A Long Time Coming

~o~ First Test ~o~

As Snape had predicted, Harry received his funding, a neat twenty-thousand-Galleon one-time disbursement to overhaul the program and a tripled yearly budget for the following five years.

He had been very, very good, incredibly professional, knowledgeable, charming, and convincing. (He looked very… nice in his robes.) He had left after his presentation and the board meeting had proceeded normally, addressing all the last-minute details that needed to be handled before term started.

Snape felt very good about the amount of reorganization in the school and reform of the curriculum that had been accomplished since his arrival. He was looking forward to the coming year.

“I need a cup of tea,” said Lucius as they were leaving the meeting.

“Come up to my office. I have some time before my next appointment.”

They went up the moving staircase to the Headmaster’s office. The decor was more sober than it had been in Dumbledore’s days, and a lot less ‘cluttered’ (that was Minerva’s word for the incredible mess she thrived in…) than during the previous Headmistress’ tenure.

Severus took the time to make the tea properly, easily chatting with his oldest friend as they settled in a pair of deep leather chairs to enjoy the view of the southern lawn, the windows wide open on the late summer’s afternoon.

“Potter was excellent. I needn’t have bothered preparing the terrain, he would have carried the day either way,” said Lucius.

“Yes, he was well prepared. He is turning out to be a great asset to the school. He works very hard.”

“Well, I suppose you don’t become the best Seeker in Britain by sitting on your arse…”

“If he had worked half as hard in school, he could have made something of himself.”

Lucius snorted. “Something better than the Savior of the Wizarding World, the best Quidditch player in memory, and a valuable new asset to your school, you mean?” he asked sarcastically.

Snape laughed. “Yes. A Potions Master, perhaps. You know, something worthwhile…”

They were both laughing now.

Suddenly Lucius asked, “You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

Snape sobered and sighed. “I told you this in confidence almost ten years ago, Lucius, in a moment of unforgivable weakness. Can you not let the matter rest?”

“I have kept your confidence. Even Narcissa has no idea.” Lucius looked at Snape. “I thought you’d gotten over it, especially when you met Petr. But when I learned you had sent your resume to the committee, with only weeks left in the search and days after the paper announced Potter had taken the coaching position permanently, well…”

“He is straight, Lucius, and young, and probably the most eligible bachelor in Wizarding Britain today,” snapped Severus. “What does it matter what I may or may not feel for him?”

Lucius leaned forward and put his hand on Severus’ arm. “It matters to me, my friend, when I see you put yourself in such an untenable position. You have never been masochistic, Severus. Why set yourself up for inevitable pain?”

Severus got up and gazed outside at the reflection of the craggy hills onto the still lake, his back to his friend. “You are not telling me anything I have not been telling myself.” He shrugged and turned back around. “You once told me, when you feared the worst, that to stay with Narcissa you would become the shadow of her hand, the footsteps of her dog… Do you remember?

Lucius nodded.

Severus shrugged again. “Then you know why. I have not the slightest choice.”

If Lucius Malfoy understood anything, it was absolute love. He had felt it for his wife from the first time he had held her hand, many years ago. It was a feeling of utter devotion and inevitability, of perfect rightness, of eternity.

“He is a good-looking young man,” he said, changing tack, with a teasing grin.

Severus fell back into his chair, taking his head into his hands, and moaned. “You don’t know the half of it. You should see him in training leathers, on a broom, by moonlight…”

They both laughed: at the absurdity of the situation, at the irony of fate, at life. They drank tea, enjoying each other’s company.

When it was time for him to go, Severus sent Lucius back to his home by Floo, as he would a package. Lucius never complained, never made anyone uncomfortable about his absence of magic, even if they made the worst faux pas. He was one of the men Severus admired most.

~0~

Cassandra Batgut arrived through the same Floo just minutes later, holding a ridiculously large trunk. Severus called an elf to take care of setting it in her assigned quarters. She would be in residence for the next three and a half weeks, with the last week overlapping the stay of the next DADA instructor.

A lot was riding on how well she managed. It was the test run of Severus’ plan. She was enthusiastic, engaging, and he had high hopes. She was also very attractive, he realized: sparkling brown eyes, wavy hair, a dimpled smile, and a lovely figure.

His pleasure in her presence was immediately soured by that realization, and he cursed himself. He had always been an extremely jealous person. Just the thought that Harry might find her attractive started a swirl of bitter venom roiling in his gut.

He suddenly hated his idea for the DADA class, recognizing that seventeen young Aurors would be coming through Hogwarts this year and every year thereafter, half of them females, young, attractive females, each of those a temptation to Hogwarts’ charming Quidditch coach.

Being who he was, he managed to hide the intense dislike he now felt for her from the poor girl. (She would later gush to her astonished mother, who had sat through seven years of Snape’s Potions, about how warm and kindly his welcome had been…)

He called another elf to take her to her quarters, apologizing for not doing so himself due to his tight schedule. He sighed with relief as she left. Standing again in front of the open window (he might as well put himself out of his misery and jump), he tried to relax and logically analyze the situation. He had to face reality.

Severus never did things halfway. At dinner that night, he introduced Cassandra to everyone, a warm and friendly welcome, and sat through the meal chatting pleasantly with her.

Did she like Quidditch? She did. Would she like to meet Harry Potter, their Quidditch coach? She would (blushing slightly). Did she fly herself? She did. Had she brought a broom? (One should hope so, considering the size of her trunk.) She had. After dinner, as they were all standing around drinking coffee, he called Potter over (and Lucius said he was not masochistic!) and introduced him personally.

Potter was charming, warm and very friendly. Snape (and it was like walking barefoot on broken glass) suggested he take Cassandra for a flight.

He got the surprise of his life. “Oh, I’d love to, Headmaster, but I just don’t have any time for pleasure flights right now. But hey! I have a great idea!” Harry turned to Cassandra. “My friend Dermott, the Potions professor, was just telling me he was itching for a flight. Let me introduce you!”

As he swept the girl away to take her to Dermott, he actually turned and winked (winked!) at Severus.

Severus wanted to laugh out loud. His relief was so intense (and humiliating), he was giddy with it. He suddenly felt alive again, and in the best of moods.

He enjoyed the rest of the evening immensely, joking around with Flitwick and Hagrid, soon putting Hermione and Minerva in stitches. His eyes kept returning to Harry, who was chatting with Septima and Longbottom, paying no attention whatsoever to Dermott, who had pulled out all the stops and was sweeping Cassandra Batgut off her feet.

~o~ Hiding the Prince ~o~

Harry was fully back in his training mode. He woke up minutes before his alarm, dressed on automatic, and was over the pitch on his Firebolt in no time at all. He had always had a love-hate relationship with training, hating having to do it, but loving the way it made him feel afterwards.

It was not something he could do while thinking of other things, though. He had to concentrate on his moves, so it wasn’t until he was in the shower that he thought back to the day before and planned for the coming one.

He had been much less nervous doing his presentation to the board than he had been doing it for Snape, and was thrilled to have gotten the funding he needed. He thought he could actually stay well under the allotted monies, taking advantage of the eagerness the Quidditch supply companies had to use his name while that still lasted. After all, a few years from now he would only be a distant memory on the Quidditch circuit.

Leaving the board meeting, he had dropped by the Hogsmeade Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to purchase one or two things for his party.

Last night’s dinner had been entertaining. The new DADA teacher had seemed very nice, and she had immediately caught Dermott’s eye. He was a very good Potions professor (would soon sit for his Mastery), and a good-looking bloke, but he was very shy around women, especially those he found attractive. Cassandra Batgut was very cute and Dermott had a thing for dimples. Harry had teased him a little.

“With you around, I don’t have a chance anyhow, Harry.”

“What are you going on about?”

Dermott made a face. “I’ve known you for what, three years? I have yet to meet a pretty girl who didn’t fall for you when you made your move.”

“I don’t have a move!”

Neville and Dermott both started laughing. “Right, Harry,” said Neville. “Tell that to someone who hasn’t seen you get into the knickers of every cute girl you have met since seventh year…”

“Hey, I haven’t had a date in over four months!”

“My point exactly,” said Dermott, resigned. “The girl is yours.”

Harry felt like laughing in their faces. If they only knew…

“Seriously, Dermott, I'm not interested. I guess the thing with Sarah has got me vaccinated. I am not going to be dating anybody, not for a very long time.”

Neville had looked at him curiously, but then had joined him in his efforts to build up Dermott’s nerve.

When Snape had called him over, he had tried to think of a way to bring Dermott into the conversation, and then Snape had given him the perfect opening and he had jumped on it. Dermott was quite good on a broom; he had played Chaser for Ravenclaw in his Hogwarts days. Harry had never tried to be a matchmaker before. It had been quite fun.

He had been impressed with Snape’s efforts to make the girl feel welcome. That was a little out of character, but Harry guessed Snape had tried a little harder, with the whole new DADA scheme on the line. He had seemed in an unusually good mood, though. Harry loved to hear his laugh. It was always sudden, deep, and rumbling, and made him smile in response, even though he had no idea what Snape was laughing about. Its scarcity made it all the more special.

He went to bed early. His next day was going to be very full. He had to order all the new equipment and make a few calls to try to sweet-talk special prices out of his contacts. That would take all morning.

Then he was meeting Andromeda and Teddy to go shopping for Ted’s school clothes and supplies. It was their annual tradition. It was Teddy’s last year at primary school already. Next year he would start at Hogwarts and Harry would see him every day. He was very much looking forward to that.

Today they would go to Diagon Alley, shop, and end the afternoon at Fortescue’s for ice cream (and lemon water). Then they would go home to Andromeda’s for the evening and he would stay for dinner. At the boy’s bedtime, he would get him ready and read him a story. He dreaded the day that Teddy would be too old for a nighttime cuddle in the dark, but he knew that it would probably be very soon. Thank god he had Lily’s hugs to look forward to.

Harry was back at Hogwarts by nine, and he dropped by Hermione and Ron’s. Hugo and Rose were in bed already as well, and it was a really nice evening with just the three of them, which did not happen often these days. They played three-way chess, with Harry and Hermione teaming up to try to beat Ron, failing miserably as usual, and getting roundly yelled at by the chess pieces, who made no effort to hide their disdain for their obvious incompetence.

Hermione made hot cocoa with marshmallows and they talked about the children growing up, the Cannons’ lousy luck in the championship, the History of Magic curriculum, and whether there was actually a chance that Dermott would work up the nerve and ask Cassandra for a real date.

“What about you, Harry?” asked Hermione. “Are you ever going to date again?”

“Oi! Give him a break, it’s only been four months!” said Ron.

“I'm tired of dating. I am holding out for true love, now,” joked Harry.

“Well, then it’s a good thing you broadened your field; it’s not like you have many candidates around here.”

How Ron could be so casual about the fact that Harry had discovered an interest in blokes still amazed him. When he had found out, Ron had even offered to introduce him to a couple of Aurors he knew who would love to meet him. Harry had definitely not been ready for that, and now, well, he figured he never would be.

He went home at eleven-thirty and realized that, having been too late at breakfast, he had not seen Snape at all today. Nevertheless, he was aware that Snape had been on the back of his mind all day, and it was he who occupied his thoughts as he went through his bedtime routine. What had he done today? Why had he left breakfast so early? Was he still up, reading, right now, barefoot in front of a fire?

Harry went to bed and let his thoughts wander, his hands behind his head. He wondered if things would change as time went by, as, hopefully, they became friends, and Harry got used to the constant tug on his heart. Right now, he just wanted Severus’ company and was glad to know he would see him tomorrow and have him here, in his own rooms, in the evening. What would Snape think of his home?

Harry was suddenly wide awake. He had to take the portrait off of the wall. He got up immediately, as if Snape was due any moment, walked into the living room, and looked at his painting for a long time. How could he have ignored, all these years, the striking resemblance of the portrait to Severus Snape? Hermione and Ron had never mentioned it either, nor Draco and Ginny. Was it just in his eyes? Certainly not. The eyes, the hair, the nose, the high black collar, it was all there.

He loved that painting, had held it as one of his most precious possessions ever since acquiring it. What did that mean? And what did it mean that aside from a broken Snitch, the fragment of a letter from his mother to his godfather (of which Snape had a missing bit…), his brooms and his wand, his other most prized possession was a leather-bound Potions diary?

He took down the portrait and, just in case people wanted to see his bedroom also, he slipped it away from prying eyes on top of his bed canopy. He fell asleep, aware of the hidden presence of the severe and noble-looking man (The Half-Blood Prince?) over his bed, looking down on him.

~o~ The Party ~o~

The next day, he taught flying to his adult students all morning and again to a different group in the afternoon. He had seen Snape at breakfast (“Potter,”) and again at lunch, when Harry had been caught staring at him and looked guiltily away instead of just nodding or something. Stupid.

He was pleased at dinner when he saw that Cassandra was now sitting between Septima and Dermott. Things were looking up. He made sure to tell her about the party, but Dermott apparently had already offered to show her where Harry’s quarters were. George joined them for coffee, having come up from London to spend one last evening with Neville before school started. During the year, Neville was the Head of Gryffindor House and was too busy with those responsibilities for them to meet other than at the weekends.

Harry went back to his rooms after dinner, too early for Kreacher’s taste. He was sent to his bedroom to get him out of the way. Harry showered and dressed (with Snape in mind, as appealingly as possible but without looking as if he had tried). He then half-heartedly picked up the syllabus on Wand Lore Flitwick had turned in, and waited for Hermione. She had promised to be early so he wouldn’t be waiting alone for the guests to arrive.

He had gotten a bottle of 1996 Chateau D’Yquem for her. She would love it. He had the twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig for Sinistra, and Kreacher had found out for him everyone else’s favorite poison. Harry had made sure to get the very best. The gallery around the apartment was decorated with twinkling fairy lights and cherry blossoms that rained petals in the warm wind. The evening was beautiful.

Hermione arrived at a quarter to, and was as excited as a child by the miniature enchanted jazz band in the corner of the room. The instruments played by themselves, and looked like plastic toy versions of the real ones, in bright colors, but the sound was fabulous and the repertoire impressive. It was, of course, a WWW product.

Hagrid arrived next. He ensconced himself in one of Harry’s marvelously comfortable soft leather loveseats with all the appearance of having no intention of moving from it for the next couple of hours. It was his favorite spot. From it, he could see the forest and a bit of his hut (and could easily reach for his Guinness, which Kreacher placed at his elbow).

Poppy Pomfrey was next. She was so sweet, she had brought Harry a house-warming gift, a soft throw pillow with dried fragrant flowers mixed in with the down stuffing, for relaxation. It smelled lovely. She was tickled pink by the Perrier-Jouet champagne she was served. She had tasted it a long time ago at a Muggle wedding and it had been her favorite ever since, though she very rarely got to enjoy it.

Minerva and Flitwick arrived through the Floo one right after the other, she in full tartan, and he in a great party mood. He started by requesting the band play “Black Coffee.” (How he could be familiar with Muggle jazz was a puzzle to Harry.) Filius then thanked Kreacher profusely for the literally ice-cold Absolut Currant and discussed vodkas with the house-elf for a while, to Harry’s astonishment.

Minerva received her glass of Ardmore appreciatively and walked to the balcony to enjoy the darkening evening.

Filch, in a set of recently acquired dress robes, made a discreet entrance. Harry had insisted he come. He made a point to welcome him and bring him some Ogden’s Private Reserve himself. When Filch commented on the amazing views, Harry introduced him to Muggle binoculars. Septima Vector, who had just entered with George and Neville, gave them a try also, and soon she and Filch were trading them back and forth.

“Argus, check out the unicorns, next to the woods, by the water!”

“Look in the water, Professor, a mermaid just came up!”

“Oh, wow, it’s a whole family! I didn’t know they came up in the evening…”

Septima’s idea of a drink was to put a slice of lemon in her water. Still, it was Evian, and a Meyer lemon. Harry wasn’t sure if she could tell the difference, but she did remark on the beauty of the crystal tumbler he served it in. That pleased him. He had sent poor Kreacher to his storage locker for it, and was pleased it had not been in vain.

Dermott and Cassandra had arrived while Harry was talking to Filch, but Kreacher had taken care of them. Dermott was holding his Martini and Cassandra had some fancy cocktail with an umbrella.

Madam Pince was sitting on the arm of Hagrid’s seat and they looked right chummy, heads bent together over one of Harry’s photo albums. To Harry’s surprise, she drank straight Tequila. One could never tell with the quiet ones…

Professor Trelawney and Firenze, who had made their peace a long time ago, were now also on the balcony with Sinistra, talking stars. Sybil drank Sherry, though the Palo Cortado Harry had gotten for her might forever put her off her cooking wine. Firenze, of course, drank nothing. Eating and drinking was not something centaurs did in public. Even the ever-quiet Whitherspoon was in attendance, a glass of chilled Chassagne-Montrachet in her thin hand, her narrow nose in a Quidditch magazine.

The party was going well. Everyone was having a good time. Where the hell was Snape? Harry had asked Hermione to come early because he had figured on everyone being fashionably late except for the Headmaster, and had not wanted an awkward tête-à-tête. (Or maybe had wanted it a little too much…) Yet it was quarter past nine, and he had not yet arrived. Was he not going to come? That thought just upset Harry well beyond reason.

He grabbed his own drink (Perrier water with a twist of lime) and headed outdoors, along with almost everyone else, to watch the sunset. Tonight it was magnificent, coloring the grounds in gold, the lake like liquid light. Minerva had to admit that she had been wrong: Harry’s choice of residence was inspired indeed, though she certainly would not like having to climb the stairs all the time.

“I see you up on the roof often enough,” Harry teased.

“That’s different,” she replied, most seriously. “That’s for fun.”

After the last of the red glow followed the sun below the horizon, they all went back in as the temperature dropped rapidly. Harry stayed behind to check on the surprise fireworks, which were hidden behind the rail, and cast a strong warming spell. That would allow people to come back out to the balcony comfortably and enjoy the pyrotechnics when it was fully dark. They were set to go off in another half hour, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes absolute best. He had gone a little overboard, but he adored fireworks. As he straightened back up, a dark shadow against the wall took life in a swirl of cloth.

“Nice sunset, Potter,” said Snape, as if Harry had ordered it from a catalogue. He was a vision in black as he stepped forward, an almost empty snifter of 1928 Artemis Armagnac in his hand.

Afraid that his heart might be heard across the balcony, Harry did not answer right away, taking a long sip of his water and an equally long breath.

Snape was here. He had come. How long had he been here, lost in the shadows of the evening? How had he entered, without Harry noticing, when Harry had been listening so intently for his arrival?

“Good evening, Snape,” said Harry with all the nonchalance he was capable of. “When did you get here?”

“You were showing Granger your jazz band. Your elf gave me my drink, and I came out here to take in the view.”

Harry could not believe it. He had been there all along.

Snape gave him a half smile, raising his glass. “My favorite.”

Harry knew he was standing stupidly and should move somehow, but all he could do was stare at Snape’s mouth, wanting to lick the brandy’s taste from his lips. Harry’s own actually parted, and he made a conscious effort to not lick them before closing them again.

“Would you like another?”

They walked back in together. Flitwick, standing on the coffee table, was complimenting George on WWW’s new Illusion product, which could change the view out of any window. One could turn a back alley filled with rubbish bins into the most magnificent and breathtaking scenery. It was multi-sensorial, with fresh scented breezes, crisp sunlight, and even the chirruping of birds available at will. As a promotion, George had outfitted every window of St. Mungo’s with them. Patients loved it. They could enjoy the views and invigorating air of the Austrian Alps, a great improvement over London’s grimy streets.

Flitwick and George then started trading jokes. Not all of them were very good ones, but as the members of their small audience were quite relaxed, it did not take much to amuse them.

Harry was aware of Snape’s physical presence at his side. They were close enough to touch, and Harry could imagine he felt the heat of Snape’s body through his robes. Neither of them said very much, and never to each other. Harry just enjoyed Snape’s proximity.

Around ten o’clock the fireworks started going off. Everyone excitedly moved back out to the balcony. Unconsciously, Snape and Harry made their way there as one, going from standing next to the sofa together to standing outside in the beautiful evening without the distance between them ever changing. The fireworks were breathtaking, lasting for almost forty minutes, and the entire time Harry’s body sang with Snape’s closeness. It was absurd. He had never felt this level of physical awareness with anyone, even while holding hands with a lover. Harry knew it was all in his head, but he loved it nonetheless.

After the fireworks, people drifted back in and started saying goodnight and leaving.

“I think I will live dangerously and take the stairs all the way down,” said Vector. “Walk with an old lady, Severus?” It was a natural request, since they were both in the same wing, though Septima was on the ground floor.

“My pleasure,” replied Snape gallantly.

Harry could not help a twinge of disappointment. (What had he been hoping for?)

Snape turned to him. “Nice party, Potter.” His words were echoed by others who shared the sentiment. Leaning closer, Snape added quietly, “I… loved the fireworks,” and was gone before Harry could be sure what that had meant, if anything.

Soon only Neville, George, Dermott, Cassandra, Hermione, and Flitwick were left.

Dermott asked Harry to show Cassandra his broom collection. Harry went to get the cigar humidor where he stored them. He had twenty-seven (“Twenty-six too many,” commented Hermione), shrunken and kept in the climate-controlled box.

“May I see the Arrow you rode at the last World Championship?” asked Cassandra.

Harry removed the four-inch-long broom from its velvet bed and returned it to its full size. It was very nice, rosewood with copper stirrups, a very smooth ride, gliding and swift. This one had been customized to Harry, the grip area slightly flattened and narrowed for more precise steering one-handed, and the bristles lengthened for speed. He liked it a lot.

“Which one is your absolute favorite, Harry?” asked George.

He smiled and reached for the bottom of the box.

“I like them all for different reasons, and I usually ride whichever one fits my mood on any given day. But I do have a sentimental favorite.”

He took out his original Firebolt, the one sent to him by Sirius, the one he had ridden against the dragon, and in his Gryffindor days. Once returned to its full size, it paled in comparison with the more sophisticated and advanced Arrow, definitely showing more wear.

“I don’t ever ride it anymore. It couldn’t take the strain. But it is very special to me.”

One after the other, he took out the brooms for his friends to look at, shrinking them and putting them all back in at the end.

“Harry,” asked Flitwick, who had rejoined them after getting the band to play all his favorites, “do you actually keep your brooms in there continuously?”

“Yes. It has the same climate conditions as the room where they store the brooms at the Quidditch museum.”

“You mean you keep twenty-odd brooms under a shrinking spell at any given time?”

“Huh… Yes. It’s just really convenient.”

“And you never feel the strain?”

“The strain of what?”

“Of having such a constant drain on your magical energy.”

“Uh… no. Should I?”

Flitwick just chuckled and shook his head. “I guess not. It is a neat way to store them.”

It was getting close to midnight, and the students would be arriving the next day. They all said their good-byes and headed home.

Harry sat down in one of his sofas but, noticing the empty hook above the fireplace, got up again and went to his bedroom to retrieve his painting. He returned it to its rightful place and smiled.

“Welcome back, Half-Blood Prince.”

He looked around the room, where all traces of the party had already been removed by his ever efficient and attentive house-elf.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” he said aloud. “Great party.”

“Master Harry is welcome, sir,” Kreacher’s disembodied voice answered. He knew Harry wouldn’t mind the informality, and he was already warm and cozy in his little bed, his arm lovingly surrounding the shoulders of a very pregnant Winky.

~o~ Spying ~o~

Snape held Septima’s arm all the way down from Harry’s place to her front door, chatting about the party. She was a delightful woman, one of the brightest of his acquaintance.

She had taught him Arithmancy in his youth and had always treated him with kindness and respect, even in the years when his temperament had been at its most difficult. She was getting on in years, probably closing on ninety, but was spry and as sharp as ever.

“Well, good night, my dear. Thank you for walking me home.”

“’Twas my pleasure, Septima.”

She looked at him with a twinkle in her eyes. “Methinks your pleasure would have been to remain there a little longer, Severus. But let me remind you, from one Slytherin to another, that good things most often come to those who wait. I believe it would be injudicious, in this case, for one to be overly hasty.”

Snape was astounded. Was he that transparent? Septima smiled at him fondly and patted the arm still supporting hers.

“Be of good cheer, my young friend. Your secret is safe. Not all those around you have known you as long as I have, nor have made a life study of Arithmancy. Whatever will be, will be. Sleep well.”

And in she went, humming to herself. Snape stood for a minute outside her door, disbelieving. Had he just received advice regarding his hopeless attraction to Potter from such an unlikely quarter?

He must have misunderstood (though what else Septima could have been on about he had not a clue). He repeated the conversation in his mind several times on his way down to his own rooms, no further enlightened. It helped his understanding none at all that he knew Septima to have such great affection for Petr. Had she been drinking anything but her usual lemon water at Potter’s, he might have felt easier.

He walked into his rooms and the first thing he did was make himself some tea. As it brewed, he went to his bedroom to change. As usual, off came his robes, his waistcoat, his socks, and his shoes. He released his hair from the small leather tie that held it back and ran both hands through it. Even without including Septima’s puzzling remarks, the evening had been… interesting.

As was his quasi-pathological habit, Snape had been exactly on time, though aware that it might have been prudent to arrive fashionably late. As luck would have it, Granger had been early and Harry distracted. He had seized the opportunity to observe without being seen and escaped to the balcony.

It was pleasant to be able to stare at the man without the fear of discovery. As usual, Harry had looked… nice (if nice meant gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful, perfect in every way, or created to fulfill Severus’ every fantasy). For over an hour, Severus had enjoyed the show, grateful to be able to remain out of everyone’s way by simply walking around the tower to avoid first Minerva and then the three stargazers.

Harry’s living quarters were beautiful and masculine. Snape particularly liked the green walls and draperies. The Shiraz carpet was magnificent. He had, however, seen nothing that could give him a clue as to Harry’s attachment. The host was obviously concerned with everyone’s comfort and enjoyment, making particular efforts to make Argus Filch feel welcome, something Severus appreciated.

As more people moved outside, he stood back against the wall, sipping his Armagnac. Potter had evidently researched everyone’s taste, but he still was impressed. Artemis had an extremely limited production and was not commercially distributed. That Harry had got hold of that particular 1928 vintage was impressive indeed, so few bottles being in existence. Severus himself had never gotten hold of anything older than 1953. It was exquisite.

Once everyone had returned inside, he had been treated to something even more delightful than the spectacular sunset as Potter had bent over to check on something below the railing. Trying to keep his imagination in check, he had finally made his presence known and regretted it almost instantly, as Harry’s parted lips had been almost too much to resist.

The slow torture had continued the rest of the evening. He had been incapable of stepping away from Potter, his desire to touch him keeping him closely at his side. Back on the balcony again, he had ached to kiss him amidst the magnificent fireworks but instead had been tormented by Harry’s scent: close, oh so close…

It had been with great relief that he had accepted Septima’s invitation to walk together, having feared he would not have the strength to tear himself away on his own. He had been incapable of resisting leaning in toward Harry once more to breathe in the warm aroma of his skin one last time.

“I… loved the fireworks,” was all he could think to say. And he had, though his eyes had mostly been on the shorn head of the shorter man slightly in front of him, on his shell-like ear, on the angle of his jaw…

The next day was September first. The students would be at Hogwarts by dinnertime, and his days, which had already seemed quite full, were about to become even busier. He would see far less of Harry, be much more preoccupied by the demands of his job. Thank Merlin.

~o~ The Sorting ~o~

Harry and Hermione spent the entire next day together. They walked Hugo and Rose to school in the morning. Both children were very excited; it was the beginning of the term, and they also had gotten to eat breakfast at the teachers’ table.

Usually during the school year they ate their breakfast at home with Mink, their nanny. She was one of the oldest Hogwarts house-elves, and had had four children herself.

