Archive of Our Own

Autumn

After the final battle was won, Harry gave Severus his memories back. Severus didn't want them — thought, in fact, that they were no doubt corrupted by the hands they had been in — but he'd been lying on a hospital cot with Minerva by his side and didn't wish to appear churlish.

He didn't say thank you, however, just nodded once. Harry sidled away as if embarrassed; rightfully so, Severus thought, but he couldn't summon outrage, only a faded weariness. He blamed that on the potions Poppy kept pouring into him. He'd accused her, with the same tired lack of ire, of experimenting on him, and she'd said briskly, "Of course, dear."

Very few people could have survived Nagini's bite. Severus was supposed to be dead. Had indeed supposed himself dead, and had been hideously disappointed that the afterlife looked first like a fog-shrouded railway station and then, when the mists burned off, the bright vaulted ceiling of the hospital wing. He'd nearly made his peace with disappointment when he further realized he'd somehow survived the war and outlived all men he'd called master.

So now here he stood, back on his feet after a summer's convalescence, mingling badly in the Headmistress' office. The new term started in a week; the staff had been assembled to finish the last urgent repairs to Hogwarts. Severus, while adamant that this was the last time he'd come here, had felt obligated to do what he could for the Slytherin quarters and common room. He'd been relieved that Minerva had convinced Temerity Flint to take the position as Head of House Her nephews had all been great lumps, but even goblins appreciated Temerity's insights on economic theory. She'd give the students the firm guidance they needed.

Not that Severus enjoyed talking with the woman, who had been exhorting him to make his image more marketable (and less of a disgrace) for the past three days. Her plans for him involved a publicist cousin, an austere hairstyle, and a ghostwritten inspirational bestseller. She knew several hard-up spectres willing to work for a reasonable haunt.

Severus seized the first possible chance to escape her proximity, stalking purposefully around one of the circulating bookshelves, past a huddle of rabbit-eyed seventh-year students trying to look grown up, and down the steps, to glare empathetically at the empty frame of Albus' portrait.

After a few awkward minutes, during which Severus waved off three platters of hors d'oeuvres, Albus strolled back onto his canvass. He was holding a squash racquet, which he waved cheerfully before hanging it on a hook behind him.

"My dear Severus," Albus said, and one eyebrow hunched up like an inchworm. "How very well you are looking."

Severus snorted. "Pomfrey tells me I may owe my life to the vitalizing effect of those damnable lemon drops you foisted on me."

Albus' other eyebrow elevated in turn. "How very marvelous. I'd thought the advertisements to be figurative. How is your spleen? You seem more bilious than usual."

"I'm tired," Severus said frankly. Albus had always valued the appearance of honesty. "A great advantage to being dead is not having to deal with consequences."

"One supposes," Albus' portrait said, and helped himself to a biscuit from a space just left of the canvas. "I have my doubts that existence, such as it is, on the other side is simple and unfraught."

"Theology," Severus dismissed, with an impatient wave. "Philosophy."

"Some other time, perhaps," Albus murmured, that damned knowing glint in his eye. "Were the world your oyster, Severus, where would you go?"

Severus' current deep desire involved taking the meagre sum of Muggle money he'd received for the sale of his father's house and fleeing the country. Perhaps for Australia. To Albus he instead answered, "Where I am needed," his tone sharp. "Where I'm neither useless nor monstrous. Where I can. . . I have to repay — "

Albus shook his head, but started rummaging through the copious pockets that lined his robes. "You have nothing more to do," he said, and Severus would have hated him if there had been any trace of gentleness in his tone. "No one has the right to ask that of you — not even Minerva, who I see is not beneath preying on your tender feelings. But if occupation brings you happiness — ah!" He pulled a long scroll free from his sleeve. It was tied with twine and looked as if someone had upended a teapot on it once or twice. "Take this," Albus said, and gave the scroll a firm push out from the canvas. Severus grabbed it reflexively, and Albus brushed his hands as if that was a job well done. "I really must be going," Albus announced, and took two awkward side-steps, ducking so as not to bang his hat into the frame.

Severus slipped the roll of parchment inside his own sleeve and eyed the clock. He would stay another ten minutes and then return to his rooms — pack his bags — Apparate to London, perhaps; someplace he could lose himself. Before that, he'd read whatever dreadful thing Albus had set before him, likely a trap disguised as an adventure. Albus did so love those.

The parchment turned out to be the deed to a property in Cornwall, which Albus had in turn inherited from a Mr Bedwyn Hyacinthe. Attached was a document from Albus' solicitors, with great red seals and ribbons, and a note whose thin wandering lines told Severus it had been written in that last terrible year before. . . before. The note read simply Where I found happiness, so might you. Severus got a lump in his throat, and loathed that Albus still had this effect on him.

"Only because I've nowhere better to go," Severus said to the still life with avocado that hung over his bed. "I suppose the roof has collapsed and the drains are full of roots." He glared at the painting. From the edge above the artists' signature, a hand reached in carefully, straightened the avocado, and took a banana as it retreated. "I despise you," Severus said, and ordered his bags to pack.

Severus Apparated to the spot indicated on the solicitors' diagram and found himself standing along a narrow country road. The hedges had grown so high that they tangled above him like a tunnel, and he just barely managed to find the gate in all the greenery. Beyond he could see nothing but a stretch of poor, stony land. In the late afternoon light, it was obvious that the property had been abandoned for a decade, at least; Just staring at it gave Severus the gut feeling that he really should be somewhere else.

"Ha," he told the gate. "Albus and his great faith in simple things." He unfolded the note, even though he knew what it said. He just felt utterly ridiculous saying the words; the prop helped. "Where I found happiness," he read, and coughed. "So might you."

The gate swung open, and Severus walked through to what he could now see was a thick ramble of greenery. A meadow, or perhaps a garden, that seemed to fall away into mist at the southern end, as though the property sat on a bluff. At the top of the hill was a granite building of which only the central tower was still intact. According to the solicitors, this was undoubtedly the ruin of St Walburga Priory, and practically a Wizarding Site of Historical Significance; Severus took that to mean draughty and damp. Between Severus and the tower was a squat cottage of the same stone, which looked like a barn conversion done badly. Every window was mismatched, and the paint on the frames and the door had been scoured away by the wind from the sea. He fancied he heard the distant screams of gulls.

Cottage, Severus thought vindictively. That was no better than he deserved.

If he was going to do a penance, he ought to do it properly, he decided. He ate the sandwiches he'd brought from Hogwarts while sitting on one of the numerous granite stones that littered the yard, nursing a feeling of aggrievement as he watched the sun set. Once he reached a high state of dudgeon, he ventured into the cottage and began Banishing dust and cobwebs. He didn't dare venture into the bedroom — some magical creatures and suspicious stains he preferred to face in daylight — but there was a creaky wicker sofa shoved against the wall opposite the fireplace. When full darkness fell he closed the shutters and lay down, wrapped tightly in his travelling cloak, and settled in for the night.

He fell asleep immediately and slept as he hadn't in years, untroubled by dreams or caution. He woke feeling ten years younger and with no cramped muscles or pounding headache, and decided that the sofa was probably enchanted. The proper thing to do would be to burn it. Perhaps after breakfast.

When he persuaded the shutters to open, the sun flooded the room with cheery light, and a warm breeze danced through the windows, carrying a tantalizing hint of the sea. The kitchen table was painted robins-egg blue, and the fat yellow teapot set in the centre had been charmed not only to repel dust but to impart a feeling of homely welcome. Severus gave it a baleful stare as he ate his last breadroll. It'd gone hard overnight, and there was neither butter nor jam in the house. The well had fortunately not run dry, but the cold water was a poor substitute for tea.

Severus changed into the work-clothes he'd worn for the worst of the masonry repairs at Hogwarts, decided against shaving, and set off on foot for the Muggle town tucked into the river valley to the east. His stomach was in a suitable hollow state when he arrived, but he put off eating until after he had purchased heavy gardening trousers, ugly cotton shirts, and a pair of despicable waterproof boots. The shop clerk recommended a cafe that served good coffee. Severus was not impressed with his own over-priced flaky custard pastry and the pot of tea that tasted of dishwater. He laid siege to the local grocery with a sharp eye for shoddy merchandise and ended up paying out nearly all of his pocket cash for his trouble. He stomped back to the cottage much later than he'd intended, the road twisting uphill the whole way and the carrier bags heavier with every stride. Next time, he resolved, he'd bring his wand and Apparate home.

Up away from the town and the fields, the neat stone hedges suddenly erupted into embankments of flowering plants. Sunlight dappled down onto the road through the hedge tops, and the honeysuckle hummed with bees. Severus hoped for respite from the alarming picturesque-ness and gave the pass-phrase at the gate with a feeling of having escaped.

Only to discover that on the path to the cottage, down to the south, he had a wide view of the ocean, a perfect sparkling bottle blue.

"It's like living in a postcard," Severus announced as he entered the cottage. Albus always had his ways of knowing things. Though Severus couldn't count on his sympathy. "Revolting."

