Evil?”

“I was going to say unsympathetic.”

Snape shook his head. “Unsympathetic is a little mild. Evil may be a little strong. Spiteful? Malicious? Cruel?”

“Take your pick,” answered Harry. “Why?”

Snape was silent for a moment, looking almost sad. “Because I could. Because I am not a very nice man, and felt no need to hide it.” He looked up at Potter. “There was a time in my life when I did not much value human interaction. Very few things mattered, and my students’ feelings were definitely not among them. By nature, I am a vindictive, cruel person. At that time I was also bitter, unhappy, and under a great deal of stress.” He looked up, and with his unsettling smile added, “And it amused me.”

“You’ve changed,” concluded Harry.

“Not at all,” answered Snape, in all seriousness. “My priorities have. Do not let the tea and company fool you, Potter.”

It sounded like a warning, a challenge. Harry looked at him. “I am not afraid.” He smiled. “You like me now.”

He meant it only half in jest. Snape’s eyes did not leave his. “That I do, Mr. Potter. That I do.”

The sudden warmth Harry felt was unnerving, yet welcome at the same time. It was immediately doused when Snape added, “You are a great addition to our staff.”

Oh. Right.

Harry was a qualified teacher, a dedicated coach, a decent syllabus writer. What’s not to like? He took a somewhat shaky breath. Well, it was definitely time to go. “I should be going. It’s getting late.”

It was not yet ten, but Snape did not comment.

“Good night, then,” Harry continued.

“Good night, Potter.” Snape did not get up to walk him to the door, but picked up his book again.

Harry felt suddenly chilled, as if in anticipation of the drafty corridor. He grabbed the sweatshirt from the back of the chair and made his own way out. He stood outside the door feeling terribly alone, suddenly.

Snape’s last comment had cut him to the quick. Why? It had been a compliment, hadn’t it? “You are a great addition to our staff.” Harry’s throat felt tight. Shit. Snape would know through his wards that Harry was just standing there. He did not want to be out here. He wanted to be back inside, listening to Snape’s voice, in the warmth of the fire. He obviously couldn’t go back. He left, feeling as if he had made some terrible mistake and not knowing why. He wanted to talk to Hermione. No, not really. Not Ginny, either. No, he really wanted to talk to Snape.

“You are a great addition to our staff…” But not that Snape.

The other Snape. The one who teased him about his improved writing ability. The one who negligently handed him his empty cup, assuming Harry had been going for a refill. The one who fucking gave him a hard on…

Why the fuck was he so angry? Why was his throat so fucking tight?

He arrived back in his rooms without a memory of climbing the stairs and dropped his papers on the floor. He stripped off his clothes, letting them fall as he went, and got under a punishingly hot shower. He just stood there, his hands on the white tiles, letting it beat down on his back, blinking it out of his eyes.

The grout was light grey when wet. The water was combing the fine hair on his forearms all in the same direction. On his thighs, as well. It made a little tornado-like funnel before disappearing down the drain, around, around, and around. Around, around, and around. Around, around, and around.

If he did not live in a magical castle, he would certainly have run out of hot water by now. The skin of his hands was pruned. He turned the water off, wrapped a dry white towel around his middle, and dripped his way to bed. The sheets felt warm and clean. He buried his head in his pillow and fell asleep.

~o~ Reading it All Wrong ~o~

As the door clicked shut behind Harry, Snape cursed himself. Where was his self-control? Why would he say such a thing, and in such a manner, to Potter?

“That I do, Mr. Potter. That I do.”

He had seen the embarrassed heat on Harry’s face, as the thought that his greasy old teacher was coming on to him probably flashed though Harry’s mind. Severus had tried to salvage the situation by putting the conversation squarely back on a professional level, but it had been too late. His slip-up had ruined the easy interaction they had been enjoying.

This could not happen again. Harry was straight. The only thing Severus could hope for was his friendship, and that would only be possible if he stopped letting his feelings taint his perception, if he stopped looking in everything for something he knew full well could not exist.

The evening had gone so well. He had managed to make Harry feel comfortable and relaxed from the very start. It had been so pleasant to work, aware of—but not overwhelmed by—Harry’s presence. He had managed to keep himself in check, enjoying the warm companionship. Until Potter had bent down over his desk, that is.

Snape squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. How could anyone be so damn… perfect? It was as if every aspect of Harry’s physique had been designed specifically to drive him to distraction. (He had been wearing those damn jeans again. Argh…) And the way he moved, like energy harnessed by feline grace. It was so… easy, so easy to slip, to want more than was possible.

He would have to do better. Keep his distance, be more aloof. Why had he put himself in this untenable position? Because he had no choice, that’s why. He had waited for ten years. He could stay away no longer.

~o~ A Day in the Life ~o~

Harry woke up early in a terrible mood. He put on his training gear and flew to the pitch straight out of the south window on his Firebolt. He put himself through the paces, training as hard as he would have were he still playing for Puddlemere. He worked both in the air and on the ground, including the abs-buster sequences and the one-handed push-ups. It had been a while, but it felt good, cathartic.

He walked back to the front doors (he never flew directly back; the climb helped him keep in shape) and ran up the stairs two at a time. He showered, put on his teaching robes, and headed to breakfast. He took with him a book on pedagogy that Hermione had loaned him, which he had not yet had the time to read. School would be starting soon and he wanted to feel comfortable in his role as an educator.

So far, he had followed his instincts when it came to relating to the students. He felt, however, that he needed more solid background for the times—and he supposed there would be many—when he might be out of his depth. After all, he would be dealing with pre-teens and teenagers, with nothing more than his own experiences to draw upon.

It was still early when he arrived at the Great Hall; half the seats were still empty. He was glad to see that his special requests for the meal, which he had communicated to Kreacher before showering, had been provided. He made himself a plate of hard-boiled eggs without yolks, fat-free farmer’s cheese, and peeled grapefruit pieces. He added yeast and wheat germ to his cheese and drank a shot of wheat-grass juice.

He quickly became interested in his reading, only giving perfunctory greetings to Dermott and Neville when they took their seats on either side of him. He found it amazing that so much research had been done on the psychology of learning and teaching.

He finished his green tea and gave an amused smile to Hermione, who, as she did every Thursday morning, arrived dead last, hair still damp. That would mean he had only about fifteen minutes left before he had to meet his adult education class. He closed his book and got up. He headed out with Flitwick, who was also due in the east wing.

“What are you reading, Harry? You hardly looked up from your book all breakfast.”

Harry showed him the cover of the obviously Muggle book. “Hermione recommended it. I want to know more about teaching. Muggles have done a lot of research on the subject. I feel as if I have been winging it, and I thought learning more couldn’t hurt.”

“From all that I have heard, you are a natural at it. But you are right, learning more can’t hurt.” He added reflectively, “You know, it is a fact that sometimes, even after fifty years or more experience, there are times when you feel completely at sea. Young people can be so unpredictable.” He looked up at Harry. “I don’t want to sound presumptuous, Harry, but if you ever need a sounding board, feel free to come to me.”

Harry was very touched. He held Flitwick in high regard, both as a teacher and as a person. That he would offer him his help and advice was very comforting. “Thanks, Filius. I really appreciate it. I’ll remember that.”

(Filius Flitwick was pleased his offer had not been taken the wrong way. He remembered all too well a very harsh rebuke from another young and new Hogwarts teacher, many years ago. That young man was now a dear friend, and the new Headmaster, but it did not change the fact that it had taught him to tread lightly when it came to offering advice.)

Harry’s morning was busy and fun. The group he taught that morning was in its last week of the program. It should have included Arabella Figg. Harry was still disappointed he had never managed to convince her to consider giving flying a try.

At lunch (three grilled chicken breasts, heaps of steamed greens, roasted almonds, and whey to drink), Hermione traded seats with Neville to sit next to Harry. She had noticed him reading her book at breakfast and was interested to hear what he thought of it. Harry was really pleased when she seemed genuinely eager to hear his opinion, and enjoyed their discussion very much. When she noticed his glass of whey, she shuddered.

“Good heavens, Harry. I always thought you drank the stuff because you had to, as part of your training. I didn’t think you actually liked it!”