Minerva had made an exception to the rule when she had hired Hermione. No other Hogwarts teacher had ever been married or had school-age children. The teachers were expected to dedicate themselves wholly to the school and its students.

A rather complex but now well-established series of compromises had been made. When the students were present, Hermione ate breakfast and lunch in the Great Hall, alone. On Wednesday nights, her husband and children joined her at the teachers’ table for dinner. At the weekend, Hermione had to be present for at least one meal per day.

She was exempt from night patrols, but took on many of the other teachers’ detentions, which were served in her office adjacent to her apartment after the children were in bed.

It had been essential for her to have a nanny for them. Many had been interviewed, until one day Mink had come to offer her services. She had been retired from regular duties, instead working in the elves’ nursery and daycare, but there were very few elven children, and several retirees like her to take care of them.

She had heard of the new young teacher and her difficulties in finding adequate help. Mink had wanted the job, so much so that she had accepted that Hermione pay her for her services. (She had yet to use any of the shiny Galleons, but the elven children loved to play with the tinkling gold coins…)

Hugo and Rose adored her, and she them, but her authority was never challenged. Were they to be too slow in obeying, she gave them the ‘evil eye’, a rather stern look that had worked on her own children, and Hugo and Rose would immediately jump to it. Hermione only wished they were half as compliant with her. (She had tried her own version of the ‘evil eye’ only to have Hugo and Rose dissolve in hysterical laughter…)

Harry and Hermione had a cup of tea in Hogsmeade and enjoyed a leisurely walk back to the castle. Pleasantly ensconced in Harry’s living room, they had both spent the day working: he on reviewing the syllabi turned in by others, and she on some of the tedious paperwork that came with the job of Deputy Headmistress.

Ron arrived at four o’clock, having picked up the children from school on his way home. Tonight the children would get yet another unusual treat: dinner alone with Ron while their mum called the new students to the Sorting Hat and sat next to Headmaster Snape during the Welcoming Feast.

Of course, that meant that they would get to eat anything they wanted. After much debate, they decided on tea and crumpets followed by ice cream for afters. Hermione just rolled her eyes. Harry asked hopefully if he could skip the feast and have the crumpets and ice cream with them instead, with no success.

At half past seven, he left them to get ready. All the teachers were expected to be at the table at ten of eight, when the first of the carriages would arrive.

At eight thirty, the first years would make their entrance and be Sorted. Harry had never given any thought to the pomp and circumstance of the Welcoming Feast and was amused by it all, especially when Flitwick and McClallan, cutting it a bit tight, arrived at the last minute almost at a run.

By the time the first students walked in, however, the teachers were all regally seated. Next to Harry’s plate was a list of names. It was the first years. Neville explained to him that it was for a little game the teachers played every year, trying to guess who would be sorted where.

As the student were called to the Hat, the teachers marked the initial of the House they thought they would end up in next to their name. The teacher with the most correct guesses would be exempt from night patrol for the whole month.

Apparently, Flitwick was very good. He had won seven out of the last ten years, but Snape was rumored to have been unbeatable in his day, and they were all looking forward to a hard contest. Harry could not believe that Snape had ever participated in anything so frivolous while he taught, once again reminded that he had really not known him at all.

Hagrid arrived a little windswept from his boat ride across the lake with the first years (despite the neat braid he’d been sporting lately), a grin on his rubicund face.

“A lively bunch they are, this year,” he said, sitting down. “All terrified of yeh already, Severus,” he said teasingly to the Headmaster. “They’ve all heard stories abou’ Professor Snape from their mums and dads. A right ol’ ogre they think you are…”

“Excellent,” answered Snape, completely serious, to everyone’s amusement.

When the first years entered, escorted by Hermione, Harry was astonished by how small and young they looked. He loved the expression of wonder on their faces and enjoyed the discreet and wary glances they all gave the Headmaster. Hagrid was right; his reputation had definitely preceded him. The sneer of cold disdain on Severus’ face did nothing to reassure them.

The Hat’s song was jaunty and light-hearted, much as it had been the last few years according to Dermott, which was a good sign indeed.

The roll call started.

“Ashcroft, Percy.”

The boy was small and handsome, with a spark in his eye. Harry marked a small G next to his name.

“Slytherin!” shouted the Hat. Oh, well.

“Barento, Maxine.”

She was tall, skinny, and looked very shy. Harry guessed Hufflepuff.

“Ravenclaw!” Shy but smart, then…

“Barnaby, Simon.”

Simon had curly blond hair, clear blue eyes, and an angelic face. Not fooled for a moment, Harry immediately put him in Slytherin.

“Gryffindor!” Oops…

“Carmichael, Heather.”

Dark hair, dark eyes, a widow’s peak and a smirk. Very sure of himself this time, Harry put down an S.

“Ravenclaw!” Well, Harry thought, this was going well, wasn’t it?

“Cartwright, Isobel”

She had red hair, and a cute little upturned nose. Harry’s first thought was Gryffindor, but having done so poorly so far, second-guessed himself, and put an H next to her name.

“Ravenclaw!” The Ravenclaw table was going wild. Three out of five was amazing. Harry was disgusted. He obviously was very bad at this.

By the time they got to

“Menzies, Hamish.”

G.

“Slytherin!” Harry, who still had not gotten a single one right, decided he might as well quit. He randomly assigned letters to the ten remaining names and sat back. Of course, it would so happen he got the next three right. He chuckled to himself. But his luck did not hold. By the time it was all said and done,

“Yannow, Michelle.”

“Hufflepuff!”

he had only gotten four of them right, out of thirty-seven… He had a feeling he would not be getting out of patrolling.

He was absolutely right. The next lowest score was Sinistra’s, with eight. Flitwick had assigned the first years to their rightful Houses an astonishing twenty-one times. But he did not win. Snape had scored twenty-two. He negligently dropped off his list in front of Filius, on his way to give his welcoming speech. Flitwick shook his head in absolute disgust.

Harry had been wondering what Snape’s speech would be like. His black velvet voice reached everyone in the room, clear, calm, and warm. He did not have to raise it, the Great Hall having gone absolutely silent as soon as he had risen from his chair and made his way to the lectern, his robes draping elegantly around him. He stood, tall and black, his physical presence easily dominating the room.

“Magic is a gift very few are given. At Hogwarts you have the opportunity to learn to use your gift to its fullest extent. You will also be taught to use it with respect: for the natural order, for your own limits, and for all others, human or not, magical or not. You shall be expected to make it a blessing, not just for yourselves but also for all those around you, and to strive to do the very best with what you were given.”

Though he stopped talking, the hall remained quiet, the students enthralled. Harry remembered the feeling from Snape’s speech in his first Potions class, before he had discovered the Potions Master despised him. Almost on second thought, Snape added, “Please acquaint yourselves… thoroughly with the rules of our school. Delinquency, slothfulness, and disrespect will not be tolerated, and leniency will not be forthcoming. Professor Hagrid runs the grounds, Mr. Filch runs the castle, and I run the school. We, and the rest of Hogwarts’ staff, were entrusted with your education, well-being, and guidance. We will give you our very best. We expect no less from you in return.”

A wave of his hand as he turned away and the feast appeared. The spell broke and the children recovered the power of speech. Well, that had not been a warm and cozy pep talk, but it had certainly made an impression. Harry had a feeling the students would think twice before transgressing. There was no amused and tolerant twinkle in Snape’s eyes.

On the other hand, they would feel empowered and challenged to excel. He knew very well how far he himself would have gone as a student for a word of recognition from that man, had there been any hope of one.

Suddenly, the hero worship the Slytherins had always shown for Snape when all the others had loathed him made sense. One would feel safe and warm under the dragon’s wing.

Several times during the meal he found his gaze drawn to Snape’s profile, trying to see him through the eyes of a new student. His face had so much character. There was a small divot between his forehead and the beginning of his prominent nose, and hollows in his cheeks below the prominent cheekbones. His ears were very tight to his skull, and even they were angular, exposed by his ponytail. His hair was still dark as the night, though he must be nearing fifty.

Harry thought he actually looked younger than when he had taught ten years ago. With the high, many-buttoned waistcoat collar and the stark white shirt underneath, and the draping black robes, he truly cut an imposing figure. (Yet that same man had playfully dropped his winning list onto Filius’ plate.)

Severus was looking pensively over the four House tables, his gold drinking goblet held in his elegant, long-fingered hand. (Large nose, long fingers… Harry forcefully pushed his mind in another direction…) The Heads of Houses were leaving, ready to guide their charges to the dormitories.

Filius was the only remaining Head of House from Harry’s school days. Septima Vector now headed Slytherin House, Neville Longbottom, Gryffindor, and the ever-quiet Witherspoon, Hufflepuff. On the way out, Filius said something to Snape, causing them both to look at Harry. He wasn’t sure he liked Flitwick’s smirk, wondering whom it was for, Snape or himself?

After all the students had left the hall, Snape got up and stopped by Harry’s chair.

“Potter.”

“Headmaster.” (School had started, after all…)

“Professor Flitwick has brought to my attention that you scored the lowest of all the teachers on the sorting tonight. It means the first night of patrol is yours.”

“Oh.” Harry had never done night patrol before. “What do I need to do?”

There was a definite glint in Snape’s eye when he answered, “It seems to me you spent so much time as a student dodging those doing the patrolling, you would be extremely familiar with the procedure, but Filius insists that you need someone to accompany you this first time.

“It appears that everyone feels, in view of my exemption for the rest of the month, that this… tiresome duty comes to me. Patrol usually does not start until after curfew, but I thought you might want to meet as soon as is convenient for you so I can explain the best… strategies.” He stared impassively at Harry.

“Twenty minutes?” asked Harry.

“My rooms. We will have tea first, it’s usually a long night,” and Snape left, in a swirl of robes.

Harry felt like whistling on his way back to his rooms: ahead was a long evening with Snape.

~o~ Patrol ~o~

As soon as he entered his rooms, Snape prepared tea. He only had a few minutes to relax. He reclined on his couch, his head on his hands.

Thirty-seven new students was a small number, especially if you took into consideration the fact that two of the youngsters, who were treated Squibs, were a year older than their classmates.

Flitwick had pointed out that it would be a shame for them to be deprived of a Hogwarts education because they had been born a few months too early to have benefited from the treatment in their eleventh year as one of their new classmates, Julius Marchbanks, had.

The next oldest Squib was fifteen, and really would have been too old to start with the eleven-year-olds, and too far behind to be expected to take his OWLS at the end of the year. He and two others would have to be taught at home through private tutoring.

But Maxine Barento and Jack Griffin would blend in well enough with their younger peers. They were both in Ravenclaw, which had taken the lion’s share this year (both figuratively and literally, as Gryffindor had only gained four) with eighteen students.

Next year would see an even lower number of new students. Not many people had decided to start or increase their families the last year of Voldemort’s life. Theodore Lupin would be coming in. Harry would be glad of that. The year after next, however, would bring in a bumper crop. Sixty-two were expected so far, and that was without taking the Muggle-borns into account.

Severus was amazed at how right it felt for him to be back at Hogwarts, at how much he cared about the school and its students.

The intervening years, their challenges and successes, seemed now to fade away. He belonged here, Potter or no Potter. He had not been conscious of how true that was until now. He was very glad of that. His rash decision had been the right one, no matter what happened.

Ah. Potter was here. If he was not otherwise distracted, he could feel Potter’s influence on his wards when he was still several meters away from his door. He wondered vaguely just how much power the man had. He also imagined (surely…) that he could now recognize Potter’s magical signature even before the wards identified him. There was the knock.

“Come in, Potter.”

He got up from the couch and went to the sideboard where their tea was ready, grabbed a cup and sat in his reading chair, observing Harry as he also helped himself to a cup.

His hair was freshly shorn, the shortest Snape had seen it yet. His teaching robes suited him very well. Though he was not tall, his trim and fit body allowed them to drape elegantly. He turned around, caught Snape’s gaze and smiled before taking his first sip.

“What do you put in this stuff? Whatever it is, I think it’s addictive. I am completely hooked.”

If it keeps you coming back, thought Snape, all the better. “It’s just tea, Potter. It’s all in the brewing.”

“Of course it is,” said Harry, taking another sip, licking his lip, and smiling in his eyes. Was Potter flirting with him? (Of course not!)

“Night patrol,” said Snape.

“Riiiight,” said Harry, seeming to shake himself from a bit of daydream. “Right, night patrol. What do I need to know?”

He sat in his chair. (Well, the chair Snape thought of as his.)

“There are two methods, Potter. You can be seen and heard, thereby discouraging students from sneaking about, or you can use stealth and catch them at it.”

“No use asking which you prefer,” joked Harry, probably remembering Snape materializing out of the darkness, his wand suddenly lit, scaring the life out of him.

Snape chuckled. “I am naturally quiet. What would you have me do, whistle loudly as I walk about? I just use the method best suited to my nature. Hagrid walks around sounding as loud as a herd of hippogriffs. Both ways work…”

“All right,” conceded Harry.

“Contrary to the students’ belief, one does not patrol alone. Monitoring the corridor is also the duty of the Houses’ ghosts.”

“What?”

“Yes, they float around all night and regularly report infractions to the teacher on duty. If the perpetrators are from their own House, they warn them of the impending arrival of the patrolling teacher and send them scrambling back to their dorms, reinforcing the students’ impression of House unity. If the students are from other Houses, they make themselves known and warn the students that they are about to report them, which results in the exact same scrambling. It’s an excellent system. Regardless, the ghosts immediately apprise the teacher of the situation and, using a few shortcuts, the teacher arrives in time to give the wayward students a good fright, usually only seeing the back of them as they flee for their lives.”

“I can’t remember how many times I thought Nick saved me from being caught. And all this time he was working for the Man… I feel so let down,” admitted Harry, chuckling.

Severus was suddenly brought back to those days. “Your school years were different, Mr. Potter, especially during your second and third years,” he recalled thoughtfully. “You were in actual danger. It took a bit of the fun away from the experience, I assure you, for those of us in charge of keeping you alive.”

He looked up and realized Harry looked uncomfortable, which had been the farthest thing from his goal. He could have kicked himself for having brought up a time where their relationship had been one of hatred and animosity. It was so long ago.

He cut Harry off before he could say anything and added lightheartedly, “Of course, you always had the unfair advantage of that damn Invisibility Cloak, though your heart usually beat so loudly one almost always knew you were there.”

Harry looked at him pensively, his eyes full of unsaid things, and Snape, unsure whether he wanted them said or not, decided to bring back the topic at hand.

“The castle is full of secret passageways, supposedly known only to teachers. If you are done with your tea, I’ll give you a tour.”

“All right,” said Harry. “I am afraid I know quite a few of them already,” he admitted sheepishly.

“By the time they leave here, most students are familiar with almost every one, amazingly, but by then, they are usually old enough to decide their bedtime for themselves, I think. The third, fourth, and fifth years are the main trouble. Old enough not to be terrified of the castle at night, yet too young to have their priorities in order.”

They left Snape’s rooms and walked along the corridor to the kitchen.

“This,” he said, pointing to the painting of the fruit basket that hid the entrance to the kitchen, “and a few secluded and romantic spots, are their main destinations.”

He stopped in front of the portrait of three house-elves playing pick-up sticks. They scrambled to their feet and bowed, smiling at Severus.

“Headmaster Snape, we is happy to see you back, sir.”

“Potter, this is Mac, Tiddle, and Miri. They have been monitoring this corridor for over four hundred years.”

“Coach Potter, sir. You has lost the Sorting game, then,” said the shortest one, looking sympathetic.

“Four out of thirty-seven,” chuckled Snape.

The elves considered that dismal score for a moment. “You will do better next year, sir,” said one of the elves consolingly.

“You could not do much worse, sir,” added another one, nodding gravely, apparently meaning it as an encouragement.

Harry laughed. “From the mouths of elves…” he said.

“They work with the other portraits, and make sure the students go straight back to their common rooms. If they do, we ignore them. There is little harm in a midnight snack. The kitchen elves are encouraged to be generous. Teenagers are always hungry.”

Harry was astounded. He had always thought of a trip to the kitchen as a daring adventure. To know that it was expected and tolerated was quite disheartening.

They moved on. Snape took him to all the obscure recesses where students liked to hold their romantic assignations.

“You have to monitor these constantly,” he explained seriously. “Students should not be given more than fifteen minutes at a stretch without disturbance. The ghosts are good at that. Needless to say, this is one case where stealth is not advised. You should make your presence known.

“I usually approach with my wand at full Lumos. They can see me coming from quite far. Filius likes to sing. Trelawney talks to herself. Whatever you do, give them some warning, but note who they are, and do take points. If the same pairing recurs more than three or four times, they will get a little talk from their Head of House. We make allowances for hormones, but they are here to get an education and we need to encourage their focus to remain mostly on their studies.”

Harry silently recalled his seventh year. He had dated… a lot, and was familiar with most of the discreet corners Snape was showing him. There had been constant interruptions to his romantic activities, which had kept them both exciting and quite innocent. He had not lost his virginity until after leaving school, and it certainly had not been for lack of trying. Now he would be on the other side of it. What a job!

He was indeed familiar with all the secret passages Snape was using to move from one end of the castle to the other, the reason the patrolling could be handled by only one teacher every night. He was amazed, however, to find out that in each hallway there was a portrait in charge of monitoring. Without Invisibility Cloaks, the students really did not stand a chance.

After almost an hour, Snape and Harry’s steps led them to the front hall. Argus Filch was there, sitting in a comfortable armchair wearing simple but nice light brown robes, his clean hair in a queue, reading a Charms book. He stood up at their arrival.

“Headmaster, Coach Potter. How are you, sirs?”

“Very well, Mister Filch. Any miscreants about this evening?” asked Snape.

Filch smiled, something he did quite frequently these days. “None outside of the two of you, sir, but the night’s still young, I daresay. The pitch is so tempting this time a year, the nights still warm and all…”

“I am about to show Potter Rowena’s corridor. Care to join us? You are able to use it now, you know.”

Filch looked suddenly pleased. “Right you are, Headmaster. Hadn’t thought of that!” He looked as excited as a child.

“What’s Rowena’s corridor?” asked Harry.

Snape walked to the statue of a knight in full armor standing guard next to a large tapestry.

“It is a fully magical hallway created entirely of Wizard space by Rowena Ravenclaw. It opens and allows passage only to wizards who have come of age. Apparently, she disliked children and avoided them if at all possible.” He stepped aside. “Mr. Filch, would you do the honors?”

Filch came to stand in front of the statue and pointed to the stone cross on the knight’s chest. “Here?”

“Precisely.”

Filch pressed his hand to it. The statue took life and bowed slightly, letting them into a wide hallway that had appeared out of nowhere.

“From here, you can go to a similar knight near each of the common rooms’ entrances with only a few minutes’ walk. You can also go to the library, the owlery, and the Astronomy Tower, our current destination,” explained Snape as they entered.

Indeed, after a couple of right-angle turns, and in less than five minutes, they were stepping out into the clear September night on the parapet of Hogwarts’ tallest tower.

“I love magic,” commented Filch, echoing Harry’s thoughts exactly.

“The students can’t even see the entrances, even if they are wide open,” explained Snape. He smiled evilly. “Nothing unsettles them more than to be chased away from here, run back to their common rooms using every shortcut they know, and find you waiting tranquilly for them in front of their own door.” He chuckled. “I’ve always found it highly amusing.”

Harry could not even imagine the Snape he remembered playing this sort of game.

“Headmaster,” said Filch in a soft voice, pointing to a dark recess where a young couple was kissing rather enthusiastically. “That’s a sixth year Ravenclaw, Heather Montgomery, and one of yours, sir, Spencer Lewis.”

“Ha, but Mr. Filch, they are all mine, now…” answered Snape, equally quietly.

“Right you are, sir.” Filch’s grin said he was not buying that for a second.

Snape stepped forward into the moonlight and said rather theatrically, “This, Mr. Potter, is the less imaginative students’ favorite place of assignation. Oh, look over there! Do I see someone in that alcove?”

Within seconds, the two young people had disappeared down the staircase, their steps resonating in the confined space.

Filch and Harry could not help laughing. Snape, a smirk on his lips, grandly gestured them back into the magical hallway.

“I’ll go back to the front hall and get back to my book, if you don’t mind, and let you both get on with it,” said Filch, still amused, as he took a hallway that had appeared off the main corridor as he spoke.

Snape stopped and looked at Harry. “So, shall you go and intercept our young Ravenclaw or accompany me to the Slytherin common room?” he asked.

“I’m with you,” said Harry. “I don’t want to miss seeing the Master at work.”

That was the answer Snape had been hoping for. Within minutes they were in the dungeons. Harry stayed back a little as Snape nonchalantly positioned himself in the shadows next to the entrance to the Slytherins’ domain. Soon hurried footsteps could be heard, and a young man arrived at a full run, skidding to an abrupt halt when Snape’s wand suddenly lit to reveal him, a shoulder resting against the wall, examining his fingernails. The astonishment on the student’s face was priceless.

“Five points from Slytherin, Mr. Lewis,” he said coolly, not even bothering to look up.

“But, sir…”

Snape, deigning to give an appraising glance, raised a questioning eyebrow. “Mr. Lewis?”

The young man, flustered, seemed to gather up his courage. “My mum said you never take points off Slytherin, sir.”

Snape took his time in answering, directing his most reproving glare at him. “I do so with great displeasure, I assure you, and I would be… most disappointed to have to do so again on your account, Mr. Lewis. But that will not occur, am I correct?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean…”

“Dismissed, Lewis.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

As the young man was about to enter the Slytherin common room Snape added, “A Ravenclaw, Mr. Lewis?”

“She is brilliant, sir,” Lewis responded, thrilled at Snape’s minute show of interest. “Really.”

“I should hope so,” he answered. “She just cost us five points.” And he let his lips show the smallest of smirks.

Spencer Lewis’ face lit up, but recognizing the dismissal, he closed the door behind him.

Potter came out of the shadows. “How do you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?” asked Snape, nonplussed.

“You scare the heck out of him, take points off, threaten him, and yet he leaves ready to lay his life down for you. You have a gift, you know.”

Potter’s admiration seemed genuine. Snape was touched.

“Slytherins are easy, for me.” He shrugged. “I know how they think. Your lot is a mystery. They will soon hate me just as much as you did, you’ll see.”

“No one could ever hate you as much as I did,” blurted Harry, his tone heartrendingly bitter. He immediately looked as if he wished he could disappear into the floor.

Snape met the appalled green eyes and held them, wanting more than anything to ease Potter’s distress. What could he possibly say? Their past would always be there, unchangeable. That it should still be so raw in Harry’s mind was painful.

“Would it help if I told you I regretted my behavior towards you in those years?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Potter took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds as he thought about it. He sighed. “Yes,” he admitted honestly. “I think it would.”

“There are only very few things in my life that I regret more,” Snape said, truthfully. “At the time, however, I was utterly incapable of acting any other way. It is no excuse,” he added sadly, “but it is the truth.”

They stared at each other for a long time, Harry’s expression, for once, unreadable. Then he smiled, a small wistful smile.

“Well,” he said, effectively putting an end to their intense interaction, “you like me now.”

That I do, Mr. Potter. That I do. But he would not let himself betray his feelings so glaringly again.

“Your company is not overly tiresome,” he answered dismissively.

Harry laughed, hard. At least he got his jokes, now. They started walking away together.

“Shall we break for tea?” asked Snape, gesturing Harry in the direction of his rooms.

“I would like that very much,” he answered. “What time is my shift over?”

“During the week, it is generally safe to assume the worst of the mischief will be over by midnight. You are on call all night, but you can certainly retire by then. The ghosts will come and get you, if need be. At the weekend, I usually do a last check around two o’clock. It is tedious, but necessary. I must confess, though, that I never disliked patrol duty as much as some of our colleagues. I enjoy the quiet. I like the pacing. It’s helped keep me grounded at some extremely difficult times in my life.”

He shrugged, annoyed at himself. Why did the past keep resurging tonight? He was grateful to reach his door, which opened smoothly for them. A wave of his hand refreshed the tea tray.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Potter?”

“Of course.”

Snape went to his bedchamber, closing the door behind himself, and got rid of his extra clothing, glad to shed the constraining waistcoat and robes and happy to feel the ground under his bare feet.

In the bathroom, washing his hands, he stared detachedly at his reflection for a moment. He traced the permanent vertical crease on his forehead between his brows.

His face was gaunt, his features stark and unlovely. He removed the tie in his hair and let the hair fall forward. It did not help at all; his nose was still like a beak, his eyes still a relentless black, his mouth still thin and framed by deep grooves.

Potter was so beautiful. So, so beautiful. He passed a tired hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. He imagined himself walking back into his sitting room, walking right to the younger man, brushing aside the teacup in his hand, and kissing him, their bodies pressed together, his hands framing the beautiful, beautiful face, his tongue tasting the sensuous lips.

The ache of his want was a physical thing, a stabbing in his solar plexus, a tightening in his gut. Like a moth to a flame, he was already longing to go back, to burn himself on that beauty. He took a deep breath, pushed his hair behind his ears, and without another look to the man in his mirror, returned to his addiction.

~o~ The Past is Over ~o~

Harry watched Snape disappear into his bedroom, their last exchange filling his mind. He had thought, honestly thought, he had gotten over the past, but as it kept coming up this evening it had become obvious that he had been overly optimistic.

His outburst had only shown how close his hurt and anger at Snape were to the surface, still. He did not know how to handle Snape’s response. He believed the man’s regrets. He just could not understand why he had been ‘utterly incapable of acting any other way’.

He took off his robes, laying them carefully on the back of the couch. The room was warmer than the drafty corridors and he wanted to relax for a while. He got himself a cup of tea and stood in front of the fireplace, sipping it and staring at the flames.

He felt suddenly bone weary and wished he could go home and to his bed. He was not sure he could handle his attraction to Snape tonight. He felt unbalanced, torn by the dichotomy of his feelings. On one hand, he still childishly wanted to rage at him—for the unnecessary hurt his attitude has caused, for the pain he had so gleefully inflicted, for the loneliness he had left behind when he had abandoned his post without explanation. On the other, he wanted to follow him behind that door, wanted to drown in his dark eyes, to feel his arms around him, to kiss him senseless.

He made a quick decision and, returning his half emptied cup to the tray, put his robes back on.

Snape came out of his room a few minutes later. Having shed his public persona, he looked perfect to Harry. (Severus’ bare feet had become a central feature of Harry’s nighttime fantasies.) Harry could see his surprise that Harry was still wearing his robes and standing, instead of being comfortably ensconced in his chair.

“I am feeling pretty tired,” Harry explained. “I think I’ll make my last round now and go to bed. I’m sorry. The day seems to have caught up with me all of a sudden. Thank you for the help, tonight.”

Snape’s expression was, as usual, unreadable. Harry had no idea if he even cared about Harry’s rather abrupt change of heart.

“It is the first evening back. I am quite sure you will not find any more delinquents. You should be glad you won’t be on call tomorrow night. I am sure Sinistra will have her hands full. Good night, then, Potter.”

“Good night, Snape. See you tomorrow.”

As Harry was closing the door behind him, he could have sworn he heard a heavy sigh from the man inside. Was it one of relief? Annoyance? Possibly just plain weariness after an eventful day?

He left, letting his steps take him on a complex loop that passed most of the important nooks and recesses before leading him back to the Gryffindor tower and his own quarters. He wished classes were starting in the morning, was eager to establish a routine.

Oh, well. Tomorrow, he would get up and train, and go to the east wing. Surely there would be some adult students eager for a private lesson, or a pick-up game of Quidditch. He would invite himself to Ron and Hermione’s for the evening.