Severus put his food in the cupboard and glared at the one door he had yet to open, but which could only be the bedroom. He was starting to suspect that the business of building himself this new life might be harder than he'd hoped, and he wondered darkly if Albus had set him up. On second thoughts, Albus had most certainly meant for him to be seduced by the charming rusticity of the cottage, the pleasant climate, and the mysteriously picturesque Priory. Surely there were skeletons in the closets, or old enemies lurking about, or some vile quest that Severus was meant to feel duty-bound to pursue.

"Bah," Severus said to the teapot. He took up his wand and the wooden slops bucket under the sink, and went to brave the bedroom.

The bedding was infested with pixies, the robes in the wardrobe rustled with doxies, and there appeared to be a demiguise under the bed, judging by the outline in the dust. Hardly the worst job Severus had ever endured, and he went at it with grim enthusiasm. A few sweaty hours later, with the aid of several spells of his own devising and a great deal of cursing, he had all the clothes and sheets in a heap by the front door while the enormous feather mattress stood outside in the sun, plumping itself idly.

Severus stood well back and gave the ceiling and walls a good Scourgifying, then the floor — working carefully around the demiguise — and finally the wardrobe. He went out to fetch his new clothes, and when he returned the false back panel of the wardrobe had fallen out, spilling papers across the floor.

"I just cleaned that floor," Severus told the room. The only reply came from under the bed, where the demiguise was apparently taste-testing Albus' secrets. "You're a rotten old bastard," Severus went on, flicking his wand and sending the papers out to the kitchen table. "I don't want your legacy."

But of course he was curious, and despite knowing he was being drawn into Albus' machinations, he found himself having his tea while sorting papers.

Most of the mess was not Albus', but instead detritus from the portfolio of the mysterious Mr B. Hyacinthe. He'd been an artist, and his oeuvre was so chillingly familiar to Severus that he felt dizzy, and then short of breath, and then clammy.

The sketches and drawings sorted into two neat piles. There were loose sketches for book covers, the Widdershins Romances that Severus' mother had kept hidden in the cleaning closet and that had provided his earliest sex education. In the pictures, well-coiffed witches in pastel robes swooned into the arms of square-jawed wizards, or shared seductive smiles over tumblers of Firewhiskey, or pressed their dainty foreheads to a strong shoulder, pointy hats tipping askew. The book titles were blocked in with sloppy lettering: Stay for a Spell, Charming Stranger, The Arithmancer's Daughter, The Drumstrang Dancer.

Some of the cover designs were quite racy for the time, Severus thought, still with that frisson of horrified recognition. The witch on the cover of Sultan at St Mungo's was dressed in Healer's robes, though Severus supposed she'd toss her career away when the bandaged wizard on the cot behind her proposed. Even more scandalous, Enchanted Marriage featured a wizard conjuring fairy dust around a woman wearing a pink twinset — very obviously Muggle. Severus knew his mother wouldn't have bought that.

Severus expected more of the same from the portfolios, but instead on opening the first found his hands full of Albus. Albus reading, Albus writing, Albus wearing enormous gloves and pruning roses, Albus in the bath, Albus in bed —

Albus young and smiling, Albus with that dotty look he gave people when he thought they were babbling fools, Albus naked and posing and seductive.

Severus dropped the pictures on the table, got up, and walked out, not bothering with shoes or shutting the door. He was halfway to the tower when he realised he was carrying his cup of tea and not sure whether he was choking up with sorrow or anger.

He sat down on one of the sunwarm stones that littered the ground and considered the ocean view, and his surroundings. The hillside was a tangled carpet of flowers, but Severus could only name the useful ones. Devilsbit Scabious for healing potions, of course, and starworts, whose magical properties were overshadowed by all those ridiculous fortune-telling legends. Gorse. . .

Severus was reminded of studying herbology with Lily over the holidays, quizzing each other on the properties of herbs and plants back in their first year. She'd been far better-liked amongst her classmates than Severus had been — pretty and clever, and not stuck-up for all she'd been popular. Looking back, Severus thought she must have been motivated by pity, and that their study sessions had been her way of saying she was sorry they were in different houses, and sorry her friends were kinder than his. But at the time, Severus had been certain that they been brought together by fate, that they belonged together, and that no matter how hard they worked to hide their ignorance and upbringings, they'd always be outsiders to everyone but each other.

In retrospect, Severus shouldn't have read so many of his mother's books as a child. Love in those stories was like a wild river, sweeping the witch and wizard off their feet and carrying them away. They weren't in control of their passion — and no parents, former suitors, or wealthier fiancées could stand in their way. The world just had to accept that it was all going to inevitably end in weddings and rose-covered cottages.

Albus had felt that was a dangerously irresponsible message for young people, though he'd never said so to Severus in those words exactly. He'd merely laid a devastating trail of evidence, hints, and insinuations, and let Severus reach the conclusion all by himself: love could not be trusted; it always betrayed you; it was for the weak and deluded, not for men like them.

At Hogwarts, Severus had ended up in front of Albus' desk several times a year for disciplinary meetings that were actually opportunities for Albus to ply Severus with hot chocolate and sympathy, and for Severus to spill out the worst of the injustices that he kept bottled away. As Headmaster, Albus preferred to give the impression of non-interference, but talking to him had made things better. Usually. Sometimes.

When Lily broke Severus' heart, Albus had said, You'll make other friends and You're still quite young and A relationship takes work and respect.

He'd said more or less the same things months earlier, when Remus Lupin kissed Severus one night up on the Astronomy Tower. Severus had shoved Remus away, and Remus had said Don't tell, sounding more terrified than threatening. Remus had been bony and stoop-shouldered from a growth spurt that made his robes too small for his wrists and ankles. The next weekend, as Severus recalled, Avery and Underhill tripped Remus down the stairs — something to do with Quidditch — and Remus had glared at Severus all through dinner with the eye that he wasn't holding ice to.

"Blame your friends for being jackasses," Severus had said later, cornering Remus on the library stairs. "I kept my silence, even though there's nothing I want less than your mouth on mine."

Remus had nodded, eyes on the steps behind Severus, body tense, but then he gave Severus a short, sharp look and a quirk of his lips. "What about on your cock, then?" he'd asked.

Severus had heard the other boys talk about the dirty things men did together, beyond even the most graphic acts in his mother's books. Mostly they talked about Slughorn and his creepy way of watching certain students, boy or girl, and Severus had joined in with the general disgusted opinion that the man was probably a pervert, though he'd have to be mad to do anything under the Headmaster's watchful eye. Flitwick had been in charge of sex education for Severus' year. The lectures had been about the joys of marriage and parenting, and the horrors of sexually transmitted diseases. Lifelike charmed models of male and female genitalia had bobbed around the room, and Flitwick had been distracted, trying to keep them from mating. The path Flitwick told his students to follow was straight and narrow; the consequences for deviating were unspeakably dire. Severus had had no language to describe any shades of grey, so he'd turned to Albus the first chance he had, and told him about Remus' kiss.

Albus had tried to talk about love and respect and responsibility, and Severus had argued that Remus didn't love him. He sank down further in his chair and said he'd punched Remus in the face.

"I thought he tripped over his robes and fell into a door," Albus said, mildly and complacently disbelieving.

Severus jerked his shoulders up. "I would've hit him."

Albus had steepled his fingers and given Severus a penetrating stare. He'd said he thought Severus was getting on well in his House? When Severus conceded, he went on to say he hoped Severus would be a good influence on his friends, and that they were all very young, and that Mr Lupin was a young man with enough troubles already.

"So it's wrong, you mean," Severus said, glad for a bit of sure ground to stand on. He leant forward to mimic McGonagall with a twist to his lip. "Lupin being up to no good."

"Secrets — and secret passions — have a way of burning one up from the inside," Albus said, face as placid as if he were discussing the weather, but Severus felt pinned in place, wondering if Albus knew what was discussed in Slytherin House in whispers and coded messages. "I cannot say it's wrong, and I cannot wish you to comport yourself with anything less than the compassion and kindness of a friend, but there are dangers that both of you are too young to understand, irreparable damage you might cause. I do not," he added, raising a finger, "wish you to come to harm. More marshmallows?" And that was all Albus would say.

Severus felt not one drop of kindness in his heart when Remus's bullying friends tried to have him kill Severus while inhumanly transformed. Remus haunted the infirmary for weeks afterwards, taking most of his meals there. Albus had been very concerned for Severus, his mental health and his trauma and the broken trust between them, even as he extracted promises not to harm Remus or speak of his condition. By the end of the second term Severus had seen that his best chances for advancement lay with the Death Eaters. He didn't dare manipulate the Headmaster, but Slughorn was malleable once his weaknesses were understood; Severus began exploring the Dark Arts in earnest.

After Remus's Gryffindor friends humiliated him in front of the school and he lost everything with Lily, her friendship, her respect, he felt no compassion, just cold loathing for the lot of them. Only Albus was kind, despite Severus having ignored his warnings about the dangers of love; only Albus knew that Severus had entrusted the scant best of himself to Lily and she'd returned that gift as unwanted.