He grinned. “I hate it, and the food, mostly, but for some reason, with school starting so soon, I feel the need to get back to it.” He looked at her a little sheepishly. “I really want to do well, Hermione. I want to be good at this. I don’t want to muck it up.”

Her smile was so warm and loving, it felt like a hug. “You are going to be great, Harry.” She added, lightening the mood, “Thanks to your readings, though, not your diet…”

He laughed. “Hey, you want me to take the kids off your hands tonight? I could take them out for ice cream after dinner.”

“What don’t you take all of us out for ice cream? I could use a break.”

That thought cheered Harry up tremendously. He could use a break too, after all that Blood Magic stuff.

He spent the afternoon looking over the school brooms and Quidditch supplies with Filch, trying to organise what was there, and deciding what needed to be ordered. He knew more than enough about broom manufacture and maintenance to do a lot of the work needed on the brooms himself, and found that Filch was very interested in helping him and learning some of it in the process.

Flitwick had been right; Filch was a changed man. When asked, he somewhat shyly showed Harry his new wand. Harry had noticed it when Filch had rid the broomshed of what looked like (and probably was) many years of accumulated spider webs and dust. It was a thing of beauty: ebony, with a gorgeous twist in the hardly noticeable grain.

“It’s got a core of dragon heartstring. I got it at Ollivander’s. ’Twas a gift.”

“It’s really beautiful,” said Harry, truthfully.

“Couldn’t really have afforded the like of it myself, but they all went in on it: Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Hagrid, Professor Sinistra, Professor Vector… All of them. Even Professor Trelawney. He came with me to Olivander’s, Severus did. To make sure I’d get the best there was, that matched me.”

He shook his head. “Isn’t it ironic? I always hated him, from a boy. He was so powerful a wizard, even as a kid, and so arrogant. Well, I hated all of yous, really, but him especially. And he went and done this, invented that potion. Can’t take back the hate from the past, but I’ll tell you this: I’d lay my life down for that man, now. It’s like what you did ten years ago, you know? No way for the rest of us ever to repay. Him, or you.”

Harry was floored. Outside of the notoriety and the official acclaim, only a handful of wizards had ever thanked him personally. That Filch would do so now, putting him together with the man who had given him his magic, touched him beyond words. He could only nod in acknowledgement.

“Could I see yours?” asked Filch tentatively. “It’s ok, if you’d rather not…”

Without any hesitation, Harry handed him his wand. “It’s not as beautiful as yours, but I am very attached to it.”

“Same one you had in school, is it?” Filch was holding it with both his hands, as a wizard should when shown another’s wand.

“Yes, I have only had the one.” Harry had never considered Dumbledore’s or Malfoy’s his. This was his wand, and always would be.

“What is it?”

“Holly, with a phoenix feather at its core. Fawkes’, actually.”

Filch handed the wand back to Harry, presenting it on both his palms, as was correct. “I remember when you Summoned that broom, at the tournament.” He chuckled. “A neat trick, that. And now that I’ve learn the spell, I know how much power that took, from a wee lad.”

Harry laughed in recollection. “That wasn’t power,” he admitted, “it was desperation.”

“Well, that Horntail sure qualified as a strong motivator, I expect,” chuckled Filch.

“That it was,” agreed Harry, laughing as well. He hadn’t thought about this for years. This man had known him from a child. It all seemed so long ago.

His train of thought was interrupted when Filch handed him a ruin of a broom. “Check out this one. It must be a hundred years old, if it’s a day.”

It was indeed an antique. The stirrups looked hand-forged, and the scotch broom tail only had a handful of twigs left. Even in that advanced stage of decay, it still vibrated slightly in Harry’s hand. But as Harry could have ridden a Muggle street-sweeper’s broom, it meant nothing; this broom would never fly again. Even so, Harry hated to just throw it away.

“Don’t worry,” said Filch sensing his regret. “I’ll burn it good and proper, and throw the ashes on the pitch. It’s only fair.”

That’s when Harry started counting Argus Filch as a friend.

They worked together amicably until late afternoon, when Harry called it quits. He wanted to wash up before dinner. He was incredibly grimy. They would start refurbishing the existing brooms the next afternoon. In Harry’s opinion, they needed quite a lot of new equipment. He would have to talk to the Headmaster before ordering what he thought was needed. His current budget would just not do.

Conveniently, he ran into Snape on his way to dinner.

“Good evening, Potter.”

“Good evening, Headmaster. I need to talk to you about my budget. Do you have any time tomorrow?”

Snape thought for a moment. “If you come to my office at five o’clock, I’ll have about an hour.”

“It shouldn’t take that long. Would five-thirty be all right? I have a busy afternoon.”

“That will be fine.”

“See you then.”

Harry took his seat and soon was explaining his new diet to Neville and Dermott. They were looking askance at his tuna, still shaped like the tin it had come from, and his unattractive brown rice and lentil entree.

“Was the wheat grass for you, then?” asked Neville. “One of the kitchen elves came for some this morning.”

“Yes. I drink a shot of it at breakfast.”

“You should eat some sorrel, and lots of parsley. They are really good for you, too…”

Soon, Dermott and Neville were busy discussing the properties of many other plants and ingredients Harry could add to optimise his diet. Neville’s suggestions were generally less objectionable than Dermott’s, who recommended, for example, the foot-pads of greyhounds and raw octopus.

“Muggles eat raw octopus,” he argued, defending his recommendation to his disgusted table companions. “They call it Sashimi. It’s quite tasty, I’ve heard.”

His doubtful expression bellied his words, and had Neville and Harry roaring with laughter.

After dinner, Harry, Hermione, Hugo and Rose walked to Hogsmeade and had a great evening out, though Harry did not even taste the ice cream. He drank lemon water instead.

By the time he went to bed, he was very ready for it, especially since his alarm was set for five again.

He was going to be all right. He’d hardly thought of what had happened with Snape at all, all day.

He woke up shuddering in the middle of the night from the most erotic wet dream he had ever had. It had involved sucking on elegant narrow toes, among other body parts, lying on a thick rug in front of a fire, and hot, fragrant tea-flavoured kisses. Wow…

~o~ Pathetic ~o~

When Severus had arrived at breakfast that morning, Potter had been completely absorbed in the book next to his plate. He had left with Filius, for more flying lessons, no doubt.

At lunch, Harry had been tied up in his conversation with Granger. Severus had enjoyed Longbottom’s company. The man was a brilliant herbologist. The help he had provided in the manufacture of the Squibs’ potion had been invaluable.

He had taken a plant that was on the verge of extinction due to the impossibility of cultivating it, and not only had found a way to do so, but he could produce enough of it to accommodate the daily needs of hundreds. It now grew, in neat pentagon-shaped plots, in a modified greenhouse where the lighting sequence was equivalent to a seventeen-hour day.

Why Longbottom had never, not even once, mentioned or even made allusion to the way Snape had treated him as a child, Severus could not fathom. He had made that boy’s life a living hell but the man had never let that influence their interactions. He and George Weasley had occasionally been guests at his house in Amsterdam, George and Petr enjoying many flights together.

He had run into Potter on his way to dinner completely by chance, if you ignored the fact that he had been standing in the corridor for fourteen minutes, listening intently for Harry’s unmistakable steps down the stairs (no one else above the age of eighteen jumped the last three stairs of every flight of the great staircase).

Their interaction had been completely professional. He would see Harry tomorrow for half an hour to talk about his budget (which, Severus was perfectly aware, was woefully insufficient). It was a start.

Hermione Granger had been in a chatty mood, looking forward to her evening out with Potter and the children. It brought a measure of peace to Severus to know what Harry would be doing that evening, since he was certainly not coming to the dungeons for tea. Pathetic.

His day had otherwise been very busy. With his habitual efficiency and focus, he had accomplished a tremendous amount, met important people about important matters, solved numerous thorny problems, made huge progress on several fronts. But who cared?

Seeing Potter reading or chatting from across the table and speaking to him for all of two minutes was what had given Snape’s day meaning. Pathetic.

Snape spent his evening in his usual chair, reading, drinking tea, staring for long periods of time at the empty chair across from his. Pathetic.

He went to bed early (the sooner he slept, the sooner tomorrow would come). He did NOT smell the chair for any possible remnant of Potter’s scent. He did NOT check the blotter on his desk for the inverted imprint of Potter’s writing.