For reasons he could not comprehend, he needed to lie low and lick his wounds, though he was unclear as to what these wounds were. For the first time in weeks he felt the need to distance himself from Severus Snape. He went to bed uneasy, slightly headachy, and wondered if he would have problems falling asleep. But as soon as he was in the dark his thoughts became sluggish and out of focus, and he soon sank into a deep, dreamless slumber.

By the time he went to breakfast the next day, he was feeling more at ease and relaxed. He lightheartedly described Snape’s interaction with the wayward Slytherin student to Neville and Dermott, who laughed appreciatively.

“I never thought of using Rowena’s corridor during my rounds. After all, the point is to monitor the students, and they can’t get in there. I’ll have to try it,” said Neville, who then added wistfully, “though I don’t imagine I can pull it off with quite Snape’s flair…”

“I know what you mean, Neville,” said Dermott. “Neither could I, I don’t think. The students think of us as people. We just don’t have that aura of dangerous omnipotence that he projects.”

“Dangerous omnipotence?” laughed Harry.

“Yes, you know, that ‘I can read you mind, I know all your secrets’ thing he has going. They would just laugh at us…”

All three of them looked towards the Headmaster. Not a second later, he was looking back over the spine of his book, an eyebrow slightly raised, but then, dismissing them completely, he went back to his reading.

“See what I mean?” chuckled Dermott.

“Well, it’s easy for you to laugh, you never had him as a teacher,” commented Neville.

“Was he really as bad as all that?” asked Dermott.

“Worse,” answered Harry and Neville in perfect unison, which started them laughing, albeit briefly, as they were aware of the presence of the students and the need for decorum.

Already, curious eyes had turned to the staff table, taking in the laughing teachers.

“And that is why,” commented Harry, “unlike him, we will never be able to keep them completely enthralled.” He shrugged. “Oh, well.”

He looked again, briefly, at Snape. He loved his profile, his darkness. He wondered what he was reading.

“I was utterly incapable of acting any other way…”

Why had that been? Because Snape had despised him? Because he had hated James Potter? Because he had loved Lily, and she had given up her life to save his? Because protecting Harry had forced him to play a double agent role he hated? Because eyes had been on Snape at all times, ready to report his every misstep to Voldemort? Because Snape had been, himself, so miserably unhappy in those years, he had been unable to care?

Harry took a deep breath. Probably all of the above were true. He knew nothing of the man Snape had been, nothing of the life he had led. Who knew what else the Potions Master had endured in those years? Who was he to judge, really? Harry was no longer a child. He knew now that things were not always simple. He certainly did not understand his own actions on occasion.

Suddenly, Harry felt as if a weight had been taken off his mind, as if a page had been finally turned, the past really put to rest at last. Snape regretted his actions. He would not repeat them. What more was Harry waiting for? Just like that, while sitting at breakfast on what promised to be a beautiful day, watching Snape’s Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat as he drank his tea without taking his eyes off his book, Harry forgave Severus Snape, absolutely and completely.

With perfect timing, Snape looked at him again above the rim of his book and met his eyes. Harry could not help but give him a wholehearted smile which, to his secret delight, caused Snape to briefly lose his perfect countenance, almost dropping his book in his porridge.

By the time Severus looked up again, Harry made sure he was absorbed in conversation with Neville, even though he was only asking him how his grandmother was. But he felt Snape’s questioning glance as clearly as if he had seen it.

Harry and Neville went to Narcissa’s office together, though she was off to London and Lucius for the weekend, Neville to check the coming week’s schedule and Harry to see if there were any names down on the pick-up Quidditch roster. He was elated to see that there were eight. He went home to change and was on the pitch at nine, the appointed time, ready to play.

He spent the afternoon and evening with the Weasleys. First he was put in charge of covering the children’s schoolbooks with butcher paper and Spellotape, a chore Ron and Hermione both despised. Molly, after years of training, could do it with a flick of her wand, but neither of them had bothered to get the hang of it, and Harry enjoyed the task, finding it as soothing as the wrapping of presents. He loved the feel and sound of the sharp scissors cutting the thick paper, the origami of getting the creases just right, and the peeling and careful placing off of the self-sticking labels on which he had spelled the children’s names and the books’ titles in a pleasing round calligraphy. He made two piles, the edges of the spines perfectly lined up, and looked at them with a ridiculous sense of accomplishment. Ron took in the scene and chuckled.

“You need to get a hobby, mate,” was his comment.

“I need to get a life,” answered Harry. But when Rosie Lu checked the results of his hard labor, her sweet exclamations of delight at the perfect corners and at the pretty handwriting made him glad he had bothered.

He loved both of his friends’ children, but admitted (only to himself) he had a definite sweet spot for Rose Luna. When she came to thank him with a kiss, he pulled her onto his lap and tickled her just to hear her delightful childish giggle and hugged her tight until she squealed, still laughing, “Let me go, Uncle Harry! I can’t breathe!” With a last raspberry in her soft neck he let her go, watching her run off to her next adventure, a graceful little slip of a thing.

Then he took his usual trouncing at chess, Ron all the while explaining to his son all the mistakes Harry was making. At the end, Hugo looked at him with pity. “You are really pants at chess, Uncle Harry,” he commented, very seriously.

“I know, Hugo. But if you learn to play well, maybe someday you can beat your dad.”

“No one can beat my daddy,” the small boy stated with complete certainty. “He is the best.”

“Well, then maybe you can at least be a worthier opponent.”

He could have sworn he heard the child mumble under his breath, as he walked away, “Well, that shouldn’t be too hard,” which was confirmed when Ron commented, “From the mouths of babes…” He and Ron just laughed.

In the late afternoon, taking advantage of the lovely weather, they went for a long hike on the moors. They had a picnic for dinner on top of a round hill that afforded a great view of the distant castle. As the sun began to set, they Apparated back to the gates and walked home from there, Harry carrying Rosie Lu in his arms, a little rag doll in her slumber.

After putting the kids to bed, they sat down in the comfy living room and talked quietly of nothing in particular. Just as Harry was about to take his leave to give his best friends some time alone, however, Hermione asked him how he was faring with the DADA syllabi. He was glad to be able to tell her that he was finished with seven of the twenty he had to complete and had so far kept up with the reviewing of those that had been turned in to him by the other instructors.

“Twenty!” exclaimed Ron. “I’d no idea you had to write so many!”

“It’s a huge amount of work, really,” agreed Harry. “We are basically writing seven books, one for each year, each covering all seventeen topics.”

“Better you than me, mate,” said Ron.

“I am actually enjoying it,” admitted Harry, still surprised at the fact. “I am learning so much, and it’s fascinating stuff, you know?”

“Watch out, Harry, you’re starting to sound like Hermione.” Ron was rewarded by a (none-too-gentle) punch in the arm from his wife.

“I always knew you had it in you, Harry,” she put in.

“Liar,” he said.

“Ok, I sometimes suspected you might be less hopeless than you appeared. Truthful enough for you?”

They laughed.

“It’s weird, really. I never thought I would enjoy learning for learning’s sake. You’d think I would have figured that out in school.”

“Well, you spend your first six years fighting Voldemort and your last one chasing girls,” Hermione pointed out quite accurately. “I guess your mind was elsewhere.”

“A bit of an exaggeration,” answered Harry ruefully, “but true enough, I suppose.”

“What’s it like working with Snape?” asked Ron, curious.

“Motivating,” admitted Harry. “His overview of the course was brilliant, really. We added a few things to it, but his grasp on the Dark Arts is remarkable. And his Antidotes and Antivenins section is just amazing. He is spoon-feeding it to the rest of us, doing ninety percent of the work. He really knows his stuff. You want to put out your best work as well, you know? You want to keep up.”

He sat back, and added reflectively. “You know, Ron, you have to admit, even when we hated him, back in school, we always worked harder in Potions than in anything else.”

“True,” admitted Ron.

“Well,” grinned Harry, “it’s the same now, except that once in a while I get a ‘Well done, Potter.’ Shocks me every time!”

Hermione giggled. “I know what you mean,” she said. “Even after all these years, I genuinely crave his approval. It’s ridiculous.”

“Do you guys ever talk about the past?” wondered Ron.

“It comes up once in a while,” said Harry, the previous evening’s event fresh in his mind. “Not a favorite subject, obviously. But believe it or not, I’m over it.’

“Really?” asked Hermione, astonished.

“Yes. The past is past.” He shrugged. “He was a git, I was a brat. We’ve both grown up, I guess. I respect the man he is now, and I think he feels the same. A good thing, too, seeing neither one of us is going anywhere soon.”

“I am really glad you feel that way, Harry. You both belong here, somehow, you know?”

Harry smiled at her. She was such a Gryffindor. “Ready for Monday?” he asked.

“I can’t wait,” she answered.

“Gee, thanks,” piped Ron.

Far from mortified, Hermione sent him a sultry look. “By the time I am done with you,” she purred, “you’ll be looking forward to a restful Monday too, Weasley.”

“And that would be my cue to exit,” said Harry laughing, getting up from the couch.

Hermione and Ron walked him to the door. “See you tomorrow?” asked Hermione.

“Not unless you spend the day in the library,” he answered. “I’ve got syllabi to research.”

“Boooriiing…” said Ron.

Harry laughed. “Good night, you two.”

He took the stairs up to his rooms two at a time. He did have a lot of work to do, and he intended to do it well. He was in bed by ten, looking forward to eight hours of sleep before training.

He wasn’t exactly tired, but knew just how to get himself relaxed enough to go to sleep quickly. It had to do with his right hand and thoughts of a tall dark man: of his walk, his profile, his voice, his hands, his eyes, his toes, haaaaa… Yes.

~o~ Back to Work ~o~

Snape watched Harry leave his quarters, resigned. He sighed. Reaping what he had sowed, all these years ago.

“No one could ever hate you as much as I did.”

Except maybe himself, right now. No, that wasn’t true. He did not even hate the man he had been. He accepted him. He recognized, in hindsight, the necessity of what he had done, to himself, to others. He had made a terrible mistake, had spent eighteen years atoning for it and ten years making repayment in the best way he knew how. It was enough, damn it.

Well, it might balance out in the big picture, but it did not when it came to individuals. And there was nothing he could do about it. Potter would get over it or he would not. It was completely out of his control. He gave a thought to Longbottom. He wondered what that man thought of him, really. Was there anger, like Potter’s, beneath the amiable surface? Was the veneer simply thicker?

He Banished the tea, took a sip of Dreamless Sleep, and went to bed.

He had known to expect a solitary breakfast the next morning, since Minerva had gone to Little Whinging for the weekend and Granger would be eating in her quarters with her family. He had brought a book on ghosts, having decided which syllabus he would work on next, and was surprised to find out how little he knew about the subject.

He had just made the decision to have a chat with the Bloody Baron later that day when he realized he was being observed. He looked up automatically to find Longbottom, Potter, and McClallan staring at him. He brought his eyes back to his book, not even wanting to consider what in the world could have brought that on.

Potter looked good this morning, just out of the shower, obviously, and wearing the green t-shirt under his opened robes that brought out the color in his eyes. Snape almost snorted to himself. He had looked up for less than three seconds. He certainly had no idea what the other two were wearing, or whether their hair was still damp. He went back to his ghosts, or tried to. Potter, Potter, Potter. He was getting bored with himself and his obsession. He was indulging in it far too often.

He replayed Harry’s exit from his quarters the night before in his mind. He would do well to dwell on that for a while, and get hold of himself. He had a life to live, a job to do. There were more important things in the world than Potter’s t-shirts. So, one last look, and…

Above the spine of his book his eyes met Potter’s, and Harry smiled that smile… His book slipped out of his hands and he barely caught it before it landed in his porridge. He looked up at Harry again but he was just chatting away with Longbottom, curse him. What did that smile mean? (It looked as if it meant, “I want to see you naked,” but Snape was quite sure that was a mistranslation on his part.) Please God, let it at least mean, “If you invite me to your quarters for tea again, I will come, and this time actually sit down and drink some.” Severus was quite sure it did, and he found that he had no further trouble concentrating on his reading, feeling suddenly at peace with the world.

Snape did not see Potter again until Sunday night’s dinner. It was a raucous affair, the students loud and excited. It would be a very good thing for classes to start and channel their wayward energies.

Potter spent the meal with his nose in a book, taking occasional notes in the margins (Snape hoped, for Harry’s sake, that it was not one of Pince’s…), and left immediately after pudding, looking like a man with places to go. Who could have guessed that Potter would turn out to be such a bookworm? Snape wondered which syllabi he was working on now. He had seemed quite absorbed.

He refused to spend the evening sitting in his reading chair, a book opened on his lap, trying to think up excuses to invite Potter for “drinks” after dinner in the coming week. Instead he got up and rifled through the pile of Antidotes and Antivenins syllabi that had been turned in for him to review. That he selected Potter’s (even though it had been buried in the pile) was entirely coincidental.

It was excellent. It read as if Potter had actually consulted and understood every reference book Snape had provided. Could that be? Severus thought the topic fascinating, but he was well aware it was not an opinion shared by many. Yet there were a couple of details in Potter’s examples he was sure he had not provided in the outline.

On one of the last pages, he noticed a small illustration in his own hand. He stared at it, intrigued. Well, it had been rather good, to be sure, but how had Potter lifted it from the original? And why? He could have just copied it, it wasn’t that involved, and certainly less trouble than to find a spell to transfer it. Snape felt unaccountably gratified, and cursed himself for it. When had he ever cared about someone else’s opinion of his work, especially about something as insignificant as a small graph? It was a neat trick, though. He would ask Granger about it. It could definitely come in handy.

Breakfast the next morning was less hectic than the usual first day of term breakfast, as the schedules had been distributed on Saturday morning. Snape had arrived bright and early and greeted the teachers as they came in. Some, like Flitwick and Minerva, were completely relaxed. Others definitely showed first day jitters. Poor Cassandra Batgut was a nervous wreck and hardly touched her food. Potter seemed completely oblivious, his nose, once again, in a book.

Severus had caught sight of him above the pitch long before breakfast and had had to make a conscious effort not to stop running and stare. He wondered if Potter would keep up his intense training schedule now that school was on. As it was, he would have a busy week. The new equipment was due to arrive, and would have to be inventoried and organized. At least Quidditch would not start for a couple of weeks. Thinking of Potter reminded him of his syllabi. He turned to Hermione, who seemed absorbed in her own course’s outline.

“Granger?”

“Professor Snape?”

“I was reviewing Potter’s Antidotes and Antivenins syllabus yesterday and I was wondering what spell he used to transfer the graph from the outline to the final text.”

Hermione looked extremely confused. “I’m sorry, I have no idea,” she answered.

Snape was taken aback. “Oh. I’d assumed he’d got it from you…”

She gave him a look he would have been proud to include in his own repertoire. “It might surprise you to learn that Harry has not once consulted me about any of his work with the DADA syllabi, Headmaster. One might wonder about the significance of your immediate assumption that he had.” She straightened out the edge of her pile of papers on the table with a sharp rap, got up, and left without another word.

Her rebuke was clear, and Snape felt properly chastised. He suddenly understood that she had all along continued to address him as “Professor Snape” as a sort of endearment. He was shocked to find how chagrined he was that she should suddenly use his proper title.

Flitwick watched her go and sauntered over to take her place. “Well, Severus, what did you say to Miss Granger to put her knickers in such a twist?”

Snape shrugged. “She feels I have insulted Mr. Potter’s intelligence, I believe.”

“You? Underrating Harry Potter’s intellect? Shocking!” answered Filius chuckling, to Snape’s annoyance.

“I wasn’t!”

Filius rolled his eyes. Snape could not believe it. Did people still think he disliked and underestimated Harry? How laughable! He had tried to be discreet about his feelings for the man. Obviously, he had been brilliantly successful.

Surely Granger’s behavior was a typical Gryffindor overreaction. He certainly had not meant to imply that Potter… He knew Harry was intelligent, and he also knew him to be extremely diligent in his work.

He raised his eyes to check the young man, whose attention to his reading had not wavered. Then why had he made that assumption so readily? Old habits died hard. No, Granger had not overreacted. She had been right. Hmm.

Suddenly the Slytherin in him woke up and rejoiced. Snape got up to leave. As he passed Potter, he stopped and hovered. The bright green eyes looked up and a smile automatically appeared on Harry’s lips. How nice.

“Good morning, Headmaster.”

He acknowledged the greeting with a nod. “I would be interested to learn more about the spell you used to transfer my illustration to your syllabus, Potter. It could be very useful.”

“I would be happy to tell you about it,” said Harry getting up as well, “but I must get to the pitch, or I will be late for class.”

“No hurry. I can certainly wait until later.”

Potter hesitated and chewed on his lip for a second, then he said quickly, without looking at Snape, “I am free this evening…”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at eight.” Snape strode away towards his office, the students parting like the sea in front of him, leaving Harry to gather books and papers behind him. Snape did not smile. Merlin forbid the dunderheads should think it was directed at them.

~o~ A Coach’s Life ~o~

The first few weeks of school were a blur to Harry. He had thought August had been busy, but September gave new meaning to the word. He was infinitely glad he was in superb physical condition, and held on to his training routine as to a lifeline.

On top of his regular teaching schedule, the first two weeks were occupied with receiving, cataloguing, and organizing equipment, in which Filch’s help was invaluable.

The four teams held tryouts the third weekend of the month, all of them eager to get started with training. Though Harry supervised, and readily discussed the potential players’ strengths with the captains, he withheld any advice as to the choices they made. He did think that in general their decisions were sound, though he was amused by the differences in reasoning between the team captains, finding them very colored by their House affiliations.

The Hufflepuffs ended up with several alternates to each position, everyone being given a chance. The Gryffindor captain chose the new Beater who would best fit in with the rest of team, and not the most talented one, who was a bit of a hot shot (reminding Harry of McLaggen), and retained the rest of the previous year’s selection. The Slytherin captain (“Well, hello, Mr. Lewis…”) was looking at each individual’s talent and strength, but acceded to his best player’s preference, the Keeper’s talent apparently giving him a right of veto. The Ravenclaw captain, seeking his third Cup in a row, was very sharp. Three of his teammates having left the previous year, he knew his was an uphill battle.

He approached Harry casually during the trials and mentioned he had seen him training in the mornings. “Do you intend to continue all year, sir?”

“Yes. It helps keep me sane.”

“Would you mind company, sir?”

Harry was taken aback. “I think of it as time for myself, Mr. Lennox. I will be available to help you train your team during your regular practice time.”

“Of course, sir. I was not suggesting…”

“What were you suggesting, then?”

The young man blushed but forged on. “Ravenclaws are bookworms, sir. I was thinking that, maybe, those interested in improving their physical condition could benefit from daily exercise. We could train alongside you, sir, not be trained by you.”

“And you think your teammates would get up at five in the cold and dark morning to do that?”

“I would, sir,” Lennox answered vehemently.

“I’ll think about it.”

The young man, intelligently, did not push.

“Thank you, sir.”

Lennox picked his three new players. Looking at them—a lanky thirteen-year-old girl and two skinny and slightly gawky fourteen-year-old boys—Harry could see the captain’s point. He also knew the kind of self-discipline it took to stick to the type of program he himself followed, and reasoned that no matter how many of the children would start, most of them would drop out within a few days. Anyone dedicated enough to stick it out would probably not give him much trouble.

A few days later, he met with all four captains to work out a fair allotment of the pitch for their training schedule. They grumbled when they were told it was off limits to them on Sundays, as it was reserved for pick-up games for the Adult Students.

Harry thought it would have the added benefit of insuring that the team members would have at least one Quidditch-free day to catch up with their studies. At the end of the meeting, he made his announcement.

“I train at five-0-five every weekday morning, and at seven on the weekends. Starting next Monday, any player in the teams who is willing is free to join me.” That certainly got their attention. “The exercises are for physical conditioning, not Quidditch proper. I will not be giving anyone individual attention or Quidditch-related advice.”

He sighed. “I enjoy the peace and quiet of training alone. I am willing to give that up, but I will expect participants to be committed. If you miss more than two days’ training in a row, you will not be welcomed back, unless you were in the infirmary. Oh, and I do not want to see any team colors, and House rivalries will not be tolerated.” He made eye contact with all four captains. “Tell your teammates, but do not coerce them. This definitely has to be their choice. Frankly, at your age I wouldn’t have done it,” he added ruefully. “It was hard enough to make it to breakfast.”

He noticed their reflective look as they tried to reconcile with the fact that their adult teacher had once been in their place. He smiled at them.

“You know, when I was a wee student here at Hogwarts,” he teased. “When the dinosaurs still roamed the earth…” They all laughed a little sheepishly at that.

“The dinosaurs and Voldemort,” said Lewis, his eyes cautious, as if he had wanted to bring this up for a long time but was wary of offending.

Harry was surprised. None of the students had ever referred to his past in such an open manner. He did not know what to say. He gave Lewis a small smile to let him know his remark had not offended him.

“All of which are now mercifully extinct,” he replied, putting a quiet but firm end to the subject. Then he added, purposely cheerful, “Whereas Quidditch, of course, will live on forever.” They all chuckled again and, on that lighter note, disbanded.

Harry’s second patrol night had been on a Monday night and completely uneventful. After his first two rounds, he had gone back to his quarters to get one of his syllabi and had continued his tour of duty reading Flitwick’s work on Wand Lore, which was spotless. He reflected wistfully upon the fact that he had only been to Snape’s once since his very first rounds in his company. It had been the evening he had shown him the charm to reproduce sketches. The spell was a little tricky, but not that complicated once you got the hang of it.

“Why did you not just reproduce it?” had asked Snape, curious.

“Uh… Yours was very… nice? (Harry had felt a little uncomfortable at that point, but had opted, as he often did in these cases, to simply be truthful.) I wasn’t sure I could copy it and retain its… purity of line? Elegance?”

Snape’s face had been unreadable, of course, but he’d nodded. His next question had left Harry even more flustered.

“Wouldn’t a spell to remove the sketch completely from the original and place it in the new document be simpler?”

Which it would, of course. But Harry had wanted to keep Snape’s original outline intact. “Uh… I did not want the original damaged.”

“The outline? Why? You’re finished with it, aren’t you?”

Now Harry had felt truly awkward. What reasonable excuse could he have to want to keep the original outline, and keep it unmolested? The truth just would not do. (Snape’s outline had found its way into the box that contained his mother’s letter, Snape’s Potions diary, and Harry’s other irreplaceable valuables.) So he had lied.

“Oh, I just was curious to see if it could be done. I found the simple spell to move the sketch from one place to another, and it got me wondering, you know, so… Too much time on my hands, obviously,” he finished lamely.

Snape had simply nodded again and the conversation had moved on. Since Harry had had the foresight to bring some work along, they had spent a quiet and companionable evening together, Harry leaving around ten, needing his sleep.

After that, there just hadn’t been any occasion to meet. Harry was so busy, and he assumed Snape was as well.

When he found himself doing his third night of patrolling, still not having had an evening alone with Snape, he wondered what to do about it. He missed the dungeons, and Snape’s tea. (Harry smiled to himself. Yes: just the dungeons and the tea, of course…) He did not take a syllabus along on his rounds but simply used the time trying to find a suitable excuse to precipitate an invitation. He wondered, with a bit of trepidation, if he simply should dare knock on the man’s door tonight and invite himself for a cuppa. Quite sure he would not have the nerve, he nonetheless rehearsed an imaginary conversation in his mind.

“Good evening, Snape. I was just passing your door on my rounds and thought you might be so kind as to spot me a cup of your wonderful tea… Patrolling is such thirsty work!”

He mentally kicked himself. He was such an idiot. Even to him the imaginary guilelessness was cloyingly obvious. Where was his inner Slytherin tonight? He was still berating himself when he turned a corner and practically ran into the object of his mental meanderings.

“Snape!” he squeaked. Oh, for Merlin’s sake! He cleared his throat. “Snape.” There, two octaves lower, and with a modicum of self-control.

“Potter.”

Damn the man and his ironic facial hair! “Patrol duty tonight?”

“Yes. A quiet night. You?”

Did Harry imagine a slight hesitation?

“Just a stroll. Would you like some company on this round?”

Harry shrugged casually, glad his inner Slytherin had made an appearance at last. “Sure.”

They walked a long circuitous route, which took them past every possible hiding place in the castle, in complete silence, while Harry’s heart and several of his other internal organs had a little party, with singing and dancing. He was such a fool, he thought, smiling to himself. They were back where they’d started, near the library.

“Would you like a break?” asked Snape. “A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Yes!” Oh, for magic sake’s. Could he possibly sound more eager? “Yes, I would, thank you.”

Taking Rowena’s corridor, they were down at Snape’s door in less than three minutes. Inside, the fire was burning. A wave of Snape’s hand and the tea tray was in its usual place, and a minute later they were facing each other, cups in hand, relaxing in their usual chairs.

“Thank you, I needed that,” said Harry honestly, after taking a swallow of the wonderful beverage, knowing full well Snape would think he was talking about the tea.

“As did I,” replied Snape after a long sip; then after a few quiet moments he asked, “Are you satisfied with your new equipment?”

“Very,” said Harry. “We have everything we need, and quite a bit of cash to spare.” He continued, warming to the topic, “I have been considering a change in the rules, by the way. We have forty-eight new brooms: Cleansweeps, Nimbuses, and Shooting Stars. They are all equally high-performing, just different styles to accommodate personal preferences, so I would like all Quidditch matches to be played on school brooms, to even the field.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He sat forward as he explained. “As a student, I always had a very unfair advantage over the other Seekers, having a much better broom. Only Draco Malfoy’s was a match for my own.”

“You still beat him every time…”

“Yes, well…” smirked Harry. “Superior skills will tell.” He sat back. “But it was still unfair to the others. I just don’t think students whose parents can afford better brooms should be able to use them in competition.”

“You’ll get some grumbling.”

“I will point out that those who grumble must be unsure of their own talent, and hiding behind their brooms. That should shut them up.”

Snape chuckled. “Indeed.”

Looking at the fire, Harry searched for another acceptable topic of conversation. ‘I have missed this…’ wouldn’t do. ‘I constantly have erotic dreams about you’ wouldn’t, either. ‘I say your name when I come’. No. Definitely not that. He smiled to himself. Truthfully, he was perfectly content just sitting there in companionable silence. He looked up at Snape and met his dark gaze.

“You look very fit,” said Snape. “Still training?”

“I am. Daily. I have agreed to let some students join me, by the way.”

Snape looked doubtful.

“At five in the morning? How many?”

“I don’t know yet. We will start Monday. I have no doubt most of the ones who start will drop out in a week or two,” he admitted. “But they asked, and I think a few of them might benefit.”

Snape was quiet for a moment as if hesitating to voice an opinion, and then said, “Being a teacher here is so very demanding, Potter. One can appreciate your dedication, but…” He stopped and shrugged. “My apologies. Unsought advice is the worst kind.”

“No, no,” said Harry. “You taught for a very long time, Snape, and I am grateful for any advice I can get—from you, from Flitwick, from any of the more experienced teachers. Please go on.”

Snape stared at him for a moment as if gauging his sincerity. “Very well,” he conceded. “Make sure you keep some time for yourself, Potter, for a private life of your own.”

“This from a man who use to spend every one of his evenings in the company of students serving detention?” he teased.

Snape had the grace to chuckle. “Learn from my mistakes. Do not let the job devour you. There is more to life.”

Harry was touched by Snape’s concern on his behalf. He had considered that exact point himself quite carefully before agreeing to Lennox’s suggestion. Impulsively he said, “Fly with me, then. Tomorrow or the day after. Please.”

Snape actually laughed. “Is that your idea of personal time, Potter? Flying with a colleague?”

Harry felt bold, and went with it. “No, not really. But flying with a friend, however, is a definite yes.”

Snape did not answer right away and the Gryffindor’s foolish bravery evaporated, leaving Harry wishing very, very hard, for a Time-Turner.