Severus resolved to make the kind of friends who respected him for his accomplishments and didn't know anything about what he thought or felt or valued.

Remus came to see him that summer, rattling up Spinner's End on a bicycle. He said hello nicely to Severus' mother, who obviously didn't realise that the boy with good manners almost ate her son, once, and followed after Severus when he told his mother they were going out for a walk.

Once they were down by the river and under the bridge, out of sight, Severus punched Remus in the face. It wasn't as satisfying as he'd hoped. His hand hurt, and he realised Remus was taller than him and starting to put muscle on his long bones. Remus's teeth had cut his lip, and he spat blood and did not ask why, just stared at the grey water rolling past..

"I'm never going to forgive you," Severus said, laying emphasis on heavily, so the word came out like sneering disdain. "Did Dumbledore send you? Or are you here to offer to suck my cock again?"

Remus turned his head so the weight of his gaze fell full and heavy on Severus. For a moment Severus thought Remus might tell him the truth — a truth — and he had to swallow to keep his face expressionless.

He'd heard that Voldemort had the power to read minds, that if you looked into his eyes he learned everything about you. Hidden in the Hogwarts library were tomes on rare and exotic defensive spells; Madame Pince guarded them carefully, but Severus had Slughorn on the side of his education. He meant to learn everything he could to defend the sanctity of his mind.

But he had no reason to worry now, he told himself, standing straight and pulling his chin up. He doubted Remus knew how to launch a mental attack, or that such a thing was possible, but his eyes were disconcerting anyway.

Then Remus shrugged, and his mouth tightened into a hard smile. "Sure," he said, implying both that he was experienced, and that he enjoyed it.

Severus wasn't sure that he would, but if Remus — one of his tormentors — wanted to abase himself at Severus' feet, well. Severus planned to put Remus in his place and keep him there.

Remus was incredibly good. Severus was shocked at how different sex was when the hand on his cock belonged to another. He was aware of Remus doing something with his wand — a little privacy, Remus said — and leaning forward to lap his tongue over the head of Severus' cock where it poked out of Remus's fist. Severus braced himself in case that was a tease, but Remus just shut his eyes and began sliding his mouth down, twisting his head to the side and using his tongue like he was writing runes along the length of Severus' cock.

Severus reached back blindly and splayed his hands wide on the dirty brick wall, feeling like a spring with the whole world pushing down on him. And then Remus pulled back, and Severus saw his cock slide wet between Remus's lips, and then Remus took him all in again with a hungry noise, like he wanted — and Severus came, rocked so hard with the force of release that he staggered on his feet, knees wobbly, held up by Remus's hands on his hips.

Remus swallowed, and Severus shuddered, thinking inanely that a part of him was now in Remus and might be there forever, holding him bound like those ancient magical rituals in his mother's books. Except he didn't want to make Remus love him or marry him. He just wanted Remus to suck him again, as soon as he could get it up.

Severus said so, and Remus gave a strained huff of laughter, warm against Severus' thigh. "Greedy," Remus said, voice rough, and Severus realized that he had his own cock out and was jerking himself off. "Touch me?" Remus asked, and Severus snapped no reflexively, and Remus made a noise like laughter.

Coming, Severus thought, a moment too late. That was what Remus sounded like when he came with the taste of Severus still in his mouth, on his knees in the dirt down here by the river where the Muggles were scared to come at night.

When Remus stood he brushed the telltale dirt off his trousers like it didn't matter.

"Could use a lemonade," Remus said. His voice still sounded hoarse, like he was catching a cold, and his mouth was swollen, though that might have been from being hit. Severus' knuckles hurt from his punch, and he'd scraped his fingertips on the bricks, trying to hold himself upright.

"We're not friends," Severus felt he had to point out.

Remus shrugged. "Still thirsty." He glanced quickly at Severus and his shoulders hunched inward, tense, and then he took a step back, half-turning towards the embankment.

"You can't be seen at my house," Severus said. "There's a shop the Muggles go to. Ought to do you."

Twenty minutes later found them sitting on the park wall, with bottles and crisp packets between them. The park had weeds knee-high and stank of stray cats. Two of the swings were broken, rotted straight through.

"Sometimes I'd see you watching me," Remus said out of nowhere. "Covert, like. Before," and he opened a hand like he was dropping something, and then shook his head. "Before."

Severus kicked at the weeds. "Watching Evans if I was watching anyone," he countered, and then frowned at having given that information up far too easily.

"Oh," Remus said. Muggle clothing didn't suit him, Severus decided. His shirt in particular was shabby with age and drew attention to the tension in his shoulders. "I didn't. . . oh. Hell."

"She's going to choose Potter," Severus said. The thought had been slowly consuming him from the inside, like a wash of acid that sloshed inside his chest, burning him clean and empty. Put in words, it sounded trivial, whiny, snivelling. He wondered whether Lily had asked Remus to visit him, or if Remus had begged his address off her — whether it made a difference, either way.

"I'm sorry." Remus had rallied and sounded sympathetic. Severus didn't want that from him, and told Remus to shut up.

"You and your friends," Severus sneered, righteous with scorn. Remus sighed and said, yeah. Severus looked at the long shadows creeping towards them from the shabby trees. "There's time before you have to go, eh?" he said, and scowled at the way his old accent was taking root again. But Remus just tipped his bottle up, making a show of swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing and his lips wet on the bottle-mouth.

"Yeah," Remus said again. They shoved their rubbish off the back of the wall, and Severus cast a spell that he hoped would keep them from being seen, and Remus did him slow the second time, until Severus had to grab his hair and hold him in place to get what he wanted. He had to shut his eyes because of the sun, and he felt replete with power when pleasure charged through him again, as if the world was bending to his will.

Remus biked up to Severus' four more times that summer. They didn't talk much, not that there was anything to talk about, but by the end of the month Severus had had his hand over the placket of Remus's trousers, rubbing desultorily while Remus's head dropped and his breathing came in gasps and he came. Severus didn't think he owed Remus anything. He'd just been curious, and he'd already told Remus they wouldn't be doing this at Hogwarts, or ever again.

As things turned out, he did start up with Remus again after leaving school. Slughorn had recommended Severus for an apprenticeship which usually goes to students with impeccable backgrounds, of course, but I asked them to make an exception in your case. Severus had kept his thoughts to himself and smiled and managed to get out a convincing statement of gratitude.

He had his own private rooms above the apothecary, a kitchen with sloping ceiling and a bedroom snug under the eaves. His very few possessions all fit in his trunk. Slughorn had advised him that owning appropriate clothing was key to moving up in the world, and Severus was spending his scant salary on replacing his worn school clothes with ones better suited to his ambitions.

So the next time he saw Remus, he was wearing austere but well-cut robes and moving with the defensive self-assurance that he had adopted to keep him from being savaged by his fellow Death Eaters and colleagues. Remus was walking down the opposite side of the road, glancing in store windows as if he'd no plans to buy anything, and then must have spotted Severus' reflection, because his head snapped around and he'd stopped in place. The witch behind Remus had jabbed at him with an elbow, and Remus had jerked out of the way, but he still stared at Severus as if he couldn't stop.

Severus had acted without thinking, jerking his head in the direction he was walking, and Remus crossed the road, hands in his pockets.

"Snape," Remus said, nodding as he fell into stride. "You're looking well."

"We live in opportune times," Severus said.

Remus snorted. "Ha." Then he gave Severus a sidelong glance. "Can I buy you dinner? I. . . I hadn't expected to see a familiar face here, and." He shrugged. "Be good to catch up. Or at least sit down."

"I've work to do," Severus said. "And I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the local pubs."

"When are you off work?" Remus asked, stubborn as a burr. "I'll bring you tea."

In his flat, Severus had three-day-old stew and cheap bread bought in secret from the Muggle supermarket. He didn't suppose he needed a better reason to say yes, but Remus grinned at him and then, thankfully, started rambling on about a poltergeist he'd got rid of the month before, near Inverness.

Remus half-raised a hand in goodbye when they reached the shop, but didn't stay or even slow his pace. Severus almost expected that he wouldn't see him again, but as soon as Severus had shuttered the windows and locked the door for the evening, there was Remus rapping to be let in.

Severus took him upstairs. Remus had remembered Severus' favourite foods from years ago, which might have been touching if Severus were capable of being moved. He wasn't. After eating, Remus raised an eyebrow and asked if that was the bedroom, and five minutes later Remus had Severus' cock in his mouth..

A month later, when Remus's irregular visits had become something Severus anticipated with impatience, Severus asked to fuck him. Remus had gone still, and then said slowly that he didn't think the chemists' was still open.

"Stop thinking like a Muggle," Severus told him. Remus had stared for a moment, and then loosened his robes and pulled them off. He wore a vest and shorts beneath, and at Severus' gesture removed those as well.

Severus had read books to learn the proper spells, and he'd slept with a Muggle girl over his last winter holidays, just to know what it was like. The mechanics weren't hard, and at least with Remus he didn't need to worry about the jealous boyfriend who was due back the fifth.