He thought about it, though.

Pathetic.

He woke up, another busy day ahead of him. He and Granger had another visit to a Muggle-born. The last one had gone very well. The impish eleven-year-old’s parents had been immensely relieved their rambunctious child’s peculiar talents finally had an explanation. They had been pleasant and interesting people.

The mother taught piano and the father bred hunting hounds. Their lovely affectionate bitch had taken a shine to Snape and had lain on his feet the entire time. It had made him want to get a dog. (Did Potter like dogs?)

If the child, Hamish, did not end up in Slytherin, Snape would eat his hat. For one thing, he played the piano beautifully, and Slytherins seemed the only wizards with a musical bent. The family would not even need financial aid. Apparently, breeding hounds was lucrative.

Later, he would teach Arabella’s group their last Potions class. They would have a choice of which potion to practice: a salve for dry skin, a repellent that kept pests out of a garden, or hangover potion.

Snape amused himself for a moment trying to guess who would choose what. Wouldn’t he be surprised if Arabella went for the hangover brew? He chuckled at the thought. She was a sweet lady for whom, as far as he knew, a small sherry after dinner was only for special occasions.

He would skip lunch to free up half an hour of his crammed schedule at the end of the afternoon. He had picked the end of the day for Harry’s visit, so they might get a chance to walk to dinner together. Pathetic.

At a quarter to five, he allowed himself to think about the upcoming visit. He had had a rational, satisfying day. Hogwarts’ reorganization was moving along beautifully. This year would be a good one.

He brewed a pot of tea, mostly because he was starving and needed something to tide him over until dinner. He hated missing meals. Would there be any way this could be misinterpreted as anything less than professional behavior? No, of course not. If Minerva or anyone else were coming at that time of day, he would have made tea. He was over-thinking everything. He had to relax. But not too much.

Potter was prompt. He had evidently just showered (and shaved). Snape vaguely wondered what he had been doing this afternoon that would cause him to need to shower before the meeting. The explanation came quickly.

“Filch and I have been reorganising the Quidditch equipment, and refitting the brooms.”

Snape had seen the state of Madam Hooch’s broom shed. This had to have been a very dirty job, even with Filch’s excellent cleaning charms. (But Harry had shaved…)

“The school is down to fifty-seven able brooms, only twenty or so of those capable of any kind of performance. A lot of the Quidditch padding is in very bad shape. Believe it or not, the ones I used in my years here are still in service, and they only held for me because Hermione charmed them back together countless times. The newest uniforms are over three years old, and we have only three ball sets.”

“You need a budget extension.”

“A significant one, I am afraid.”

“I can authorize a certain amount, above which I will need to get authorization from the board. How much do you need?”

He was impressed when Harry pulled out several sheets of parchment covered in calculations.

“The bare minimum would be around eight thousand and seven hundred Galleons.” He pulled a face. “‘Bare’ and ‘minimum’ being the key words there…” He looked up at Severus.

“It all depends on the type of program we want for the school. We could do a decent job with twelve thousand, and really be tops with twenty. I could pull some strings and get us some deals, I am sure, if I let them use my name, and you could if you let them use Hogwarts’ in their promotions. I don’t think you should, by the way. I don’t care about my name, but Hogwarts’… I don’t know. It would seem wrong somehow, even if the Royal Family does it.” He shrugged. “Maybe I am just being impractical.”

The limit of Severus’ discretionary spending was five thousand Galleons. They would have to go to the board, no matter what. They might as well go for broke.

“Let’s be the best we can be, shall we? Work on a presentation, make it good. The board meets next Tuesday. You can give it yourself. Without that, I could only give you five thousand, which obviously will not do.”

Harry looked hesitant. “I am not sure what the best approach would be. I don’t want to come across as… I don’t know…”

“The Boy Who Spends?”

Harry burst out laughing. “No, more like ‘The Coach Who Lost Touch With Reality’, or, ‘The Burned Out Seeker With Delusions Of Grandeur’.”

Snape chuckled.

“Burned out, indeed. I happened to catch sight of you over the pitch this morning, during my constitutional. Brilliant.”

Oops. Well, at least he had not admitted forgoing his run in favor of sitting under a tree for an hour, out of sight, in awe of Harry’s acrobatics. He was relieved when Harry looked sheepish and not horrified.

“I am preparing for the year’s start. I may be going a little overboard.”

“I believe we all do it, to an extent. Each new year is a new challenge. If we didn’t get a little nervous, we shouldn’t be teaching.”

Well, he himself wasn’t teaching, per se. But he had always felt the same need to hit the ground running every year he taught, and he certainly would not get up at five to go running once school started.

“I could look over your presentation before Tuesday, if you’d like. I know quite a few board members. I might be able to help choose the best approach.”

“Would you? That would be useful. I have no experience begging for funding.” Harry frowned. “My days are pretty full, though, as I am sure yours are. You did not even make it to lunch today, did you? Hermione said you were working.”

Had Harry asked about him? No, of course not, it must have come up in the conversation.

“Evenings would be better,” Snape agreed.

“Sunday night would be best for me. That way I can work on it some more Monday, if need be.”

“Very well.”

Harry looked at his Muggle watch. A lot of Muggle-borns never gave those up. It looked like a nice timepiece, sexy on his toned wrist. (Good grief!)

“It’s almost dinner time. Are you eating dinner, at least?”

“I am dedicated, Potter, not masochistic. Shall we go?”

Just like that. They were colleagues, working together for the good of the school. He had got his walk with Potter, and an… appointment with him Sunday night. And Potter was not acting weird, or worried for his virtue. Could he have misinterpreted what had happened two nights ago? Severus had to contain the bounce in his step.

~o~ Honestly! ~o~

Harry had spent the morning preparing for his meeting with Snape, the school’s inventory and Quidditch supply catalogues in hand. He had worked hard and come up with three budgets. He would be very happy with the mid-range one, with a couple of extras. He had no idea what to expect.

He thought it was lucky that Snape was a Quidditch lover. After all, Petr had mentioned he was a Puddlemere fan. He probably had followed them since childhood, as Ron did the Cannons. He tried to picture a child Snape with posters on his walls. Hmm.

Potter had joined Puddlemere right out of school, as Relief Seeker. The next year they had not renewed the starting Seeker’s contract, and he had gotten the job—the youngest Seeker in the league. He had been that good. He had given it everything he had, and was proud of his record, but he really loved teaching the game to people, coaching. It was such a joy.

Snape had not been at lunch. He knew, from talking to Hermione the night before, that she and Snape were going to meet a prospective student and her parents that day, but she had been back.

At pudding he joined her, sitting in Snape’s chair, and asked her how it had gone. Hermione was pleased. She said she thought she could sense a Gryffindor. The last one, she admitted, had had Slytherin written all over his smirking, impish face.

“Where is Snape?” Harry had asked, casually.

“Working, he said. He had to make some room in his schedule for an extra appointment today, apparently.”

Oh.

She shook her head. “The man is a workaholic. No wonder he drove us so hard in school. He is so focused. I thought I was intense…”

Filch and Harry worked hard all afternoon, trying to coax a few more years out of Hogwarts’ equipment. At least the broom shed was totally in shape now, everything organized, labeled and inventoried. Sadly, the lack of clutter only made the scarcity of the equipment more noticeable.

Harry was filthy and rushed to his rooms to shower and change into his teaching robes before his meeting. Catching sight of his five o’clock shadow in the mirror, he looked at his watch and squeezed in a shave.

Completely useless, really. He would have to shave again in the morning anyway. It did look nicer, though. “Honestly!” His exasperated inner voice sounded just like Hermione at her most frustrated. He chuckled. His wet dream was messing with his head.

All business, he got to Snape’s office right on time. Ahhh… there was tea. He very thankfully accepted a cup. Dinner was still forty-five minutes away. Perhaps he and Snape would get to walk down together? (“Honestly!”)

The meeting went very well. Snape was open and supportive, the perfect Headmaster and mentor. The conversation was pleasant and easy, a little banter added, this time NOT mistaken by Harry for flirting on Snape’s part.

There was one slightly awkward moment, when Harry let it slip that he had inquired as to Snape’s whereabouts at lunch, but it went unnoticed. Harry could not help feeling pleased Snape had caught sight of him that morning. He knew how good he looked in the air. (“Honestly!”)