“Considering the advice I just gave you,” Snape answered finally, “denying your request would be both counterproductive and hypocritical. Tomorrow night would suit me very well. Say, eleven o’clock, the Astronomy Tower?”

Aware he was grinning much too brightly, Harry nodded and got up. “I’d better get back to patrol,” he said, “or the Headmaster will have my hide.”

“Doubtless,” said Snape, picking up a book. “Good night, Potter.”

“Good night, Snape.”

~o~ Adrenaline Rush ~o~

Severus put down his book as soon as the door closed and went to his room. Off came the extraneous clothing. He went back to the sitting room, refilled his teacup, and sat in Harry’s chair.

The evening had come to a very satisfactory conclusion. After almost three Potter-free weeks, he had been unable to continue with his resolution to let the younger man initiate their next encounter. It had seemed easy enough at the beginning; he had been so busy that time had gone by rather fast.

However, these past few days he had found himself thinking of Harry with increasing frequency, turning their last conversations over and over in his head, rethinking every look, and generally, well… obsessing. It was ridiculous, and interfered with his work. So he had taken matters into his own hands and ambushed Potter during his rounds.

It showed the extent of his perdition that the pacing of the deserted hallways with the quiet young man had been the most pleasurable activity he had engaged in over two weeks. Harry had seemed eager for tea, and he had finally, finally, gotten Potter back where he belonged, in his rooms, in this chair. (The irrationality of this possessiveness did not escape him. It just could not be helped.)

Just as he had after their last encounter, Snape reviewed tonight’s exchange, systematically purging from them the meanings his own infatuation had added to Harry’s words and actions.

‘I needed that’ had referred to the cup of tea, of course, not Harry’s visit to Snape’s quarters. (Unlike Snape’s answer…)

Harry had looked so… fine, staring into the fire, a small unconscious smile on his lips. That had been his thinking back to something pleasant that had happened during the day, not his feeling as content as Snape himself had felt, the beautiful man in his sight. And beautiful he was. His hard daily exercise seemed to have distilled his exquisiteness to its essence, the lines of his face pure, his movement utterly graceful and precise. Caught staring, Snape had been unable to refrain from a comment, and was glad Harry had not seemed to find it odd.

That Potter should be willing to hear (and take to heart) Snape’s advice about preserving a modicum of private life had pleased him enormously. There had been a time when Harry would have automatically done the opposite of what Snape suggested, on principle. It was encouraging that he now accepted that Snape had his best interests in mind.

Severus’s heart started beating harder as his analysis of the evening’s events approached his favorite moment:

“Fly with me, then. Tomorrow, or the day after. Please.”

Severus closed his eyes and rested his head back on the smooth leather of Harry’s chair. He replayed the words in his mind again, with the same sharp delight.

“Fly with me, then. Tomorrow, or the day after. Please.”

Harry, seeking his company, seeking to share his passion… with him.

He had laughed and had tried to make light of it because he had been so close to making a fool of himself, so close to exposing his feelings. He had been aware of Potter’s own trepidation at having acknowledged their developing relationship as friendship. He was very gratified by that.

It was irrelevant that his whole being was crying out for so much more. That Potter should start considering him a friend was progress indeed. (Progress towards what, you ridiculous fool?)

He had chosen the words of his answer very carefully, the weight of their past, his turbulent feelings, and his irrepressible hope all having to be taken into careful account in his phrasing. (Ha! To be a Gryffindor and simply blurt out what first came to mind! He imagined that for a moment and shuddered at the possible consequences…)

They would fly together tomorrow. (Would Potter be wearing his training leathers? One could only hope…) They were becoming friends. It had been a very satisfactory evening indeed.

Snape arrived at the Astronomy Tower at ten minutes to eleven wearing his usual robes over his flying clothes, his (Potter’s…) broom shrunken into his pocket. He quickly searched the parapet for snogging students, though he had picked eleven PM to fly because it was after curfew.

Once he was certain that he was alone he removed his robes, shrank them, and put them in his inside pocket, taking out and resizing the broom. He did not want the friendship between the Headmaster and the Coach to become fodder for student gossip. Harry arrived exactly on time, obviously oblivious to such considerations, since he just flew over directly from his balcony on the Gryffindor tower. He hovered there, smiling warmly at Snape.

His grin was contagious, and had the power to drag Snape’s thoughts away from petty concerns and focus them on the moment. Amazing himself at the pure surge of joy he felt, Severus mounted his broom and joined Harry. The Gryffindor might have been less oblivious to the possibility of gossip than Snape had first imagined, since he took them swiftly away from the castle and any possible prying eyes.

Above the moors, the night was very dark. Snape had no idea how Harry was directing their flight, but cared not, as the only reference he needed (and wanted) was the young man beside him.

Keeping pace, he soon noticed from the ever-increasing pull on his magic that Potter was steadily accelerating. After a while, Severus knew he was flying faster than he ever had. To continue increasing the pace, he had to actually make a conscious effort to concentrate on smoothly translating his magic into forward velocity, the resulting speed intoxicating, liberating.

He had not known he had in him the desire to test his magical limits in such a way, but found he relished it. The physicality was simple: the wind streaking in his hair, in his face; the broom handle a hard anchor under his palm; his body naturally leaning forward to lessen the air resistance. The mental workings, though, were new: a delicate balance; the strangest, headiest awareness of the mind’s power over matter; a funneling of all his magical resources into a single point.

He reached the apogee of his ability with a cry of triumph at the amazing pace his concentration had allowed him to achieve, before letting his focus relax and chuckling in disbelief at the experience as he quickly lost momentum. Potter sped on and away for only a few moments before making a graceful and impressive turnabout to rejoin Severus.

“It’s a high, isn’t it?” Harry asked then, obviously familiar with what Severus had just been through.

Snape could only laugh in agreement. They went down and alighted on the meadow, Snape collapsing in a heap, still laughing, a distant part of him astonished at his lack of inhibition. Potter lay down next to him and they relaxed, the grass cool under their backs, looking at the stars.

After a while Snape, his breath recovered, asked Harry, “How often do you do this?”

Harry laughed. “Every chance I get.”

Harry’s voice had come from a place shockingly close to Severus’s ear. It would be so easy, so easy, to just roll over and kiss him, to press the lean body between him and the grass, to slip a leg between his and…

Severus stopped his train of thought, struggling to control its physical wake, feeling as if a fist had tightened around his heart.

“Snape? Are you okay?” Harry had come up on his elbow, so close, Severus felt his breath on his cheek. Snape could not even look at him as he answered.

“I am fine. I may have to sleep here, though. I am wrung out.”

“Nah,” replied Potter amicably, as he fell back on the turf again. “It’s just the afterglow. It will pass in a while, and you’ll be able to go again.”

Snape almost snorted out loud at he thought of other, even sweeter circumstances which could have prompted that same speech from Potter, but abstained, knowing Potter had not even been aware of the sexual connotations of his remark.

They headed back at a much slower pace, conversing as they would have sitting in Snape’s quarters, having to fly very close to each other to do so, their thighs nearly touching. Severus felt at ease and unguarded, the part of him that objected to such an uncharacteristic feeling given no attention at all. It was without any qualms whatever that he said, “I have to start brewing a batch of Wolfsbane Tuesday evening, so it can be ready for the next full moon. All Potions Masters are required to do so twice a year, you know, to supply the Ministry’s Werewolf Support Program. Care to keep me company?”

“Wow. I’d love to. I have always wanted to watch you brew.”

That pleased him enormously, but he had to ask why. Harry answered without any hesitation. “Ginny Weasley mentioned watching you, once; she thought you were amazing. It was a long time ago, when we were still in school. It made me see you in a different light, forced me to admit there was much more to you than the greasy git I loved to hate.” Harry’s broom lurched suddenly. “Sweet Merlin. Did I just say that out loud? I’m sorry, Snape, I…”

He stopped apologizing when he realized Severus was quietly laughing at him. Obviously Snape was not the only one whose guard was down.

“That will be twenty points from Gryffindor for putting your foot in your mouth, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s answer was to bump lightly into him, throwing him a little off course, and then they flew on, both smiling.

“I suppose you will be getting up at dawn to train again, Potter?” Snape asked as they approached the castle.

“I’ll be on the pitch at seven.”

It was well after midnight.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday, then. Eight o’clock?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

They parted in the air, Snape returning to the Astronomy Tower and Harry to his balcony. As he landed, Snape reflected on the benefit of endorphins in one’s social interactions. He had never even considered inviting Harry to his private lab before, and was amazed at Harry’s positive response. Brewing Wolfsbane was complicated, draining magically, but some phases of it were incredibly tedious. During those, he would enjoy Harry’s company. And during the rest of the time, Harry would get to see him do what he did best, what he loved most. He went home not sure (and not caring) if his elation was still left over from the rush of that flight, or due to the anticipation of his and Harry’s next appointment.

~o~ Dobby ~o~

Harry landed on his balcony with his usual spot-on precision and entered his dimly lit living room. He threw his broom on the couch, followed by his jacket, and ran upstairs, peeling off his clothes as he went. He headed straight to the shower and entered the warm spray with a sigh of relief, his hand already on his erect cock, his face in the spray.

He had been hard all evening. He fisted himself toward relief, fast and tight. In his mind, he could see Snape falling down on the meadow laughing, as relaxed as Harry had ever seen him; he could see his profile as it had looked when Harry had come up on his elbow to check on him, so close he would have only had to lean over slightly to kiss his nose. He had felt the insane desire to do just that, or to lick the man’s smiling lips.

Harry came with a growl, his whole body jerking with his release, and leaned on the shower wall, squeezing out the last drop, catching his breath. He could not remember ever desiring someone with this kind of intensity, this kind of need. He washed quickly, his cock still semi-hard, and came out of the stall, toweling himself off.

As he retraced his steps back into the bedroom he picked up his discarded items of clothing, laughing that his trousers and jumper were actually on the stairs. He had been in a hurry. He put away his jacket and training leathers. (Having a house-elf did not mean he had to be a slob).

Back upstairs, he went to floss and brush his teeth, and fell into bed with his towel still around his waist. He looked down at the slight tenting of the cloth and took it off before sliding under the duvet. He spelled off the lights and idly played with himself, thinking about the evening.

He had hoped Snape, who had seemed to enjoy their previous flight, would get caught in the acceleration. The focus of magic, the concentration, the speed and the thrill they engendered was something he had wanted the other man to experience. It was cathartic and led to an amazing physical release of stress and tension.

He had loved how loose and spontaneous Snape had acted afterwards. And he had been so tempted to take advantage of it, to throw caution to the winds, to forget that Snape loved elsewhere, and kiss him breathless.

Would Snape have let him? How would the thin lips feel beneath his own? How would it feel to have Snape’s body under him, to rut against his long thigh… his hard-on was back with a vengeance. Left-handed, he reached for the drawer in his nightstand and grabbed his bottle of lube, squeezing a generous amount between the palm of his right hand and his hard shaft. He threw the bottle back in the general direction of the drawer, making a note to find it come morning and put it away before Kreacher came to make up his bedroom.

He let out a moan of pleasure as his hand glided smoothly over the head of his cock, his thumb applying just the right pressure to the rim of the head. A drop of warm lube slid onto his balls and he palmed them before stroking his whole length again. What would it be like with Snape? He shivered at the thought of Snape’s hand doing what his hand was doing. He brought his left hand down to play, cupping his balls, as his right one squeezed the head.

What would it be like to be fucked? He was surprised at his cock’s enthusiastic response at the thought. Curious, he let the fingers of his left hand explore, caressing the soft sensitive skin behind his balls and circling his arse hole. That was surprisingly pleasurable. He applied a little pressure with his slick middle finger and breached himself, raising his hips unconsciously.

Merlin, he wanted Snape here, doing this to him. His finger felt all right, but the thought of it being Snape’s finger, Merlin, that was awesome. Snape’s finger there, fuck, Snape’s cock there… He came suddenly, with a long shudder, amazed he had never known how much he craved this, not really even knowing what ‘this’ was.

Though he felt a little wobbly, he got up again, went to his bathroom and washed his hands. His finger had been up his arse. That definitely called for some soap and water. How did guys deal with this? Cleaning spells, like the wandless one he did now on his cock and belly, were all right, but, really… He supposed if one did a thorough Scourgify beforehand, then it would be all right… He shrugged.

He went back to bed, rolling himself in his duvet, eager to make the most of the few hours of sleep he had left, and was immediately unconscious.

When he woke up the sun was rising, but one could only tell from a general lightening of the gloom. It was raining, dense, small drops that meant business. He sighed. The dry weather had been too good to last and now his determination to keep up his training would be put to the test.

He rolled out of bed, threw the bottle of lube back in the drawer, and started dressing, spelling everything to repel water, though he knew from long experience that he would still come home soaked to the bone. He was grateful he at least no longer had to deal with fogged up, sliding glasses. Out his window he went, his hair and face instantly wet, the tips of his fingers protesting the cold already. Ugh. He hated this.

Kreacher was waiting for him with a towel for his hair when he returned, and dried every bit of his training clothing and gear with a snap of his finger, grumbling about foolish wizard nonsense and precious antique Persian rugs. The sensation of sudden dryness was shocking but incredibly welcome, and Harry grinned at him, handing him back the wet towel and stretching luxuriously.

“Kreacher’s master will catch a cold,” the elf predicted gloomily, collecting Harry’s equipment as he removed it and storing it back in the wardrobe.

“You’ve been saying that for years, and it has yet to happen,” replied Harry, stripped down to his thin long silk and wool underwear. “Stop fussing.”

“Yes, Master,” answered the elf, holding out his hand.

“What?”

“Give Kreacher the stinky underwear, Master Harry. Kreacher might be too busy to come back today.”

“What’s going on?” asked Harry complying, completely un-self-conscious in front of the elf who had seen him in all states of undress and nursed him back to health several times from Quidditch injuries through the years.

The elf’s face was suddenly full of conflicting emotions as he blinked up at Harry. “Winky is having the baby today, Master Harry.”

“You mean she is in labor? Right now?”

Kreacher nodded with a shy smile.

“Oh wow, Kreacher!” Harry grinned back. “Go on, get out of here! She definitely needs you more than I do! And don’t you dare come back until you are a daddy and they are both sleeping, you hear?”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.” He Apparated away with a loud crack, Harry’s undergarments held at arm’s length.

The news put Harry in a buoyant mood. He went into the shower incongruously singing “Jingle Bells,” wondering what elven babies were like, and thinking of his goddaughter. Before he left for breakfast, he Floo-called the Manor, asking permission to visit her and receiving a dinner invitation for his trouble. He put in a little work on the syllabi in the morning and headed there right after lunch.

He had a nice time at the Manor, spending most of his afternoon with a sleeping Lily in his arms. They ate dinner after the babies had been put to bed, and it was very nice to spend an evening away from Hogwarts, with people whose company he enjoyed, speaking of topics that had nothing to do with students, Quidditch, or babies.

Draco was thinking of making a bid for the seat of Principal Interrogator in the Wizengamot. Ginny had started writing again, a new installment of her novel. Its commercial success was still a wonder to her. She had decided to add a treated Squib to her cast of characters to increase the public awareness of the challenges they faced, trying to support Narcissa’s effort in her own way.

When Harry made it home around eleven, he was anxious for news from the elfin front, but wasn’t sure how to proceed. He did not want to disturb Kreacher but was dying for news. He needn’t have worried. An ice-cold butterbeer was waiting for him on top of his coffee table, with a note from Kreacher.

It’s a girl, Master Harry!
Winky is naming her Dobby.
She is beautiful like her mother.

Harry throat constricted. Dobby. He sat on his couch, opened the bottle, and sipped the drink that always reminded him of his childhood. Dobby had been gone ten years now, as had Fred, and Remus, and Tonks, and so many others. He was glad that he could sincerely say that the Wizarding world was a much better place for their sacrifice. Promising himself to call Teddy in the morning, he went up to bed.

Harry enjoyed the pick-up Quidditch game on Sunday and the great afternoon he spent with Ron, Hermione, and the kids that afternoon.

On Monday he trained in the dark and the pounding rain with seventeen students. He was quite sure the rate of attrition would be very, very high. After all, the students did not have the luxury of coming home to an attentive (and proudly grinning) house-elf with a warm towel in his hands and drying magic at his fingertips. That evening he finished off two syllabi.

His Tuesday was filled with training (thirteen students), classes, and a short meeting with Poppy Pomfrey, who let him know exactly what she thought of having six students coming in for Pepper-up to relieve their head colds so early in the term. He told her what he had told Snape. Most of them would drop out after a couple of weeks, no one was forcing them to train. She had to admit he was probably right.

Throughout all of it, though—the Manor, the Weasleys, the training, the classes—he was sharply aware that he was only marking time until Tuesday night, eight o’clock. It was absurd and he tried to fight it, but it was true. At dinner he kept sneaking glances in Snape’s direction. That was absurd also; had Snape been looking forward to their evening as much as Harry was (which was impossible) his face would have, of course, shown nothing.

Harry did not even pretend to try and accomplish anything after his shower and shave and before heading to the dungeon. It was pointless. He spent a ridiculous amount of time deciding what to wear, and settled for hip-hugging cargo trousers that were very flattering to his assets, and a red shirt that molded his torso just right. It was a change from his usual, and definitely sexier than was called for to go brewing. But he had no intention to brew; he just wanted to watch, and would not object to Snape watching as well…

After dressing he just sat, staring at his clock. Kreacher made an appearance carrying freshly laundered robes. His timing was obviously a little off, as he would not ordinarily have risked interrupting Harry’s evening with clothing delivery. Kreacher stopped in his tracks, surprised to find Harry just sitting there doing nothing.

“Is Master Harry all right?” he asked with concern. Harry shook himself. The last thing Kreacher needed was to worry about him.

“Yes Kreacher, I’m fine. How are you?”

Kreacher’s smile said it all. Fatherhood obviously suited him. “Kreacher is fine, Master Harry. Very fine.”

“And Winky? And … Dobby?”

“Fine too, Master Harry.” Kreacher seemed to hesitate and then asked shyly, “Is Master Harry wanting to see a likeness of the baby?”

“Oh, wow! Yes, Kreacher, I’d love to!”

Kreacher put the robes carefully down on the couch and took off the locket around his neck. He opened it and stared inside with a smile before handing it to Harry.

In the left-hand window was a portrait of Winky, but not as Harry remembered her. This Winky was smiling, and had a sparkle in her eyes and a glow of happiness on her face. In the right-hand window was a picture of the cutest little face Harry had ever seen. Dobby had a round nose, like her mother, but it was tiny, like a button. She had great big eyes, which looked back at him with wonder, and the cutest little mouth sucking on her thumb. She had Kreacher’s pointy ears and a wild tuft of hair at the top of her head.

“She’s brilliant, Kreacher,” said Harry honestly. “Just brilliant!”

Kreacher nodded in agreement, glancing again at his daughter. “She will be a good elf to Master Harry,” he said proudly, settling the locket back around his scrawny neck.

Harry bit back the protest that first came to his lips. He had learned much about house-elves and house-elf pride in his years with Kreacher. It had not occurred to him until this very moment that this new Dobby, this little elven baby, was his property. He never thought of Kreacher as such, but he knew very well that Kreacher certainly (and proudly) did. Despite his true feelings on the matter he answered, “I am sure she will, Kreacher. Just like her father.”

He knew this had been the right answer when Kreacher’s eyes glowed with pride.

“Thank you, Master Harry,” the elf answered with a tremulous smile. He picked the robes back up and went to hang them in Harry’s wardrobe, humming a little song (that sounded a lot like a lullaby) while doing so. Looking at him, it was hard to remember the barmy old elf that had haunted Grimmauld Place.

Kreacher was still old, and his hair still white, but his steps were spry, his back straight, and his eyes bright. He had found love in his old age, and now he had a family of his own. It could not have happened to a better elf, thought Harry affectionately.

“Good evening, Master Harry.”

“Good evening, Kreacher.”

And Kreacher disappeared with a crack.

Harry looked at the clock. Yes! It was twenty-five till. He got up from his couch, put on his trainers, and left his rooms, intent on walking slowly and taking the long way round to make it to the dungeons right on time. The tune he hummed as he went sounded an awful lot like Kreacher’s lullaby.

~o~ A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love ~o~

Severus had already been in his lab for a while, preparing the ingredients for the Wolfsbane base, when he felt Harry’s presence. He had first thought he was imagining being able to feel him through his walls and his door despite the radiance of his own wards, but either because Potter took less care to hide the magnitude of his power around him, or because Snape had become more attuned to it as they got to know each other better, he now could identify Potter’s potent magic easily.

Not for the first time, he wondered in passing just how strong the young man was magically. He was very aware of the constant control Potter exercised on his abilities and thought he understood the reason why. In the Wizarding world at large, it was well understood and very much feared, after the ascension to preeminence of wizards like Voldemort and Grindelwald, that absolute power easily corrupted absolutely. Dumbledore was a case in point. Aware of the possibility, refusing for years the tempting position of Minister of Magic to avoid it, and yet abusing his magical force in the manipulation of others.

Potter had, evidently, early on chosen the simple strategy of not letting anyone know what he was capable of, of never using his full strength except possibly when it came to the speed of his flight. Severus knew for a fact that he himself would have been incapable of such denial and discipline. He had no doubt that, in possession of even half the abilities he sensed in Potter, his natural inclination would have been to use them and to influence the magical world to follow his will. His admiration for Potter’s self-control knew no bounds.

He left his lab and walked through his quarters, opening his front door suddenly just as Potter was raising his hand to knock. They both grinned, and Snape believed for a moment that Potter might actually be as happy to be there as he himself was to see him. Potter was dressed as a Muggle, wearing some type of trousers with many pockets, made out of thin beige material and resting dangerously low on his hips, so low the zipper was very, very short. Though they were very casual, Snape couldn’t help but approve of them; they molded the younger man’s arse like a second skin. His shirt was a long-sleeved t-shirt in a beautiful shade of red, untucked.

As low cut as the trousers were, Snape was certain that Harry was going commando and that if he were to stretch at any point, as was his habit after sitting too long, Snape would be treated to a view of the area where the dark treasure trail met his pubic hair, a prospect certain of his body parts signaled they were awaiting eagerly.

Harry also had brought another of those hooded jumpers, to put on, Snape assumed, if the chill of the dungeon got to him. Snape waited for Harry to walk ahead of him to the lab to do the charm that would increase the ambient temperature to a very comfortable twenty-two degrees Celsius, making sure the jumper would stay off…

“I take it from the absence of protective robes in your outfit that you have no intention of actually helping me with the brewing this evening?” he remarked teasingly.

“I came to watch a master at work. I will not be distracted from the pleasure of observing you exercising your gift by being pressed into gutting flobberworms or dicing slugs.”

“Neither of which is ever done in potion making, Potter, something you would know had you paid any attention in potions class,” Snape answered, falsely castigating.

“Or had I brewed something more complicated than tea in the past ten years…” answered Potter, chuckling. “Truthfully, I would not feel confident trying to help. I only have a vague notion remaining of the difference between dicing, chopping, and julienning any more. I would need a refresher to not be a danger to myself and others.”

Snape could tell from Potter’s tongue in cheek smile that he was perfectly aware that julienning was a cooking term and not a potions one, and that he was pretending to be much more clueless than he actually was. After all, he’d passed his NEWTS with flying colors. He obviously really wanted to be only a spectator that evening, and watch Snape brew.

Snape could not help but chuckle when Harry Transfigured a lab stool into a cozy chair and a beaker into a matching foot stool, setting himself up extremely comfortably.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” he commented. Potter just smiled.

Without further ado, Snape started on the Wolfsbane. It took several hours to make and the first break he would get, during which he intended to sit with Harry and relax with a cup of tea, would only occur once the base was ready and set to thicken.

He set his largest cauldron on a hot flame, pouring in fifteen liters of water with a well-aimed Aguamenti.

“I’ve never seen a cauldron this big,” commented Potter.

“I need to deliver a hundred doses to the Ministry. The limiting factor for each batch is the strength of the brewer’s magic, especially while adding the last ingredient and saying the incantation. I brew the whole thing at once as my power is up to the task.”

“Oh, I see…”

In went, one by one, the finely chopped Rosa Mulliganii petals, the ground cardamom, the Saint Astier lime, the powdered silver, and the Monarda Didyma distillate, each addition separated by a set period of gentle stirring in a clockwise direction. The scent of the Wolfsbane base was very pleasant. The two hundred grams of Aconitum Napellus pollen changed the color from pink to a rich orange, yet the ingredients were still identifiable as separate entities.

A magical element had to be added to help draw the brewer’s magic into the base and start the transformation of what was nothing but a strange stew into an actual potion. Snape was lucky enough to be able to use unicorn mane, chopped into a powder, from the ready supply collected by Hagrid from the Forbidden Forest trees where the unicorns liked to scratch, with no harm done to the creatures. It was extremely potent and added its own healing properties to the brew.

As he sprinkled the snowy particles into the brew, he concentrated on his intent and focused his magic. Soon the liquid in the giant cauldron had turned into an effervescent, milky, apricot-color solution, the small bubbles letting out sparks as they burst the surface. Leaving the fire as hot as possible, Snape set a long glass spoon to stir counterclockwise until the liquid thickened to the consistency of honey. It would take close to half an hour.

He Transfigured his own stool into a chair matching Harry’s, and summoned the tea tray he had prepared earlier. A wave of the wand and the water in the teapot was boiling. He dumped in the tealeaves, sat back and looked at Harry. The warmth in the young man’s eyes he felt to his core, and the open admiration on Harry’s face made him feel incredibly good.

“It’s like a well rehearsed dance,” the young man said. “You do not hesitate or pause to think. Every one of your motions is just as it needs to be. It’s beautiful to watch.”

Though his reaction to the pleasure of the compliment was quite physically tangible, Snape reflexively tried to deny its validity. “Anyone can brew an adequate base, Potter. There is nothing to it.”

Harry waved his hand in dismissal with an annoyed click of the tongue. He put his feet on the ground and moved forward in his chair to emphasize his next words. “Take a compliment, Snape. You look … beautiful really, and powerful as you brew. At the very end, I could feel your will shaping the brew into what it ought to be. You glowed with the magic you released. It was awesome to witness.”

Snape could no longer help but smile with pleasure, and Harry smiled back so openly that it could have been an invitation, and Snape’s body had already moved forward in his seat to respond to it and to gently kiss Harry’s supple lips when he caught himself with a jolt and poured the tea instead.

He actually imagined a shadow of disappointment on Potter’s face, a testimony of how deluded he really was by his own feelings. He forgot about it, though, when Harry inquired if there were other potions that could be made from the Wolfsbane base, and the role of each ingredient added so far in the end result.

He seemed truly interested in the fact that so many of the ingredients at this stage were the brewer’s choice. Any rose would do for the first ingredient, even rose leaves in a pinch, but Severus chose the petals of a rose that gave out a beautiful fragrance to help hide the acrid odor of other ingredients.

There were over two hundred and fifty types of Wolfsbane flowering plants (or Aconites), which, along with their use, gave their name to the potion, and any could be substituted. The pollen, roots, and leaves were used in turn, and Snape liked to use different species for each addition, feeling their slightly different properties made the final potion more potent.

The lime could be any lime; even natural chalk would work. Saint Astier lime was particularly potent, if a bit expensive. Finally, Snape used Monarda, or bergamot grass, instead of the orange-like fruit most brewers used. It was part of the improvements he had made to the original recipe.

Many treatises mentioned that “Bergamot eased growth and change, and soothed the nerves” and that this was why the creator of the Wolfsbane potion, Damocles Belby, had used the fruit, but Snape had tested both fruit and herb and concluded the treatises referred to the second and not the first. As far as he could tell, the fruit only increased the bitterness of an already bitter brew without adding anything to it.