"You know what you're doing," Severus said like an accusation. Remus shrugged; Severus disrobed, keeping out his wand.

The girl had made Severus touch her and kiss her before he was given permission to fuck her. Remus just sprawled out on the bed, his own cock half-hard, and then grabbed Severus' pillow and stuck it under his arse, so his hips tipped up like an invitation.

Severus put a protective charm over the pillowcase and the sheets — he hated doing the wash — and when Remus snorted with amusement, he cast the spells to make the sex easier. Remus swore and clenched his fists tight in the sheets. Severus knelt on the bed between Remus's legs, kneed up, and held his cock to guide it in. He could feel Remus's body try to resist despite the charms, saw Remus's chest rise with every panted breath, and pushed all the way in until his balls hit Remus's arse.

It was hard to feel self-conscious fucking Remus, who writhed and arched and spread his legs trying to get more of Severus' cock, and who had very little hair on his chest to hide the pale scattering of long scars, and who had to shove the side of his fist in his mouth to muffle his shouts. Severus was so close but he tried to go slow, but then Remus grabbed his own cock. Barely a minute of desperate pulling had Remus coming, shooting up his chest practically to his neck and clenching down hard around Severus' cock. Severus swore but he was already slamming his hips forward, his need like a roaring in his ears that drowned out the world.

When he came, his eyes were so tightly shut that he saw starbursts, and he barely registered the way Remus guided his collapse so Severus stretched over one side of Remus's body, light-headed, breathless, sensitive to every slightest touch.

Remus coughed, and Severus told him to shut up.

"Then stop crushing me," Remus said.

Severus shifted over, annoyed, and then swore as his cock slipped free of Remus's body, trailing come and the spell-induced wet that was disgusting now that it wasn't useful any more. Severus Banished the mess from the sheets and then from Remus's arse, prompting a sharp, startled yelp, Remus's knees jerking together protectively.

"So it's true what they say?" Remus said, and gestured with his chin at Severus' bare arm and the Dark Mark there.

"We could use another werewolf," Severus said. "The one we've got is barely human."

"Killing does that," Remus said, and sat up, twisting to crack his shoulders and neck. "We could use someone good at fighting the Dark Arts."

"I would sooner die," Severus said flatly, and Remus shrugged like he didn't care enough to argue.

So that was what they had, as the war built before them like a storm cloud, sex and indifference. They talked about their jobs, Severus in the shop and Remus doing his itinerant magical pest control. Remus tried to discuss sport or Muggle cinema, and Severus laughed at him. By mutual understanding they did not mention any acquaintances in common or the war. It seemed as safe as anything was; harmless.

Until Severus put Lily in danger. He worked for Albus from then on, and put his full faith into Albus' powers of protection, and had no time for dalliance and distraction. And then. . . Lily was dead, the war was over, and Albus' price for Severus' safety was the transference of his loyalty from Lily to her son by Potter.

Albus had been Severus' counsellor and confidante, and over the years their respect for each other grew into friendship. Severus would have said that he knew Albus better than anyone, just as Albus knew him.

Yet all that time — or, to be precise, until the Priory's ownership had transferred at Hyacinthe's death — Albus had been coming here. There was the remotest possibility that Bedwyn Hyacinthe had been the sort of extremely close friend who enjoyed naked sketching but was not a lover, but Severus doubted that.

So Severus had to wonder now whether Albus had lied to him about love and its dangers, and whether he had shut the door on that conversation himself, by failing to tell Albus that he and Remus had —

He had allowed Albus to think of him, all those years, as a man who'd got his one love killed and made of his life a monument of mourning and repentance. Which was true. But it was also true that there was a time when Severus had been almost sure Remus cared for him. Perhaps if Albus had known, he'd have brought the subject up over tea one afternoon: By the way, Severus, I have what the press refer to as a love-nest overlooking the ocean in Cornwall, where I spend my holidays posing in the nude for the man I love, because unlike romance novels with enchanting covers, the roads to happiness are many and varied and include people like us as well.

Severus shook himself at the frisson of bone-deep wrongness that scenario provoked, and cold tea from his cup sloshed over his fingers. He blinked the tendrils of the past away resolutely and stood, his stiffened muscles protesting. He levitated the useless teacup back to the cottage to set on the window ledge and returned to his trudge up to the Priory ruins.

The past is inviolate; all that remains are the uncertain todays set like stepping-stones to the dream of the future. Severus frowned, trying to remember where he'd read that hideous phrase. Perhaps in one of the magazines Sibyll had been so fond of leaving around the staff lounge.

The Priory door was unlocked and also unnecessary. It opened onto a round stone chamber, the base of the tower, with a stone staircase set around the inner wall. Straight ahead to the north, a low door was tucked beneath the stairs, and arches to the east and west opened onto ruins. Severus' footsteps echoed as he peered through the left arch (collapsed roof, vines growing wild) and then the right (poor foundation causing walls to list and topple inwards onto rotting pews). Albus had probably set spells to keep the place from collapsing entirely, but Severus was not going to risk his health exploring.

He had no hopes for whatever lay behind the northern door, but found a neat chamber both undamaged and well-cared for. Rows of tables stood down the centre of the room, and between the narrow windows stood bookcases. Severus opened the first and took out a few volumes at random, then blinked, and stared around in a wondering sort of panic.

He took the books to the nearest table and sat down. "Well, Headmaster," he said, and the words echoed back at him uneasily. He had not enjoyed hearing that title directed at himself. "Albus. I see you've gone and left me your complete library of Widdershins Romances." He nearly laughed, looking down at the perfect loves of the witches and wizards on the covers in front of him. "You stupid, daft scheming bastard. You horrible fool, Albus," he said, and heard his voice break, and had to sit very still with his eyes closed for a very long time until he was master of himself once more.

When he returned to the cottage, the mattress was still gently plumping itself in the yard. He sent it into the bedroom, pulled off his clothes, and fell into the soft embrace as if he intended to sleep for years.

Spring

Severus did not suffer from lack of occupation, as he had feared he might. Great ambition amongst a throng of people easily turned into competition, backstabbing, and politics, but alone on the windswept hill his drive channelled into taming the gardens, clearing the gutters, raising fallen masonry to its original position, and studying roof-repair. He also decided that while forgoing luxuries in every other aspect of his life, he needed to eat well, and short of engaging a servant — which he would not do — he must learn to do for himself.

Pie crust, he discovered, was no difficulty for someone with the knack for potion-making. Brambles, however, were even more intractable than fifth-year students.

He woke every morning at the same reasonable hour, battled with the weeds and imprecated the squirrels, had a midmorning meal, did his tasks for the day, had a wash and then tea, and finished up with a book read in front of the fire. He'd stored Mr Hyacinthe's artistic endeavours up in the Priory, hoping to forget their existence, but he still found his idle thoughts occupied by memories and curiosity. He wondered who had cooked, Albus or Bedwyn, and who had been the gardener. He wondered how on earth they had possibly met. He wondered who had been older, and how old Bedwyn was when he died, and if Albus had been there with him. He wondered if anyone at Hogwarts had known, about Albus, about Bedwyn — about Remus and himself, for that matter, though he cringed from the thought.

Mulling over years of conversations up in the Headmaster's office, the challenging debates and frank confessions and the lies, Severus felt restless dissatisfaction. Albus had warned that entrusting his heart to Lily could cause irreparable harm and that allowing himself to be seduced by Remus would lead to reckless youthful disaster. But in cold retrospect, Severus couldn't see the flaw in having the attachments, just in their expression. Remus. . . had been impossible in so many ways Severus had barely spared a thought for him. But with Lily he'd been impatient for her to realise she was wrong and he was right. He wondered now how much of Lily he hadn't got to know, because he'd been so blinded by a belief in their mutual destiny that he pushed her away.

Albus should have warned Severus about himself, he thought angrily, and for a few weeks during the bitterest part of winter Severus hated him for being a liar and a hypocrite.

The simple fact, Severus finally had to admit to himself, was that his love and regret — his flawed perceptions — had been useful to Albus. Severus had always known this, deep down; he could have refused Albus' orders. He had chosen not to.

Likewise, Severus had let Albus go to his grave believing in only the simple truth of his childhood love for Lily, because he'd needed Albus' belief. To that end, he'd never felt the need to mention the absolute mess of his relationship with Remus, not even when they were working together, decades later. Severus wondered if Albus had wanted to tell him about Bedwyn, but had thought him too close-minded, perhaps prejudiced. Muggles, Severus thought, for all their imperfections, at least had a way to talk about men who loved men, or fucked them, or thought they were beautiful. The Wizarding world was like the Priory collection: thousands of stories about witches and wizards meeting, fighting, marrying, starting families — but not one about two witches or two wizards.

Severus had never asked Remus for his story. He'd simply assumed the man would do what he eventually did: see the error of his ways and find a woman who'd have him. He wondered if the Lupin-Tonks household was working on a second offspring by now. Probably.