Harry felt he had struck just the right note. They were colleagues, working together for the good of the students. Did it matter that the best part for him was that they did get to walk down to dinner together, and that they had a date for Sunday night? Well, not a ‘date’ date, of course.

Then why the hell was he so glad?

~o~ A Flying Fig ~o~

Harry had worked hard on his presentation. He had run it by Hermione and Ron, and also shown it to George, who could have sold anybody anything. Harry was pretty happy with it. However, none of them knew any of the regents well, so Snape’s opinion would be invaluable.

Harry could not believe that the students would be arriving on Friday. The summer had flown by and he felt he had never worked as hard as he had in his last month of holidays.

He was lying on the lawn at the edge of the lake, under an ancient oak tree. He had just finished his Sunday morning training, which always started much later and was much more leisurely than his weekday sessions. It was probably close to nine. He should get up and shower. There was a special luncheon at twelve o’clock for the initial group of Narcissa’s students, who were finishing their program today.

They would leave Hogwarts with a very well rounded, if concentrated, magical education, armed with the basic skills necessary to fully participate in the Wizarding world. Narcissa was already speaking of offering another six-week course a year hence. They could return at that time and deepen their understanding of whatever aspect of magic they had the most interest in after a year of using their powers. Harry thought it was a great idea.

The program was a huge success. There was a long waiting list now, so many new wizards were wanting to take advantage of the opportunity to learn. The coming year was going to be extremely busy for everyone at Hogwarts, since so many of the teachers had volunteered their limited free time to keep the adult program running. Everyone agreed it should be free and offered to anyone who wanted to participate, so until Narcissa found funding, she could not hire paid teachers.

Harry got up, picked up his broom and headed back to the castle. Further up the path, a small grey cat came out of the bushes. It stretched in a patch of sunshine before transforming back into Arabella Figg. She also started walking in the direction of the castle. Harry could not pass up the opportunity; he had to try one last time.

“Mrs. Figg, wait up!” He jogged to catch up to her.

“Oh, hullo, Harry! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It is. A lovely day for flying.”

She looked severely at him. “You are not going to start up with that again, are you?”

He grinned at her, putting out as much charm as he could muster. “Yes, I am. I know that you don’t want to get on a broom by yourself so I had an idea. Why don’t I give you a little ride, just so you can experience flying without actually doing it yourself? Come on, it’s a beautiful day, you said so just now. This is your last day at Hogwarts. Don’t you want to see the castle from the air? It’s an amazing view!”

“I…” She tried to interrupt, but he would not let her.

“Don’t you dare tell me you are afraid of heights! You are a cat! I have seen you on the roof, doing your high wire act with Minerva!”

She looked a little sheepish. “All right, I won’t tell you that. Let me think of another excuse. Or better yet, Harry, why don’t you explain to me why it is so important to you that I should try flying? Don’t you have bigger fish to fry?”

Harry looked at her earnestly. “Mrs. Figg, I love flying. It is the most amazing, wonderful, magical thing in the world. I don’t want you to miss out on it. You may not think so, but you are a special lady to me. You were the only person who was ever kind to me when I was a boy…”

“Come on, Harry, I bored you to tears with my cat albums…”

“And you gave me biscuits, and you let me sit on your couch and read your books. You did not bully me, or make me weed your yard, or yell at me…”

“Umph…”

“Really, you were nice. And you were there for me when I needed you. You walked home with me after that Dementor attack, despite the fact that if they’d come back, there would have been nothing you could have done to defend yourself. And you testified on my behalf, when everyone else thought I was a liar…”

“Not everyone, not Dumbledore. Don’t make more of it than it really was…” She looked a little embarrassed, but touched at the same time.

“Whatever you may think, it meant a lot to me. And taking you up for a ride is the best way I can think to thank you.”

She shook her head and sighed. “All right, then. I’ll do it.”

“Brilliant!”

“But I warn you, Harry, none of that fancy stuff you were up to this morning. Just up and around the castle and down, no fancy stuff…”

“Of course not: the gentlest ride ever, I promise you. You are going to love it.”

She looked doubtful but resigned. Harry mounted his broom, kicked the stirrups down for an upright sitting position, and keeping it perfectly stable hovered it only about two feet from the ground.

“Here, sit in front of me, as if you were riding sidesaddle on a horse. I’ll have my arms around you the whole time. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

Arabella Figg was not much bigger than Rose Weasley, and he had taken her like this many times. She sat down gingerly, very ladylike, and giggled when his arms came securely around her. “Are you getting fresh with me, Mr. Potter?”

“It’s not every day I take a pretty lady up for a ride!”

He took off so smoothly she did not realize they had left the ground. When she did, she let out a little nervous squeal.

“I’m all right, I’m all right. You surprised me, that’s all,” she said immediately

And up they went, soon catching the updraft from Hogwarts’ walls, higher and higher, gently gliding into the warm air, until the view was breathtaking.

“Isn’t it beautiful from here, Mrs. Figg?”

She was taking it all in, an enchanted look on her face. “Can we go over the forest?” she asked.

In a graceful and easy arc, they were above the top of the trees, and were lucky enough to catch sight of a small group of unicorns in a clearing, two mares and their foals.

“Oh, Harry, would you look at that!” she said in a whisper, as if afraid to spook them.

A curious Thestral came and joined them in the air and flew at their side for a moment before heading down again, having lost interest. They headed back over the grounds.

“Oh! Look!” She said. “Professor Hagrid’s hut! It looks just like a dollhouse from up here!”

Harry smiled, enjoying her delight. “Do you want to say hello to the Giant Squid?” he asked.

“Oh, why not,” she giggled.

They came down over the lake, the water sparkling in the morning sun. With perfect timing, the squid raised one of his tentacles out of the water, as if in greeting, creating ripples that caught the light.

Gently they curved around again, in a slow arc that took them all around the castle and the grounds.

“Had enough?” asked Harry.

“Can you show me the Quidditch pitch?”

Smiling again, Harry turned in that direction and passed between two of the loops.

“Wow, they are much bigger than I thought! I’ve only ever seen them from the ground.”

She was quiet as they crossed the whole length of the pitch to the opposite goals, and then said in a little voice, “Harry, could we do a loop-de-loop?”

He chuckled. “Are you sure, Mrs. Figg? That’s pretty fancy stuff, you know!”

“I can take it,” she answered, determined.

“All right, then. First we’ll have to gain a little speed.”

He pushed his magic into the broom and they smoothly accelerated. She squealed again, loving it. They were now speeding along, wind blowing her wispy white hair into his face, tickling his nose.

“Ready?” he asked

“Ready,” she giggled.

Harry executed a perfect loop-de-loop, smoothly and effortlessly.

Arabella let out a gleeful shriek. “Do it again!” she begged excitedly.

He did it again, and followed it with a straight climb and a gentle down-spiral, Arabella whooping in delight.

He slowed down a little and took one more leisurely turn above the entire grounds before descending and landing them gently, with perfect precision, on the exact spot where they had taken off.

She got off, her face radiating with pleasure and her cheeks pinked by the flight. She tucked her hair back in its bun, smiling at him as he dismounted. No sooner had he done so than she had her arms around his middle, giving him an enthusiastic hug.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, her head pressed to his chest.

He hugged her back, one-handed, laughing.

She backed away, still smiling a big happy smile that he had never seen on her small face before.

“Oh, Merlin’s hat, Harry! That was… the best. Did you see those unicorns, with the baby ones? And that squid, waving at us? And that loop! That was amazing…” She chatted excitedly all the way to the castle, reliving the experience again and again, not even noticing that Harry was just walking silently next to her, smiling and loving her joy.

He walked back to his rooms still buzzed by the experience. Flying was the best. His happiest moments had been on a broom. This one was near the top, right under his night flight with Snape.

He took the last two flights at a run, entering his room through the trap door. That had taken a bit of getting used to, but now he did not even notice it, climbing through having become as routine as opening a door.

He stripped off his gear, storing it carefully in the downstairs closet, and climbed the circular stairs to his room in nothing but his underwear. He headed to the shower.