As he was explaining his reasoning to Potter, Snape had gotten up again and was now preparing the next set of ingredients. After the fragrant and pleasing first stage of preparation, this second stage seemed to contain nothing but rather revolting components.

It started with crushed spiders, the more venomous the better. He personally preferred Phoneutria nigriventers imported from Brazil if he could get them, and luckily his position at Hogwarts allowed him to procure just about any legal ingredient he desired.

Next came the brainstem of a carnivorous animal. He used a mixture of the brains of Carcharodon carcharias, or great white shark, and Crocodylus johnstoni, or Australian freshwater crocodile, since animals that considered humans a natural prey were best. He would have liked to add polar bear and Siberian tiger brainstems to the mix, but these were endangered species, so the shark and crocodile were it.

Chopped-up Vespa mandarinia japonica came next. They were giant hornets whose venom was incredibly potent. The enormous insects were as big as his thumb, alive but Stupefied. He did not bother waking them up before putting them to the knife. They were quite dangerous.

The chopping of Bufo bufos’ lungs, livers, and male genitalia was a messy job, but the parts of those amphibians were necessary.

The diced roots of Aconitum ferox were the only vegetal ingredient of this stage. They were a potent poison.

The final ingredient was the only magical one. The chrysalises of fairies were added whole to the mix. Though the intelligence of fairies was extremely limited and though, in the wild, birds or stoats ate ninety percent of their chrysalises, Severus always felt ambivalent about using the sentient creatures in potions. He had tried many substitutions, from silkworms to monarch butterflies to magical moon moths, but the resulting Wolfsbane was completely useless.

The chrysalises he used were from a group of domesticated fairies husbanded by Hagrid. They showed no concern at all when Hagrid harvested the chrysalis from which a new full-grown fairy would have emerged. As a matter of fact, once they laid their eggs the fairies completely ignored eggs, caterpillars, and chrysalises. They had no parental instinct whatever.

Snape had talked to Harry throughout the preparations, checking once in a while that he was not boring him to death. On the contrary, Harry appeared to be enthralled by his explanations, asking pointed questions any time he stopped speaking. The Wolfsbane base had reached the perfect consistency and all ingredients of phase two, except the magical ones, were premixed together in a disgusting paste. He warned Harry that the next stage required all his attention before starting.

Stirring the thick base in a figure eight, Snape added the paste, large drop by large drop, to the mix. With each addition and subsequent lengthy stirring, the potion changed. Plop, and ten minutes later it turned red; plop, and eighty figure eights later it thickened like custard; plop, stir twenty-two times, it smelled like burned hair; plop, figure eight figure eight, counterclockwise circle, figure eight figure eight, counterclockwise circle… for fourteen minutes, it was a watery purple; plop, stir quickly only in figure eights again, the smell of lilacs was cloying; plop, stir clockwise, it looked in every way like water; plop, stir counterclockwise, it was the color of tar and smelled of decomposed flesh; plop, eight, eight, eight, eighteen times, it now smelled of cabbage; plop, it was a virulent green; plop, it smelled like vinegar; and on and on. Snape could have recited all the changes by heart. So far the potion was perfect.

The last additions did not change the poisonous green color or the water-like consistency, but individual bits and pieces of ingredients made their appearance. Reducing the flame to a minimum, Severus once more concentrated on his intent and focused his magic before dumping fifteen fairy chrysalises into the cauldron. He shivered with distaste, but the potion was particle-free once more, transparent neon green. It would have to simmer for forty minutes, undisturbed, before the next stage.

He was completely surprised to find Harry quite close behind him on a high footstool. He had evidently been watching the evolution of the potion as it occurred.

“That was amazing,” he commented as Snape washed his hands vigorously with a stiff-bristle brush and special nightshade ash and lemon oil soap. “Aren’t your arms sore, from holding that beaker up and stirring for over an hour?”

“No. They were at first, when I started my studies to get my Mastery. But the right muscles develop over time, and you don’t even think about it any more.”

“How many changes did the potion go through?”

“Twenty-seven. As you could see, it stabilized at the end, and adding more of the paste would just make it taste worse and be less potent.”

“What if you put too much at once and skip a phase, or not enough and prolong one?”

“It depends. It might decrease the potency, or render the potion useless altogether. It is a big issue for the werewolves who are part of the government assistance program. The quality and potency of the potion changes from moon to moon. They never know how difficult the change is going to be, or whether or not they will keep their consciousness. They lock themselves up and prepare for the worst every time. It is hard on them, and terrifying for their families.

“The monetary compensation for brewing the Wolfsbane for the Ministry is woefully low, and some potioneers use the cheapest possible ingredients to make the brewing worth their time. I am lucky that I do not brew for a living, and that I can afford to purchase the best quality ingredients. I believe the Wolfsbane I produce is the absolute best I am capable of making.”

They had sat back down and were having another cup of tea. Severus was gratified to note that Harry seemed just as fascinated as before. He enjoyed very much the warm regard that shone in the green eyes. He was almost utterly shocked when Harry picked up one of his hands and caressed it lightly.

“That scrub brush maybe necessary, but surely washing your hands this roughly must dry your skin and give you chilblains.”

Snape laughed to himself. Potter was checking his skin! Not making some romantic gesture! His hands felt warm and soft and dry.

“Are you going to prepare any more ingredients?” asked Potter.

“No. There are only three more and they need no preparation.”

Harry still hadn’t let go of his hand, worriedly caressing the reddened skin. “Do you have some kind of lotion?” he asked.

“Yes. I occasionally apply it before bed, after I brew.”

“Accio Snape’s hand lotion,” said Harry, who deftly caught the jar that arrived almost instantaneously, flying at a dangerous speed. He lifted it up and asked Snape, “All right?”

It was interesting how Severus’s brain immediately provided the random and irrelevant information that the hand cream ingredients made it a perfectly acceptable lube. He did not vocalize that thought, however, nodding his permission instead.

Harry opened the jar and got a generous dab of cream out. Then he proceeded to massage Snape’s hand with the moisturizer, gently and thoroughly. It was extremely pleasant, and conducive to a plethora of ridiculous fantasies. Harry was intent on his task, which allowed Severus to look at him as much as he wanted while Harry said something about potions.

Harry’s eyelashes were thick and dark, his skin perfect for all that he was thirty and spent so much time out of doors. His hair was fine but incredibly thick, and his bone structure beautifully symmetrical, delicate yet masculine.

Finished with Severus’s left hand, he took out some more cream before reaching for the right. His own hands were lightly callused and very strong, his massage knowledgeable. Of course, he must have received hundreds of them in the course of his Quidditch career.

“…wouldn’t stop making fun of me, accusing me of having a crush on him,” Potter was saying laughingly. “Not hard to see why, really, since I did sleep with the Half-Blood Prince under my pillow.“

Potter was smiling as he reminisced, and Severus suddenly wished he had paid more attention. Potter had been accused of having a crush on the Half-Blood Prince? He had developed an interest in Snape’s younger incarnation from reading his potions book?

Potter looked up, his eyes full of mirth and warm affection. Directed at him? Potter did not break eye contact, his gaze open, confident, unapologetic. Snape’s heartbeat was so loud he thought he might be well deaf to anything else. Potter held his right hand between both of his, his palm pressed against Snape’s.

Once again, Snape wished he had been a Gryffindor, able to act on the moment, consequences be damned. That smiling mouth would be his now, taken in a passionate kiss. But his calculating Slytherin mind would not let him take the unlikely chance that Potter might be aware of the signals Snape was reading into his actions.

He knew, he knew, that they reflected a hard-earned trust between them that he could shatter with one false move, ruining a budding friendship more precious to him than anything. He was a Slytherin to the core. A bird in hand and so on…

“May I have my hand back, Mr. Potter?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

Harry blushed bright red and stammered, “Of course. Sorry. I thought you might enjoy a massage after… Sorry.”

“Potter, the massage was very welcome, I assure you, but I do have a potion to finish.”

Potter looked stunned for a moment, then let out a peal of self-deprecating laughter. “And yet another reason why you are the Potions Master and I played a child’s game for a living. I completely forgot the Wolfsbane!”

He stood up and joined Snape at the cauldron. The potion looked unchanged, gently simmering, the occasional wave on the surface the only sign it was not simply some colored water.

Snape opened a beautiful wooden box. It contained what looked like enormous pearls nestled in dark blue velvet.

“What are these?” asked Potter.

“The reactant. Runespoor eggs. Impossible to obtain legally, therefore provided directly by the Ministry. One of the few resources of Burkina Faso, a small country in Africa. Exchanged for the supply of all the potions needed by their hospitals, about half of what is needed by St Mungo’s.”

He lined a slotted ladle with a leaf of Aconitum uncinatum, transferred one of the eggs to the ladle and lowered the whole thing into the potion, where it instantly dissolved. Six more leaves and six more eggs went the same way, until the violently green potion was marbled with whirling currents of milkiness. The last egg remained in the protection of the velvet. The potion was ready for the last ingredient.

Though he was unsure what Potter’s reaction would be, he decided to take a chance in the name of the lycanthropes who would receive his potion.

“We are ready for the last ingredient and for the incantation now,” he told Harry. “The stronger the wizard to do this last step, the more potent the brew. I am sure the werewolves who will make use of this potion would be grateful, were you to do the honors.”

“You are just as strong a wizard as I am, Snape. I’m sure…”

“Mr. Potter. For twenty years, Albus Dumbledore was my friend and mentor, and I spent half those years much closer to Voldemort than I would have liked. I know the feeling one gets in close proximity to awe-inspiring strong magic and harbor no doubt that yours easily surpasses both of theirs. I admire and respect your decision to conceal the extent of your power and will abide by your choice. However, I am sure that it must be frustrating at times to always restrain your abilities—one reason why flying must be such a joy and a relief for you. Consider this another chance to unleash the fullness of your magic for the benefit of others, all without the risk of discovery.”

Potter looked as if he was about to protest that Snape was mistaken, but gave up, realizing the uselessness of it. Instead, he shrugged and blinked slowly, taking a deep slow breath, freeing his magic. For an instant, he seem to shine with an inner light, but then the wards Snape had around the walls of his laboratory to reinforce them against potions accidents, and those protecting his quarters, became momentarily brilliantly visible. Potter was now looking as he always did, the gentle and well-loved Harry.

“I have to let some of my power continuously bleed into the castle wards,” he explained self-consciously, “otherwise I… sorta glow with it.”

Snape shivered at the realization that, unbridled, Harry’s power was actually more than his body could contain. Merlin had been described as occasionally emitting a brilliance. Were he inclined to use his magic, what would be in Harry’s power to do? As it was, the green eyes looking up at him brimmed with that power.

“So, what’s that last step?” Harry asked.

Snape had to focus again on the potion, so undone was he by what he was witnessing. He could not even fathom living with this kind of power at his fingertips and not taking advantage of it.

“The last step is not much spoken of. You know how people feel about Blood Magic… Though, in this case, one drop of blood is all that is needed from the wizard to add to the potion as the incantation is recited.”

“All right. One drop of blood.”

Snape got a quill and a piece of parchment and wrote the incantation down as legibly as possible. “You have to focus your intent: to ease a painless transformation, to allow the werewolf to keep his human mind intact, to help him sleep through the change; and you have to back that intent with as much magic as you can muster.

“Focus, intent, lots of magic,” summarized Harry. “Got it.”

Snape smiled at Harry, handing him a spotless scalpel. “No time like the present, Potter.”

Harry read the incantation a few times to familiarize himself with it and made a cut between the knuckles of the major and ring fingers of his right hand, where the scarcity of nerve endings would keep it almost painless. He waited for the blood to well up before turning his hand over and letting a large drop fall into the cauldron as he flawlessly recited the incantation. “Ligans animum corpori per mutationem nolent bestiam se sedebitis teneros somnus.”

There were no outward signs of his power being released. The potion just changed to a pearly iridescent white, beautiful to watch as it moved in the cauldron ceaselessly. Snape killed the flame and cooled the cauldron with a charm. He took hold of Harry’s hand, but the cut was already healed, without a trace, a wand, or a spoken word.

Snape levitated a crate of a hundred vials to the top of the bench and plunged a graduated ladle into the potion, measuring out the exact dose necessary. As he filled the first vial, the other ninety-nine vials filled as well. He corked the vial, then covered it completely with green carnauba wax, securing it against tampering by applying his personal Master’s seal to it. Again, the other vials in the crate magically received the same treatment.

“You know, Snape,” said Harry, looking at the white liquid in a vial, “it’s weird, but I could have sworn I remembered Remus’s potion as being green and… smoking.”

“It was. My Wolfsbane always is, though it is paler and releases fewer vapors than most. It denotes an incomplete reaction, and the presence of residual untransformed second-phase ingredients. The addition of extra eggs is useless. I’ve tried. The limiting factor is the power of the brewer. Even when brewing small quantities of Wolfsbane, I cannot ever achieve a perfect result.”

He held a vial to the light. “But you have. This is what completely reacted and stable Wolfsbane looks like. It probably would have an indefinite shelf life. I’d never seen the like before, obviously. It’s quite beautiful.” He smiled at Harry. “Thank you, Potter.”

Harry smiled back. Snape could tell the young man’s power was once again contained and restrained, hidden in its core.

“No, Snape, thank you,” he answered. “For letting me watch you brew. For letting me see you do something you love. Truthfully, I could watch you do so for hours. By the way, what is that thing you do with your fingers?”

“My fingers?”

“Yes, you wave then in the steam of the cauldron… like this.” Potter was rubbing his fingers together, showing what he meant.

“Really?” Snape reproduced the motion he was not aware of making while brewing, frowning. Then he smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. I suppose I do do that, don’t I? I am testing the steam. Depending on the temperature, different elements vaporize at different times. It’s a way to feel the density, the oiliness of the vapor, of judging how far along the potion is. I was not really aware of doing it…”

Harry nodded in understanding. “I wish I had seen you brew as a student,” he said. “So I could have seen what it looked like when done right. Had we seen you, you probably would have gotten the same level of compliance from us, though instead of being terrified of you, we would have been in awe of you.”

Snape laughed, but Harry, smiling, insisted, “I am perfectly serious, Snape. Here I am, an adult, and I am in awe of your abilities.”

“Does that mean I can count on your presence when next I am called upon by the Ministry to provide the Wolfsbane?” asked Snape, taking advantage of Potter’s good will.

“It will be an honor,” replied Harry, and Snape felt a wonderful warmth suffuse his insides, because Harry was not joking.

The young man smiled wistfully and added, “Well, sadly, I must take my leave. Five o’clock does come rather quickly, sometimes.”

“Still at it, then?”

“Yes, with a dozen students. Only two Slytherins left, by the way. The Seeker and the Keeper,” he laughed, “and no Gryffindors. I guess only the Puffs and the Claws have the staying power…”

He stretched, and as Severus had predicted, the red shirt rode up, showing the sculpted belly with its bisecting trail of dark down tantalizingly widening in the lower region. He shivered with the potent desire to drop to his knees, pull down those trousers, and take Potter’s cock in his mouth.

They were back at Snape’s front door. Severus realized he’d been hard off and on all evening, and so much so at that moment it was actually painful.

“Good night, Snape.”

‘What the hell, Potter, just sleep here. Forget about training in the morning. I am sure we can think of a way to raise your heart rate and get you sweaty…’ “Good night, Potter.”

Snape was closing the door, smiling to himself at his ridiculous thought, when Harry stopped it with his hand, making Snape’s hopes surge ridiculously.

But Harry only said, looking troubled, “I use it to fly, and will use it to help with the Wolfsbane, but that’s it, Snape. I won’t even talk about it. It would be best if you forgot about it, and if that happens to be a problem for you, I could help you along.”

Potter looked mortified to be making what could nearly be construed as a threat to someone he valued. The plea was clear in his eyes. Snape realized he could not possibly be the only one aware of Potter’s abilities, and yet he’d never heard them spoken of. His friends, his former teachers, all respected his decision to live a normal life.

“No help necessary, I assure you. Just a deeper appreciation for who you are, Potter. An amazing Quidditch player, a man who will give of himself for the good of others, but also one who thinks julienned flobberworms belong in Wolfsbane: in short, a potions teacher’s nightmare. But you are forgiven, if only because you give a decent hand massage.”

Potter laughed in joyful relief and Snape could only grin in response.

“That cream was great, very… slick. Maybe you could teach me how to brew that,” said Potter, his green eyes dancing. He turned and walked away, chuckling, leaving Snape to wonder helplessly if that had been an innuendo or a genuine request. For all his openness, Potter could be a puzzle, and Snape loved it.

In the last ten years, Severus had come to understand his attraction, his willingness to subvert his own magic to those of greater power. He had promised himself never again to give up his freedom of choice, his abilities, to a more magically gifted master.

He had fallen in love with Harry Potter when the young man was in seventh year: powerful, yes, but mostly kind, thoughtful, respectful, and so, so beautiful. He intended to continue loving him for his humor, his intelligence, and his caring nature. He would not let Potter’s quasi-omnipotence even enter the equation, because that was not who the young man he loved was.

He smiled to himself, because he truly meant it. It was a heady feeling to feel good about oneself.

~o~ Sarah Bloody Bolton ~o~

The year was going marvelously well. Classes went smoothly, the competition between Houses was fierce but not bitter, the adult education might even soon be fully funded.

Severus Snape’s second term as Headmaster was so far a complete success. Even the few situations yet unresolved looked positive. The interviews for a new Transfiguration teacher had, according to Minerva and Granger, produced several excellent candidates, the refurbishing of long abandoned parts of the castle to lodge the adult education full-time faculty and their offices and classrooms were progressing nicely, manned by students in detention with Mr. Filch.

The man himself, who now wore simple but clean and well fitting robes, was becoming a favorite of the students, and his detentions hardly a punishment at all.

Best of all, as far as Snape was concerned, was the frequency of his evenings with Harry. It had been three weeks since they had brewed Wolfsbane together, and the slightest excuse seemed to be an acceptable occasion for them to meet, be it the final roster of the Quidditch teams, Flitwick turning in the last syllabus on Blood Magic, a clear evening to fly under the stars, the report of the Ministry on the last batch of Wolfsbane, or—as on that evening—nothing more concrete than “things to discuss.”

Therefore, Severus was in an excellent mood when he arrived in the Great Hall for dinner. He noticed immediately that Filius was seated in Granger’s usual spot. She was at the end of the table next to Neville Longbottom, speaking animatedly with him, Dermott, and a young blonde woman.

Was that the new Auror? Granger usually did not pay them that much attention, and the new one, not due for a couple more days, was a wizard, he thought. He knew that face, those clear eyes. Sweet Merlin. Sarah Bloody Bolton, Potter’s ex-fiancée. What in the hell was she doing here, all blonde locks, sun-kissed skin, and white smiles?

He knew she had studied Transfiguration at University, a couple years behind Granger. Was she here for Minerva’s position? Severus’ blood ran cold, and he sat in his chair, a horrible feeling of dread in his heart, just as Potter made his entrance.

“Harry!” was Sarah’s joyous greeting.

Potter’s face lit up. “Sarah!” and into his arms she ran, being enfolded in a warm tight hug.

Snape could not help notice how well they fit together. Potter was probably three or four inches taller than she was, and his arms encircled her slender waist and delicate shoulders with practiced ease.

Severus felt his bile rise with rage and impotent jealousy. Potter was smelling her hair! And smiling in her neck! Would they ever stop this… unsightly public display of affection? There were children present! Finally, they walked to the table, hand in hand. Why was Potter always holding hands with his ex-girlfriend?

Severus realized that Filius had been talking to him. He turned away from the younger people and apologized. “I’m sorry, Filius, you were saying?”

“A shame they could not make a go of it, they are so cute together, don’t you think?”

Was Filius channeling Molly Bloody Weasley?

“She is a Hufflepuff,” he answered icily.

Flitwick looked at him in surprise. “A grave sin indeed,” he commented sarcastically.

Snape realized he was being an arse. “I only mean that I think Potter might need someone a little more… spirited. Like Ginny Weasley for example, or Hermione Granger.”

“Both very happily married to other men,” remarked Filius annoyingly.

“Must you purposefully misinterpret everything I say?” Snape snapped. “Someone like them, for Merlin’s sake, not them.”

“Of course, Severus,” replied Flitwick derisively. “I did not realize you had such thorough understanding of your younger staff’s emotional needs. Please do forgive me.” He was giving him a stern look that Severus had only seen very few times before.

Snape closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I am sorry, Filius. I am in a foul mood tonight. Tired, I dare say, and it’s only Tuesday.”

When he looked up, he was horrified to see understanding dawning on Filius’ face. “Oh, Severus. How… inconvenient,” the small man said with concern.

“Indeed,” sighed Snape, realizing the pointlessness of pretence.

“Maybe a visit from a close friend is in order, Severus. How is dear Petr?”

Snape took a deep breath. Filius was right of course. It had been too long; he was losing touch with the reality of his situation.

“I have not spoken to him in a while, but I think I might suggest he come and join me at the weekend.”

“An excellent idea,” replied Filius. “I am sure he will enjoy the game. He likes Quidditch, does he not?”

They went on, discussing the upcoming Ravenclaw-Slytherin game, Severus unbelievably grateful that he had Filius Flitwick as a friend.

While coffee was being served, Harry came to sit in Flitwick’s freshly vacated seat. The thought of his upcoming fire call to Petr firmly in his mind, Severus did not even flinch when Harry quietly made his excuses for that evening, even though Snape had been looking forward to their time together all day.

“Sarah is only staying with Hermione for tonight.” Harry volunteered. “She is going on to Wales in the morning. She has taken a post as a primary school teacher there. I probably won’t get a chance to see her for months.”

“By all means, Potter.” It was very easy to be magnanimous with relief coursing through one’s veins. She was not staying. She was sleeping at Granger’s. She did not want Minerva’s position. He was such an idiot, making mountains out of molehills. “Have a good evening.”

Harry looked a little flustered for a moment. “May I come tomorrow?” he asked, looking at his hands.

Severus suddenly felt that life was marvelous indeed. “Eight o’clock, my rooms,” he said.

Harry gave him the smile he loved. “For drinks,” he answered, before returning to his friends, a smile still on his lips.

Severus got up also and headed for his rooms. He had a call to make.

~0~

Petr was in, glad to see him, free this weekend, and thrilled to come to Hogwarts for a visit. He was such a handsome man. Snape started to look forward to Friday.

Potter and he spent the next evening together, drinking tea. Harry thought Slytherin would take the game Saturday. Their Keeper was amazing, really. Ravenclaw’s Chasers, though nimble, would have their work cut out for them. The Seekers were equally good. Luck would probably determine who would catch the Snitch.

Snape had received an advance copy of a very interesting experimental potions treatise by Antonin Burbage, the brother of the regretted Muggle Studies professor. Burbage was well known in potions circles for his forward-thinking and exacting research techniques. It was a fascinating read, very exciting stuff.

Hugo Weasley had brought home another stray, a small crow this time, that he had found half frozen on his way back from school. The bird had recovered nicely from what ailed him, and now answered to the name Atticus.

The French Ministry of Magic had asked to be allowed use the patented recipe for the Squibs’ potion to produce it themselves, but Snape did not think they would be able to grow enough Pentius Hollyweed, since Longbottom seemed to be the only one capable of sensing the plant’s changing needs enough to cultivate it successfully.

Snape enjoyed their relaxed conversations. The easy exchanges always brought him the most acute pleasure.

Potter’s hair was freshly shorn, emphasizing his sensuous features, and he was wearing his green cashmere sweater, the exact color of his eyes, Snape’s favorite on him.

Severus loved the natural way with which Harry stood to get a refill for his cup, grabbing Snape’s without even asking and returning it full to the arm of his chair without a second thought. He could smell Potter’s scent as he leaned towards him to do so, and just wanted to reach up and cup his cheek in his hand. In a vivid flash, he imagined Harry turning his face in his hand to kiss his palm, and shivered with want.

After he left, Snape sat in Harry’s vacated seat as had become his habit, enjoying the remaining warmth and imagining it retained a trace of Harry’s scent. He went to bed and fell asleep, emptying his mind of all thought, as was his usual routine.

Thursday evening was occupied with a meeting with Narcissa, since he tried to keep the adult education business outside of his regular office hours.

Young Matt Pilot, on top of being a very able assistant to McClallan, was devoting an enormous amount of time to the adult program. Narcissa was thrilled, since Slughorn was so unreliable and Severus so busy. She had lost none of her enthusiasm for the project and did not complain of the huge expense her daily Floo commute represented, as she went home to Lucius every night.

Lucius, on his end, was lobbying very hard at the Ministry for more funding for the program. Narcissa joked that they might get some money just so that the Minister could see a day go by without Malfoy at his door.

On Friday Snape, aware that he would not see a lot of Potter at the weekend, made some effort to keep from staring at him and was not so successful. Potter’s searching gaze caught him three times in one day. He was glad he had the excuse of Petr’s visit to compensate for his lack of control. That should definitely reassure Potter, if by any chance he was starting to find Snape’s attention uncomfortable.

He made a point of mentioning Petr’s coming to Potter on the way out of dinner. Harry would probably look forward to flying with Petr, both of them being so passionate about it. After speaking to him, he wondered if Potter had had a bad day. He looked a little out of sorts. He wished…

Enough. Petr would be there in a little over an hour. Handsome, witty, and sure to be very horny Petr. Keeping that thought in mind, he took a shower, shaved, and cleaned his teeth before leisurely heading to the Apparation point. Sex, at last.

~o~ Peeping Harry ~o~

Harry felt Snape’s eyes on him again. Or was he imagining it? He looked up. There were Snape’s obsidian eyes, quick to look away again. Harry’s heart started beating harder in his chest. Three times. Three times he had caught Snape looking at him today. Did it mean anything? It had to. They had spent many an evening together, in easy, comfortable companionship, but this staring, this was something different, wasn’t it?

Harry’s entire day now revolved around the couple of hours he might get to spend in the dungeons in the evenings. Had these hours become equally important to Snape? Both of them seemed to grasp any excuse to spend time together.

Dinner was over. Would Snape stop by on his way out to invite him down again? From the corner of his eye, he saw Snape get up from the central chair and walk his way. It meant nothing. He could just walk by, as he often did. No, he was stopping! Harry’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest with relief and anticipation.

“Potter? May I ask a favor of you?”

“I’d like that,” answered Harry automatically, before realizing Snape had not asked the anticipated question. “I mean, certainly, Headmaster. What can I do for you?”

“Petr DeVries is arriving tonight for a weekend visit. He quite enjoyed his flight with you when he last was at Hogwarts. Would you be so kind as to go fly with him again?”

Harry’s castles in the sky came crashing around his ears. He managed a smile that felt more like a grimace and answered, “It would be my pleasure, of course. Sunday morning would be best for me, if it can work for him.”

“He will be at breakfast tomorrow, perhaps you might suggest it to him then?”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thank you, Potter.” Snape continued out of the hall, and Harry watched his robes elegantly fluttering in his wake.

Feeling suddenly exhausted, Harry turned down Sinistra’s invitation of a game of chess, using several unedited DADA syllabi as an excuse. His rooms felt much too far away. Harry walked up his stairs one at a time, his feet as heavy as his mood.

Petr DeVries was coming tonight, which explained Snape’s buoyant mood much better than Harry’s ridiculously optimistic fantasies. The tall, handsome, cultured, and charming wizard would be spending the weekend. Harry would probably hardly see Snape at all, and surely not alone.

Would he be so kind as to go fly with Petr again? Well, he would, of course, and probably enjoy himself, too. Petr was nice, and interesting. It was certainly not his fault that time with Snape had come to mean more to Harry than time flying with a fellow enthusiast.

He was absurd, really. Snape didn't mind his company, obviously. But what had he to offer? Most of his opinions were Hermione’s really, and outside of Quidditch, did he actually know anything Snape did not already know as well?