By the time the azaleas bloomed into a wanton riot of pink, Severus was willing to admit that the real danger in love was ignorance — wilful, stupid, or that contrived through secrets and manipulation. There were a great many things he wanted to know, and he wasn't going to find answers popping up with the daffodils.

An hour's walk down in the opposite direction from the Muggle town was a tiny Wizarding enclave, founded a hundred years ago as an artists' retreat. The town sat between granite protrusions that were supposedly picturesque; Severus didn't see the inner beauty of rocks. Until now he had felt no need or inclination to visit, but he wanted essentials, and he felt it best to get his shopping done before the summer holiday-makers descended on the tumble of self-catering cottages down by the crescent-moon beach.

The village had three galleries of art for the discerning tourist, two pubs, and a grocery. A passageway from the latter led to a shop piled floor to ceiling with every conceivable magical item, from water wings to goat eyeballs in jars to instant mushrooms to enchanted condoms, in discreet pink boxes on a high shelf behind an age line.

"Anything not here we can order," the witch behind the counter said, not looking up from the latest issue of Hex.

"I need an owl," Severus said. "Used is fine."

The witch snorted and pulled one of the thick cords behind her. A hole appeared in the ceiling, and a set of floating steps walked themselves down to floor level. "Go on up to the attic, see what strikes your fancy." She handed Severus a packet of off-brand owl treats and made a shooing gesture.

Severus climbed up in a high state of annoyance and indignation, and came back down with an athene noctua attached to his shoulder, head tucked up under his hair.

In response to his orders, the witch quickly made up a bundle of parchment, quills, odds-and-bobs, and a bottle of Dr Hu's Owl Care Elixir. All told, it was an impressive and heavy parcel, and Severus gave in to temptation and purchased a broom as well, supposedly previously owned by an elderly wizard who'd just ridden it to the Quidditch field and back.

The witch didn't ask him any questions but shot him beady-eyed knowing looks that made the back of Severus' neck start to itch. She handed him a slip of paper good for free salt and vinegar chips at the pub (Next door at the Briar Rose, that is, with the glass door, not the Old Shambles across the way).

Severus hadn't planned on wasting good coin on food, but the owl seemed peckish and he didn't want to waste the discount. He wrote his first letter, to Madame Pince, while sharing his fish and chips with. . . Spot, he decided; that was a good enough name for a bird that was covered in spots.

The pub was quiet until the clock chimed four, and then the public Floo next to the bar started spewing out commuters and tourists. The latter were collected in batches by a spotty boy with a sign that read SeaSpray Cottages; the former clustered at the bar and made loud demands for drink and game scores.

Severus slipped away without meeting anyone's eyes. He was certain none of the people in the pub had been students or their parents — he had an excellent memory for faces — but they might still hold any number of things against him.

Better to leave.

He was entering the broom shelter to the side of the pub — more a lean-to than a proper facility, really — when he heard a sudden startled, "Professor?"

He stiffened his shoulders and pretended he hadn't heard, but she called after him again, and he had to turn around to shush her with a sharp cutting gesture through the air.

Nymphadora Tonks beamed at him, as if this hideous coincidence was a delight, and then took two steps forward and leaned in to give him a hearty embrace, complete with stinging thumps to his back. Severus shifted sideways, and broke free as soon as her grip loosened, but it was too late; she was already chattering on at him.

"Isn't it just lovely here?" Tonks said, and gestured widely. Her hair was blue like the sky, and she was wearing an orange dress that looked like towels stitched together badly. Sea air had a terrible effect on fashion. "Such lovely weather, the ocean's not quite warm enough for swimming, of course, but isn't the beach delightful? We've been here a week," she confided, and clapped a hand over his shoulder like they were best mates. "I tell my Mum I shan't go back to London, I'll live in a shack and paint watercolours and renounce whatever it is people renounce. Here for the fresh air, are you then? You're looking well. Isn't it marvellous?"

"Indeed," Severus said, and wished he wasn't wearing the trousers that were made of nothing but pockets. As useful as they were, they did interfere with his ability to project menace.

"Do come and visit," Tonks rattled on. "Or perhaps — I suppose you aren't that fond of children? My boy Teddy's at the age when he's a right terror, and of course my mother says I was like that until I was seventeen or so, but I think she's joking, don't you? There was a month or two second year when I was very nearly demure."

As much as Severus did not want to chat with Tonks about children or watercolours, his aversion to sharing hideously awkward silences with her husband was infinitely greater. Even if Tonks suspected nothing, Severus knew Andromeda often had an uncanny perception not unlike Legilimency. Recently he'd been thinking far too much about Remus, and sex, and sex with Remus, and all the things they'd never discussed when they were younger because they'd been too busy having sex. He did have questions he wanted to ask Remus. . . but not in the same room as his family.

He demurred the invitation sharply, and grabbed hold of his broom as he told Tonks to convey his regrets to her husband and her mother.

She blinked at him, and her hair turned violet. "Remus's up in Azkaban, still," she said. Severus' hands, independent of his brain, dropped straight down to his side, the broom and his parcel hitting the ground. He had no idea what his face looked like, but Tonks gave him a fortifying, steadying clasp. "What, didn't you know?"

When Tonks had explained and the frenzied pound of his heart had returned to normal, Severus suspected that despite what Tonks said, her divorce hadn't been entirely amiable. Only a person with some lingering frustration would go about, Severus thought, making such blatantly provocative statements and passing them off as a joke.

He was still angry at her when he arrived home, and he used viscous uprooting charms on the dandelions until Spot swooped down with Irma's reply, a series of pamphlets on Ye Arte of Book & Manuscript Preservation. Severus went in to make tea and was annoyed to find another owl perched on his dresser. He tossed it a snack, fed one to Spot, and took the letter, which was written in sloppy ballpoint on pink notepaper.

I didn't mean to be horrible, Tonks wrote.

It must be wearing having old students always thinking they can unburden themselves on you and expect to be patted on the head for it and fed sweets. I got home and was well appalled with myself. I don't want you thinking I'm angry at Remus, because I'm not. And you know when you're terrified and people are dying and you just want someone to hold onto so you can pretend it will be all right? Remus was kind and dashing, but he'd never have married me if I hadn't latched onto him after my cousin died, I can see that now. He was good to me, of course he was, but we agreed that if we survived the war we'd be happier apart. He's a good man and we're proud of him.

The last words were pinched at the end of the page, and Severus turned it over. On the reverse was an expanded version of what Tonks had told him. Remus was, indeed, in Azkaban, though in an administrative position — appointed by Kingsley himself. Tonks wrote that with pride, but Severus didn't doubt that the political reasoning was coldly practical. What else did one do when the time came to hand out favours to war heroes, and one of them was so obviously unsuited to all the traditional rewards? There couldn't have been a werewolf in the Ministry itself, and not at Hogwarts after what happened last time. Any nation Wizarding Britain conduced diplomatic relations with would have taken insult to have him as an ambassador. Severus supposed there was always the amorphous public life of celebrity, but what if Remus won over the hearts of readers or listeners with his tales of pathos and woe? What if he rallied the forces of social justice against Kingsley's barely-standing government?

Better to make him the second in command at Azkaban, and set him to the thankless job of reforming war criminals. If he failed, as he was bound to, that would be that. At least Kingsley would have tried.

I meant what I said, Tonks concluded. Do come over before we leave on the 20th. And write Remus if you can, he puts on a brave face but Azkaban — urgh. He talks about you, says it's too late to repair your friendship, but I think he's afraid to try. You wouldn't be afraid, sir. Sincerely yours, N. T.

"Cheeky," Severus told Tonks' owl, and summoned parchment and quill to pen a terse, quelling note of thanks that didn't commit him to anything.

He wrote Remus next, because he had no doubt that Tonks would try very had to honour his wish for privacy, but she'd drop hints. And Remus was good at problem-solving.

I hear from your charming ex-wife that you've established a model farm and a series of courses for technical training, Severus wrote.

What on earth are you thinking? Was your wartime experience so life-defining that you cannot bear to retire with dignity? You'll end up the Bagman of the Order, you know, sedating people with trite stories of your vainglorious past. Do you have the prisoners make cheese? That at least would provide amusing anecdotes.

Severus signed his name with the sharp quill he kept for signatures only; his precise strokes came out with a spiky air of intense disapproval.

He sent the letter off to the address Tonks had provided.

Remus's reply came four days later, brought by a very dejected-looking raven clutching a satchel. It settled awkwardly on his stovepipe and croaked never again to itself until Severus tossed it the box of owl snacks.

The satchel contained a pungent wheel of cheese, a matching set of clumsily-knitted hat, muffler, and mittens, and a parchment covered on both sides with Remus's unfortunate scrawl. Severus cast a hasty redolente on the cheese and locked it in the pantry.

Remus's missive started out with a kind of double-edged enthusiasm that read like mockery, and went downhill from there.