Why had that flight with Snape been so special? It had just been a short night flight. But flying with Snape had been so… wonderful? Wonderful and lovely, and…

Under the warm water, Harry’s cock filled, slowly but surely, to a hard erection. Going with the flow, he started rubbing himself leisurely.

…Wonderful, and lovely, and… intimate. He pictured the both of them together, speeding through the night, their arms wide open, their fingers almost touching. He thought of Snape the other night, reading in the light of the fire—his wrists, his naked foot, his long toes kneading the rug. He thought of his own amazing dream, of what tea-flavored kisses might really feel like, and Snape’s hand on his cock, and Snape’s mouth on his mouth, and Snape’s cock up his… He came in long spurts, and milked it to the last drop, moaning softly. Wow.

~o~ Malfoy Manor ~o~

The luncheon was fun. It took place under a marquee in one of the interior courtyards, buffet style. It was all about the adult students: what their favorite part of the program was, what spells they liked best to perform, what the highlights of their six weeks had been.

There was a lot of laughter and a lot of emotion. They showed off their best spells and their new wands, and promised to keep in touch with each other. The shared experience had created a lot of bonds between them, regardless of their age or place in life.

Harry noticed that they all called Snape by his first name and were very easy around him. Severus was gracious, talkative and funny, showing none of his usual aloofness and arrogance. He looked… happy. After all, thought Harry, this joy was the direct result of the research to which Snape had dedicated the last ten years of his life. This was the fruit of his labor.

Harry spoke with everyone, really enjoying himself, but his eyes kept returning to Snape—his sharp profile, his long elegant hands as he returned a student her wand, his Adam’s apple going up and down as he drank, the way he threw his head back and laughed, hard, at one of Filius’ jokes.

When their eyes met (as Arabella was recounting her loop-de-loop), Harry felt he could lose himself in those black depths forever. He looked away quickly, lest his own eyes betray his racing heart.

When he returned to his rooms in the middle of the afternoon, he felt restless and on edge. Nothing kept his attention very long, not his presentation, not his next syllabus, not the Quibbler. He did not want his mind to wander to recent events he did not need to over-analyze. Deciding he could do with a change of pace, he chose to visit his little goddaughter.

He knew from Narcissa that Lucius was spending the afternoon at the Manor visiting his grandchildren, and so was not worried about interrupting a romantic tête-à-tête between Draco and Ginny. He Floo-called, asking Shim, one of the house-elves, to get her. She came, holding a sleeping baby in a blue receiving blanket. He had been so busy; he had not spoken to her for over two weeks.

“Come through, Harry! I am so glad to see you!”

He threw in some more powder and walked into the lovely sitting room Ginny liked to use most. The baby in her arms was little Scorpius Severus, his golden red hair forming the Malfoy widow’s peak on his forehead. He was a gorgeous baby.

They walked into the larger drawing room, where Lucius and Draco were conversing over coffee. Little Lily was asleep on the forearm of her father, her tiny behind in his palm and her little face in the crook of his arm. Her hair was so blond it looked almost white.

“You want some coffee?” asked Ginny, gently depositing her burden in his grandfather’s waiting arms.

“No, I just had some, thanks. Narcissa’s party was almost over when I left fifteen minutes ago,” he added to Lucius.

“How did it go?”

“Great. Really great. Her program is amazing.”

Lucius smiled warmly at him. “She seems happy with it. She said your classes are very popular, and your games of pick-up Quidditch as well.”

Harry agreed. “They all love flying. We have a great time.”

“It is one of the things I miss most. That, and Apparating. And bossing the house-elves around, of course,” Lucius added, jokingly.

Lucius’ strength and resilience were amazing. He never expressed the slightest bitterness or showed the least self-pity over the loss of his magic.

“I’ll take you up anytime,” Harry said, meaning it. “Just ask.”

“Thanks, Potter. I might take you up on that next time I come to Hogwarts.”

“Anytime,” said Harry again. He turned to Draco. “How is my goddaughter?”

Draco, who had just been lovingly staring into his daughter’s sleeping face, looked up. “She is the best. She takes after me, I think. An angel.”

Ginny started laughing. “You weren’t saying that last night, when you were changing her nappy at two-thirty!”

“True, but I have since seen the light… And she’s asleep,” he answered, smiling at his wife.

The Floo chimed in the other room, signaling Narcissa’s arrival. When she walked in, she was not alone.

Harry’s heart jumped in his chest at the sudden appearance of the man he had come to the Manor to forget. Next to Narcissa in her lovely white summer dress, he looked like the night. Beautiful.

“Harry!” exclaimed Narcissa. “You’re here! We were just talking about you.”

She turned to Lucius. “He convinced Arabella Figg to go on a flight this morning. She couldn’t stop raving about it.” She laughed happily.

Narcissa really was a gorgeous woman. She came to sit on the arm of Lucius’ chair, her graceful arm on his shoulder, looking lovingly at her grandson. She started to tell them all her impressions of the party.

Snape had yet to say a word and stood quietly, leaning with his shoulder against the side of the fireplace. Since no one besides Harry seemed to find that strange, he assumed that was Snape’s usual spot. Uncalled, a house-elf appeared and handed him a snifter of golden liquor. He swirled it for a while, eventually taking a whiff and then a sip of the drink, never entering into the conversation.

Harry was aware of his dark, silent presence, trying hard not to look in his direction. It became increasingly difficult. It would not do. He had to get out of there.

Ginny, sitting next to him on the couch chatting with her mother-in-law, seemed to sense his decision. She turned to him.

“You are not leaving already, are you?” she asked him quietly, surprised. “You just got here, and I haven’t even had a chance to talk to you.”

“I am restless. Take a stroll with me outside?”

Ginny got up immediately, smoothing her pretty dress on her almost-recovered figure. “I am going to take advantage of all you babysitters. I feel like a walk. Harry, come along? I want to hear about your flight with Mrs. Figg.”

Harry felt a rush of affection for his friend and played along. “All right, Gin.”

He could tell from Draco’s smirk that he wasn’t fooled, but did not care. (When had he ever cared what that git thought?)

The afternoon was lovely, as were the Malfoys’ grounds, with the fountains, the heavily scented roses, and the white peacocks.

Harry and Ginny talked easily about babies, syllabi, Narcissa, and Weasleys. At the heart of the park-like gardens, five paths met. In the center was a delicate stone pillar with a gorgeous crystal ball sitting on top. It threw a point of light on the surrounding sundial. There were benches around the edges, tucked away under climbing roses on arbors. Ginny chose to sit under a cascade of small, fragrant pink roses. They enjoyed a moment of peace, the birdsong the only sound around them.

~o~

Ginny looked at Harry under her lashes. She knew him very, very well. There was something different about him. He looked very healthy, in top shape, in fact, but fragile somehow. She had never gotten that feeling from him before.

She nudged him with her foot. “What’s up, Harry?”

The look in his eyes was incredibly vulnerable, and she put her hand on his, interlacing their fingers. “I’m not sure, Gin. I don’t even want to think about it. My life is changing, and it’s all good, but I…” He stopped, unsure of what he was trying to say. “How many times have I fucked things up, Ginny? How many times have I taken a good thing and turned it to shit?” He shook his head, frustrated. “I guess I’m just…”

His face had the same look Draco had holding Lily for the first time: swept over by love, and scared shitless. She could not believe it, had started to think she would never see it. Harry was in love.

He broke the mood. “I am just an idiot. That’s what I am. Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. New job jitters, that’s all.”

She did not believe that for a moment, but she could tell she shouldn’t push. She scooched up close to him, put her arm around his shoulders and squeezed.

They got up and he smiled at her. He looked a little more settled, and took a deep breath.

~o~

They walked back to the house holding hands. They entered the living room through the large French windows on the terrace.

“Unhand my wife, you cur,” said Draco.

Harry leaned over and kissed Ginny’s temple. “Jealous much, Malfoy?”

Draco smirked at him. “Not even a little bit. The girl is mine, my friend, body and soul.”

“Spoken like a true Malfoy,” commented his father. “We are irresistible.”

Ginny and Narcissa both burst out laughing, but their eyes shone with the truth of it.

Lucius’ arms were empty. The baby was now on Snape’s arm, awake but looking perfectly content. He looked very small, surrounded as he was by the black cloth of Snape’s robes; the man had sat down in a leather chair across from Draco’s.