Petr was tall. Handsome. Interesting. Witty. Charming. His company was not merely pleasant. It was probably stimulating, exciting. Something Snape would look forward to, not just something to pass the time.

Once home, Harry took the throw off his couch and went out on the balcony to look at the stars. Well, there were no stars tonight really, but the moon was very bright, playing hide and seek amongst the clouds. Bright enough to entertain Harry, evidently, since he stood frozen on the balcony under the inadequate quilt for a very long time.

Long enough for him to see Snape walk unhurriedly down the path to the gate, and to the Apparation point. Harry hadn’t known for sure Petr would Apparate, had he? He could have Flooed in. It was just chance, wasn’t it, that he was out stargazing tonight, to watch Petr appear, and watch him and Snape embrace for a very long time?

As they started walking back, he had a flashback to July, when the same scene had taken place with the players reversed. They still looked great together, in harmony. Tall, dark-haired wizards, walking in step. They would come in through Rowena’s corridor, he thought. Where no one could see them.

Well, he could wander the corridor at the right moment and see them, of course, being of age, but how would he explain his presence? “Oh, I was just out for a walk in this empty and lonely hallway”? But he wanted to. To see them interact with each other. To see how Snape acted around Petr. Did he look at him as he sometimes looked at Harry, when Harry caught him unawares? Or was that just a look he reserved for younger men he mentored? Caring, but reserved, held back somehow.

Harry probably saw too much in these looks, projected what he wanted to see. Down there was the man whose company Snape craved, wanted. The man he had chosen as a partner long ago. Hating himself, Harry went back in, chilled to the bones, and walked to his closet to get out a jumper. And there it was, hanging conveniently within reach: his Invisibility Cloak. He could go, and observe, and not be seen.

Without thinking any further, he threw on the Cloak and ran out of his rooms, down the spiral stairs, down the main staircase, down to the dungeons. He had never made it so fast. He went to the stone knight’s shield, put his palm on the cross, and slipped into Rowena’s corridor as soon as it opened. They should be approaching the front doors now. They would be in the passage in a minute, and down his way in a few minutes more. He could not believe he was doing this. What could he possibly gain by it?

But he had to know. He had to see for himself that Snape loved another man. That being Harry’s mentor and friend was all he wanted, all Harry could hope for. So he would stop dreaming, imagining what-ifs that took too much of his time, of his energy. So that he could concentrate and learn to appreciate Snape’s friendship for what it was. Friendship. Nothing more.

He heard them first, before they appeared past the corner. They were coming along the corridor, laughing, shoulder to shoulder, shoving each other like kids. Petr pushed Snape against the wall and kissed him passionately. Harry’s stomach rose into his mouth as Snape’s hands came to Petr’s arse, to pull him tighter against his groin. Petr started rutting against him, hard.

“How I’ve missed this,” he said.

“Really? Show me,” grinned Snape as he pushed Petr down on his knees. Petr opened Snape’s robe and must have undone his fly since it was obvious from Snape’s appreciative moans that his cock was being very satisfyingly sucked. His head was resting against the stone wall and his eyes were closed as Petr’s head bobbed up and down.

Harry’s throat was tight, and his eyes burning, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Snape, at once hating and loving the look of bliss on his face. Jealousy was like a knife in his gut, a searing, burning, raging ache. He finally turned away from the lovers, turned the corner and walked away, Snape’s sounds of pleasure seemingly following him all the way to his rooms.

He stood in his living room for a long time, holding his cloak tightly in his right fist, staring at the Half-Blood Prince.

Why did it have to hurt so fucking much?

~o~ What Harry Doesn’t See ~o~

Nearing orgasm, Snape took hold of Petr’s head and plunged into his throat, fucking his mouth hard, grunting loudly as he came, careless of Petr’s gagging sounds, knowing that for him the lack of air was arousing.

He moved back and leaned against the wall, a satisfied expression on his face. That had felt… very good. Petr stayed on his knees, one hand against the wall, getting his breath back, then he rose up again and leaned into his lover. Snape’s arm came around his shoulders and Petr nuzzled his neck. It felt great.

“I love you, Severus.”

Snape felt his expression harden immediately. Not again. “Some things are better left unsaid, Petr.” He made sure his voice carried a warning.

“Sorry, sorry, I know.” Petr looked up at Snape. “It’s just that you’re so… far away and it has been so long. Am I losing you?”

Snape felt himself grow cold. “You know where I am, and where I will be. How could you lose me?”

“Don’t play word games with me, Severus. You know exactly what I mean.”

He hated that Petr was so needy but reminded himself they had not seen each other for weeks, and that it must have been much more difficult adjustment for Petr than for himself. “Would I be fool enough to give up such inspired blow jobs?” He leaned forward, and bit Petr’s lip, none too softly.

“You liked that, did you,” smiled Petr, reassured. “No one knows you like I do. I can make you come whenever I want, I can play your prick like a violin…”

“Stop bragging, Petr, it’s unbecoming,” said Snape in a mock stern voice, his cock twitching, then filling again. (So soon? It had really been much too long.) “Or I may have to discipline you, right here, right now…”

Petr shivered and whispered against Snape's lips, “Do it!”

So ready, so eager. Snape was fully aroused again.

He turned Petr brutally against the wall and bent him over. Petr had to put out his hands not to crash, face first, into the wall. Snape pushed up Petr’s robes, brought his hand to Petr’s front to open his fly and pushed down trousers and pants to his ankles.

“Spread them.”

Petr worked one of his feet out of its shoe with the toe of the other, and took it out of his trouser leg. He spread himself, exposing his lovely arse, but Snape kicked his black-stockinged foot even farther out, and with a wave of his wand cast the medical spell that would banish the contents of, cleanse, and all but sterilize Petr’s bowels. He sucked on his own fingers and leaning down, spread Petr’s arse with one hand, circling his entrance with the other. He pushed one, then two fingers up Petr’s hole, which was nice and tight after all this time.

“Yes! Fuck yes… more,” begged Petr. Snape spat generously into his hand and slicked his cock. Removing his fingers, with a hard push he replaced them with his prick, roughly enough that Petr’s head hit the back of one of his hands against the wall. Snape started fucking him hard, so hard Petr grunted with every push, his body rocking with each thrust.

“I love… this… Severus… I love… it …when you… fuck …me…”

Snape grabbed Petr’s hips, and pounded into him relentlessly.

Petr rested his forehead on his bent arm to cushion it from the wall and grabbed his own prick with the other. He started pumping himself in rhythm with Severus’s relentless plunges. Severus, knowing exactly what his lover needed, let go of one of Petr’s hips and grabbed his hair in his fist, viciously pulling Petr’s head back.

“Come, Petr, now!” he hissed.

Instantly, Petr spurted long jets of ejaculate on his hand and on the wall, screaming incoherently. Snape kept pumping hard throughout Petr’s orgasm, but then slowed to a stop as Petr’s climax came to a shuddering end.

“Who plays whom like a violin now, Petr?” he asked in a cold voice.

“You. Always you.”

“Now, turn around and suck me again,” said Snape, pulling out roughly, his prick glistening.

Petr turned around on shaky legs, got back on his knees and took him in his mouth. He stayed still as Snape, holding his head once again, pumped his whole length in and out, causing Petr to gag every time, his throat muscle spasming around the head of Snape’s cock.

“You love the taste of your own arse on my cock, don’t you, Petr?” Snape said, knowing the truth of it. “And I …love… fucking… your… mouth…” He came again, deep in Petr’s throat, heedless of blocking his airway.

When he pulled out, Petr coughed hard for a few seconds, taking in strangled breath. Watching him coolly, Snape put himself back in order and closed his robes before helping Petr, who was still catching his breath, to his feet. Snape bent down, helped him back into his trouser leg and shoe, and pulled the pants up with tender loving care, responding to Petr’s need. He leaned in for a long, slow, tongue-filled kiss, cradling Petr’s face in his hands.

“Words of love I don’t need, Petr. This is what I want from you.”

“You can have anything you want,” answered Petr, a sob in his voice. “Do anything you want, fuck me any way you want. I am yours, all yours…”

As if Petr weighed no more than a child, Severus bent down to pick him up, one arm around his shoulders and one under his knees. He knew Petr craved this… abandon. He walked on toward the dungeons, feeling no strain, his stride still smooth and elegant. He made his way back home, his head bent to whisper hot descriptions of things to come in Petr’s ear, cradling him like a child.

They did not make it to breakfast the next morning, or even lunch, getting things to munch on from the kitchens between naps and sex. At two in the afternoon, though, they got dressed and ready to go watch the game.

The day was cold but clear, the sky a cloudless blue. The stands were already packed when they made it to the teachers’ box. Petr was greeted affectionately by Septima, and sat conversing pleasantly with everyone. He was at home anywhere, with an ease that Severus, as always, found attractive.

Snape sat down and his eyes went immediately to the pitch searching for Potter, who would be refereeing.

There he was speaking with Filch, in full umpire regalia, looking very, very good. (For the love of Merlin! Five, five orgasms in less than twenty-four hours, and still…)

The game was exciting. Potter was right. The Slytherin Keeper was amazing, never letting anything pass. As usual, though, the Slytherin team had little cohesion, a collection of individuals playing the same game, but no togetherness. They also were very aggressive players, very physical.

Under Potter scrutiny, though, they had to follow the rules. Ravenclaw received two penalty shots that only the finesse of the Slytherin Keeper prevented from being transformed into points.

The score stayed Slytherin 30, Ravenclaw 0 for a very long time, Ravenclaw dominating the field, the Slytherin Keeper constantly under attack. He finally let one in, to delirious cheers from the stands. (Though Minerva had done much during her tenure to diminish House rivalries, the Slytherin team was still the one to beat.)

But suddenly the Seekers were on the move, two streaks in the sky, executing moves that owed a lot to their coach’s experience and training. They were both equally impressive, and as Potter had predicted it was only a chance change of direction from the Snitch that allowed the diminutive Slytherin Seeker to make the catch. She took a victory lap around the pitch, her small face radiating joy.

It was very much to Minerva’s leadership’s credit that the Ravenclaw Seeker shook her hand with equanimity when they dismounted, and that the Slytherins were cheered and congratulated by more than the green-and-silver crowd.

Potter was walking the players back to the locker rooms, a grin on his face, when his eyes met Snape’s. His smile instantly disappeared, and as he turned away Snape thought he saw something in his eyes. Hurt? It was so brief, he must have imagined it.

He certainly had, as Potter was now laughing with the Ravenclaw captain as they entered the building.

It was already getting dark when they all made their way back to the castle. The next game would have to be started earlier.

Dinner was loud and fun, everyone still excited by the game. Granger, her husband, and her children were sitting at their usual spot at the end of the table with Potter, who looked relaxed and happy. Septima was sitting next to Petr, and she was in high spirits, her team having just won the first game of the year. She was teasing Flitwick affectionately. He didn’t look any worse for wear. After all, the season was just starting, and he had had the Quidditch Cup in his office two years running.

“We always lose the first one. It gives everyone a false sense of security. It works every time,” he explained. Septima and Petr just laughed at him.

Suddenly Potter was there, standing between Severus and Petr.

“Great game, Harry,” said Petr. (Why was it Petr could use that name so familiarly?)

“Thanks. It was pretty good, wasn’t it,” agreed Potter, pleased. “Hey, are you up for a flight in the morning?”

Petr looked thrilled. “I’d love to. Eight-thirty?”

“Perfect,” Potter turned to Snape. “Care to join us, Headmaster?”

Petr snorted, but Harry had been serious, of course. After all, Severus had been flying quite frequently, hadn’t he? (Did Potter actually think that it had been for flying’s sake? Of course he would. But how could he not know that for Severus, all the pleasure of flying came from flying with him—alone with him?)

“I’ll pass. But thank you, Coach Potter.”

A second later, Harry was back with the Weasleys and Petr was staring at him, a strange look in his eyes. “You’ve been flying?”

“A few times,” Snape said dismissively.

“On what broom?”

“Potter’s loaned me one of his.”

“I see.” Did he really?

Petr was rather quiet for the rest of the evening, but that night, back in the dungeons, he made love to Severus as he had not for a long time, teasing him with his hands and lips endlessly, indulging in the caresses he himself preferred to give, his face buried in Severus’s arse for a long, thorough tongue-fucking, and actually topping for the first time in years. Afterwards, they held each other a long time in the dark, quietly, and fell asleep tightly entwined.

~o~ Hide and Seek ~o~

Harry had tried hard to enjoy his weekend. After all, it was filled with extremely positive events.

Friday night after the Rowena corridor debacle, he’d managed to have a nice evening with his friends. He had gotten a Floo-call from Dermott, asking him if he wanted to go for a drink at the Three Broomsticks with him and Cassandra, whom he was still dating. There they had met with Neville and George and had Floo-called Ron and Hermione, managing to get them to give up a romantic evening and join the fun.

They were already having a great time when Dermott and Cass put the icing on the cake by announcing that they were engaged to be married. It had been a fabulous evening, during which Harry had managed not to think about the scene he had witnessed between Snape and Petr. Not too often, anyway. Half a dozen times, max. Or maybe a dozen, but no more…

Saturday had been extremely satisfactory from a professional standpoint. Both the Slytherin and Ravenclaw teams had played very well, showing huge progress from where they had started just weeks before, and the players had had fun as well as demonstrating a lot of fair play, Slytherin only receiving two penalties. There had been a lot of positive comments from spectators to the new coach about the game, which were very nice to hear.

Saturday night Harry was on patrol. It was by far the busiest one he had ever experienced. He really came to appreciate the help of the ghosts and of the paintings, catching numerous couples in the nick of time and taking off an astounding number of points from all four Houses. It was obvious that both Ravenclaws and Slytherins had held get-togethers at which Muggle alcohol was present, and whether they were celebrating or commiserating, the spiked drinks had obviously lowered the students’ inhibitions. He did not go to bed until 2:30 AM, and he was incredibly glad that for the first time since the beginning of school he had cancelled the morning training, since he would be flying with Petr. He didn’t think any of the students would have shown up anyway…

Sunday morning, Harry and Petr had gone through a light training and then had flown very high, under Notice-Me-Not charms, speeding in the frosty sunshine. It had been very pleasant and relaxing, though the clear sky had brought with it really chilly temperatures. After about an hour and a half they had taken a break, landing on an outcrop with a 360-degree view of the moors, Petr surprising Harry with some very welcome hot cocoa made from Droste cocoa powder, which he swore was the best in the world. It did taste delicious and was marvelously warm.

“Another thing on which Severus and I disagree,” Petr said. “He swears by Scharffenberger, the heathen…” It was a lighthearted comment but seemed to carry some deeper meaning Harry could not fathom. Perhaps Petr resented the separation imposed by their respective careers?

“Is it very hard, being apart?” Harry asked rather thoughtlessly and then added, realizing how intrusive his question was, “I’m sorry. Please ignore me, sometimes I speak without thinking.”

Petr waved off his apology. “It’s okay, Harry. Your question is welcome, actually. At home I put up a happy front, acting as if nothing’s changed, so no one asks, and Severus... Well, he’s not one to dwell on things that cannot be changed, so I’ve not really been able to talk about it. The truth is, it’s been hell, really.”

Thoughtfully, he added, “Interestingly, I miss his presence in the house more than anything. It’s been terribly quiet and so… lonely. As Headmaster, Severus is always busy. I am as well, of course, but… Anyway, the owls are few and far between and Floo-calls… well, they make things worse sometimes. One moment he is there and everything is great and then the call ends and the silence in the apartment is twice as oppressive.”

He looked at Harry, and shrugged. “With the separation, our lives have naturally started to diverge. I do the things I like that he has only limited interest in, instead of the activities we used to engage in that pleased us both, and he, too, is free to pursue his own interests. Over time, if we are not careful, we will have less and less in common.

“Being away, Severus loses touch with our friends, our community, and gets involved in his own. This weekend was an eye opener for us both. We have realized that some care must be taken, some efforts made on both sides, to protect what is precious in our relationship or, no matter how strong it wa… how strong it is, it can just slip away.”

Petr sounded so… melancholy. But Harry had seen how playful they were together, how in tune to each other he and Snape had been on Friday. He guessed the upcoming separation was weighing on Petr, making things seem much worse than they were. He genuinely liked Petr and wanted to cheer him. “Amsterdam is not that far. You can come visit all the time!”

Petr smiled at Harry. “Severus’s schedule does not seem to free him more than a couple of hours at a time and mine is highly unpredictable but you are right, now that things here are more settled, we might be able to manage more frequent visits than once in eight weeks,” he admitted. He smiled sheepishly. “But enough about me. What about you, Harry? Any new lady in your life?”

Harry’s insides seemed to twist with guilt. ‘Well, I am madly in love with your partner and have constant fantasies of him ravishing me, conveniently forgetting that you even exist…’ Instead, he said, quite truthfully, “Being a teacher in a boarding school is not exactly conducive to meeting a lot of women… And Hogsmeade is not rich in prospects either! But since this is my first term of teaching, I’m not really focused on my love life, truthfully. Everything is new and quite exciting enough at this point. I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water.”

“The witch population of Britain must rue the day you quit Puddlemere for Hogwarts, then,” said Petr, teasingly.

Harry chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Oh, yes. They are all in mourning, haven’t you heard? Well, the three girls I hadn’t dated yet, anyway…”

Petr only barely avoided spraying hot cocoa out of his nose. He joked back, “I guess you have earned a break, haven’t you. You definitely have done your duty by Britain’s magical females.”

“And I have the Order of Merlin to show for it. What? You thought it was because of that little thing with Voldemort?” They were both laughing now, enjoying the silliness.

After a while they headed back. Harry had his dominical Quidditch pick-up game with the adult students. Since they were a man short of two full teams, Petr decided to join them, playing Chaser. It was good that his flying was so much better than that of the beginning students, because he could not catch a ball to save his life. He’d drop the Quaffle at practically every pass and have to chase it as it fell to the earth. He was very good-humored about it and had no problem putting up with the ribbing he was getting from the other players, easily laughing with the others about it.

A tiny gentleman, seventy years old if he was a day, caught the Snitch and ended the game. His grin showed every one of his six remaining teeth. It reminded Harry to send him to Poppy, so she could grow him a new set.

The whole morning reminded Harry how much he liked Petr, how attractive the man was and how good a friend he would no doubt have become if they saw each other more often. At least it might have been so, was it not for the fact that Snape loved him. On that basis alone, Harry wished the man had never been born.

He spent the afternoon with Ron, Hermione, and their children. Atticus, the foundling crow, took an immediate shine to him and used his shoulder as a perch for hours.

“Uncle Harry, you should keep him,” declared Hugo. “He really, really likes you.”

Harry chuckled and joked, “Sorry, Hugo, but it’s been years since my hair has been long enough to qualify as a crow’s nest…”

“True,” said Ron, “but now you live in one instead!”

“You know, Harry,” added Hermione thoughtfully, “I do believe crows are sometimes able to be imprinted with the Avian Mail Carrier spell.”

Harry looked at the bird on his shoulder. He was the complete opposite of Hedwig, black to her white, long-beaked to her flat mien, bold and boisterous to her discretion. He had never bought another owl, but somehow owning Atticus would not feel like he was betraying the memory of his childhood confidante.

He looked back at Hermione and teased her. “Eager to keep Hugo’s zoo population at an even dozen, Hermione?”

She and Hugo laughed. “That as well, of course,” she said, ruffling her son’s hair. “Let me look the spell up, okay?”

Once she had found it, it took only a minute for Harry to cast it. Atticus glowed white for a moment, spread and shook his wings, and let out a proud squawk. Harry borrowed a quill and a piece of parchment to pen a quick note as Hugo followed the diagram in his mother’s spell book to attach a leather lanyard to a very cooperative Atticus’s leg.

‘My name is Atticus.’ (Harry grinned, suddenly remembering it was Malfoy’s middle name… ) ‘I am Harry’s new bird and this is my maiden delivery. Please, praise me and give me a treat!’

Harry rolled up the message and Atticus hopped down from his shoulder to the arm of his chair, extending his leg to him.

Harry secured the message and said, “Take this to Molly Weasley at the Burrow, please, Atticus, and wait for an answer.” It was a fairly long flight, and would be a good test of the spell’s success.

He petted the bird, got up, and opened the window. They all watched as Atticus took off, flying a couple tight circles to get his bearings before popping out of sight.

“Uh…” asked Harry. “Is it supposed to do that?”

“Oh, my god!” said Hermione, disbelieving. “It Disapparated!”

“Nope… Definitely not supposed to do that,” answered Ron. “Was this the right spell?”

“Well, of course it was!” answered Hermione, insulted. She opened the book at the page she had marked. “‘Avis, intelligere. Invenies mea correspondente Quantum accelerare poteris iter.’ Basically, uh…: ‘Bird, understand… find my correspondent, travel as swiftly as possible.’’ See, it’s the right spell. Oh. It says here ‘The more powerful the caster of the spell, the more efficient the bird.’” She grinned at Harry. “I guess that kind of explains it. Atticus is going to be an express delivery bird…”

“‘Bird, understand?’ With you casting the spell, Harry, that bird is probably ready for its NEWTS!” teased Ron, laughing.

Harry made a face. “I hope he’s all right. I should have let one of you cast the spell…”

Hermione squeezed his arm affectionately after re-latching the window. They headed back to their seats. “I’m sure he’s all right, Harry. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough.”

“It Disapparated from within Hogwarts wards,” emphasized Harry.

“Oh,” said Hermione, whom that detail had escaped. “Riiight…”

Ron was laughing. “Oh, Merlin! Super-bird! It going to give a whole new meaning to ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…’”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, shut up, Ron.”

Hugo, who though he did not understand the fuss could tell Harry was worried, patted his knee and said, “He’s a tough bird, Uncle Harry. He’ll be all right.”

“Thanks, Hugo.” Harry took the boy on his lap. “You never knew her, but when I was at Hogwarts, I had the most beautiful snowy owl…”

Ten minutes later, Atticus was tapping the window with his beak. Hermione chuckled as she opened the window to let him in. Atticus flew to the arm of Harry’s chair and proudly extended his leg.

Molly’s message said, “Atticus is a lovely bird, Harry. And so smart! I told him to give me a second to read the message and I’d have a treat for him, and he flew to the pantry and brought back a can of sardines! I wasn’t sure he knew what they were, but I opened the can just in case. He ate all six. I suppose you give him those a lot. Anyway. I told him he’d done well and was a good bird. He is on my shoulder as I write this, staring at what I am writing as if he could read this note. He’s so funny!”

“Well done, Atticus. But please make sure you are out of sight before you Disapparate, next time, okay? Mail birds aren’t supposed to be able to do that.”

Atticus blinked slowly in assent. Harry shook his head and said, “Good grief…” giving dirty looks to his laughing friends.

Yes, Harry’s weekend had been very nice. Yet the entire time, confused and conflicting feelings were warring inside him, tinting everything the color of ashes: guilt, jealousy, anger…

Guilt was eating at him on two fronts. First, were he not spending so much time distracting Snape at Hogwarts, wouldn’t the man pay more attention to his relationship with Petr? And second, of course… Also, as much as he liked the man from Amsterdam, should he really wish for him to vanish as if he’d never existed as often as he did?

Jealousy so intense it felt like a physical sickness burned him from the inside. He wanted what Petr had, Snape’s love, Snape’s attention; he wanted what they both had, what Ron and Hermione had, what Malfoy and Ginny had: that loving bond, that acceptance, that special communication though a look, a smile, which excluded all others.

Anger at Snape, completely irrational, made his blood boil. Anger for making Harry fall in love with him, for not loving him back, for having sex with someone else, for not having time for him, for being so clueless, for not realizing that Harry, not Petr, was the man he was meant to be with…

Finally, he was overwhelmed by diametrically opposed thoughts that had him wondering if he was developing a split personality disorder.

He would stop seeing Snape alone immediately, and focus on his work—yet he already had six good excuses to go down to the dungeons Monday night.

He would leave Hogwarts forever and not look back—yet he was so glad to be at the school, where he could see Snape every day.

He had to stop living for the time he spent with the man and tying every event and every thought to him—yet he wondered what Snape would think of his new bird, of Dermott and Cassandra’s engagement, and what would it be like to be married to Snape, to make love with him every day?

Harry, exhausted, skipped dinner Sunday night, drank a dose of Dreamless Sleep, and was in bed at seven-fifteen.

~o~

Maybe because the mornings were getting chilly, Harry started taking very long hot showers after his morning workouts, so long in fact that he only had time to pop into the Great Hall, drink his wheat grass juice, roll his egg white omelet inside a piece of whole wheat toast and run out to make it to his first class on time, not even sitting down.

On the days when he taught the adult students first thing in the afternoon, he reasoned it made more sense to eat lunch with them in the refurbished classroom in the East Wing. His spare time was limited, so when he did eat in the Great Hall he brought one of Hermione’s books on pedagogy to study while he ate. They were fascinating, and he would be fully absorbed for the whole meal.

Harry started eating dinner with Hermione and the children several times a week and participating in the adult evening review and practice program, eating dinner in the East Wing when he was not at the Granger-Weasleys.

On Friday nights he went with his friends to the Three Broomsticks. On Saturdays he coached the House teams before spending the evening with Teddy and Andromeda and on Sundays arbitrated the adult students’ pick-up game and spent time in the library working on the last of the DADA syllabi.

So it was obviously completely happenstance that it had been nearly two and a half weeks since the Slytherin-Ravenclaw game, and Harry and the Headmaster had not exchanged more than a dozen words, most of them, “Mr. Potter,” and “Headmaster,” with a nod of greeting.

But despite his best efforts, when he went to bed at night—often the first chance he had to slow down and think in his busy days—Harry felt Snape’s absence from his life like a physical ache. He’d pictured the man’s sitting room in his mind, the warm fire, the smell of the fragrant tea, of parchment, of books, and the Headmaster himself, in shirtsleeves, barefoot, with his cup balanced on the arm of his chair. He would have happily lost the two hours of extra sleep he had been enjoying lately just for a chance to sit there, reading quietly, drinking tea. What was he saying? He would have given just about anything to be in Snape’s presence, to have his attention in one of their quiet conversations, to meet the man’s eyes and feel that pull on his heart.

Then he would recall Snape and Petr’s laughter in Rowena’s corridor, Petr going to his knees and Snape’s sounds of pleasure, and would have to close his eyes and take a few slow, painful breaths. He imagined they now shared nightly Floo conversations, having resolved to cultivate the relationship they valued. Snape had a life, a lover. Using his lonesomeness to attempt to intrude between Petr and him was inexcusable.

During their Quidditch teams’ training, he’d overheard some third year Hufflepuff girls describe a charm that was popular right now with the female student body. It was called the Periscopus charm and allowed a reader to see a small but sharp image of whatever the spine of the book was aimed at, in the corner of the page. The last two times he had eaten lunch in the Great Hall, Periscopus had allowed him to watch his fill of Severus Snape while appearing completely absorbed by his reading. It was embarrassing and he still preferred to avoid the hall completely, but it was impossible to resist.

Recently Hermione, at one of their dinners, had tactfully mentioned that even with her special status earned through tough negotiations, she had to eat a certain number of meals in the Great Hall. The children and she loved his company, but shouldn’t he…? He shrugged it off.

Filius Flitwick participated in the evening practice and review of the adult students at least as often as Harry did. One evening almost three weeks after the game, as they were walking back toward the entry hall together, he mentioned that Harry’s absences from the teachers’ table had been noted and commented upon.

“I enjoy the occasional meal in the east wing myself, Harry. The adult students are wonderful company. But there are many reasons we all eat together. It does promote friendship, cooperation, and understanding between the teachers of different discipline and presents the students with a united front, so that they know their teachers cooperate and work as a team.”