Thank you ever so much for your interest in our dairy. You would not believe the trouble I've had trying to find buyers in the Wizarding world, I finally gave in and did a deal with a Muggle supermarket, you know, they appreciate a proper organic goat cheese. It's actually surprisingly heart-touching how some of my prisoners have taken to the animals (not in an Aberforth way; I mean, giving them names and so forth, drawing the occasional pastel Landscape with Goats in Art Therapy). Had a couple of women up from that new Wizarding uni Shacklebolt's trying to get going, arrived wanting to conduct sociological studies and possibly invasive medical procedures, left well-fed and in deep discussion about correspondence courses, which would be fantastic, of course. The way to a bureaucracy’s heart being its stomach, or something.

I actually do know that you don't care at all, about me or my job, but enough people find my circumstances amusing, I thought you might like to be in on the joke. Can't complain at any rate, though I'll be willing to admit to envy of your location if that would make you feel better, or superior, one and the same with you perhaps where I'm concerned. Let me know if you think any local shops would be interested in the cheese, in which I have a fair bit of confidence, or the knitted goods, which to my admittedly inexpert eye look as if they were made by recalcitrant prisoners trying to gain early release for good(ish) behaviour before another lovely North Sea winter sets in.

In any case, I need to be up early, so I'll close here --

Yours,
Remus Lupin

Severus Summoned a quill and a pot of red ink and was ruthless to Remus's appalling punctuation. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, and then Banished the letter into the fire. He felt no obligation to reply, but the cheese was very good with fresh tomatoes and basil from his tiny enchanted kitchen garden.

He put off contacting Andromeda Tonks until nearly too late. He recognized in himself a deep and profound revulsion at the possibility of being asked about the war or his role in it. He felt the same way about the art of potions: as if he'd read to the final page of a book and was glad to have completed it, but experienced something like horror at the thought of ever opening it again.

Still, he needed help, and he thought he could trust Andromeda. She had always had a certain perspective on history that Severus would have admired if he hadn't been certain that she was wrong, and she was clever. Between the two of them, they ought to be able to lift the Fidelius Charm but strengthen the Unplottablility. Severus was sick of keeping secrets, but he had no desire to find the Night Bus stopping at his gate and disgorging day-trippers.

Andromeda insisted on bringing her daughter — no matter the colour of her hair, she is an Auror, Severus — and a picnic lunch as well.

"My grandparents Rosier were married at St. Walburga's," Andromeda said, handing Severus a collapsible baby-improver and gesturing impatiently to where she wanted it set up. "The house in town was theirs, of course, having belonged to the Trewissick Rosiers. So kind of Narcissa to let us stay here off-season." She took a breath, and Tonks rolled her eyes behind her mother's back. "I saw that," Andromeda snapped. "Do try and act professional."

Tonks plonked the baby into the improver and set the hurdy-gurdy going. As she straightened and pulled her wand out, her hair tugged itself into a sleek black bob — eminently professional. She also had a sharp eye for the faults and flaws in a spell and a knack for using those to break the magic down into smaller, easily-managed pieces. Severus felt put out at having to follow her lead, but he pretended he was testing her; Andromeda just seemed amused by the whole proceeding. When the last bit of the Fidelius was swept away and the Unplottability was reinforced, she cast a lazy Repello Muggletum, turned to Severus, and said,

"Severus, your escallonia is a disgrace. I'll send you the card for the man who does Narcissa's hedges." Andromeda gave him a challenging look. "When people are talking about you, keeping up appearances is just as essential as being right." He nearly asked her if people did talk about him, but worried she wouldn't mince her words. She coughed, delicately. "Do show me your cottage, I expect that's where you left your manners. Tea," she added. "The child is fractious."

Remus's son, now tucked up on his mother's hip and being chucked under the chin, looked perfectly happy, but Severus knew how to take a heavy hint.

He spent the next few hours entertaining and giving tours of the property. He had to be firm in telling Andromeda that he did not intend to open the grounds to the public, or host garden weddings. Tonks, taking a break from running after her child, said he should turn it into a nursery, with see-saws and sing-alongs. Severus and her mother nixed that idea in chorus, and Tonks hair went as red as her face as she realised how thoughtless that suggestion was.

Andromeda asked later, as they sipped good wine from mismatched jam jars, why Severus had wanted the Fidelius Charm lifted if he intended to keep the place all to himself.

Severus snapped that he was done keeping Albus' secrets, and asked how the Malfoy boy was doing.

After they'd left and the quiet reasserted itself like a balm, Severus admitted to himself that he'd told them only half the truth. He did want visitors, just not strangers and certainly not students. He wanted friends and colleagues. He wanted. . . .

And there was no sense in putting that off, either. He settled at the table and summoned his writing materials, and started with Lupin:

Should you find yourself in need of a rest, you're welcome here, of course. I have a few flowers left which your child did not uproot and an ocean view Tonks says is super — though you might be sick of the sea.

He paused to blot his words and consider them. Then he added, with the deep satisfaction that came from confounding expectations, S. Snape, Resident Curator, Romantic Literature Repository, St Walburga's Priory

Under that, written in a careful rush before his nerve gave out, he penned, There are things I wish to ask you, and discuss with you.

Spot was gone overnight, so Severus assumed he was getting a reply by return-owl. He wondered if the ravens were only for packages, or perhaps dramatic effect. He got his answer just as he finished tidying away the last of the breakfast things, and told himself firmly that he knew better than to anticipate anything. Still.

Severus — Tonks assures me you're not mad at all, and lent me one of the books she borrowed. I'm only ten pages in but already enjoying The Indiscriminate Enchanter, though I'm not sure anything could surpass the cover illustration. (Do the aubergines figure in the story, or are they symbolic? A mystery!) I feel forward suggesting this, but I could return the book in person after the next full moon, if you really meant to invite me. If that was just Andromeda-induced politeness, I understand completely. She has that effect.

Severus wrote back, Bring more cheese when you come, and then discovered to his irritation that his reply would have to wait until Spot had woken from a ruffled exhausted slumber.

Once the plan had been made and confirmed, Severus wondered if he ought to do anything to the house before Remus's visit. He had a brief hysterical vision of white net curtains and antimacassars, things that had disappeared from his childhood home when his gran died. But no. He aired the linens and bought supplies at the Muggle shops, including several large boxes of crackers.

Remus arrived shortly past noon the day after the full moon. He Apparated to just outside the door and then knocked, politely waiting to be let in. He looked exhausted. Severus assumed that was to be expected, considering he'd likely been up all night howling.

"The Ministry should be providing Wolfsbane," Severus said, giving Remus's colour a critical once-over. He took Remus's bag from his hand and stabbed a finger at the sofa. "Sit. It looks like it doesn't agree with you. Have you eaten?"

Remus dropped onto the sofa with an alarming crackling of joints and stretched one arm out along the back as he watched Severus take his bag through the bedroom door. Severus re-emerged and fixed him with a hard stare.

"I had to Floo into the Ministry this morning for meetings," Remus said, as if that explained everything. Severus crossed his arms and waited for Remus to make more sense, studying him as he did so. Remus's hair had grown out from his severe wartime cut, and the brown was equally streaked with grey and sun-bleached, as if he was spending a good deal of time out-of-doors. His robes were plain but new, though he was still wearing the boots he'd bought twenty years ago, the resoling charm apparently still sticking. "Came here straight after that. I think the Wolfsbane was the last thing I ate." He rolled his shoulders back. "Give me a minute and I'll be a much more entertaining guest."

"Have some soup," Severus said, banishing a cupful from the cauldron to one of Albus' pottery bowls. He set it on the three-legged table leaning against the sofa arm, and summoned the plate of rosemary scones.

"Thank you," Remus said, sounding almost reverent. Then he fell on his food like a wolf in a folktale devouring a virtuous virgin.

Severus went to make tea. He could remember being terrified of Remus — of what Remus was — and angry with him for lying about his condition, and his hot, vindictive, vengeful pleasure in believing that Remus deserved what he got because of what he was — that Severus was justified and Remus had no right to complain. But hardly any of that remained. He'd had to put up with Greyback's odious philosophy of the survival of the most vicious, and pretend not to be repulsed at hearing the worst perversions exulted as the prerogative of monsters. Remus. . . was not that kind of monster. Remus bore the scars from the fight to hold onto his humanity, and for his struggles he'd reaped the reward of an unpleasant bureaucratic position. Severus wondered if Remus thought he deserved better, or if he was just grateful for what he had. The way Severus was.

Severus poured two cups of tea and carried the tray over only to find that Remus had fallen asleep. Literally: slumping sideways onto the sofa with his feet still planted on the floor and holding his spoon. Severus used a couple of charms to get Remus rearranged, stretched down the length of the sofa with his boots off. He summoned the ghastly knit thing from the bedroom — one of Albus' less-successful efforts — and draped it over Remus's stomach.

Albus' enchantments on the sofa, Severus thought wryly, had been cast a little too strong. Remus would probably sleep for hours. Severus pulled on his gardening clothes and went out to do something about his rambling-away roses.