Draco got up, a little awkwardly due to his sleeping daughter, and gestured to Harry to take his place. “Here, Potter, make yourself useful.” He handed Harry the little bundle of pink and white that was his goddaughter. She barely stirred. “Don’t drop her.”

Harry settled himself comfortably. Lily smelled warm and sweet, a tiny bubble on her budlike lips. She smiled in her baby dream, her little thumb coming to her mouth. She was all Malfoy, from the pale blonde silk on her head to the tiny pointed chin.

He looked up to meet Snape’s unreadable black gaze, but Snape looked back down at his godson and talked to the infant in a quiet voice in a language that was not English, his hand on the baby’s tiny head. He then placed a kiss on his brow and got up, with none of Draco’s awkwardness. Narcissa took the baby from him.

“Must you go so soon, Severus? Won’t you stay for dinner?”

“The students are arriving in four days,” he shrugged, and turning to Lucius: “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“I’ll talk to Eldridge and Johnson. That should help.”

Harry realized they were discussing the Regents’ meeting, and wondered if Snape had told Lucius of his upcoming presentation.

Snape turned to Ginny and Draco. “Scorpius looks well,” he conceded. “You may continue to care for him… for now.”

They both smiled at him. “He will be in Gryffindor,” said Ginny teasingly.

“And pigs shall fly,” answered Snape matter-of-factly.

He gave Harry a nod. “Potter.”

“Snape.”

And he was out the door.

“Well, I see you two have become good chums,” commented Ginny, sarcastically.

Draco only smirked.

~o~ Selfish Bastard ~o~

Severus was sitting in his usual chair, still wearing his robes. Potter had not made it to dinner. He must have stayed on at the Manor.

How absurd that he and Ginny holding hands should have made Severus cringe. She was so in love with her husband it was sickening.

Which one of them had broken it up, all those years ago? Ginny, having fallen under the Malfoy spell? Did Potter still carry a torch? Was that why he had never managed to stay in a relationship? If you could even call what he had had relationships.

Well, there had been Sarah Dobson. However, the engagement had only lasted four months. (What could he have possibly seen in that one? A Hufflepuff!) Well, she had been pretty, and smart, and popular. A decent Chaser, as well. And a woman.

Snape could not get out of his mind the image of Harry with little Lily in his arms. He obviously loved children. Severus felt a sick tightening in his gut.

He got up abruptly and walked into his room. He took off his robes and threw them angrily to the floor. He unbuttoned his waistcoat but did not remove it. He walked back to his sitting room and came to stand in front of his fireplace, looking at the empty grate, holding on to the high mantel with both hands, resting his forehead on the cold stone.

He struck the mantel with his fist. Why had he come back? It was too much. If Harry…

‘If…’ Ha! Of course he would date. He struck the mantel again. He will date, and marry, and have children, you utter fool and you… you…

Oh god. What would he do?

He grabbed a delicate Venetian glass decanter off the mantel and threw it viciously across the room. A book fell off its shelf and the paintings on the walls started vibrating as his anger spilled out in uncontrolled magic.

“Severus!” Albus’ voice was sharp. “Control yourself!”

He was being chastised by a portrait! Snape turned to his fireplace, and bright purple flames roared into life, seemingly out of nowhere, burning on nothing but his pain, his anger, and his magic.

He regained control, finally. He could put an end to this at any time, he thought sarcastically. He could just confess his feelings to Potter, and the man would be gone by morning, running as far and as fast as he could.

He could quit his post and return to Amsterdam, to Petr, and their life together.

He could get a frontal lobotomy.

Snape laughed bitterly. Because that would be what it would take, wouldn’t it? For him to stop wanting Potter, loving Potter. Distance and time certainly had not stopped him. Logic and self-preservation did not.

He sat down again, leaned his head back against the chair, and closed his eyes. He took a deep slow breath. In his mind, green eyes were looking back at him, a deep ocean he could drown in. The wards shimmered.

No, not yet, he thought. I’m not ready. I can’t do this.

Nevertheless, there came the knock, and he knew the love of his pathetic life was standing in the corridor, probably shivering, and wondering what the delay was. He took another long breath and wished, for the first time ever, that Poppy had never freed him from his mental shackles.

Disgusted with himself, he got up and walked to the door. One last breath and he opened it, his face as tranquil as a lake, his voice completely neutral.

“Come in, Potter.”

Snape had evidently startled him, and Harry looked a little unsure. Severus turned away and asked, “Would you care for tea?”

“Yes, please.”

He waved his hand and the tea tray appeared, with steaming cups. He liked to brew his tea himself, but had not thought ahead. Magic would have to do.

He handed Potter a cup and made his way to his chair. Potter followed him, set his cup carefully on the side table, and sat down, several pieces of parchment in his hands.

“All right, then, let’s hear it.”

Potter’s presentation was perfect, using the right approach, in exactly the right tone. He was extremely well rehearsed, had prepared handouts, and knew his subject perfectly. His enthusiasm and winning personality did the rest. They would get the money, Snape had no doubt. He had not even needed to ask for Lucius’ help and influence, though those would not hurt.

Finished, Potter looked at him expectantly.

“How much time did you spend on this?” Snape asked, curious.

Harry looked crestfallen. “Quite a bit. Does it need a lot of work?”

“Don’t be a fool, Potter. You’ve almost convinced me to single-handedly finance the program out of my own vault.”

Harry grinned. “Thanks.”

Snape picked up his cup and took a sip. The tea had cooled but tasted good nonetheless. Potter was still smiling as he also retrieved his cup.

“No fire tonight?”

“Are you cold?”

“No, it’s just nice to look at.”

Another wave of the hand, and there was a jaunty fire in the grate.

“Oh, well done,” said Harry, quite impressed.

Snape chuckled. “This from a man who has been clocked at a hundred and thirty miles an hour…”

“But I am pants at fire magic.” Harry warmed up his hands. “I’m actually jealous…”

Snape berated himself for being so ridiculously pleased.

“What were you saying to him?” asked Potter suddenly. “To Scorpius, I mean, before you left?”

Snape was surprised at the abrupt change of topic, but answered anyway. “An ancient Hebrew blessing over children. Wishing him peace.”

“Would you teach me? For Lily? And Teddy?”

“It’s slightly different for girls than for boys, but yes, if you wish, I will teach you. You can bless your own children, someday.” He was satisfied with his tone: even and light.

“Oh, Lily and Ted are my only children. I mean, I won’t have any of my own.”

“Whyever not?” asked Snape, astonished, before he could stop himself.

“It’s not meant to be, you know?”

No, he didn’t know! Why in the world was that supposed to mean? Was Potter sterile?

“I won’t have children just to have them,” Potter explained. “I think they deserve parents who love each other, like Hermione and Ron, or Draco and Ginny.”

Snape snorted. “And you’ll never find love? What are you, all of thirty?”

Harry gave him the strangest look, so filled with undertone it was like a stormy sea. “Oh, I have found love,” he said. “But just because you find it doesn’t mean you can have it.”

Oh. Ginny Weasley? It had to be. Unless… Granger? No, not Granger. He certainly never looked at her in anything but a sisterly way. Sarah Bloody Bolton?

“So teach it to me.”

Oh, right, the blessing.

It took a while. Hebrew was not the easiest language, but once Severus sang it to the sweet tune his mother had always used, Harry learned it almost effortlessly. His voice was clear and warm, and he sang in tune. Lucky Lily.

They had more tea and chatted easily, for a very long time, of music, of places they both knew, of places they thought the other should see, of tea, of Narcissa’s students, of dogs (Harry loved dogs, especially big ones). It was very late when Harry finally got up to leave. He turned back at the door, hesitant.

“Will you fly with me tomorrow?”

“Not at five o’clock in the bloody morning, I won’t!”

Harry laughed. “After dark?”

“All right.”

Harry grinned happily and left. Snape sat back in his chair, pensive.

Harry Potter was in love with someone, and it was apparently utterly hopeless. Did that mean that he would not… date? Marry? Did that mean that Severus would at least be spared that?

He allowed himself one of his rare smiles, the ones he knew could send unpleasant shivers down people’s backs. He was such a selfish bastard.