He stopped at the base of the staircase where their paths diverged and added with a pointed look, “Beyond that, my young friend, we miss you. Neville and Dermott behave much too well without you. We need more levity. Severus has been as jolly as an undertaker lately and Septima mentioned she missed your smile.”

He himself smiled kindly at Harry. “Just food for thought, Harry, of course. And though I was not your Head of House, do remember that if you ever want to talk, about anything, I’ll be happy to listen.”

His deep-set eyes met Harry’s; for the first time Harry noticed they were of a pleasant hazelnut color, but also filled with compassion and understanding. He suddenly realized how good it would feel to tell someone about what he was going through, someone who would not judge, who might laugh with him and not at him, and whose discretion he could count on.

“Well, Filius, now that you mention it… I was a bit cool in the east wing tonight. I could use a cup of tea…”

Flitwick’s smile was really pleased. “I was going to have one myself. Why don’t you join me? I’m around the corner, not forty thousand steps up.”

Harry laughed. “Forty thousand? No wonder you never visit…”

Flitwick’s sitting room was… cozy. The ceiling could not have been more than eight feet high and the room itself was quite small, with a tiny fireplace, a loveseat and a small reading chair, two walls covered with shelves full of books. The desk with its chair could have belonged to Hugo. Yet the overall feel was comfortable and masculine, the small dimensions not at all oppressive.

“Make yourself at home, Harry. I’ll go to the kitchen and make us some tea. I like to do it without magic. For some reason, it seems to taste better that way.” He entered a small door in an alcove, which evidently led to a kitchen. Harry removed his teaching robes and sat in the loveseat. Though rather low to the ground, it was very comfortable. Above the fireplace were three portraits, only one of them animated, showing that its subject was deceased. The other two were obviously goblins.

The first, a male in expensive clothing sitting in an office, had his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his gorgeous waistcoat. One could tell immediately that he was Filius’s father. His eyes were the same warm hazelnut as Filius’s, and he had passed on his small pointy ears to his son. His rather alarming smile, full of very sharp teeth, he had thankfully kept for himself.

Harry had never before seen a female goblin, so he looked upon the portrait of the obviously very old, very distinguished lady goblin next to Filius’s father’s with curiosity. She had thick, very long hair, black as the night, braided in a long plait that disappeared at the bottom of the frame and that Harry guessed probably went to her feet. She also had the same neat pointy ears as her son and grandson and her hazelnut eyes were bordered with thick dark eyelashes. They were deep-set under prominent though delicate brows and framed by very sharp cheekbones. She had a pointy chin, but her most noticeable trait was her long, thin, and pointy nose. Her dark skin had many thin wrinkles, tracing the lifetime of an expressive face. Like her son she had a rather… disquieting smile, very thin lips framing teeth any great white shark would have been proud of, with canines quite a bit longer than their neighbors. Yet somehow she was beautiful, and had probably been beautiful all her life.

The last portrait was that of a witch. She had dark hair with a widow’s peak, pale skin, and an excessively thin face with a prominent narrow nose and high cheekbones. Her lips were so thin as to be almost inexistent and her eyes were quite small. Yet they could have been considered her one beauty: green next to the pupils changing to blue at the periphery of the iris, and circled with a black line. They were truly striking. When she smiled at Harry, they were full of humor and good will.

“I am Diana Flitwick-Grishreshssnakst,” she said in a high, disagreeably piercing voice. “Let me guess. You would be… the flight instructor, young Harry Potter, am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I am sure Filius and you have a lot to talk about. I’ll go visit with a friend. Have a nice evening.” And before Harry had time to answer, her portrait was empty.

Filius came back with a tray holding a large teapot covered by a really ugly pink and grey knitted tea cozy, with a large milk jug, a full sugar bowl, and a plate of digestives. The cups were large porcelain ones, unmatched and chipped. The spoons were also mismatched. He set the tray on a very low table in front of the fireplace.

He poured Harry a tea so dark it looked like coffee. “I’ll let you doctor it as you like,” he said, filling the upper third of his cup with milk and adding a tablespoon of sugar. He sat back in the reading chair and put his stockinged feet on the coffee table. Harry fixed his tea the same way, toed off his ankle boots and tucked his feet under him on the settee.

He took a sip of his beverage. It was strong, sweet, warm, and delicious. He sighed as his body relaxed in the warmth of the fire and smiled at Filius. “This is nice. Thank you.”

The small Charms professor smiled back and said, “So, Harry. Why don’t you tell me why you have all but disappeared in the past three weeks.”

Flitwick was so friendly and matter of fact. Harry decided to just jump right in. “I’m embarrassed to admit that like some third year Hufflepuff girl, I have been avoiding someone I’ve fallen in love with, who does not return that sentiment.”

“Ah. Unrequited love. I have very little experience of life beyond these walls, having taught here since my youth, and until quite recently had none at all with love, but strangely enough, unrequited love is now something I perfectly understand… but never mind that, we are talking about you.”

Harry was very curious, but could tell Flitwick would not speak any more than that about the subject. He did, however, want to see his situation through the eyes of an uninvolved third party. “Yes, well, I afraid in this case it’s not just unrequited, but unrequitable. Completely hopeless really,” he confessed.

“Ah.” Filius nodded in understanding. “The lady in question is otherwise engaged.”

“Uh… yes, rather irreversibly so.”

Flitwick was quiet for a moment then said, “Let me ask you this. Are you avoiding the Great Hall because it is easier for you not to see the person in question, or in respect for her present relationship, not wanting to possibly interfere with it?”

“I was seeing quite a lot of… her before, and loved every second, though I was aware it would not lead to anything. But I realize now that it was taking time away from her established relationship and possibly creating some tension she might not be aware of between her and the person she loves. I do not want to do that, as I am quite sure they are perfect for each other. They have a lot in common with each other. Age, experience, a past. I… well. I have nothing to offer hi… her. So I have been staying away.”

Filius Flitwick was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking through what Harry had said. He asked, “Do you believe this person capable of making the right choices for herself?”

Harry frowned. “Yes. I do.”

“Do you think, if she considers it ideal, that she could be influenced away from her relationship through contact with someone who is completely incompatible with her?”

“Uh… No.”

“Have you been happier since distancing yourself from her? Is it easier for you not to see her so often?”

“Definitely not. I miss…her very much. Even though I knew the feeling to be one-sided, the time spent in this person’s company was the highlight of my days.”

“I’m sure you can see where I am going with this. You already have all your answers, don’t you? And you have nothing to feel guilty about; that couple’s relationship is not your responsibility.” Filius smiled happily at Harry, continuing to look at him over the rim of his cup as he drank his tea quietly.

Harry had to admit he had not really thought about the situation very logically. But wasn’t there more to his complete avoidance of Snape than what he so glibly admitted to Filius? If he was honest, he would have to confess he had been angry with the man and had tried to punish him because he knew that Snape, though not romantically interested in him, derived some enjoyment from his company. He had been ridiculously immature and childish.

He remembered the peace he had felt the night he had admitted to himself that he loved Severus Snape, and his grateful acceptance then that their platonic friendship was the best he could hope for. How could he have forgotten it so easily?

He smiled gratefully at Flitwick, who, though he had not uncovered all the ramifications of the situation, had helped him think things through. He wondered who Flitwick’s unrequited love was, but knew that was a topic for another day.

The diminutive man apparently sensed Harry was done with his self-reflection and asked, “So, Harry, how are you doing with your syllabi? Any of them giving you trouble?”

They discussed their work on behalf of the DADA for quite a while, and Harry discovered that Flitwick also wanted to read the rest of Snape’s work on antivenin, having found his part of it fascinating. Flitwick also taught him a quick charm that could be used to alphabetize or otherwise organize by size, year, or any other criteria anything he wanted. That would come in very handy in collating his work.

Harry went home around midnight, not looking forward to the alarm in the morning, but on the other hand very happy to not feel he had to hide away and hoping a little that Snape might be willing to resume their quiet evenings together.

When he got home there was a note slipped under his trap door. It said, “Coach Potter, Please come by my rooms tomorrow evening at 8:00 PM to discuss your habitual failure to attend communal meals. Headmaster Snape.”

Harry went to bed feeling better than he had in three weeks.

~o~ Love the One You’re With ~o~

After Petr’s weekend visit, Snape had fully expected to spend the evening with Harry on Monday.

But he had missed him at breakfast, leaving the hall as Potter entered it at a run, evidently quite late. Then Potter had apparently taken lunch elsewhere and had been again absent at dinner. During his next day’s breakfast conversation with Granger, he learned Potter had dined with her and her children. Snape lingered over his morning coffee as long as possible, only to see Potter arrive again at the last minute, grab his food, and leave, not even bothering to sit.

Pretty soon it became obvious that it was to be the younger man’s new routine: breakfast at a run, lunch with the adult students (Snape had gathered that information from Narcissa, who related how much they enjoyed their flying instructor’s company), and dinner either with Granger in her home or, on Wednesdays, in the Great Hall with the whole Granger-Weasley family.

The few times Potter had lunched in the Great Hall he’d arrived early and kept his nose in some Muggle book the entire time, eating his unappetizing food quickly and leaving early. The Headmaster was extremely frustrated. Not only did Potter constantly escape before Snape was able to invite him for the evening, but gone also was the undeniable pleasure of looking at him throughout the meals.

The last eye contact Snape had had with the man had been after the Slytherin-Ravenclaw game, when Snape had thought Potter looked strangely hurt. But surely he had imagined that? Petr had said that he’d had a great time with Potter the next day…

Every night, Snape stared resentfully at Potter’s empty chair. After Petr’s visit, the straight young man had to know he did not need to fear that his old gay Potions professor might proposition him. So what was keeping him away?

Knowing Harry was on patrol the night of Halloween, Snape had had high hopes of catching him while he walked the corridors.

Potter had made it to the feast but, like everyone else on that special night, had played musical chairs, visiting with different groups of students, talking with the ghosts, charming pumpkins into declaiming verses, or dancing around to entertain the younger students.

Snape planned to intercept Potter during his rounds but had forgotten what Halloween night was like. Walking the castle in search of Potter, he became a de facto second patroller; so many students being out of bounds and intent on mischief, there was certainly enough mayhem to keep the two of them busy—and apart.

Septima and Filius both occasionally mentioned missing Potter’s uplifting presence at meals, but it was Minerva who handed him a solution to the problem. She lectured Snape on the benefits of teachers taking their meals together in the Great Hall and expressed her disapproval that Severus had given Harry permission to ignore the demands of his contract, in view of the negative impression it could make on the students.

Granger, apparently knowing perfectly well there was no such permission, had quietly admitted to Severus having mentioned his obligations to Potter to no avail. She had no clue why Potter suddenly chose to eschew the communal meals that he had until then seemed to enjoy.

Armed with an official reason, yet not wanting to make it an official reprimand (and missing the man more than he had ever thought possible), Snape took a walk to Harry’s quarters that very evening and knocked on the trap door. He was bitterly disappointed when there was no answer and concluded Harry must be lending a hand with the practice and review session for the adults.

He quickly reviewed the current adult roster mentally, wondering if perhaps… No. There were no particularly attractive or otherwise remarkable young women who might have caught Potter’s fancy in the current batch. Anyway, Potter had said he was unavailable, hadn’t he?

Snape tried to remember to be grateful at how involved the young man was in the success of Narcissa’s enterprise and left a note for Potter requesting a visit from him the next evening. Though it pained him, he shied away from referring to his very first note as had been their habit. He could not think of what he might have done to disrupt his and Harry’s budding friendship, but he knew something had been lost. He only hoped it could be found again.

Going back to his rooms he sat in his chair, thinking of conversation topics that might interest Harry, that would perhaps entice him to stay for tea the next evening, maybe even for a full evening of pleasant conversation.

~o~ Back on Track ~o~

The next day Harry arrived to breakfast on time, greeted happily by everyone.

“Potter.”

“Headmaster.”

Just two words across the table, but any time Harry looked up, he met Snape’s burning gaze. Headmaster.

At lunch it was Severus Snape who went missing, and come dinnertime, he was engaged in a heated debate with Hermione and Flitwick and paid no attention to Harry whatsoever.

Waiting for eight o’clock, Harry was a mess. He could not wait to be with Snape but was aware that the first thing he wanted to say, though he knew well he had absolutely no right to even think it, was, “How could you?”

He showered, shaved, and dressed in very fitted black trousers that emphasized all his good points with a snowy white shirt with rolled up sleeves and an open collar under his favorite green cashmere jumper. It looked beautiful on him and made him feel confident. He was at Snape’s door exactly at eight. It opened before he even had time to knock.

The Headmaster was sitting in his chair in his usual relaxed evening attire, reading a book, when Harry entered. On the sideboard, the tea tray was in its usual place, his cup waiting for him. Feeling nervous despite the familiarity of the setting, Harry helped himself to tea and sat down. Snape put his open book face-down on his lap and met his eyes. They smiled at each other, neither of them able to hide the pleasure they felt at each other’s presence.

“Filius explained to me the logic behind the communal meals, and Hermione pointed out my contractual obligations. I apologize for my dereliction of duty and I will be sure to eat in the Great Hall as often as I can from now on,” said Harry hurriedly, hoping to get that part over without having to lie while explaining his reasons for staying away.

“Good to hear. Aside from a breach of your duties, your absence had a negative impact on the staff’s morale. It would seem that your colleagues have become fond of you. You were missed, Mr. Potter,” commented Snape, his tone indifferent, though his pointed gaze made Harry blush a little.

“I realize now I missed the company of my colleagues as well,” admitted Harry. He continued, feeling quite bold, though he turned his eyes to the fire in the grate while he talked, “Since they have personal lives, attachments outside of Hogwarts, I did not appreciate that they would notice or care about my absence.”

“You were mistaken, Mr. Potter. Apparently you have carved your own niche in their routines, and your nonappearance emphasized how precious your company has become.”

Harry could not help but glance at Snape after what could easily be construed as a personal declaration, but the man’s gaze was also directed to the grate, the fire’s warmth possibly responsible for slight coloring of the usually pale cheeks.

Harry smiled to himself, deciding to interpret Snape’s words in the way that made him happiest. Snape was fond of him and had missed him. Snape thought his company was precious. Feeling really good, he changed the subject to a more comfortable one.

“I missed your tea,” he said, smiling.

“Needlessly.” Snape shrugged. “Your cup is on the tray every night, Potter,” Snape added, lightly.

Harry’s heart jumped in his chest. Did that mean he could visit without an invitation? That he was welcome every night?

“I could come and enjoy a cup… anytime?” he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Snape looked at him and smiled; that smile that could not help but be slightly predatory. “Really, Mr. Potter. Though as you know, I often use the time after dinner to catch up with work and may not always be able to grace you with my stellar conversation as you drink it.”

“Well, I can always bring work as well, in case you are too busy…” answered Harry, who felt like getting up and dancing around.

That particular night, however, was one when Snape was obviously not overburdened with work. They caught up after their three weeks apart, speaking of everything and anything, though a common concern was Neville’s grandmother’s failing health. It seemed the old lady was reaching the end of her days, and both men knew how hard it would be on Neville.

“Without Mr. Longbottom, I do not believe George Weasley would have survived the death of his twin,” observed Snape. “I think in the same manner, Mr. Weasley will be of great support to his partner, though they are, perforce, apart from each other a lot of the time. I am sure Granger’s, McClallan’s, and your friendship will be of great importance to him.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “Mrs. Longbottom had taken on the duties of head of the family. Without her to represent the Enduring and Persistent House of Longbottom, he will have to be inducted into the Wizengamot and find someone he trusts to be his proxy,” reflected Harry. “I can’t imagine he will be able to take the time off to actually attend.”

“If he has not already given it some thought, maybe you can advise him. You are the head of the Black House, are you not?”

Harry nodded and added sheepishly, “I am the head of the Black House and, ridiculously enough, also the head of the Rosier House as well as the head of the Lupin House since I am the legal guardian of my godson. Draco Malfoy is my proxy for all three votes, though he has to get my assent before casting them.”

“The Rosier House as well? How did that happen?”

“The Rosiers’ estate was in probate for years after the death of Evan Rosier, who had no direct heir and died intestate. Apparently, the House would not accept his second cousin and his third cousin twice removed as heirs, but as they might have sons or daughters it would approve of, it waited. When both of them lost their magic after their sentencing as Death Eaters, the House apparently lost all interest in their possible progeny and turned to the next eligible heir, Rosier’s fourth cousin, Sirius Black.

“Though deceased, he had an heir the House approved of. Me. It appears that by the rules of the Rosier estate (and of the Black estate as well, actually), since my father was a wizard and my mother was a witch, I am considered a Pureblood wizard. So until Teddy comes of age, I am de facto the head of four Houses, three of them having votes in the Wizengamot…”

Snape smiled. “Good thing you failed in your murder attempt on Draco Malfoy in your sixth year, then. I am quite sure if someone had told you, while you were busy gutting him, that you would one day entrust him with your affairs you would have thought they were insane.”

Harry started to protest, hurt and upset, even after all these years, “I wasn’t trying to kill…” and saw the gleeful spark in Snape’s eyes at still being able to get a rise out of him. “Oh, ha, ha…” he grumbled, annoyed. “I am so glad one of the worst memories of my adolescence amuses you.”

“Oh, no! Not at all. I agree that there is nothing amusing about it. Your reaction, however…” commented Snape, still smiling, picking up his teacup and taking a sip.

Harry could not comprehend Snape’s cruel enjoyment of his remorse. He looked into the challenging dark eyes and suddenly realized that, after Snape’s earlier quasi-confession of having missed Harry’s company and thinly veiled open invitation to his quarters, some part of Snape needed reassurance. Harry’s resilience was being tested. Would he leave in a huff, or would he show that he accepted Snape as he was, warts and all, that he would endure the less attractive aspects of Snape’s personality, which were so far outweighed by his countless admirable qualities?

Harry smiled at Snape, the same unguarded open smile he had bestowed upon him that morning at breakfast when he had finally let go of the past. The smile said, ‘I see the whole of you, and you are worth it,’ with a little ‘I really want to see you naked,’ thrown in. Why should Harry be the only one off balance?

Snape precipitously put down his cup and coughed into his fist, a sip of tea having apparently gone the wrong way.

“All right, Snape?” asked Harry, full of innocent concern.

His throat cleared, Snape answered, still a little flushed, “Yes, yes. Fine, thank you.”

Harry got up and freshened both their cups. Going back to safer ground, they discussed how well young Matt Pilot, Dermott McClallan’s assistant, was performing, both in the normal Potions classroom and as a volunteer instructor to the adult students. Dermott would be taking his Mastery exams soon now, and Snape, as his thesis Master, had no doubt he would succeed. Matt would then able to take the title of Apprentice, starting his own uphill struggle to Mastery.

The scheme had worked so well, Snape had managed to get consent from the board for another apprentice to join Hogwarts’s staff, this time assisting Flitwick, who donated so much of his time to Narcissa’s students, in Charms. Applications for the post would be accepted until the end of November and the new staff member would start in January.

It was close to midnight when Harry made his way back to his aerie, light footed, light hearted, smiling and humming to himself all the way, more in love than ever. He would heed Filius’s advice and enjoy Snape’s company as much as Snape would allow. He was not responsible for the man’s relationship. Snape and Petr could deal with their own issues.

~o~ Beautiful ~o~

When Potter had come in on time that morning for breakfast, Severus had greeted him as he always did.

He had also lost all interest in food, sipping occasionally from his cup as he helplessly stared (and was caught countless time doing so) at the young man. Had Harry always been so… beautiful? He could not take his eyes off him, rediscovering the angle of his jaw, the perfect musculature of his neck, the grace of his movements, the healthy glow of his skin…

Reasoning that nothing could be gained by his making an even bigger ass of himself at lunch, he decided to skip it, finishing work he might normally have taken home in the evening. That night, he wanted to concentrate on Harry.

At dinner, he discussed the upcoming interview of Charms Apprentices with Filius and Granger. McClallan had not participated in the selection of Matt Pilot as his assistant, since he had known several of the candidates and did not want personal feelings to influence the ultimate choice. Filius insisted his own assistant’s selection should be handled the same way, though both Granger and Severus thought his input would be invaluable, since through conferences and after having taught Charms for half a century, he knew all of the candidates. Filius carried the day and Snape and Granger coordinated some slots in their schedules to meet the candidates.

As the appointed time for Potter’s visit grew near, Severus could only embarrassedly describe his state of mind as giddy. He carefully prepared tea, lit a warm fire against the chill of the evening, and cast warming spells on the stone floor and even a needless dusting spell on his shelves. At the last minute he went to the bath to run a brush through his lustrous black hair and retie his queue, which did not need retying.

He was relieved, sensing Harry’s magic approaching. Merlin knows what he would have done next, he thought, chuckling to himself. Trim his toenails? Cut his nose hair? Oh, Merlin’s balls! Did his nose hair need tending? He forgot all about it when the door opened, choosing to pretend to be absorbed by… Essential Molds by Ernst Gale? Was that the book he’d grabbed? He practically knew that tome by heart… Well, never mind, Potter did not know that.

Not until Potter had sat did Severus look up, and then he was so damn happy to see him he could not help but smile. He so wanted to get up and just hold the younger man tight. Merlin, he had missed him so very much. And Potter was smiling right back at him, so beautiful…

“Filius explained to me the logic behind the communal meals, and Hermione pointed out my contractual obligations. I apologize for my dereliction of duty and I will be sure to eat in the Great Hall as often as I can from now on,” said Potter, addressing the contents of his note right away. It did not explain his reasons for staying away for three weeks, but as far as Severus was concerned, that was good enough.

Could he have been more obvious in telling Potter that he had missed him, or more heavy-handed in issuing him a permanent invitation to visit his quarters? Hardly. But he would save kicking himself for his lack of Slytherin subtlety later, for now he chose to just savor how pleased Potter seemed at the invitation.

It seemed he should not have worried about finding topics to speak to Harry about. Their conversation was animated and spontaneous, flowing naturally, both of them happy to catch up after their long separation.

Like Potter, he was very concerned about Neville Longbottom’s grandmother. Poppy had visited her at St. Mungo’s and felt she only had days to live. A difficult but strong and loving woman, she was Neville Longbottom’s last remaining family.

Potter pointed out that on top of natural grief, her death would bring more responsibilities to the young Herbology professor. Severus could not imagine Longbottom had the slightest interest in managing his affairs.

He was surprised to realize the extent of Potter’s estate. The Potters had been wealthy and industrious. As far as he knew the Blacks had extensive properties and assets, but that Potter had also inherited the House of Rosier probably placed him on equal financial footing with Galen Weston, Head of the Enterprising House of Weston and of the Traditional and Venerable House of Westminster, a definite step above the Malfoys.

Severus wondered who took care of Potter’s financial affairs. Potter spent like a young man who had made a lot of money playing professional sports, not like a young man who had wealth beyond Severus’s imagining at his fingertips. Severus had a feeling that outside of 12 Grimmauld Place, the entirety of Potter’s fortune was in trust to a third party.

Severus had slowly reacquired all the pieces of the Prince estate pissed away by his grandfather and purchased back the small remaining legacy that had been inherited by a Runcorn cousin at a very decent price. The estate of the House of Prince was now whole again, as it would have passed to his mother had she not been disinherited by her family, and to himself had he not been a Half-blood. The real estate holdings needed extensive restoration and maintenance, for which Severus counted on the financial windfall from his patent on the Magic Revealing Potion, which annoyingly, everyone seemed to call the ‘Squib Cure’ potion. Some day, his rightful inheritance would be something he could be proud of.

It was ironic that after years of distrust between them, Draco was now Potter’s solicitor, a role which had made the younger Malfoy’s reputation. Thanks to Potter’s trust, Draco wielded four votes in the Wizengamot, making him a force to be reckoned with. Severus thought back to that terrible day in the girls’ bath, when Draco had almost died from Severus’s own spell. He could not help but tease Potter about it.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, though, he wanted to kick himself. It was obvious Potter still carried a lot of guilt about the episode, and his and Severus’s fragile, newly restored friendship did not need this kind of strain… Why was he such a bastard? Why did he so enjoy pointing out other people’s shortcomings? Severus berated himself even as he brazened out his discomfort behind a smile and hid his remorse in his cup of tea.

Potter, after a short time of reflection, surprised him completely by looking up at him and smiling back, his miraculously open expression showing that he knew what to expect from Severus and found it acceptable that to enjoy his qualities, he also had to accept his flaws. Was there something else showing on that beautiful face, a light in his eyes that spoke of attraction, of desire? Severus, shocked, let the tea in his mouth take the wrong path and had to put down his cup to cough.

By the time he had recovered, Potter’s “All right, Snape?” full of innocent concern brought Severus back to reality. Harry Potter was kind, and forgiving, and sadly, also straight.

But so, so very beautiful.

~o~ Lightweight ~o~

The next evening the Headmaster, strangely enough, found himself yet again at leisure. After serendipitously meeting Potter in a dungeon corridor at about ten o’clock, he was able to patrol with him the entire evening. They took a break around midnight to have a glass of the 1926 Artemis Armagnac Severus had savored at Potter’s party. Left to his own devices, Potter would have apparently drunk water but, though Potter warned him of the possible consequences, Severus insisted he should partake of the wonderful brandy.

Though he agreed that the Armagnac was very good and, ignoring his usual diet, ate a couple of shortbread biscuits so as not to have alcohol on an empty stomach, Potter had not exaggerated. He was an absolute lightweight. About fifteen minutes after they resumed patrolling, he started being easily amused… Very easily amused. Before Severus had time to stop him, he sneaked up on an amorous couple in a hidden alcove yelling, “Boo!” and spraying them with a wordless Aguamanti, causing the Hufflepuff girl to scream like a banshee and her Gryffindor companion to hit Potter with an ill-cast Knee Reversal Hex, which affected only one of his legs.

Potter, off-balance and giggling his head off, hung onto Severus as the two students made their rather precipitous escape. Severus tried to appear disapproving as he reversed the spell, but ended up laughing along with the younger man. A giggly Potter was hard to resist.

Almost too hard to resist, actually, especially dangling from Severus’s neck and looking at him with smiling adoration. “You are very good at spell reversal,” Potter informed him.

“Indeed,” said Severus, trying not to let the feeling of Harry’s breath on his lips distract him.

“You can cast spells really well too,” Potter reminded him, nodding for emphasis.

“Quite,” agreed Severus, grinning, relieved that Potter had backed up a bit to have enough space to nod.

“And you’re just amazing at Potions,” Potter whispered, apparently confiding this important secret to Severus’s lips, sending a shiver down Severus’s spine and letting the Headmaster’s vivid imagination run wild.

“One should hope so, Potter,” he answered as he stood up straight, simultaneously relieving the ache in his lower back, prudently placing his lips more than half a foot higher than Potter’s and stopping the flow of highly inappropriate images that had been flooding his brain.

Still, Potter did not let go of his neck, nor did he put any distance between their bodies. It was… incredibly pleasant. And completely inappropriate.

“Your knees are functional once more, Potter. Is there a reason why you are still using me as a prop?” he asked pointedly.

Potter sighed and reluctantly let go of his neck. As he stepped back, swaying a bit, he whined accusingly, “Well, you’re all warm and nice smelling!”

“And I think your patrolling is over for the night.” Severus chuckled, making light of the situation. Potter was obviously under the influence and it was Severus’s own fault for teasing him into drinking alcohol. As they headed towards the library Potter was singing some inane song about monkeys monkeying around, and kept bumping into Snape’s side. As soon as possible, Severus had them in Rowena’s corridor heading back to the Gryffindor tower.

“Don’t like Rowena’s corridor,” confided Potter, who inexplicably sighed rather heavily, suddenly sad. Ten minutes later, Severus helped Potter through his trap door. “To bed with you, Coach Potter. I believe you have training in the morning…”

“Flying!” Potter was smiling again, the melancholy that had overwhelmed him on the way apparently dissipated. “I’m really good at flying,” he informed Severus, who had started down a couple of the stairs.