He was going for best two out of three rounds, armed with thick gloves and clippers, when Remus emerged from the cottage, looked around as if still dazed, and then picked his way through the field to where Severus was working. He'd taken off his robes — possibly too lazy to charm the wrinkles out — and was wearing unbelted trousers and a shirt that showed off the breadth of his shoulders.

"Sorry," Remus said, sidling around the daphne bush.. "In my defence, your sofa may be cursed."

Severus shrugged. "I think Albus slept there when he was alone. He probably needed to overdo the Sleepwell charms towards the end." He blinked away the memories that came with the words, and occupied himself with vines and thorns for a minute. Remus asked if he could help, and Severus snapped no. The late afternoon sun made Remus look golden and gorgeous, distracting Severus from his distraction. "Did you know," he asked, trying to sound civil, "that Dumbledore stayed here with the man who was his lover?"

Remus looked instantly alarmed, one hand going to his wand-pocket. "Grindelwald? Here?"

Severus very nearly dropped the clippers on his foot as he glanced around. "Is he?"

Remus narrowed his eyes, as if he thought Severus was having him on. "I hear the man died in prison, but if he and Dumbledore were here once there's no telling what they left behind. Stupid kids with their great secret passion and the capacity for murder."

Severus was staring. "Albus and Gellert Grindelwald?"

Remus waggled his hand like a scale, still alert but apparently having decided that death wasn't imminent. "Rumours have been in the papers this past year, but the inner circles of queer Wizarding Britain have been debating that story for years. What were you talking about?"

"Bedwyn Hyacinthe," Severus said. Remus looked blank, and shrugged his ignorance. "I don't know about rumours or secret passions, but I have naked pictures."

Remus's face suffused with conflicting emotions, but amusement won out. "Of this Bedwyn?" he asked, grinning, and tipped his eyebrows up. "Was he pretty? Can I see?"

Severus sighed. "Not Bedwyn." Remus snorted, tried to control himself, failed, and bent nearly double with laughter. Severus staked one of the plants and envisioned a pergola. He thought one could be done tastefully.

After a minute incapacitated and another recovering, wiping his face with a handkerchief, Remus coughed and said firmly, "Good for Dumbledore, then. I hope he was happy. Rotten to have one horrible experience with love as a kid and have that be it for all time."

"That's exactly what I've been thinking," Severus said, and turned to look straight at Remus. Remus stared back, gaze caught for a long moment before he turned jerkily to pretend to be fascinated by the ocean view. "All those years ago," Severus started, and his shoulders tensed. "You know I was in love with Lily while I was sleeping with you."

Remus barked a short laugh. "Don't worry, I never suspected you of loving me."

"There was the war," Severus said. Remus gave him a sidelong sceptical glance. "If there hadn't been a war, no Voldemort, no deaths — we might have eventually found a place like this."

But Remus was shaking his head. "As horrible as some of them have been, I needed the intervening years to learn some things about myself, and to accept them. Settle down, grow up."

"Marry and have a child," Severus added, and then wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

Remus poked a finger in his direction. "We've been doing so well, and you want to start a fight now?"

"I lost my memories in the war," Severus said. Remus looked slightly less annoyed, perhaps even concerned. "Potter picked them up and returned them later, a bit worse for wear from being stuck in a dirty bottle and carried around in his pocket. I don't quite remember things the same way. I feel less and see more, if that makes any sense." He looked at Remus. "Did you ever love me, back then?"

Remus made a face. "Love and lust and wanting to belong were all mixed up for me — I remember not knowing what I wanted but wanting so badly anyway. I blame fear and hormones."

"Hormones are a Muggle concept," Severus said derisively, and gave up on the roses. He turned his back on them and started for the cottage.

Remus jogged to catch up with him. "Are those flowers laughing at you?"

The strictest, most uncomfortable pergola, Severus decided, ignoring Remus, managed with a firm hand and maybe the threat of bonfires. He stopped at the shed and put away his tools and combat gear, then at the well for a quick wash, and then turned to find Remus studying the property with a keen curiosity, hands in his pockets and elbows angled back.

Remus looked away from the tower and gave Severus a quick smile; not so much an apology as a wry acknowledgement of his interest.

"I haven't been down this way in ages," Remus said, with a shrug. "Do you see Bill and Fleur ever?"

"I don't see anyone," Severus said. "Excepting the Tonks family, which was purely accidental."

"Not that much," Remus said, and trailed after Severus back to the cottage. "This used to be the place for rich Pure-blooded families to come. Dumbledore had that background, regardless of whether he agreed with the political agenda. If Grindelwald was Dumbledore's type —" and Remus' pause there echoed Severus' own mental disconnect at the thought — "then it's not a stretch to imagine our Bedwyn fit right in with the elite Wizarding sun-bathers, Malfoys, Weasleys, Blacks. . . . ."

"And the Trewissick Rosiers," Severus concluded. "I think he was. . . removed from his family and given this place in return for not damaging the family name. Hyacinthe," he added, "is not a Wizarding name. But Madame Pince lent me several genealogies — we have an inter-library loan scheme — and several Bedwyns supposedly died in Grindelwald's war."

"Huh," Remus said. "I got weeks' worth of arguing and my mum crying and my owl taken away when I told my parents — well, about you. Not that I named names, but." He took out one hand and swept it through the air. "Not the same, really."

Severus pushed the front door open and tugged off his boots on the mat. Having to cast the sweeping-up charms himself had taught him early on not to track mud in. Remus did the same, and Severus noted that the sock which had had holes previously had been neatly darned.

"What possessed you to tell anyone?" Severus asked, taking a pair of wine glasses down from the shelf and opening the bottle he'd bought from the Muggles. He poured, and Remus accepted his with a slight raise of the glass in an unspoken toast. Severus ignored him and settled into a chair, stretching his legs out in front, ankles crossed. After a moment, Remus sat gingerly on the sofa, as if afraid of immediately falling unconscious.

"Gryffindors tend to commit acts of great stupidity in the name of bravery," Remus said. Severus wasn't sure that answered the question. "As you know."

Severus sniffed. "I never even told Albus, and as it turns out, he'd have understood better than my parents ever could have. I suppose yours were excited by the Nymphadora nuptials."

Remus sipped his wine and looked pensive. "They died towards the end of the last war. I'm fairly sure my mother would have been just as scandalised by the age difference." Another sip, and then Remus pulled his eyebrows down and gave Severus a dark look. "I doubt you care."

"Certainly not. Tell me about your prison," Severus said. Remus continued to scowl. Severus gave him a bland smile just a shade politer than contemptuous, and levitated the bottle over to refill Remus's glass.

"It's a delightful penal venue with stunning ocean views," Remus said, in a passable television-presenter's accent that managed to be pleasant but yet sharply sarcastic. "The people are fabulous, and I only reconsider my position on torture once or twice on good days."

"Do you walk around with a truncheon and a ring of keys on your belt?" Severus asked. One of the books up in the Priory had been about a wizard falsely imprisoned for necromancy, and the prison officers had been impressively terrifying.

"I'm in charge of rehabilitation," Remus said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand but relaxing slightly, as if the conversation had turned onto a well-worn track. "The Governor's the one with the keys, but they're decorative. The doors have locking charms now. Basically, it's much, much harder to escape from Azkaban these days, but very much easier to be released back into society. And because institutional torture by way of Dementors has been abolished, prisoners really can start over once released and become productive citizens."

"How's your recidivism rate?" Severus asked, with smooth polite disinterest, refilling his own glass.

Remus' eyebrows went up in acknowledgement of a hit, but he just said, "Eh," and then added, slouching a bit, "I have to write a lot of pamphlets and white papers."

"Quite an opportunity for you," Severus suggested. Remus eyed him as if examining each word for an insult. "You were a popular teacher. You're good with people, and getting them to do what you want."

"I learned from the best," Remus said, and took a long pensive sip from his wine glass. "If you haven't been paying attention to politics — "

"Never did," Severus said. It made more sense to pay attention to people.

Remus turned his palm up, well, there you go. "We're at a strange place in history. The war exposed the flaws of the old system. Some people want to bury all those problems, try to return to innocent and better times. Others want to right wrongs, except that the roots go so deep it's. . . daunting. And of course no one knows if new would be better. But one of the big changes — not just in Azkaban, but everywhere, Hogwarts, the Ministry — is that people want to know what's happening, and why, and who's in charge." The right corner of his mouth curled up, half a smile. "We have visitors' days for prisoners' families, a newsletter, all these meetings. Press conferences."

"I'm glad you found a career," Severus said.

Remus took a leisurely swallow of wine and gave him a bland look. "Tell me about your romantic literature." He said the words carefully, as if suspecting a joke but not wanting to cause insult.

"It's probably not literature," Severus admitted. "I have every Widdershins Romance published between the first Wizarding war and when we started school, and an incomplete collection up through last year. Perhaps Dumbledore was trying to continue Hyacinthe's work, but things got in the way. Or maybe he simply enjoyed reading them. They're very. . . comforting. Love will always win and happiness prevail." He shrugged. "No one makes ignorant mistakes and has to live a life warped by the consequences."