~o~ Make Lemonade ~o~

It was very late. The clock chimed two when Harry entered his quarters. Too bad, he had a lot of thinking to do. Maybe he could talk Poppy out of some Pepper-up in the morning. He was pretty sure he was not getting any sleep tonight.

When Harry had arrived at Snape’s he’d had the strangest feeling that he was interrupting something. Though Snape did not even have a book out, Harry’s feeling was only reinforced by the fact that Snape was still wearing his waistcoat and his shoes, and that neither the tea nor the fire had been waiting. But Snape had not said anything, and the impression soon had faded.

He had felt good about his presentation but had still been crushed when he thought Snape did not like it. Now he was extremely glad he had worked as hard on it as he had.

Harry opened his French doors and stepped into the night. He took a deep breath, stilling himself. He had tried to ignore the signs, to explain them away, to wait it out until it passed, but there it was, and he might as well face it: he had fallen in love with Severus Snape.

There. He had said it to himself. After almost saying it to Ginny and, in a roundabout way, saying it to Snape, Harry was ready to admit it.

He also had to face the fact that never in his entire life had he felt anything that even came close to what he admitted to feeling tonight. Not his infatuation with Ginny, not his lust for the girl who had taken his virginity, not the affection he had felt for Sarah, not the many, many crushes he had burned through. This was different.

This was it.

How did he know for sure?

For him, children were ‘not meant to be’. He had said that without even thinking. It had been as big a surprise to him as it had to Snape. (“Whyever not?”)

But he had known, as he said it, that it was true. He would never love a woman enough to want to have children with her, because he loved a man.

He would have Lily, he would have Teddy. And Rosie Lu, and Hugo. And that would be enough. Adoption was not an option in the Wizarding world. Birth control spells were so efficient, and magical children so precious, adoption by a non-relative did not exist.

His long-time dream for his own family meant nothing compared to his yearning for Severus Snape.

The night was beautiful. The moon was rising above the forest, gleaming softly on the ripples of the lake. The night air smelled clean and fresh. Harry went back inside and grabbed his Firebolt. He left the balcony in a smooth dive and just let the wind carry him, gently gliding through the air, looping and swerving lazily.

Snape was in love with someone else. He had a partner who was charming, bright, handsome. Harry was a younger colleague, someone to mentor. Even a friend, perhaps, in due course. But nothing more. Could it be enough, really?

Sex was fun, but a quiet evening with Snape by the fire was more satisfying emotionally to him than any night of sex he had ever had. (How sad was that?) He would miss sex, certainly (and with Snape, want it, and ache for it… God!).

When it became too much, he would deal with it. After all, he was an expert on one-night stands.

He felt at peace. For the next few years, quite a few of them hopefully, he would be here at Hogwarts and so would Snape. For now, he could tell himself that it would be enough. He would not dwell on the pain, the loneliness, the jealousy, the burning desire he knew very well would come. He would enjoy what he was given: the tea, the companionship, the quiet conversations. And yes, for a while at least, it would be enough.

He returned to his rooms, flying all the way to his bed just because he could. He dropped on the covers, his broom next to him. Still dressed, he folded the covers over himself and slept for exactly seventy-three minutes before his alarm went off.

Surprisingly, he felt very well. He changed into his training gear and went out again through his window, this time with the finicky and high-strung Rip 400. It required a lot of concentration to keep all his moves smooth and safe, but when he had adjusted, he felt like a knife cutting through butter, like the sound of a wet finger on the crystal edge of a tumbler, silky and pure.

He had to add fifty extra abs to even get the shadow of a burn, and hardly felt the push ups. His body and he were in sync, in harmony. Just for the fun of it, he rode back home today, standing up on the broom, balancing like a surfer (a stupid move he would kill any student for even trying).

His feeling of well being lasted all day. Hermione remarked on how healthy he looked. They spent the afternoon in the library with the windows open, as he worked on the syllabus for third year Fire Magic (which he was pants at) for Sinistra.

Fire Magic, like Earth Magic, could go both ways, dark or light. It had the benefit of not requiring bleeding or torturing anyone, and ironically, could only be defended against with more Fire Magic.

(“Who said you can’t fight fire with fire?”

“Ho! Good one, Harry, so original…” Hermione rolled her eyes.)

She was putting the last touches on her own syllabi, and was just raring to go.

Flitwick popped in around four humming to himself, and walked to Harry, a sparkle in his eye. He stood in front of him with a goofy grin on his face sing-songing: “Harry’s a new teacher, Harry’s a new teacher.”

Harry wondered what bee had gotten in his bonnet, but Hermione squealed, “Oh my god! He is!” She joined in. “Harry’s a new teacher, Harry’s a new teacher…”

“What?” asked Harry.

At which they both changed to, “Gotta have a party, gotta have a party…”

“Oy! Stop it, you two. What party?”

Hermione had a big grin on her face. “It’s a Hogwarts tradition, Harry. When a new teacher starts, they have a small party the night before term starts so everyone can meet them.”

Harry shrugged. “I know everybody already.”

“Oh, nice try, Harry, but you are not getting out of it,” said Flitwick, grinning. “You are throwing a party, my friend, Thursday night, in your rooms. Open the Floo, I am not climbing all those stairs—and have plenty of liquor.”

“Wouldn’t Snape frown upon all his teachers getting sloshed the day before the students arrive?”

Flitwick snorted. “Who do you think asked if anyone had mentioned this little tradition to you yet? Nothing big, Harry, just a little get-together. See you Thursday!”

And off he went, humming, “Harry’s a new teacher, Harry’s a new teacher…”

Hermione giggled. “I love Filius,” she said.

So. Snape wanted him to have a party. Harry thought he might as well do it right. A half hour before dinner, he left Hermione in the library and walked to the kitchens. Even so close to dinner things were pretty relaxed, with only the faculty and Narcissa’s students to feed.

Kreacher greeted him happily and was thrilled when Harry told him what he needed. He loved parties. Now Harry only had to talk to George.

At the end of dinner, Harry and Snape happened to leave the Great Hall at the same time, walking next to each other (Harry had made his living intercepting moving objects seemingly effortlessly, after all). Before they each went their separate way, Snape turned to him, and said, “Ten?”

Harry just grinned and nodded.

~o~ The Next Best Thing, Harry ~o~

Harry showered, brushed, flossed, and shaved. He put on some especially well cut and tight-fitting training leathers and a beautiful green cashmere jumper which, with a thermal undershirt, should be enough to keep him warm on the beautiful August night. He slipped on his fingerless gloves and looked at himself.

His hair was almost an inch long, and nicely tousled. The sweater matched his eyes exactly. And the leathers… well. Snape was not free, but neither was he blind. Might as well give him something nice to look at. Harry grinned at himself. He should have been in Slytherin. He grabbed a Snitch and left.

He arrived three minutes early and settled to wait. He leaned his shoulders negligently on one of the columns, one leg folded, his hands in his pockets, the broom at his feet. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes in the clear moonlight.

He knew from experience that one could never hear Snape’s footfall, but that he was always precisely on time, so by his calculation Snape spent exactly six minutes watching him before making his presence known. Not bad.

“Past your bedtime, Potter?”

Harry opened his eyes and smiled his well-practiced “Come hither” smile. He put his hand out to his side and his broom made a nice smacking sound as it hit his glove. “Ready?”

“If we must,” replied Snape, but his eyes were shining.

They mounted and were off, fast, and soon climbing almost straight up. They were high above the Quidditch pitch when Harry took out the Snitch and showed it to Snape. “Wanna play?”

“It’s dark, Potter.”

“And I am a wizard,” replied Harry. With a quick spell, the Snitch was glowing like an ember, and when Harry released it, it took off with a tail like comet.

With the Snitch so visible, half the Seeker’s job was done. One only had to catch it.

“How about it?” asked Harry.

And they took off at the same time, chasing the speeding Snitch. Harry intertwined his flight path with Snape’s, who seemed to soon realize that the goal was not the Snitch but the aerial ballet they performed, getting close enough to touch, flying apart, crossing, passing each other, and returning again.

They formed spirals around each other to prevent each other from catching the Snitch, reaching for it shoulder to shoulder, dropping like rocks after it, the lights of the castle their only reference as to the height of their flight.