Severus looked up at Potter, who was now slightly taller than he. “You are better than really good,” he said, taking advantage of the fact that the man he loved would probably not recall his words in the morning to express some of his feelings. “Amazing. Remarkable. Exquisite. Superlatives fail to express what you are in the air. Beautiful to behold.” Then he added under his breath, starting down the stairs again, “In the air… and not.”

Back in his quarters, he sent his personal house-elf to deposit a hangover potion on Potter’s bedside table; chuckling as he recalled the Hufflepuff’s squeal, he promised himself never to make Potter drink while on patrol. After tossing and turning in his bed, he got up and took a cold shower and was finally able to fall asleep.

~o~ Death of a Legend ~o~

Harry woke up with a headache and with his stomach churning. He vaguely recalled returning to patrolling the night before after drinking a snifter of eighty-five-year-old brandy and scaring some poor students. After that the evening was a blur. He just hoped he had not puked on Snape’s shoes.

Opening his eyes, he noticed a small blue vial on his night table and recognized a hangover potion, which he drank gratefully. Whatever had happened, Snape was obviously not too mad at him…

Wow… That stuff was great. Not only was his headache gone and his stomach settled, but he felt fabulous, rested and full of energy. He got up humming, put on his gear, and flew out his window, not even caring that wet snow was falling from the low grey clouds.

Though he would have loved to, Harry restrained himself from knocking on Snape’s door every night. He decided to spend Wednesday evenings with Ron, and to participate in the adult students’ practice and review sessions two nights a week, probably on Mondays and Fridays.

The routine of his visit was always the same. He would arrive at Snape’s door around eight, get some tea, and sit. His favorite moment was when Snape would stop whatever he was doing, look up at him, and smile, somehow making him feel as if Harry’s visit was the highlight of his day. They would chat over the first cup of Snape’s amazing tea and then work or read for the next couple of hours.

Around eleven, Snape would once again put down his book or his papers and they would talk about their plans for the next couple of days. Shortly thereafter Harry would leave, after being bestowed with a “Good night, Potter.” As he closed the door he would meet Snape’s dark gaze, and wonder all the way home if he would ever be able to read its depths.

A Sunday morning in mid-November, as he refereed a pick-up game, he noticed a dark silhouette with robes billowing in the icy wind on the turf below. Concerned, he immediately dove down, landing on the sodden snow-speckled ground. Dismounting, he asked, “Snape? What is it?”

“The Granger–Weasleys and McClallan have already left for St Mungo’s, Potter. I said I would come and get you. Mrs. Longbottom is in and out of consciousness. She will be gone very soon, and I thought you might want to be with Mr. Longbottom when the time comes, to offer your support.”

“Oh, no! Poor Neville. Thanks, I’ll be going as soon as I can. Could you open my Floo to the national network, please?”

“Of course.”

Harry whistled the players down and explained the situation, canceling the game. He flew back to his balcony and was welcomed by Kreacher, who obviously was aware of the situation and had already laid clothes out for him to wear after his shower.

Harry stepped out of the St. Mungo’s Floo less than half an hour after spotting Snape on the ground and was welcomed by Hugo Weasley.

“Hello, Uncle Harry. Mum told me to wait for you and show you where the old lady is. She’s gonna die, y’know?”

“Yes, Hugo. She’s been unwell a long time.”

“Aunty Minerva said she’s not that old, but that grief put her in an early grave. What’d she mean?”

“Mrs. Longbottom’s son and daughter-in-law were… hurt right after the first war against Voldemort, by some rogue Death Eaters. They were not quite right after that, and they never got better. It was as if they were dead, but yet they were still alive, and it was very hard on her, and on your Uncle Neville, of course. Also, Mrs. Longbottom had to raise baby Neville, even though she was quite old.”

“Oh. I see. Thanks, Uncle Harry. Nobody ever tells me anything around here. I hate it.”

The waiting room was full. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there. George and Neville had been together for many years. There were some older witches and wizards who were deep in conversation with Minerva, probably schoolmates of Augusta’s. It was hard to believe the two women had been in the same class. Augusta had always looked many years older to Harry. Neville’s friends Hermione, Ron, and Dermott were there as well, speaking quietly with George.

Neville, very pale, came out of his gran’s room. “George, she wants you.” He noticed his friends. “Hi, you guys. Thanks for coming.” He collapsed into a chair, his face in his hands. “Gosh, this is so hard. I don’t want her to go!”

Ron sat next to him and wrapped his arm around him. “I know it’s hard, mate, but you still have us. Whether you want us or not. We come with the red-headed git Augusta likes so much.”

Neville shoulders shook and he put down his hand, chuckling. “I know! Why do you think I’m about to cry?”

They all join in the quiet laughter, enjoying the release of tension. George poked his head out of Augusta’s room and called Neville back in with him. The door closed again.

Half an hour later they came back out, both with red eyes and traces of tears on their faces. Neville looked gutted. George went to talk to some of the older people, some of whom got up and went to Augusta’s room. He rejoined Neville and their friends, sitting next to his partner and taking his hand.

“That’s it,” he explained. “She’s said good-bye to us. She doesn’t want us back in again. She doesn’t want Neville to see her go.”

Neville took a deep breath, trying to conquer his emotion. He smiled lightly at George. “What did she say to you when you went in alone?”

“That I should stop worrying if I was worthy of you. That you will love me until the day we die and beyond, that we are soulmates. Then she told me to remember her prediction, that it will happen soon now. You?”

Neville caressed George’s face, and George turned and kissed his palm. “She said that I was lucky to have found you,” he answered. “That we would grow old together, and still love each other in the hereafter, and that her prophecy was supposed to come to pass forty-one days after she died.”

They lightly kissed each other. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you for all eternity!” griped George.

“Tell me about it. I always hoped for a soulmate who wouldn’t snore…” replied Neville.

“And I wanted one who could help me with potions creations!” retorted George.

“Oh, well,” Neville shrugged. “At least you’re kind of cute.”

“Thanks.” George smirked. “At least you’re really good in bed.”

Neville blushed and chuckled at the same time. “Thanks, George. I always wanted my colleagues to know that.”

“Anybody who’s ever been at the Burrow at the same time as the two of you already knows, mate,” said Ron, grinning. He added, imitating George’s slightly raspy tenor, “Neville! Yes, oh god! Yes, don’t stop! Neville! Neville! So good!!’”

“That’s amazing! Oh, Neville! I love youuuuuu!” concurred Hermione.

George was laughing, not embarrassed in the least, but Neville moaned and hid his bright red face in his lover’s neck. He was grinning, though.

“Hey,” asked Harry. “What’s this about a prophecy?”

“Don’t worry, Harry. Nothing bad,” said Neville, happy for the change of topic. “Gran’s a seer. Well. Kinda. She has prophetic dreams, anyway. She’s registered and everything. She hates it, though, because her predictions are always so… well, mundane. I mean her last two dreams were that Molly was going to burn a roast, which she did, and that Minerva would twist her ankle, which she has, and Pomfrey put her to rights in about three minutes.”

“But at least she’s never wrong,” George pointed out.

“That’s true. Anyway, when I was in seventh year—the first time—and she was worried about whether or not I’d survive the Carrows, she had this dream that she thought meant I would have a son. She didn’t know I was gay at the time, or that I was with George…”

“And Fred was still alive. She didn’t tell us until after Neville’s NEWTS, when she found out Fleur was pregnant. By then, she knew about us. She just said to make sure that if Bill and Fleur had a boy, they did not call him Frederic, because we’d have our own boy someday,” said George.

“Little by little she’s told us more details. It turns out it was more than a dream. That night she woke up and she wrote down what she remembered in her dream diary without bothering to fully wake up or to turn on the light. But the next day she realized it wasn’t just another “Martin’s owl will lose a package in the swamp,” this time. It was worded like a true prophecy. It said:

“The dreamer’s last breath forty-one days past
To the Enduring House an heir is bestowed
Cut and marked by gold, the son of twins from heaven falls
His savior the savior and this one father’s twin,
By name and by mane as that one father’s twin.”

“Clear as crystal, that is,” said Ron. “I always love me a good prophecy!”

“Gran’s sure it means we are to have a son named Frederic,” said Neville. He suddenly looked stricken as he added, “I guess we will know soon enough.”

George hugged him tightly, and spoke softly in his ear. The pall that had lifted from their group for a while was back, as the circumstances of their get-together returned to everyone’s consciousness. They were all pensive for a while.

A witch with long and thick snow-white hair piled somewhat haphazardly on top of her head, who had just left Augusta Longbottom’s room, approached them. She had the bluest eyes Harry had ever seen, a very small nose, and a long upper lip.

“Which of you is Harry Potter?” she asked, not a question Harry heard every day.

“I am,” he said.

She looked him up and down, raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and said with clear disdain in her tone, “You. You’re saying you killed Voldemort?”

Harry had never been accused of lying about that. He was surprised and very amused.

“No, of course not,” he said chuckling. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m obviously too runty to have done that!” He leaned toward the witch and whispered, pointing to Hermione with his thumb and winking, “My friend Hermione here, who is taller and ever so much smarter than me? She did it. I’ve stolen the credit from her for years now. She has no clue. She still wonders why no one ever mentions her amazing feat…”

The witch sneered at him. “Poor Augusta is on her death bed!” she reminded him sternly. “Merlin only knows why the poor dear asked to see… you.” She spat that last word as if it hurt her mouth, her face full of contempt. She patted Hermione’s hand. “And you should be ashamed of yourself,” she finished before stalking off.

“Oh, I am! I am!” Harry assured her, unsure of whether he should be ashamed of his cheeky answer or of having stolen Hermione’s credit for years. The friends looked at each other in disbelief and when Hermione started giggling, they all joined in. Harry shrugged, rolling his eyes, and got up to go to Augusta Longbottom’s bedside. He wondered what she wanted.

The room had two large windows, showing rolling hills under a pale winter sunshine, compliments of WWW. Mrs. Longbottom’s eyes were closed, sunken in her gaunt face. She was reclining on pillows, wearing a beautiful pink embroidered gown and its matching lacy cap, obviously brought from home, and a downy morning jacket closed at the neck by a satin ribbon. There was so little left of her that her body hardly made a lump under the bedding.

The area around the bed glowed with some kind of field. The room smelled of green things, and one could hear the chirping of birds and the sounds of a brook in the distance. The effect was wonderfully soothing. Harry approached the bed, noting that the woman’s hands, all bones and knuckles, had beautifully manicured nails, almond shaped and painted pink to match her gown.

“Mrs. Longbottom? It’s Harry Potter.”

Augusta Longbottom opened her eyes. Her body might be diminished but her spirit was not. Her eyes shone with intelligence and strength of purpose.

“Oh, good. Venus managed to find you. I was a bit concerned. She’s not all there, the poor darling, hasn’t been for quite some time. Potion-induced dementia, you know.”

“Oh. I feel bad now. She acted as if she did not believe I’d vanquished Voldemort, so I told her she was right, that Hermione Granger did and that I had just taken credit for it. She told me I ought to be ashamed of myself. I am now. I never imagined she might actually be ill.”

Augusta was laughing quietly and had a bout of coughing. “Oh dear,” she said, once she’d caught her breath. “I wish I’d seen that. Don’t feel bad, Mr. Potter. Venus was always a bit of an idiot, and incredibly dull. Now that she is a demented idiot, at least she is entertaining…”

She closed her eyes for a while and Harry thought maybe she’d gone to sleep, when she opened them again.

“Did Neville and George tell you about my dream, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, they did.”

She recited, her voice weak and raspy,

”The dreamer’s last breath forty-one days past
To the Enduring House an heir is bestowed
Cut and marked by gold, the son of twins from heaven falls
His savior the savior and this one father’s twin,
By name and by mane as that one father’s twin.”

She stopped speaking to cough again. Her breathing was getting labored.

“Should I get a healer, Mrs. Longbottom?” asked Harry, worried.

She held his hand before he had time to leave to go get someone and she gestured for a glass of water, which Harry quickly handed to her. She took a small sip and said, “Don’t forget, Mr. Potter, so that you may know him when the time comes…” Once again she started coughing, a dry sound that was painful to hear, but her grip on Harry’s hand did not weaken. Finally, in a short moment of respite, she said, “Minerva…” and let his hand go.

He left and quickly went to get his old Transfiguration professor. “Mrs. Longbottom wants you, Minerva,” he said.

Minerva McGonagall stood up and smoothed her tartan robes. “It’s the end, then,” she said, bracing herself. She held her back straight, a dignified Scottish woman, as she entered her lifelong friend’s room.

“McGonagall is Augusta’s Testament Executor,” explained George. “Augusta will just want to check one more time that she took care of everything. She’s punctilious in her responsibilities.”

Fifteen minutes later, Minerva exited the room again and quietly closed the door behind her. Her eyes were red but she was calm and collected. She walked to Neville. “I, Minerva McGonagall, Chief of the Generous Clan Nicolson, salute Neville Longbottom, Head of the Enduring House of Longbottom…” Then her eyes filled with tears and her voice shook as she said, “Oh, Neville! I’m so sorry! She’s gone…” She brought her hands to her lips as the tears spilled to her cheeks. Neville got up and held her in his arms.

There were a lot of tears in the room, and after Minerva rejoined her friends Neville sat back down heavily, looking at the sorrow-filled faces around him.

“Thanks for being here, all of you. It means a lot. She was such a presence in my life… But I know I’m not alone, I have all of you, and it makes a big difference.”

They all stayed by his side until Augusta’s body was magically transferred to rest in state at Longbottom Manor. Then they left and returned to the school, knowing that Neville would call on them if he needed to.

The funeral took place the next Saturday, on the twenty-fifth of November. The temperature had plummeted that week and it had snowed non-stop for three days. The storm was over, the sky pure blue with a pale sun illuminating endless fields of pristine snow. It was beautiful. Those present at the small chapel on the Longbottom estate included the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Principal Interrogator of the Wizengamot, Griselda Marchbanks, and so many Heads of House it looked like an official occasion. Yet they were all there either because Augusta had been their friend or their colleague in the Order of the Phoenix, or because they were friends and co-workers of Neville Longbottom, who was liked and respected by all who knew him.

Harry, dressed in the elegant mourning robes he had bought for the occasion from Madam Malkin, had stood with Dermott McClallan and Severus Snape during the ceremony. When they all made their way to the gravesite in the family cemetery plot however, he noticed immediately the tall handsome wizard waiting by the magically dug grave. Petr DeVries spoke to Neville for a moment before being joined by his lover. Harry went the opposite way, choosing to stand with the Weasley family instead, on the other side of the grave. Petr and Snape, as usual, looked perfect together, clad in identical mourning garments which accentuated their height and the elegance of their silhouettes. Only their outer winter cloaks differed slightly, somehow still complementing each other, Snape’s made of cashmere lined and bordered with sable, and Petr’s of silk velvet trimmed with chinchilla.

Harry fought to keep his mind on the last homage rendered to a remarkable witch and on a beautiful blessing sung a capella in her honor. Yet he knew the sharp ache in his heart had nothing to do with the sad occasion.

After the burial Petr and Snape, ahead of Harry and Dermott, walked together to the Apparation point, speaking quietly. When they stopped, Petr looked pale and sad. His eyes met Harry’s before he Disapparated, too late for any kind of greetings before he turned on the spot. Snape, Dermott, and Harry followed one by one. Harry was surprised Petr was not with them at the gates of Hogwarts.

With Dermott walking slightly ahead, Harry and Snape fell into step.

“I thought Petr would stay the weekend,” commented Harry.

“It’s the end of term. I have a lot of work,” answered Snape. “He’ll join us for winter break,” he added, in lieu of an explanation.

“Oh,” said Harry. “…That’s good.” He kicked himself for not going away for the holidays. He could have gone skiing with some old teammates, or gone somewhere warm… Maybe he still could!

It was stupid. He could not run every time Petr came to stay. In those two weeks, he had plans with Teddy and Andromeda, with Ron, Hermione, and the children, with the Malfoys. He couldn't just blow everyone off…

Strangely enough, though Snape had so much work because of the end of term, he and Harry continued to spend four nights a week together, including several very cold, short night flights, and the Headmaster even found the time to keep Harry company on his nights of patrols, though they never drank anything stronger than tea on those nights again…

~o~ All I Want for Christmas ~o~

Severus had decided that he had never made as good a decision as when he had issued Potter an open invitation. The young man sought his company any time he was not with the adult students or spending the evening with his best friends. It was remarkably comfortable to have him just… pop in and settle by the fire.

A few times they’d gone for flights, though the temperatures were truly appalling. Severus did not mind, though, because back in his quarters Potter would strip his heavy winter gear completely unselfconsciously, down to his body-hugging long woolen underwear, and that was worth the eyelashes freezing together, the icicles in the neck, and the frozen toes and fingers. How could Quidditch players stand hours upon hours of flying in those frigid winter temperatures?

It was obvious Potter wore nothing under his woolens… A good tug south, and they would slip down his legs, exposing his perfect arse, freeing his cock, liberating his balls… Snape, who always disappeared to his bedroom upon their return, would come back clad in his normal evening outfit and would sit and (thank Merlin) remain seated for the duration.

Potter would walk around, bend down to remove his boots, and go to the sideboard to fix Snape tea and himself a cup of cocoa with marshmallows. Snape, his cock terminally hard, would stare his fill at the V-shaped upper-body, the sexy slope of the lower back, the mouth-watering muscular arse.

Severus had taken an unreasonable number of cold showers in the past few weeks…

For the last two weeks of term, Potter had been able to work with Narcissa’s students every day, having cancelled the flight classes, closed his morning training to the students, and even, to the students’ horror, cancelled the Quidditch practices, something Madam Hooch should have been doing all along.

Since he’d had some free time, he’d joined Severus and Granger for the last interviews of the remaining candidates for the Charms Apprentice position. The decision had been unanimous. Miss Luna Lovegood had carried the day. Charms had always been her forte. She had given up academia for a few years to help her father run his newspaper, but had decided to return to her studies. She had received a Charm INQT from Beauxbatons (Inovation de Nouvelle Qualite ou Technique) at the end of a three-year course and therefore qualified for the apprenticeship.

Her imaginative and unconventional approaches to the subject were exciting and, as Granger pointed out, would also challenge her Charms Master, who had been, after all, doing the same thing the same way for three quarters of a century. It would be announced as soon as Miss Lovegood officially accepted the position.

Severus was trying not to think of the fact that, though he would see Potter regularly, they would not have time alone for close to two weeks, when school started again. But there had been no way to cut Petr’s visit short. Already, when he had come to England for the Longbottom funeral, he had assumed he would be coming back to Hogwarts for the rest of the weekend, and had not taken well being sent back immediately.

It was understandable. The expense in Floo powder had already been made; he could have Apparated to Hogwarts with Severus and enjoyed an evening and a night with his lover at the very least. But it had been Saturday, and Potter always came on Saturdays and was able to stay later, training late on Sundays, so obviously… No.

Potter was due any minute. Severus felt a tingle on his skin, his latest reaction to Potter’s magic. Then he felt its brilliance through the wards and his heart accelerated in anticipation. A light knock on the door, “Come in, Potter!” And here he was. Their eyes met and Harry smiled, a smile no straight man had the right to bestow upon a gay one. Severus could not help smiling back, feeling that he was showing his feelings for all to see by doing so.

“No book today?” asked Potter.

Hmm. Right. Severus had broken their ritual. “No. Not tonight. I just want to make the most of your visit, since it will be the last until school starts again.”

Potter, who was pouring the tea, interrupted his task to smile that smile at Severus again, as if he’d gotten an early Christmas present. He finished his task and brought the tea.

“That’s great,” he answered, bending down to place Severus’s cup in its precarious position. He sat down and crossed his legs. “That’s perfect,” he added.

They spoke of nothing stellar. Lovegood, and how glad Potter was that yet another of his close friends would be joining them; Christmas presents, of which Potter had to buy many he took great care in choosing, and of which Snape had to purchase none to speak of, as all the teachers got the same thing, ordered by owl, and Petr just saw his opera season tickets renewed. Everyone else got a card with a printed message addressed by his elf.

Potter looked at him pointedly. “Get me the same gift you give Septima and Filius and I’ll never speak to you again,” he said. “For that matter, get me opera tickets and I will never speak to you again, either…”

“Really. Do you think, for some reason, that you have a special status to me amongst my staff?” asked Severus, with a raised eyebrow. “More astonishingly, do you imagine yourself higher in my consideration than my… partner?”

“To the first I say yes, indubitably yes. I am your Wolfsbane brewing assistant,” explained Potter, very seriously. “As for the second,” he rolled his eyes, “I was not referring to your consideration but to the fact that I am not an aficionado of opera!”

“Oh… I see,” said Severus, caressing his chin with a thoughtful air.

“I hope so.”

“Well. I might have to think of something, then.” He raised an eyebrow. “So… Should I expect something special from you as well?”

Oh, Merlin. Did Potter even know how easy it would be to misinterpret that… look? It seemed to say something along the lines of “For Christmas, I will suck your cock under the table during dinner, and after dinner, I will wait in bed with only a bow on my cock so you can ravage me all night long.”

But Potter only said sweetly, “Of course. You are difficult to buy for, but I am up to the task!”

By the time Potter left, Severus needed yet one more cold shower. It was a good thing Petr was coming, after all. Regular sex would definitely put Potter’s unconscious flirting into perspective.

~o~

When he Apparated, Petr looked great, happy and carefree. They walked to the castle leisurely, talking easily. Though it had been almost two months since his last visit, neither of them seemed to feel the physical urgency that had so characterized his last visit. After all, Petr would be here for two whole weeks. They did not pass through the Hidden Corridor, but walked through the castle proper, meeting a few students and greeting Filch as they passed him, busy as he was helping with the Christmas decorating this year.

They had a drink and shared an Armagnac-flavored kiss before heading to the bedroom. Things heated up a little and soon they were both undressed, mock-fighting for dominance. It was all for show, as they each knew which role the other preferred. It didn’t take long for Petr to be face down on the mattress with his arm twisted behind his back by a wolfishly grinning Severus.

“On your knees, Petr,” he purred into the other man’s neck, releasing his hold.

Petr complied eagerly. After quickly slicking himself with lube, Severus slipped inside his welcoming heat with a sigh of pleasure. He started moving easily, in and out, in and out, suddenly realizing that Petr’s hole was entirely too welcoming for not having been stretched and not penetrated by anything larger than his own finger for well over a month. He pounded savagely into him two or three times.

“Who’s been fucking you, Petr?” he asked in a dangerous voice.

“No one.”

“Don’t… fucking… lie… to me… ” growled Snape, punctuating his words with vicious shoves.

“I’ve been… going… to the club…” Severus was still pounding hard into him. “I’ve been… a bad… boy… Punish me… Severus…”

Angrily, Snape gave another couple of deep hard shoves and saw Petr’s hand come to his cock, as he was, as usual, turned on by the violent fucking. Suddenly Severus was sick of it, sick of the dominance play, sick of the power games and of Petr’s submissive tendencies. He did not want this any more, did not want this man any more. He stopped moving, his cock starting to soften.

“I can’t do this any more, Petr,” he said.

Petr tried to fuck himself on his cock a couple of times, then stopped too. “Do what?”

“Do this, with you, any more.”

They were both still for a moment.

“Severus, are you breaking up with me with your cock still up my arse?” asked Petr, disbelieving.

Snape pulled out with a wet pop and sat back on the bed. “Sorry. I guess I was.”

He pushed himself up so he could lean back against the head of the bed. Petr turned around and asked, pointing to his shrinking but still leaking prick, “And you could not hold that thought for another minute?”

Severus had to laugh. He couldn’t help it. Neither could Petr. They both chuckled for a while. He liked Petr, very much. Petr settled himself next to Severus and pulled the duvet over their legs and bellies. They sat quietly for a few moments.

“It’s Potter, isn’t it,” asked Petr, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.” No point denying it now.

“It’s always been Potter, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You fucking bastard.”

“Yes.” They chuckled again.

“I’m sorry, Petr,” added Snape, meaning it.

“I know. I’m sorry too.”

“You knew, then?”

Petr shrugged. “You’d been flying. After that, it all made sense, you know?”

“But you still came back. Why?”

“You’re a great fuck, Sev.”

“Don’t call me Sev.”

“You just dumped me for a straight man who is fifteen years younger than I am. I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.”

“Good point.”

They were quiet again for a while.

“You are in for a world of pain, my friend,” said Petr.

“Yes.”

Petr sighed. “I should go.”

“You’re all right?”

“I will be.”

“Good.”

They both got out of bed and dressed.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“No, please don’t. I want to go alone.”

“As you wish.”

Severus walked him to the door. They embraced, a hard quick hug, and Petr walked out. Before Severus could close the door, he stopped it with his hand. “I love you, Sev.” And he was gone.

Severus closed the door and walked back to his chair. He put his head in his hands, his mind filled with conflicting emotions. It took him a few minutes to identify the dominating one. Relief. No more lies. No more ambiguity. He was in love with Potter… Harry, and come what may, he would be true to that.

He went into the shower and washed himself thoroughly. He came out of his bathroom wrapped in a towel and stripped his bed, making it anew with snowy white sheets. He took all his clothes, his towel, and his bedding and put them in his laundry basket, which he then Banished to the laundry room.

Naked, he slipped between the sheets, put his hands behind his head, and gave himself permission to think of Harry, in this room, in this bed. Harry walking to the sideboard in his perfect jeans, Harry on his broom in the moonlight, Harry laughing, Harry leaning against a column at the top of the stairs in his training leathers, Harry in his woolens, Harry’s hands, his smile, his eyes, his voice, his scent.

For the first time ever, he allowed his hand to grasp himself with Harry on his mind, allowed himself to imagine, imagine… His kiss, his taste, his touch, his skin, his scent everywhere, his voice whispering things in the dark… His orgasm was so achingly sweet, “Harry…” that he thought he might cry with the wonder of it. He slept.

~o~ What a Waste! ~o~

Petr walked up to the ground floor, thinking of what he had just left behind. (Well, it had been done with six months ago, really, hadn’t it? And he had known it for two.) Five years. Five very good years. Severus had never made any promises, any commitment. Petr had already grieved, these past weeks, and moved on. Now it was official.

He was all right. Sad, but all right. Life would go on. He was almost to the front doors when he changed his course. He ran up the stairs of Gryffindor tower, all the way to the top. Completely out of breath, he knocked on the trap door. There was no response. He knocked harder.

Harry opened it, looking down on him with surprise. “Petr! Come in!”

Petr climbed through the trap door, which Harry let close behind him. They stood awkwardly for a moment, Harry wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms, hair tousled (good lord, but he looked fine…), Petr catching his breath.

“Sit, sit. Do you want… tea? A drink?”

“No, thanks. I came to cancel our flight tomorrow.”

“Oh… Well, okay. No problem.” Harry looked nonplussed.

“I am going back to Amsterdam.”

“Oh. When will you be back?”

“I won’t. Severus and I just broke up.”

“What?”

“We just broke up. So… you know, I’m going. Forever. No flight tomorrow.”

“Hmm.”

“Just thought you ought to know.”

“All right… Thanks…”

“He is a very jealous man, Severus. His one fault, really.”

Harry looked very confused. “Is that why you broke up, then?”

“No, no. Just letting you know. In case.”

“In case what?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve got to go. Bye, Harry. Do come say hello if you ever are in Amsterdam. We could go flying.”

“All right.”

Harry helped him with the door and Petr started down.

“Bye, then,” said Potter.

Petr just kept going, waving vaguely, but not looking back, feeling pretty good about himself. He liked Harry. Always had. (How fair was it for a straight man to look that good? What a waste.)