Remus eyed him as if weighting several unpleasant replies, but finally said, "I probably should have told Tonks I wouldn't be her youthful folly, but I liked that she thought she loved me. And I can't regret my son."

"He's been here," Severus reminded him. "He kept trying to entice the demiguise out from under the bed."

Remus looked deeply intrigued and wouldn't be content until he was stretched out flat on the bedroom floor, half under the bed, feeding the demiguise fat slices of cheese.

"Do you miss working with the Dark Arts?" Severus asked, leaning on the door frame and crossing his arms.

"Magic has such potential," Remus said, and paused to sneeze, making the demiguise whulf in surprise. "For beauty and for horror." He pulled himself out in twisting increments, sat up, and held out his hand. Intellectually, Severus knew that he was holding a handful of the demiguise fur that was all over the floor, but his eyes told him that he was seeing the floor through a spot of invisibility where Remus' hand ought to be. Then Remus sneezed again and his hand reappeared.

"For making a horrible mess of my house," Severus said, and made a show of drawing his wand and sweeping the floor so clean that the floorboards gleamed. He doubted he had the patience to save enough fur for an invisibility cloak, but he was looking forward to making a headless hat.

Remus put a hand on his knee and pushed himself up quickly, though it took him a minute to straighten completely, and he twisted, rolling his shoulders so his spine cracked.

"I don't miss fighting, or fear," Remus said, looking around the room idly, as if he suspected it of holding more mysteries. "But I don't plan on giving up studying. Ignorance is dangerous, I think we all learnt that in the war."

Severus put his wand away with meticulous care. "In this house, there will be no potions brewing." Without taking the time to rethink the action, he pushed his sleeve up. "So long as the Mark stays unseen."

"Forever, then," Remus said, with a sharp nod, and then flashed the wicked curve of a teasing smile. "You enjoy your new occupations. Albus will be pleased. You should take up writing. Perhaps romances for people like us."

Severus was waiting for the perfect time to bring out the naked pictures of Albus. He could afford to overlook a jibe or two, knowing what Remus didn't. Maybe he should frame them, first. Maybe he should enchant them so Albus could move around, except Severus wasn't sure how well that would work on a sketch. If outlines were incomplete or overdrawn, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't get an animate tangle.

Severus took a breath and pushed all thoughts of Albus out of his head. "At Hogwarts," Severus started, and then amended to, "when we were students. Why did you choose me?"

Remus' expression was wry, but his cheeks darkened with embarrassment. "I thought. . . you and I were alike. Both dark from the start, and carrying secrets. Lonely in our Houses because of that. When we did make friends, mine hated you, yours despised me, it was like that famous Muggle play about doomed romance."

"I never told anyone what you were," Severus said, sensing an accusation. Remus had earned his mistreatment at school all by himself, for being an easy target. Remus raised a placating hand.

"Slughorn wanted to cure me," he said. "I disappointed him every month. I'm not saying he encouraged, but he didn't discourage as well as he could have." Remus took a breath. "You and me. I just always felt drawn to you. Like that stupid book Tonks gave me. And every possible thing went wrong, and I'd find myself back in McGonagall's office, telling her how much I hated being myself." He shrugged, and then clapped a hand over his heart as if about to swoon dramatically. "But you always gave me another chance. What always drove us apart in the end was cruel fate."

"Fate, Albus, Voldemort, idiocy," Severus agreed, glaring. "You do realise I usually have no idea what you're hiding with facetiousness and sarcasm."

"My soft underbelly," Remus said, and then winced, and then looked defensive, which wasn't a look he was good at. Far too sulky for a forty year-old man. "I wanted to get to know you and for you to be interested in me, but still. The sex was good, as I recall."

"Knowing what you looked like naked didn't help me at all when you were teaching at Hogwarts." Remus grinned. "Or when you got married," Severus added.

Remus' grin sharpened, and he cocked his head to the side. "Were you jealous?"

"No," Severus said. "Are you hungry?"

Remus took a step forward, catching Severus' sleeve in his hand, keeping him from retreat. "Yes," Remus said, and pulled Severus close enough to kiss. He was obviously trying to distract Severus from the fact that the line Remus had just used was so terrible even the Widdershins editors would have red-inked it. But the extra motivation made Remus enthusiastic, and as soon as Severus kissed back — in self-defence — both of Remus' hands were on him, one at the back of his neck and one at his waist, pulling him even closer. Severus caught Remus' lower lip in his teeth and turned quickly, so Remus' back was to the wall and Severus was in control.

Severus pressed Remus back and kissed him with a slow, lingering care calculated to shorten Remus' breath with frustration. Remus let his eyes drop half-shut, surrendering, and Severus trailed his mouth along Remus' jawline, then lazily down his throat, using his teeth but not hard enough to bruise too badly, he supposed.

"Can we be done talking?" Remus asked, breathless, sounding plaintive. "Because I'm no good at talking."

"By all means do what you are good at," Severus told him, magnanimous.

Remus cocked an eyebrow, and Severus felt the coolness of air in the sudden absence of Remus' hand. He caught sight of a flick-and-swish out of the corner of his eye, and wasn't terribly surprised that all their clothes vanished. With, he noted, as Remus pushed him backwards and shoved him onto the bed, the exception of Remus' left sock. Severus suspected an interaction with the darning charm.

"All I wanted from you, back then," Remus said, propped on his hands over Severus, voice rough with need, "was to be wanted back."

Severus leaned up to bite at a red mark on the side of Remus' neck, eliciting a sharp indrawn breath. "I didn't know how," he said. "That might be different now."

Remus rolled his hips, and gave Severus a wicked look through the fall of his hair. "Show me," he said. So Severus took him apart.

He didn't have much more experience than he'd had twenty years ago, and he was conscious of being older and stiffer and no longer set on the edge of orgasm by a touch. But he had patience where apparently Remus had none, a scientific interest in learning how Remus responded to various stimuli, and a selfish desire to taste Remus all over. When he pinned Remus' hips down with his hands and lowered his head to tease the head of Remus' cock with his tongue, Remus begged, desperate words falling over themselves in a wash of need. And when Severus lowered his mouth down the shaft — slowly, of course, and with perfect control — the words fell apart, and Remus spoke with the clench of his hands on the sheets, and the helpless jerk of his hips, and the way his head tipped to the side as his back arched and he came.

Severus moved up to stretch out alongside Remus, stroking himself as he watched Remus's sweat-slick chest rise and fall as he panted in the wake of pleasure.

"Come here," Remus said finally, turning to find Severus' mouth by touch and then kissing him, one hand tracing down Severus' side to intertwine his fingers with Severus' own. Severus hadn't realised he was so close, but he found himself sliding into a gentle pleasure that built like a wave pushed by the turning tide to the inevitable shore.

He floated along on that tide well into the night, roused partway by the cold but sent back to sleep when warmth settled around him. He felt pleasantly as if he could delegate all his cares away and still be safe, with this strong arm around him and this head heavy on his shoulder.

He woke again in the predawn half-light, when Remus wrapped his mouth around Severus' cock, and as soon as Severus got his breath back after coming he was handed his trousers.

"I want to see the sun rise," Remus explained, dragging him sleep-stumbling out of the cottage's warmth and up the hill to the tower.

Severus' feet were wet with dew; overhead he could still see the moon and a handful of stars, or perhaps planets.

"I don't think fondly of towers," Severus said, as Remus pushed the door open, lit his wand, and started up the stairs. Severus had been doing a good job of ignoring the tower up until now. The stairs were carpeted in years' worth of undisturbed dust. When Severus stopped on the bottom-most step, the dust glued itself unpleasantly to his toes.

Remus made a noise, like perhaps he had forgotten what Severus had done in the war, and was sorry to have reminded him. He banished the dust quickly, as if in apology. "Dumbledore gave you this place after he died," he said, his voice careful. "Tower and all. I think. . . he wanted to show you there's nothing to fear, from towers." He shrugged, and reached back, holding out his hand for Severus to take.

Severus thought of all the things he had feared, over the years. A tower, after all, was just organized stone.

"It should be beautiful up there," Remus went on, with stubborn hope. His palm was held toward Severus like an entreaty, and when Severus reached up and wrapped his fingers around Remus', he was given a warming smile.

Severus let himself be tugged up, thinking about things he had learned not to fear, and was learning not to fear, and the heavy hand of Albus rearranging his life in chaotic ways from beyond the grave. Somewhere, somehow, blue eyes were twinkling in that way that meant Severus was being laughed at.

The sun was just rolling red and heavy over the horizon as they reached the roof, staining the clouds and sending light dancing over the ocean as it climbed and ripened to gold.

"Beautiful," Remus said, and turned his head to kiss Severus' cheek. "Not bad, this tower of yours."

"Cold, at any rate," Severus agreed, and smiled to himself. The one problem with every book he'd read in the library below was that they all ended at this point in a relationship; Severus was curious to find out what exactly happily ever after entailed, and intended to make that the story of his life.