On and on they flew, dark shadows in the night after the small glowing ball, speeding on their magic. Harry could have done this all night. He was doing what he loved with the man he loved, and it came as close to making love to Snape as Harry thought he would ever get.

However, he knew also that this was not as effortless for Snape as it was for him. In a burst of speed, Harry put an end to the chase, catching the Snitch with an impossible move that was filled with death-defying grace, as frightening as it was beautiful to watch. It was a move for Snape’s eyes only, in a flight that was, to him, as close to a declaration of love as he could get.

They landed on the pitch. Snape was breathless, but his expression was delighted and his eyes were burning with something Harry recognized. No, Snape was not blind, even if he wasn’t free. Harry would remember that look, late at night, his hand on his pulsing cock, whispering Snape’s name in the dark.

They walked back to the castle in silence, the path lit by moonlight.

At the top of the stairs, Harry handed Snape the Snitch. “I know you are a Puddlemere fan,” he said. “This is the Snitch that won them the 2004 championship. A gift.”

Snape took it, and looking down at it said, “You caught it after seven hours and forty-two minutes, in a perfect Wronski Feint.” He looked up. “I was at that game. You were brilliant.”

Harry shrugged. “And while I was chasing balls just like it, you found a cure for Squibs. Brilliant is as brilliant does, Snape. It’s just a game.”

“And the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is just a painting. Don’t denigrate your gift, Potter. The only important thing in this life is that we make the best of what we were given. On that score, we are even.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Harry smiled. “Another few hundred flights like this one and we might make a Seeker of you yet. Perhaps you should try to teach me brewing again. Then we’ll be even.”

Harry thought he saw that burning in Snape’s eyes again, but that made no sense, and Snape looked away too quickly for him to be sure.

“First we have the Board of Regents’ meeting. Then we can think about making a Potions Master out of you. Tomorrow at two?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Potter.”

“Good night, Snape.”

Each went in his own direction. It was midnight. Only five hours of sleep? No, he was sleeping in. He would train at six, just harder. He wanted to be at his best for the meeting.

~o~ The Next Best Thing, Severus ~o~

Severus had woken up the morning after their long talk, wondering what Harry’s rooms looked like. Or rather if anything in Harry’s rooms could give him a clue as to who had captured and would seemingly forever hold Harry’s heart.

But he was curious about his rooms as well. He wondered if Harry would ever invite him up. Whatever for? Potter seemed perfectly happy with their established routine.

He went for his run, away from the pitch, along the lake, and through the edge of the forest, his slow heartbeat even. Running was not something a lot of wizards did, but he had gotten into the habit during his years in America, when he had lived like a Muggle.

He had even participated, as a subject, in a program of the medical school that studied the physiological aspect of muscle development. He was glad he had. He was in better shape at fifty than he had been at forty (or thirty, or even twenty, for that matter).

If he put his mind to it, he was sure he would find a way to have a look at Harry’s living quarters. He let his mind wander freely as his feet beat a steady rhythm on the dry ground. Why did anyone ever go to anyone else’s quarters? A conversation, a message, a meeting, a friendly gathering.

By the time he returned, he had remembered Hogwarts’ tradition of making newly hired teachers hold small ‘Meet and Greet’ parties the day before the students arrived. (His had been a painful and thankfully short affair, his rooms at the time boasting only two straight-backed chairs, and his idea of refreshments being tea and biscuits).

It would be completely pointless in Potter’s case, since he already knew everyone and had already been teaching for over two months, which is probably why no one had even thought about making him follow the tradition.

However, after a month of hard work, he was quite positive the prospect of a relaxing get-together in Potter’s new quarters would be something no one would object to, and he knew exactly whom to talk to about it…

At lunch, he casually mentioned to Filius Flitwick that, despite the fact that Harry had been teaching the preceding year, contractually this was his first year of employment and he was in fact a new hire…

He would therefore now be seeing Harry’s quarters by eight o’clock on Thursday. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin…

By dinner, Snape was wondering (a little anxiously) if maybe Harry (though he had looked awfully chipper at lunch) was too tired from their late evening the night before to pursue his idea of a night flight. After all, no solid plans had been made. Snape was not fooled by the serendipity of their simultaneous exit (but oh, so pleased) and correctly interpreted it as Harry’s way to confirm a time.

He had managed to work for two hours that evening, making headway on the fifth year syllabus on Fire Magic (at which he was brilliant) for Sinistra.

At a quarter to ten he had showered and gotten dressed for flying. At ten o’clock exactly he had stepped outside of Hogwarts’ front door.

The sight of Potter, unselfconsciously waiting for him and looking like a wet dream, had literally taken his breath away. Aware that he moved perfectly quietly, and that Potter could not know of his presence, he had taken his time admiring the view, storing the image for later use. (Where did that man get his trousers?)

When he thought he could safely speak without croaking he had accosted him, just to have Harry turn on him liquid eyes as green as spring grass and a high wattage smile that would have melted a glacier (the way the broom jumped into Harry’s hand had been only a faint echo of the effect the man’s smile had had on Snape’s cock…).

They took off. The broom Harry had loaned him was a wonder. It responded to his slightest movement and fit his frame perfectly, transforming his passable skills into a much more rapid and smooth flight than he had ever experienced before.

When Harry got out a Snitch, though, Snape had a flash of concern. He had never played any kind of Quidditch and had never understood how the Seekers could find the thing, even in broad daylight. Harry’s quietly confident spell-casting (pants at Fire Magic? Ha!) had been sexy as hell, and Snape had suddenly decided to throw caution to the winds and enjoy himself as much as possible.

The chase was exciting, but Snape had seen Harry play Quidditch often enough to realize that he was not even trying to catch the Snitch, just using it to create an interaction between them that soon took on a life of his own. Though he was quite certain Harry was completely unaware of it, it was by far the most erotic thing Snape had ever done with anyone outside of bed.

Though he could feel his power waning, he never wanted that dance between them to stop, unless they could go straight from it to his bed. In a move that nearly stopped Severus’ heart, Harry demonstrated that, indeed, until then he had not been trying to catch the Snitch.

When they landed, Harry’s eyes laughing into his, Severus wanted him more than he had ever wanted anyone. His hard cock pulsed with each of his heartbeats, which were much faster than they had been during his morning run. He just wanted to push Harry down onto the grass of the pitch and have his way with him.

Incapable of speech, he walked alongside Harry, grateful to the night and his flight jacket for keeping his feelings hidden.

At the top of the stairs, Harry surprised him by handing him the Snitch.

“I know you are a Puddlemere fan,” he said. “This is the Snitch that won them the 2004 championship. A gift.”

“You are the only reason I ever watched Puddlemere, Harry,” was what Snape wanted to say. More reasonably, he answered, “You caught it after seven hours and forty-two minutes, in a perfect Wronski Feint.”

He looked up, remembering how that day also, Harry’s move had nearly stopped his heart. Along with the hearts of thousands of fans. But tonight’s catch had been for his eyes only. Severus held that thought close, like a warm flame in his chest.

“I was at that game. You were brilliant.”

Harry shrugged. “And while I was chasing balls just like it, you found a cure for Squibs. Brilliant is as brilliant does, Snape. It’s just a game.”

Did Harry really feel that all his skills, all his grace, were worth nothing because he was not busy clothing the poor and feeding the hungry?

“And the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is just a painting. Don’t denigrate your gift, Potter. The only important thing in this life is that we make the best of what we were given. On that score, we are even.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Snape wanting to kiss the man so badly his lips actually tingled. Harry smiled and Snape almost lost it.

“Another few hundred flights like this one and we might make a Seeker of you yet. Perhaps you should try to teach me brewing again, then we’ll be even.”

Doing the thing he loved with the man he loved, thought Snape, looking away quickly to hide his yearning. He had to bring his mind back to mundane matters or he would try to kiss Harry, and ruin everything.

“First we have the Board of Regents’ meeting. Then we can think about making a Potions Master out of you. Tomorrow at two?”

There. The Regents, Hogwarts, the Quidditch program’s financing…

“I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Potter.” (I love you.)

“Good night, Snape.”

Each went in his own direction.

Whatever heartache comes from this, thought Severus, it would be worth it. If only for a night like tonight, if only to spend the next few years in Harry’s proximity. That would be enough.